#bubble packing roll price

[packingboxin]

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 3: Bubble Tea

“Hey.” Kyle murmurs, hand lightly grazing over your shoulders to rest on the back of your neck. His palm feels warm on your skin and you unconsciously lean back into it.

“Hm?” You look up from where you were hunched over your phone - definitely not shopping for a new purse on company time.

“Gonna go pick up lunch f’the shop. Want t’ come with? I don’t think I can carry it all myself.” He asks. His eyes are always so soft when he looks at you. Relaxed and bright with that constant slight quirk in the corners of his lips.

“Oh! Yeah, sounds good.” You grin, standing quickly and grabbing your wallet out of your purse to shove into your back pocket. Might as well get something for yourself if you’re going out. “Where are we heading?”

“That poke place a couple blocks up.” Kyle nods in the intended direction.

You follow him out of the shop. The weather has begun to warm more. Still cool enough for long sleeves but the sun feels nice on your face as you trot up the street, speed walking to keep up with Kyle and his accursed long legs.

“Switch with me.” Kyle murmurs, hand flattening on your lower back as he steps to the road side of the sidewalk.

You snort, cheeks warming when his hand remains a few beats longer than necessary. “How chivalrous.”

He chuckles. “My grandad always said t’never let a lady walk by the street. Guess it stuck with me.”

As much as you want to tease him about playing into gender roles, you can’t lie and say you don’t like it. That it doesn’t make your heart patter and your stomach flutter. Growing up fat, you never really got the chance to be treated delicately. Femininely. Always expected to be tougher, louder, more masculine. It feels good. Healing, in a way, as stupid as it is.

God, your inner monologue is embarrassing.

The shop is smaller than you expected. Tucked away like many buildings in this downtown with a short, blue awning shading the teal colored door. It’s surprisingly crowded too, people packed in like sardines and filing in and out quickly. The inside is nicely decorated - a few tables off to the side that no one seems to stay at. They more so seem to act as a waiting spot until people get their food and head out. The menu board is shaped like a bright blue, wall-length fish.

“Ladies first.” Kyle grins, opening the door for you. You roll your eyes at him, earning a pinch to your side in return. It’s almost strange how easy things are with him - with all of them. You don’t think you’ve ever been this comfortable around a group of men before. That would probably make you sad if you thought about it for long enough.

Kyle passes you a little clipboard with a stack of papers to customize your poke bowl and a small pen. He begins filling out three for the others, seemingly from memory. You wonder how often they come down here - if it’s their favorite local spot or just convenient. You look over his shoulder, snooping for the others preferences. Apparent Simon likes a lot of spice. Johnny, not so much.

Your eyes widen as you reach the bottom of your menu. “They have boba!”

“You want some?” Kyle grins.

You nod excitedly. Like a kid discovering a new candy. It’s been so long since you got your hands on some bubble tea - if you’d known they had it sooner you would’ve been in here nearly everyday. Then again, maybe it’s good that you didn’t know.

Kyle holds out his hand. You look between it and his face dumbly for a few moments, clutching your order in your hands before putting the pieces together.

“I can get my own!” You insist. “I don’t-“

“Price’s treat, love.” He snags the paper from your hands. “He always pays when we come here.”

“Oh. Okay.” You chew your lip. “I can at least pay for my drink, since it’s extra-“

He just waves you off and marches up to the register. You don’t miss the fact that he pulls out a very shiny credit card. So it’s not Price’s treat. It’s a company treat, eh?

Not that you’re going to complain. Free poke and boba is a dream come true.

Kyle takes your little plastic number, ducking to snag a now freed up table to wait at. They’re tall, causing you to scramble unceremoniously to get up in the heightened chair. You think you see him laughing out of the corner of your eye, but as soon as you face him he’s just sitting with that usual, casual smile of his.

One of the workers brings over your drinks in a little carrier, saying the food will take a minute longer. You’ve never been patient, greedily grabbing your tea and aggressively stabbing through the cover.

“When do you think John’s gonna let you do your first real tattoo?” You ask, kicking your feet under the tall chair.

Kyle shrugs. “He said soon. I think he’s waitin’ for me to’ be less nervous about it. Plus I need to find someone to do it on-“

“You can do it on me.” You blurt without thinking.

He eyes you. “Really?”

You nod excitedly. “I really like your work - at least what I’ve seen of it. It doesn’t have to be anything big. I’m perfectly happy with one your black-only flashes. That way you can start small.”

“I don’t know…”

“Plus, John says I sit real good. I’m not gonna wriggle and fuck you up.” You chew your straw absentmindedly.

“And what do you get out of this?” Kyle cocks and eyebrow, that slight, constant smirk only growing across his face.

You tap your chin. “Bragging rights when you get famous someday. I got the first official Garrick tattoo ever!”

A surprised laugh forces it’s way out of him, sending him into a coughing fit around the drink he was sipping. “Don’t think I’m gonna be that good, love.”

You reach out, resting your hand over his as a strange wave of seriousness overtakes you. “I don’t think John would take you on as an apprentice if he didn’t think so. Plus, you should hear how much he brags about you. It’s almost insufferable.”

There’s something in his eyes as he gives you another once over. It’s slower this time, dragging up your arm and across your features and back down your other arm, coming to an end where your hand lays over his. Kyle turns his hand upward, brushing his two middle fingers over your pulse point. It steals your breath, strangely enough. He hold your hand so gently, barely cupping it in his.

You wish you could tell what he’s thinking. For all Kyle’s honest and kind nature, he’s hard to read. That perma-smirk hides a lot more than you think you or anyone else realizes.

“Alright. I’ll talk t’John about it.” He murmurs, withdrawing his hand.

“Yah. You better.” You grin, leaning back in your seat just as the food comes out.

[charliemwrites]

A Thought™️ that I had yesterday after watching those AITA videos and babbling in the discord:

(This is also babble to be clear. I’ve been writing this throughout the morning so it might be a bit incoherent)

The 141 is shopping for a new team member, someone to round out their four person squad into five. They have a dozen candidates, pick one that looks promising, and transfer him over under the military equivalent of “probationary” status.

Pretty quickly they decide his personality alone might not make him a good fit but whatever, if he’s good at his job, they’ll suck it up. The “alpha male” posturing bullshit is kind of amusing in the meantime at least.

Well, first mission comes and goes. The guy isn’t too bad, honestly — apart from almost picking a fight with Gaz. Skills-wise he’s as advertised, so he gets to stay a bit longer while the 141 decides if they can stand him.

Post successful mission, though, they go out for drinks at the guy’s insistence. He invites his girlfriend — who he dragged along with him — to the bar to meet his new squad. (Because he thinks there’s no way they’re not making him a permanent teammate.)

And the 141 may be barely tolerant of him, but they decide almost instantly that they adore his girlfriend. She’s incredibly charming and bubbly, doesn’t even blink at Ghost’s mask. One of the first things she does is thank them for the opportunity they’re giving her boyfriend and for keeping him alive.

Which is about the time the real issue starts.

The boyfriend says some rubbish about “an alpha doesn’t need protecting, he does the protecting. He looks out for his pack.”

And you smile a bit awkwardly, looking embarrassed, and try to usher the conversation along.

It doesn’t take long for him to quickly fall out of what little favor he accrued. You’re a bright spot in their group, laughing and chatting with them all like you’ve known them for years. Incredibly sensitive to asking any hard questions and sort of forcing the conversation through the weird patches where your boyfriend interjects with some inane comment.

Eventually, your boyfriend gets sick of your chattering and tells you to fetch them more drinks. Soap instantly sits up, saying you don’t have to do that, but you gently wave him off. Chirp that you don’t mind doing it as a thank you for their service, and weave into the crowd.

The table goes uncomfortable quiet — apart from your boyfriend, who makes some ghastly comment about how you have a pretty face but an annoying laugh. When you get back, drinks expertly balanced in your hands, Ghost goes out of his way to drop puns that get you giggling like mad.

As the night ticks later, and your boyfriend gets drunker, he reaches the point you always dread.

“Garrick, le’s arm wrestle.”

“Baby, I don’t think that’s…”

“This is between us men.”

You groan a bit and sit back. Gaz looks befuddled but shrugs and agrees. It’s not even a contest; your boyfriend’s arm is flat to the table in all of ten seconds. Flustered, your boyfriend demands a rematch. And when he loses again, scoffs and demands a go with Soap.

You practically sink deeper and deeper into your seat before the secondhand embarrassment starts to weigh and you have to excuse yourself to the restroom. When you get back, the impromptu arm wrestling seems to be over, though your boyfriend is sulking in his corner of the booth.

When you gingerly slide back in, Price nudges you with his calf.

“Would you like a go, luv?”

You grin and shake your head. “I don’t fancy a broken wrist, Captain.”

“C’mon luv, you might surprise yourself,” he teases and you can’t resist the playful glint in his eye.

So you lock your thumb around his, elbow on the table, and push. And his arm incrementally goes down… down… down…

“Well would you look at that,” he muses.

You burst into laughter, flattered and endeared by his indulgence.

“That tough, eh?” Soap muses, arching an eyebrow. “Let’s see it, then.”

So you roll your eyes, fully expecting to get trounced. But just like with Price, he starts to relent when you put up resistance, making a show of straining and panting as he “loses.” When you’ve won, you finally play into the joke.

“Serves you right,” you tease.

By your side, you hear your boyfriend huff derisively. “Oh, come on.”

Before your fun can be ruined, though, Ghost is offering you his hand, dark eyes sparkling. You bite your lip, but it doesn’t hide your grin as you accept the unspoken challenge. His hand is huge around yours, but shockingly gentle. He goes down easiest of all, whistling in amazement.

“Look’it that, you’re a pro,” he says, “think we should all be buying you a drink.”

“She doesn’t drink,” your boyfriend interjects.

You huff and settle back into the booth. “Maybe some other time, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Count on it.”

You get into an argument with your boyfriend that night. He thinks you were “challenging his dominance” and “stirring the pot,” trying to sew discord and strife amongst the men to get them fighting over you. He says something about being the alpha of the group and that he would win but it’s insulting to him as your “provider” that you would question his authority.

He’s tipsy as he says it though, working himself up. You just follow the usual routine of soothing, reassuring, simpering — and then considering leaving when he’s finally asleep. But you’re far from home, don’t have the means to leave, and besides, you won’t be finding any support from your family on this front so…

Well, it’s not so bad, you remind yourself. He can be an asshole, but so can you and it takes two to fight. Besides, he only gets really bad when he’s been drinking and that’s only once a week? 1 out of 7 isn’t a bad ratio.

—

The 141 pretty much collectively decide that they adore you though. You get regularly invited to team outings, wherein your boyfriend keeps challenging (and losing) arm wrestling, while the boys coax you into “winning.”

They’ve also become rather adamant that you don’t bring them drinks anymore.

“You’re not our personal beer wench, yeah? We’re able to get our own pints,” Gaz soothes.

Your boyfriend chuckles and shakes his head, imparts his “wisdom” that it’s a female’s job to serve her man and his friends. As a sign of respect or something. You know it’s not an argument worth having and just sip at your drink in silence.

But you love going out with them. Love knowing the men keeping your boyfriend alive and they’re a good bunch. Respectful and funny and disciplined — you’re kind of hoping they snap your boyfriend out of this weird “alpha male” phase he’s been going through. On the other hand, you’re thrilled to be making something like friends. Sure, your boyfriend has made it clear that the 141 are his friends, but they’re always so conscious of keeping you involved and comfortable.

Then one night your boyfriend mentions what a “good little cook” you are and that instantly has all the boys perking up. Smiling, you offer to host during the Saturday League matches. They gleefully accept over your boyfriend’s protests about other men in his territory or something like that.

But when they do come over they’re horrified by the unspoken expectations. You tell them to sit, that you’ll bring them all drinks, with snacks on the way. They’ll be having none of it.

Ghost helps you with drinks, Gaz chops the veggies for snacks (and dinner). Soap pops in to keep you company while you babysit simmering pots. Price helps to tidy as you go, despite you’re fussing that he really doesn’t need to, he should be enjoying the games!

They end up spending more time with you in the kitchen than out in the den with their own teammate. You barely notice, swept up in the busy currents of playing hostess. When your boyfriend shouts that he needs another beer, you come back to find Price getting plates and utensils for dinner. It’s so thoughtful you could cry.

Even worse is when they help you clean up afterwards. Each of them taking and clearing their own plates. Soap on washing big dishes, Gaz on drying. Ghost is packing up leftovers. Price is turning over the dishwasher, asking you where dishes go and tutting when you insist you should be helping.

All the while, your boyfriend stands in the doorway telling you all the ways you could improve the meal next time. And how you definitely ate too much for your body size, etc.

He only stops when Price makes a pointed comment about standing around looking pretty.

When they leave, they each sweep you up in a hug and drop a kiss on your cheek, praising your home and cooking and hosting. Soap promises that he’ll get you a little souvenir on their next mission as a thank you.

And sure enough, three weeks later, the boys are coming by. Except your boyfriend is nowhere to be found — out with some other guys from the base that he says he hit it off with. The 141 insist that he agreed to a football watch again, the empty headed muppet.

And of course you’re not going to turn them away! They’ve brought you flowers, a little matryoshka set from their last mission, chocolates and wine. Not one of them is empty handed.

“Do you even like the game?” Gaz asks as you put it on.

“My favorite team isn’t playing until tomorrow but I don’t mind watching,” you answer, shrugging.

But somehow no football is watched at all. Instead they convince you to tell them your top three favorite movies, then claim none of them have ever seen any of them and they have to watch all of them.

Which is how your boyfriend finds his whole team enjoying a little movie marathon with you. You’re on the ground with Johnny (it’s Johnny now, for you) doing his eyebrows. Gaz is braiding your hair. Ghost (Simon) is sharing a bowl of candies with you. You’re sat against Price’s shins, the captain sitting in your boyfriend’s chair, lounging like a king.

When you welcome him back, telling him the boys are staying the night, he tries to throw a fit about it. How dare you let four strange men stay alone with you?! You calmly remind him that he promised he’d be home by 11 and it’s already nearly 1. And besides, he trusts them with his life, you’re allowed to trust them to be polite in your own home.

With all four of his teammates watching, tense and nearly hostile, he mutters something about being tired and storms off to bed. You end up falling asleep on the couch with ghost despite yourself.

And your boyfriend becomes absolutely haunted by his team’s (is it even his team? It feels more like yours!) affection for you.

They always invite you out even if he doesn’t plan to invite you. (When did you get any of their numbers?! Never mind Ghost’s. He doesn’t even have Ghost’s number.)

They stop by the flat constantly, sometimes dropping in. Other times staying for hours. Soap tells him that they’re all one big family; that includes you. (“Alright then why don’t we go hang out with one of your girlfriends?!” He had an actual nightmare about the laughter that gets him.)

And the fucking gifts. It’s not just soap bringing you things anymore. It’s all of them. Magnets, mugs, sweets, pretty rocks. Just garbage to your boyfriend but you treat it all like treasure. They’ve even got you sending them on hunts for specific things. Something blue, something with nuts, something with the flag.

Then there’s the base.

They bring you on one day — Price picks you up, the boys greet you at the barracks with coffee and breakfast. You’re put into a big 141 hoodie that says “Riley” on the back and toured around. You’re supposed to be “surprising” your boyfriend, but he’s busy with recruits and generally seems uninterested in being around you.

Not to worry though, the 141 is happy to show you a good time around base! Gaz and Johnny walk you through one of the obstacle courses, Simon lets you sit on his back for pushups during the last of his workout. Price takes you to the range and shows you the basics of shooting, then lets you catnap through the adrenaline drop in his office.

Your boyfriend only bothers to find you when Johnny and Simon are teaching you basic self-defense. Your boyfriend scoffs that you’re plenty protected by him, but you point out that he’s away too often to be of any real help — at which point Johnny tags you and bolts before your boyfriend can get all up in arms.

You only recognize that this little hurdle in your relationship has become a chasm when something happens. A big argument with your parents over the phone — you barely even remember what about. But instead of calling your boyfriend afterwards, your first call is to Gaz. (Because you know he’s the most likely to be free and paying attention to his phone.) You’re almost shocked when he picks up on the second ring. Your boyfriend has never answered on the first call.

When you try to explain through poorly-restrained tears, he coos at you to find a warm coffee shop and that they’ll be right there. “They” ends up being him and Johnny, since Simon and Price are locked up in an important meeting. They buy you hot chocolate and pastries while you vent to them, and end up leaving feeling better for once.

But you can’t break up with your boyfriend. Because if you do, the 141 will surely stop hanging out with you, and you value their company enough to put up with it.

At least until you come home one day to find all your little gifts gone. When you ask through a tight throat where everything is, your boyfriend says he was just making space. That you’ve been complaining that you two need a bigger flat, but now he’s solved the problem without wasting money.

You actually raise your voice for once, throwing an entire fit because this. This is the last straw. You storm into your bedroom, slam and lock the door, and call the 141.

A small part of you expects they’ll take his side or something. But nope. Simon soothes you on the other end, that the whole squad will be there in fifteen and to pack your stuff.

You do so while Price takes over and keeps you level. Reminds you of essentials to pack and explains that you’ll be coming to stay at his place, since he’s got off-base housing. It’ll be quiet and cozy and safe while you recover.

Five minutes away, they promise to be right there and end the call.

You could absolutely scream when your boyfriend — ex boyfriend — starts banging on the door. Demanding that you open the door to him. That you’re being over dramatic and blowing everything out of proportion. Using the “your emotional and irrational” line that you’ve heard a thousand times and are just about sick of.

Your heart stutters with relief when you hear the knocking at the apartment door, confused silence as your ex goes to see who it is. You take that moment to slip out, packed suitcase in hand.

You startle a bit at some commotion, round the corner to see your ex’s shirt bunched up in Johnny’s fists, looking ready kill him. No one seems inclined to pull him away; neither are you.

“How are you holding up, luv?” Gaz asks gently as Simon takes your bag.

“Been better,” you admit, sniffling as Price wraps you up in a hug.

“It was just things, luv,” he soothes, “we’ll get you a million more, if you like.”

You pull back to give him a miserable look. “But they were my things and they didn’t have to go anywhere. He just threw them out.”

Johnny snarls something out, but Gaz is already ushering you out the door. You tell your family about the break up through text and then shut off your phone, bundled into the backseat of an SUV with Gaz in the backseat. Price is in the front, all of you waiting for Simon and Johnny to come down.

“What now?” you ask quietly.

“Well, about time we cut that knob loose,” Price muses. “But that’s not your problem anymore.”

“Oh…

“And you, luv.” He looks at you through the rear view. “You get whatever you want.”

[frogchiro]

🐙 here!

👀 me making my own plot in my head for a/b/o cod.

imagine being the only omega on the team, except no one knows. and honestly? it wasn’t that hard to hide it in the first place.

always wear scent blockers. mild pills help, but having a lotion to rub on scent glands? makes you practically scentless.

act competitive when necessary, and back down when you know your losses are going to be big.

be caring. make Simon tea in the morning and a small breakfast for those who don’t consume just caffeine in the morning. soap likes to deny his liking for sweets, but make him waffles or cinnamon rolls and he’s on his knees immediately.

smile and be sweet. have happy little conversations with gaz about his latest interests. about the latest conspiracy about the Illuminati or his favorite game he played as a kid.

but not docile. docile is earned through respect. alphas have to earn the right to see you so submissive and pliant.

give Simon small smiles and chuff and play wrestle with soap and Gaz. late nights with price and paperwork. cooking warm meals after long missions.

the only reason anyone began to suspect something wrong was when you got sick.

headcanon that any omega and alpha will begin to give off pheromones when they get sick. it’s a little call out to the pack that you’re sick and you need to be babied and taken care of.

not even the suppressants and the salve can mask the smell of sick omega. It starts with a small twinge. a faintly sour scent that makes soaps nose twitch.

they can barely smell it. but they can see something is wrong from the way you look. bags under your eyes, a slightly ghastly appearance.

the way you move is a big give away. slow and sluggish.

finally it gets to a point where everyone can smell there’s a sick omega somewhere… but where?

in which case price has to wake you up because you were late to training. he was annoyed. a little peeved that you had the audacity to kiss when he had warned you last time not to be late.

last time you were late because you overslept. so this time the captain was going to give you something to startle your day into.

A soured scent fills his nose. telling him that there’s a sick omega and…

sick mate sick mate sick mate protect protect protect

provide provide provide pro-

gosh. price can’t get the sight out of his head. of you tucked so cutely into a small nest of military grade blankets and two pillows. your body radiating heat as you’d nuzzle closer into the pillow you’re holding against your face.

his inner alpha chuffs at such a sweet and docile omega.

maybe having a sick day would be alright… especially with your pack to take care of you.

hello octopus! welcome back! and aww, the boys taking care of their poor sick omega :(( they'd be quite distressed I imagine!

They are the alphas, the providers and protectors and yet it completely slipped under their nose that not only you're sick but also a whole omega too?? Unbelievable >:(

The second they realize your secondary gender and that you're not healthy it sends them into quite a frenzy; they're suddenly overcome with bubbling hormones and instincts they most probably never felt before.

It also means much to them than you could imagine. You being a omega, a sick omega, letting yourself be all vulnerable and open with a pack of alphas? It means you feel comfortable and safe with them, enough to show them your soft and docile side :((

Be ready to be fussed over like crazy, especially by Gaz and Soap, together with you they're the youngest pack members and when they first saw you curled up in your small makeshift nest, stinking up the space with sick unhappy hormones and burning to the touch these poor babies genuinely thought you were dying :<

Luckily Price and Ghost were there to correct them before they could barrel into your nest and nudge you awake; you were sick not dead and the last thing you needed were two hot headed young alphas on you.

When you woke up you were sluggish and slow; the cold did its job and made everything fuzzy when you woke up until you started to regain your senses and noticed that you were no longer cooped up in your tiny room with a few military-issued blankets and hard pillows but in a real big bed filled with blankets, pillows, sweaters and other things that smelled of certain familiar alphas; safe and warm. Judging by the overwhelming smell of the room alone you guessed you were in Price's room, a nice musky and woody smell, undeniably masculine and alpha.

You were still alone so you decided to just go back to sleep and try to sleep of the cold. With a rumbling purr you slowly fell asleep once again, maybe sick days and being the pack's omega wasn't such a bad thing?

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Part 9 - Pneumothorax

Slasher Handler Masterlist

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Accidental injury with knife, descriptions of wounds, wound care, field medicine, allusions/symptoms of lung collapse, blood, ingestion of bodily fluids, gagging

Something your nightmares have never been able to truly capture is just how unnervingly easy it is to push a knife through flesh. The smallest knife cuts through Simon’s skin easier than the MRE packaging. Something dangerous flickers behind his eyes as he looks down at where you’ve pushed the knife into the side of his chest.

Everything is eerily still for a moment. And then he looks back up at you and grins so hard you can tell through the mask.

The knife slips from between your numb fingers. It stays lodged between his ribs for a moment before falling to the ground. You scramble to your feet to stand over his still kneeling form. “Oh god. Simon.”

The way you’d slipped and rolled must have put the knife exactly where it needed to be to slide around his vest. His shirt underneath is ripped enough that you can see pale skin and so much red blood. The wound is bubbling, blood thinning in the cold rain. “Oh, god, Simon, what do I do?”

“Punctured a lung,” he whispers, barely a breath.

“You need a doctor,” you say, and it feels stupid, so obvious, but, “I don’t know where we are. How am I supposed to call for help?”

“’M okay, Precious,” he grunts. And then he stands up, like he’s not at risk of lung collapse. He points at the muddy backpack that flew from your shoulder as you’d grappled with him. “Get the bag.”

The bag? “We’re not playing games anymore!”

“’S got medical supplies in it,” Simon answers. He crouches down to pick up his own pack, and his chest makes a wet sound. “’N another gift for you. C’mon, we’ll go back to the cabin.”

Your heart is in your throat, but at least the cabin has running water. With the medical supplies, you can at least try to clean him up before driving him to the nearest hospital. Wherever that might be. You prop his arm over your shoulder and do your best to brace his good side.“Okay. Okay, let’s go.”

As you start to walk, the edge of the roof is barely in view through the drizzle. You’re so glad you were already on your way back to the cabin when he’d tackled you. Why did you have the knife out? You’d been playing with it, cutting shapes into a big leaf. He should have seen it, he’d run at you from the side. But that’s why he got you something so small, right? So someone attacking you wouldn’t see it, so you could have the element of surprise.

“Call Price,” Simon says, suddenly, knocking you out of your worried spiral.

You look up at him, then at the cabin that’s barely ten meters away. “What?”

“Use my phone. You know the code,” he says again, “Call Price, tell him we’re at the empty north cabin.”

Before you can ask “What?” again, or even, “Who the hell is Price?”, he starts slumping into you. And then all 18 stones of him are in a semi-controlled fall. You try your best to not drop him, gasp when he hisses as your arm presses against the hole in his chest.

The only thing in your head, as Simon slumps into the mud, his blood all over your hands, is that the weather didn't hold out the way you both expected.

Simon’s phone isn’t on him, or in his little knapsack. It’s one of the scariest things you’ve ever done, leaving him there in the dirt to run into the cabin. At the same time, it’s… familiar. Leaving a man to die while you call for help that can’t possibly arrive in time.

This is different. The first time you’d stabbed a man, you’d meant to do it.

The cabin is a little abandoned thing that Simon had fixed up a bit in the middle of nowhere. Outside of the room you’d woken up in, it has a wet room style toilet and shower and a counter with a hot plate. The rest of the weirdly clean little building is just one empty room leading to the only external door.

You hand shakes as you paw through the pile of stuff in one corner of the main room. Simon’s left his battered old phone in the pocket of his jeans, like he always does. Your hands shake as you punch in his passcode. You’re jogging back to his side as soon as you select the only named contact in the phone.

By the time someone picks up, you’re back on your knees by Simon’s side, relieved to see his eyes fluttering.

“Price,” a man answers.

“Hello?” You try not to let your voice get to frantic. “Simon’s hurt. He said to call you. We’re at the north cabin.”

“Empty,” Simon grunts, barely audible.

“The empty one,” you clarify. The line is silent. “Hello?”

“He’s wounded?” Price asks, cool and almost distracted.

“Punctured lung,” you say. “He passed out, but he’s kind of conscious now.”

The man on the other end hums. “That does sound a bit serious.”

“Please,” you insist. “I don’t know where we are, please call an ambulance.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” And then the line goes dead.

Your hands are shaking when you touch Simon’s face. “He hung up. Simon, I’m so sorry, he hung up. I don’t know if I can get you into the car. I don’t know if there’s enough time for anyone to get here.”

“’S fine, Precious,” he says, barely a whisper. He looks just as peaceful as if he was at home, in bed. The mud and blood and burbling chest wound ruin the illusion. “Been in worse shape’n this. Price’ll come.”

“We don’t need him here, we need you in a hospital!” It suddenly strikes you that Simon had mentioned medical supplies. “Should I try to stop the bleeding? Gauze and pressure, right?” You grab the backpack and tear it open. There’s gauze, antiseptic gel, and bandage wraps. You also find a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Splash of alcohol first,” Simon says, closing his eyes. When you slap him, he glares up at you with one eye. “Oi.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me!”

“’M no’. Just restin’ m’eyes.”

“Not that either!” The way his accent is becoming more pronounced, and his words more slurred, sets your already galloping heart racing. You uncap the alcohol and tip it, not at all gently, over the wound. “Stay awake.”

“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell,” Simon growls, followed by a pained wheeze. “Okay. Fuck. Gauze next, you’ll have to hold it down. Don’t have enough bandages and too much mud, besides.”

The first piece of gauze gets soaked with rain and blood immediately, so you open another couple of packages and press. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you tell him over his hissing. Tears finally start catching up to you. “Simon, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Simon.”

“’S fine,” he sighs. One big, muddy hand comes up to pat your shoulder. “Shouldn’a come at you from the left. Better t’ stay low and come at you from the right.”

“I still might have stabbed you,” you protest. “I shouldn’t have had that stupid knife out, I should have known better-”

“You couldn’a known.”

“I should have,” you insist, and the tears are falling even faster now. “I didn’t need to be playing with knives, I knew you were out here, that you’d start chasing me any moment.”

“’S part of the game,” Simon sighs with a lazy grin. “Weren’ supposed t’ stab me in the chest, but tha’s on me.”

“I wasn’t supposed to stab you at all, Simon,” you sob. “I never wanted…! I don’t…!” Simon’s eyes flutter closed again, and you feel your heart break. “Simon, please, stay awake. I’m sorry. Please, Simon. I don’t hate you, I’m sorry.”

You're not sure how much time passes. But you jump when a hand touches your shoulder, whip around to put yourself between Simon and whoever’s come up behind you. A white man with a beard you would absolutely expect to see walking around in the woods looks between you and Simon with raised brows. He brings a cigar to his lips and takes a pull.

“Simon,” the man says. “You broken?”

“No, sir,” Simon says. When your gaze snaps to him, his eyes are bright behind his mask.

“She said you punctured a lung,” the man you can only assume is Price points out.

“Affirmative.”

“John Price,” he finally introduces himself. He offers you a hand up. When you look between his hand and where you’re keeping pressure on Simon’s wound, he chuckles. “Let’s get this drama queen inside, shall we?” Then Kyle appears at his elbow with a grin and an arm full of blue tarp.

“How’s the hobby search going?”

You can’t stop yourself from bursting into tears.

John Price had guided you inside while Kyle somehow maneuvered Simon onto the tarp to drag him the last few meters to the cabin. Now, there’s another tarp laid out on the floor, with Simon’s clammy, pale body on top of it. Knelt next to him, Kyle mutters something to himself, focused but relaxed. He’d complimented you on a clean strike, once he’d gotten Simon inside and cleaned the wound enough to look at it. Apparently, you probably could have done a lot of damage before killing him outright, if you’d really wanted to.

The sucking sound from Simon’s chest as he chuckled had made you run outside to throw up.

“You meet my girl, Skipper?” Simon eventually wheezes. There’s a big patch of of gauze taped over the wound. That side of him, from shoulder to hip, is the only part of him that’s really clean, besides his now-unmasked face. He winces when Kyle does something with the tubing sticking out of his chest. It’s still trickling blood, but that seems to be better than the flood from when Kyle had first pushed a thick needle between his ribs.

“I have,” John Price says, blowing a cloud of smoke. “You haven’t been keeping her here long. Surprised she stuck around to make sure you’d be okay.”

It strikes your ears as… absurd. The idea that Simon had whisked you away to this tiny, sparse little building for, what? For good? Nonsensically, you want to point out that there’s no kitchen, and Simon knows you like to prep and cook when you’re stressed. MREs wouldn’t cut it for long.

And then it occurs to you that John Price knows Simon. Knows him well enough that he expects you to die.

“She’s had Riley here on a leash for half a year,” Kyle informs him. He pats Simon’s cheek condescendingly, ignores his growl of annoyance. “Poor bastard’d been going mad, cooped up with nothing to do since Soap’s been locked up.”

“Eight months,” you whisper. You’re sitting on the edge of the tarp by Simon’s good side. You sip some water and offer it to Simon. He lets you tip the bottle carefully to his lips. “We met eight months ago.”

“Christ,” Price says, rolling his eyes. “I told you to keep a low profile.”

“’ave been,” Simon grunts.

“And, that little excursion at the ski lodge was what, exactly?”

Simon tilts his head to look at you, mischievous smirk under the black makeup around his eyes. “Had to make sure our first date was memorable.”

You want to smack him. The thought makes you feel guilty since you’ve already stabbed him today. You compromise by petting through his hair, right where the scar you gave him sits, then give his ear a little tug when you get to it.

“Hope it was worth it,” Price says. “You going to get rid of her, or am I?”

Simon is up and standing in front of John almost before you see him move. The back of him is still spattered with dirt and blood, silvery scars in stark contrast. You watch his chest expand, hear the whistle and bubble of air and blood through the tube you can’t see. You take one look at Kyle’s startled, worried face and quickly get to your feet.

When you come around his side, you shiver and shrink back a bit. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Simon’s face this frigid. He’s completely closed off as he stares down at Price, doesn’t even spare you a glance.

For his part, John remains completely relaxed. He takes a lazy pull from his cigar and blows the smoke from the side of his mouth, away from you. “Touched a nerve, have I?”

“She’s good people,” Kyle pipes up, coming to stand across from you, so everyone is in a loose square. He keeps his hands in his pockets. “Hasn’t made no trouble yet.”

John doesn’t look away from Simon. “That so?”

You reach out for Simon’s hand, then think better of it. You touch his back instead, in case he needs that hand. You step closer but stay a little bit behind him. “Simon?”

“She’s talked to the police, you know,” John says. “After your stint at the hospital, and again after your little date.”

That startles you. “I never-”

“Hush, now,” John says.

Simon flinches at the same moment that you feel your back straighten. “Excuse me?” You take a step forward into John’s space. “Maybe you forgot, but I called you here to help. If I wanted him dead, Simon would be dead right now. If I wanted him arrested six months ago, he’d have been arrested.”

“Precious-”

“No, Simon.” you interrupt him, staring into John’s eyes. “He practically lives in my apartment. He drugged and kidnapped me literally last night. He made me touch Brandon’s skull, and then I stabbed him this afternoon. I’ve been at the scene of two mass murders and now I’ve almost killed someone else. What the fuck makes you think you can come in here and talk about me like you know anything about me? Like you think I’m an idiot? Why do you think you get to shush me?”

The man doesn’t react except to pull from his cigar again. Your clothes are stiff and damp and uncomfortable, but you resist the urge to fidget. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Kyle look from you to John and back again.

“If you ever have him arrested, he’ll be out in a day,” John finally says. “You’ll be dead before then.”

“Oh gee,” you mock. “I wonder why that never occurred to me. Making the serial killer angry might get me killed. Shocking.”

Simon’s hand gently touches one of your wrists. “Easy, Precious. Price ‘s just lookin’ out.”

You let him take your hand. “He can do less of that, thank you very much.”

Simon reels you back against his front. He props his chin on top of your head and kind of sags some of his weight onto you. “Don’t think he can, love. Fundamentally incapable. Has to take care of his men.”

“Well he’s my man, now,” you grit out. “So you can fuck right off, John.”

For whatever reason, that cuts the tension. Kyle barks a laugh before he can stop himself. John tips his head back and huffs out smoke. Simon just presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Kyle told me you were a little off,” John says. He props a foot on his knee to stub out his cigar on the sole of his boot. “Simon’s been real tight lipped, but I see why he likes you. Not much self-preservation to speak of.”

Of all the stupid conclusions he could have come to…!

Simon’s hand covers your mouth before you can tell John exactly what you think of him. “She’s helping me find new hobbies.”

John just shakes his head. “I don’t want to know. Kyle, how long is he recovering?”

“Three weeks. Two, if he avoids aggravating it,” Kyle answers.

Simon hums. “’M gonna aggravate it.”

“Goddammit,” John swipes a hand down his beard. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.”

The murderous stalker isn’t the problem child? You snort behind Simon’s hand. Hopefully, you never meet this Soap guy.

“Fun as all of this is, I’m on shift in four hours,” Kyle says, looking at his watch. “Need to get home and sanitize. Riley, usual wound care. Drain’s gotta come out in three days. And you need antibiotics. Seriously.” He looks at you. “Make sure he gets them and takes them. All of them. His feet will fall off.”

“No they won’t,” you say when Simon drops his hand to wrap around your shoulders, just as he says, “Fuck off, Garrick.”

“Take the damn antibiotics,” John says, standing from his seat. “Be ready for a call in three weeks.”

“Affirmative.”

“And you,” John holds a hand out to you to shake. Waits for you to take it and gives a firm shake. “Let me know if you get tired of him hangin’ all over you.”

“So you can kill me.”

He gives you an amused grin. “I’m not in the practice of wasting valuable assets.”

“I’m sure you meant that in a way that’s not offensive,” you answer. “I’ll do my best to never call you again.”

“Smart girl.” He gives Simon a nod, and then he and Kyle are out the front door.

The shower head sputters and spits, but eventually produces surprisingly warm water. Not hot, but warm enough that you don’t feel bad herding Simon in to get clean. Warm enough that you groan when you step in with him.

There’s a silicone bulb hanging from the tube in Simon’s armpit, compressed to create some kind of vacuum. It’s pink with blood and other fluids. It doesn’t seem to bother him, so you use your hands to gently wash you both with a generic body wash. When you start rinsing dirt and an errant piece of leaf litter from your hair, he smirks and leans in until your back is pressed against the cold tile.

“Fuck,” you can’t help but panic. Your hands go to his hips in case he’s losing his balance. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, just braces the arm on his wounded side over your head. The drain site looks a little red, but not concerning, so you check the edges of the waterproof bandage Gaz placed to make sure it’s still set.

That’s why you don’t realize what he’s done until a splash of his blood hits your cheek and drips into your mouth. You can’t really rear back, trapped against the wall. All you can do tilt your face away and sputter as he empties the drain onto the side of your neck to drip down your collarbones.

He grunts a disagreeing sound when you lift your arm, catches your hand before you can lift it very far. His hand comes up to your cheek, two fingers touching where his blood has dripped to your chin. He pushes his hips into you, and you can feel where he’s getting hard.

When he speaks, it’s little more than a whisper. “You were supposed to slash my arm, you know.”

“Wha-”

He’s not gentle when he shoves his fingers into your mouth. For all that he was laid out on the floor less than an hour ago, you can’t force his hand away with both of yours. It’s all you can do try to fight the urge to gag as you barely hold him at bay.

“Knew you’d like the gifts,” he growls down at you. “But you were s’possed to slash, hm? That’s what a good girl like you does, chased in the woods. Easy to drop a knife that way.” He uses his fingers in your mouth and thumb under your chin to make you stare up into his eyes. “Where’s a sweet thing like you learn to keep a knife close to the body? Felt you let it slide, flat. Felt you push.”

Had you? You hadn’t felt it, just the anxiety spike of being attacked, the cradle of his hand shielding your head from the ground. Just his huge body and that skull mask, on you suddenly, without warning. You can’t answer, can’t even try without gagging. Simon gives your jaw a little shake.

“You could have killed me, today.” He grinds your body between his and the wall for a moment, before stepping back. He drags you under the spray of water, other hand cradling the back of your head. You struggle to cough, try to turn your face down. Your heart races as you do, knowing it’s only because he let you.

And then he slips his fingers from your mouth and brings your face to his chest. He holds you as you cough, pets over your back. You cling to him, because what else can you do? When you finally look up at him, his pupils have all but swallowed the blue of his eyes.

“Fear looks so good on you, Precious.”

Taglist: @mishaglass, @oceanicexolorer, @whitetiger846, @iknownothingpeople, @fruitdoom, @achillesquartz, @hindi-si-ikay, @ahopelesspedantic

[glossysoap]

combining wip wednesday + wip title tag game <3

sorry for taking some time to do this 😭 truly i was this 🫣 emoji personified every time i opened my wips bc the list is outrageously long 😭

thank you so much for tagging me in these challenges <3 @vgilantee @dragonnarrative-writes @cas-backwards-tie and anyone else who tagged me in them <33 i’m working on all other tags as we speak! MWAH

instead of including every fucking draft/wip like i did another time (bc that would take a million years lmao) i’m just focusing on ones that are in my forefront at the moment 😁 some sneak peeks will be tropes/details and others will be actual snippets.

18+ mdni! 🫵🏻

- laying claim; orc price (bday gift for @/vgilantee)

“Mmm, knew you would taste good. Could tell just by the sight of you.” He purred against your lips, his eyes peeking open to scan your flustered expression. All panting and sweaty, your lips swollen from his biting and sucking, glossy from spit.

Your eyes were dazed as your mind was clouded with lust, your heart racing in your ears as the heat bubbled in your stomach.

"I’d venture a guess that your juices taste even better.” Is all he mutters against your lips before he curls his fingers in search of that sensitive spot. “I intend to find out.”

You can feel his eyes on you the whole time, burning into you and watching with a brutish grin as your expression melted into further ecstasy. He watched as your eyes unfocused and your brows furrowed. Your jaw falls open in a quiet gasp as he scissors his fingers, all while still curled inside you. He starts searching for that special spot that'll send you over the edge, and he keeps his fingers curled all the while.

"Mmm, you look so pretty falling apart on my fingers…”

- say it; fwb price to lovers (bday gift for @/ghastlybirdie)

snippet:

“Price!” You gasp, feeling the head of his cock tap against the plug of your cervix so fucking good. His last name rolled off your tongue so easily, so second nature, that you never even considered calling him his first name.

But he actually wanted to hear his first name fall from your lips as he pushed you closer to your first orgasm of the night. He needed to hear it.

“F-feel so fucking good,” Muffled moans fall from your lips as your face is pressed against the silk pillowcase. He felt your cunt squeeze around his throbbing cock so fucking tight, so fucking perfect, and he couldn’t help but groan out your name in response.

“So fuckin’ pretty for me, doll. Perfect little cunt, fuckin’ love it.” he grounds out from clenched teeth, skin slapping against skin as he keeps thrusting.

Stretching you out and filling you up every time he bottoms out.

He tries to ignore how your moans make him feel. How they aren’t just pushing him closer to the edge, but how they’re also filling his chest with warmth.

- feral; werewolf captain mactavish x human reader. (bday gift for @/lordlydragon. ‘alpha’ and ‘pack’ are mentioned but it’s purely werewolf based. it’s not a/b/o dynamics in this one.)

snippet:

“Mine.” It’s growled into your ear, hot breath fanning your neck and making you shiver. His canines prick at your pulse point as he nips at your neck, threatening to sink in and stake his claim on you.

His nose skimmed along the span of your neck, taking in a big inhale of your scent. It was all sweet and warm and home, all you.

All his.

A shiver racked through your body as you felt his scruff scratch your skin, coupled with his teeth nipping at your neck. His deep, Scottish brogue being growled into your ear didn’t help the tingle that ran down your spine, either.

His voice commanded loyalty, obedience. Intimidation flooded your being with every syllable that left his lips, tempting you to show your neck to the alpha right then and there. Not even from arousal, but from pure need to survive.

He knew you were intimidated by him, it couldn’t be helped. But he hated it all the same.

All he wanted to do was protect his pack. You were pack.

To him you were, at least. He only needed to sink his teeth into you to make you his - to make it official.

- chapter 12 of rtc (ghoap x winter soldier reader.)

snippet:

The two weeks after that fight passed quick.

In those two weeks, a new routine had formed — one that was tailor made to prepare you for your first mission under HYDRAs thumb.

Every day started with the same scrape of the metal door against the concrete as it was pushed open, the harsh sound yanking you from your restless sleep. If the screaming from other subjects didn’t rouse you from your slumber first. The scrape of metal and concrete would be followed by the heavy footfall of boots against the concrete as multiple soldiers filed in.

As time passed, you stopped curling up in a fetal position when they stormed into your cell. You had grown accustomed to the sound of their harsh stomping.

“Up, now. You have training.” You had grown used to the gruff voice of your handler barking out orders for you to get out of your cot.

You had grown used to their rifles pointed at you, red laser points scattered along your chest and face, ready to shoot. Ready blow your brains out. Ready to mimic that same hallucination you had experienced weeks prior.

- empty on call rooms; price x reader -> poly 141 x reader (medical resident/surgeon reader x price -> 141.)

sneak peek;

tropes featured: one night stand with price, except it’s not just a one night stand bc he’s not giving you up, possessive price, the 141 are a bit,, stalker ish (finding what hospital you work at, ‘coincidentally’ showing up there and needing your medical attention), sugar daddy qualities (spoiling you even if you protest, making sure you get sleep), meddling to get you transferred to be the 141’s medic. definitely more.)

- first he’s sweet, then he’s sour; rudy smut (sweet in front of your family, fucks you mean behind closed doors)

snippet:

under the table, you swatted at his hand that was planted on your inner thigh. his lips twitched as he fought back a smirk, his usually warm deep eyes all filled with hunger and want.

“i said, how is work?” your mom pressed, taking a small bite of her food while she waited for you to answer. you could feel the attention of everyone else at the table waiting for you to answer. rudy, the smug asshole, hummed expectantly. as if his fingers weren't now sliding under the flimsy fabric of your panties. as if the rough pads of his finger tips weren't caressing the sensitive skin of your folds.

- catch, no release; dubcon price smut (he’s in the gulag) insp by @/femalefemur’s gulag price post and our dms!! ily cyn <3

snippet:

“look at that. just soakin’ through your little panties. that all for me, huh?” he ignored you as you shook your head and let out muffled whines against his hand.

he feels you gasp in spite of yourself as he keeps pressing down against your clothed cunt, tracing up and down your folds.

he moved his hand up from your panties only a bit so he could use that hand to start yanking your pants down.

it doesn’t take many yanks of your waistband to have it pooled around your knees, exposing your flimsy panties. all for your captain to gawk at.

- resurrection; dark! mw zombies soap

(premise: mw zombies!johnny has to watch you die in his universe, and you have to watch your own johnny die in your universe. when he claws his way back to life and somehow ends up in your universe, his only objective is finding you and making you his again. because you’re his in any and every universe.)

snippet:

in his universe, you died brutally. either with a bullet to the head, your brain matter splattered on the floor and you laying in a pool of blood. or you died after being exposed to the virus, your skin being littered with open wounds and exposed bones, joints twitching uncontrollably. he would be forced to end it for you, having you pinned under his boot and pointing a gun to your head before taking that one shot - tears welling in his eyes and apologies on his lips.

either way, it’s brutal. it’s bloody and gory and tears are leaving tracks on his dirt stained cheeks. he cries as he cradles your dead body in his lap.

he feels himself rot on the inside for months after your death, your absence carving a hole in his heart that gets deeper with every reminder of your death. he chases his own death. taking any risk he could find, not caring how it affected other people and damn sure not caring how it affected him - after all, that was the point.

to get back to you.

- lost puppy; unconventional a/b/o au with soap x reader.

(i’m hopping back and forth between alpha reader and omega soap vs omega reader and alpha soap where he acts like the omega… either way, reader would be stubborn, headstrong, independent and soap would be following them around like a lost puppy! either way, unconventional 😁)

no pressure tags: @groguspicklejar @vgilantee @loveyhoneydovey @xxshadowbabexx @cordeliawhohung @pfhwrittes @secretsynthetic @syoddeye @gemmahale @femalefemur @madstronaut @stuffireadandenjoy @sentientcave @charliemwrites @faebirdie @mortuarywriting @chamomiletealeaf @waves-against-a-cliff @ghastlybirdie @lordlydragon @a-b-riddle @titaniasfairy @all-purpose-dish-soap @punishmepunisher @feralforfrank @brewed-pangolin @forsworned @markyne @oceantornadoo @rowarn @kyletogaz @roosterr @captainswhore @captainjamster @captainfern @stargirlrchive @shanakin-skywalker @ivymarquis @eilidh-eternal @fulltacs @grizzersmamma @greatstormcat @manticore-fangs @jumbojazzcats93 @bi-writes @sprout-fics @moongreenlight (i need to be stopped LMAO i always tag so many people but i’m paranoid abt leaving ppl out 😅 as always lemme know if you don’t want to be tagged in tag games)

[posttexasstressdisorder]

Monterey Bay Aquarium 07-09-24, Pt. 1

It was good to get out, away from "here" at last. Haven't left the Bay Area bubble in five or six years, so it was a definite occasion, a proper Day Out. The drive took a couple of hours each way, and it was nice not to be the one doing the driving; it gave me time to just take in the scenery.

The mountains here are unique...they don't look like the Rockies. I love their huge rolling, stacked-up hills and contours of the (mostly) grass and patches of scrub and trees. And when you see sand dunes appear on the opposite side of the road, you know you're getting close.

Kiddo's mom found an all-day parking garage, and Monterey has an old-fashioned Trolley bus that goes around in a circuit and picks people up and drops them at the Aquarium.

We got to the Aquarium sometime between 12:30 and 1pm, and gravitated toward the Kelp Forest, naturally. It's just so magnificent. We got there just before they were going to do the feeding, and I was able to get a couple of shots from the side (it was packed!), but mostly just got to look.

And I have to say a big number of the photos were just un-salvagable, because the light was just too low, and the autofocus was not cooperating at all. The shutter was having to stay open too long, and I am no longer as steady as I used to be holding the camera. There was a fair amount of being jostled and walked-in-front-of, and that kind of general photographic frustration, of course. Had to jockey for position on a lot of the more popular exhibits.

Since we got there past lunchtime we went to the little cafe and kiddo's mom got us all lunch. Let's just say the prices were eye-popping for this old guy who got everybody in because of his food-stamp EBT. That part, btw, went amazingly smoothly, it took less than a minute to get things squared away and we were inside. Very glad that the Aquarium is participating in the Museums for All program!

And the place seemed a lot bigger since 2013, but maybe it's just I'm a lot older. I definitely had to find a bench and sit down a few times, and by the end of the day my feet were screamin' at me, and I'm sore this morning, but It was worth it!

Spent most of the day today sippin' my coffee and going through the photos and short video clips I was able to get; we'll see if tumblr cooperates on the videos. lulz.

Things are in chronological order, for the most part.

Starting in the second photo, you can see the guy in the scuba suit feeding the fish on the far right side.

They had two "Sea Pens" this time, but they were both closed up.

I love anemones. Can ya tell?

Wow...only 1 video upload per post? See what I mean about tumblr cooperating on the vids? They definitely aren't! I'll have to make separate posts, which is ridiculous...these are just little clips, most of them less than 30 seconds. sigh.

Look for the rest of the posts about the day...I'll just number them.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

All Along the Watchtower (Chapter 17)

[Can also be read on AO3]

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 3.3 K

Warnings: Minors DNI - suggestive dialogue, sexual tension, flirting, smoking, canon typical violence

Summary: Rory and Price enjoy the morning after with one another at the end of their mission, and Rory is given a gift from Laswell to gain some closure from her past

Only one chapter left to go!!

A/N: Rory Sinclair is a dual citizen (both Canada and the UK) who's been living in the UK since she was 14. She is 28 at the time of this fic, Price is 32. This series is set in 2017 before the events of the first MW game. Rory's thoughts are bold and italicized, other italics are used for emphasis

November 3, 2017 07:12 - Al-Hasakah, Syria

Rory sat outside the tent, watching the sun rise above the horizon, streaking the sky in gold and pink. She found herself lost in contemplation, appreciating that certain harmony that came with the morning, and the sense of pride washing over her after successfully completing another op. Reaching up, she tugged on the brim of Price’s boonie hat sitting on her head and adjusted it to keep the sun out of her eyes. Arms wrapped around her knees, she felt the warmth start to kiss her skin and she couldn’t help but grin, her thoughts drifting back to the night before as she placed her cigarette to her lips, the tip of it matching the burning star up above. 

A quiet wind rustled what little greenery there was on the sandy overlook, covering the sound of the tent flaps moving as Price exited their humble abode for the night. A low chuckle escaping him at the sight of her in his hat enjoying her morning cigarette. “Mornin’, Sergeant.”

The thick growl of his voice upon first waking up caused a light bubbling laugh to leave her as she exhaled smoke. “Good morning, Captain .”

“Good night last night?” He asked knowingly, a cocky grin on his face as his sure strides brought him to stand by her side. A guardian presence she had welcomed into her life, one that she knew would stop at nothing to keep his promise to her, to keep her safe at all costs, to keep her his . 

She hummed and took another drag of cigarette. “Oh, you could certainly say that.”

His warm, rough hand came to rest on the back of her neck, giving it a tender, possessive squeeze. Eyes scanning the surroundings – always at the ready, never truly settling. “Nik’ll be here soon.”

“Suppose I should give you this back then, eh?” 

She went to grab the hat from her head to return it to him, but his hand grabbed her wrist, stopping her. His fingers squeezed against her slender wrist, powerful in his grip of her. A strength she got to appreciate while in his arms inside that tent. 

“No. Think I like it right where it is. Suits you.”

“You know I am aware of the hat rule, yeah?” Rory sighed, looking up at him with a raised brow.

“That’s just f’cowboys, not soldiers – I’m more of a gentleman than that.” He gave her one of his patented smirks and then sighed contentedly, overly pleased with himself and the previous night’s encounter as he gave a little bounce of his heels and a thrust of his hips. 

She couldn’t help but snicker. “Of course you are, darling.”

His eyes darted sideways towards her, catching that very clear use of a pet name from her for the first time, his smirk only getting wider, creeping up his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his eyes. Saying nothing more on the matter, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. “My girl,” he purred against her. 

Rolling her eyes, she couldn’t help but smile. “Your girl,” she murmured before placing the cigarette back to her lips. 

He checked his watch once more and gave her neck another squeeze for good measure. “You stay right where you are, sweetheart, and I’ll pack up.”

“Leaving me forever indebted to you, eh?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Giving her a little nod, and with a twinkle in his eyes, he took an extra moment to look at her and then began to pack up what remained of their campsite. 

She turned to watch him work, the flex of his muscles as he took down the tent and the way his brow furrowed, and his lips pursed while he was focused on his task. “Tell me, John, did you have Nik take a little longer this morning to come get us in hopes of getting a little morning delight in?”

Her comment broke his concentration and half-grin curled his lip. “Can’t confirm or deny that, love.”

Rory laughed and butted out her cigarette in the sand beside her. “Truly the man with the plans, aren’t you? Just knew I’d give in eventually, yeah?”

“Everyone’s got their breaking point.”

“Spoken like a man who’s had his SAS interrogation training. All it took was making me feel safe, hmm? Just that extra little push.”

“Little bit of praise went a long way too.”

Rory bit her lip, sucking on her pout, stopping herself from talking back as much as she wanted to. She would only dig a deeper hole and John had her number. “Well, aren’t we quite the pair, I just have to keep impressing you and you’ll give me everything I want.”

“Everythin’ and more, darlin’.”

She could feel the blush slowly creeping up her cheeks, the heat overwhelming her face. Rubbing the back of her neck, the warmth spread there like a memory of his touch even as the cool morning wind blew against her. 

“Could have Nik circle and give us another twenty?”

“As tempting an offer as that is, John, I think I’d really rather get back to England and a proper bed.”

His gaze roamed over her, looking her up and down. “Desk duty’s made ya soft,” he teased.

“Didn’t hear any complaints from you last night about me being soft. In fact, I think you really rather enjoyed it.”

That hungry glint in his stare returned once more, eyeing her like a meal. Biting his lip as his scruffy adam’s apple bobbed with a heavy swallow.

“Are you going to continue staring at me like that, or are you going to pack up as was promised?” She stood and her hands came to rest on her hips, brow cocked, once more standing up to him.

“Stop lookin’ so goddamn temptin’ then.”

“Or you could simply control yourself, Captain .”

He growled low in his throat, returning to the task he had been working on prior, shifting the weight he carried on his hips, clearly readjusting himself. 

“And I’ll continue to ogle you like you’re a handsome workman and I’m a rich heiress.”

Steely powder blue eyes shot back towards her. Rory already knew he was going to get her back for that later and she couldn’t help but laugh.

Scoffing, he shook his head. “Already fantasizin’ ‘bout me, yeah?”

“You’re a man who has clearly never skipped leg day, I’m merely appreciating the view while you bend and lift. Besides, I'm your girl now, aren’t I allowed to do that about my man?”

Moving to her side, his voice was a rumble as his hand came to her chin, tipping back her head to look up at him, his thumb rubbing over her lower lip still kiss-bruised from the previous night. “Oh, that you most certainly are.” He snatched the hat from her head and put it back onto his, leaning down to whisper in her ear, his voice low and hoarse. “Gonna get you back for being a bloody tease, though.”

A cheeky grin spread across her lips, mischief in her eyes. “I look forward to it.”

“Just you wait…” The danger returned to his stare, leaving her with an open-ended statement that was either a promise or a threat. His breath fanned over her as his lips slowly lowered to hers, capturing her in a kiss. 

The sound of a helicopter’s rotor spinning thundered in the sky, traveling across the sprawling desert below to reach them. A black speck in the sky, moving towards them and the two lovers parted as Price finally finished packing up with Rory’s help. 

Within minutes, Nikolai’s helicopter hand landed and tossing their bags inside, Price and Rory boarded the aircraft. Looking back from his seat, Nikolai scrutinized his two passengers through his dark sunglasses. After a moment, he spoke, “Captain, you look… relaxed .”

Price snickered as Rory gave a heavy sigh, moving to shut the door behind them. “Feel it too, Nik.” He looked over at her and smirked, giving her a little wink as he flexed his broad shoulders. 

Rory’s cheeks burned with a hot flush, turning bright red. Refusing to make eye contact with the Russian pilot or Price, she took a seat in the back while he sat up front with Nikolai. 

The mobile in Price’s pocket began to ring, breaking the sound of the helicopter’s engine that filled the cabin. Slipping it from his pocket, he answered it quickly. “Laswell.”

“ Congratulations on the successful mission. I assume you’re on the way back ?”

“Just took off.”

“ I need a word with the Sergeant .”

“Rory,” he called her over, raising his voice above the din.

Making her way to the front, she took the phone from him. Holding onto the back of his seat to settle herself as she spoke with the CIA Station Chief. “Laswell.”   

“ Looked into Walker’s reports, thought you might be interested in something, Sergeant .”

Rory hummed, “What would that be?”

“ The location of one Abdullah Al Ghulam .”

Her stare darkened. She ached for the day when she would never have to hear that name again. “Where is he?”

“ Under protection in Dubai, has a charming little penthouse suite with his wife .”

Her jaw clenched tightly, and she spoke through gritted teeth, “Wouldn’t happen to have that address, would you now?”

“ I would .”

Fingers tapping on the leather of the headrest, her grip slowly tightened on the seat, indenting the crescents of her nails into the material as her stomach twisted. This could be the final closure she needed, dealing with the one that got away. “Thank you, Laswell.”

“ You did good work, it’s the least I can do .”

November 6, 2017  11:17 - Dubai, UAE

Traffic raced back and forth, luxury vehicles everywhere the eye could see driving along palm tree lined roads. Buildings of glass stretched up towards the bright blue sky above, reflecting the sunlight back into the marina, shimmering on the aquamarine rippling water. In a quiet cafe on the corner of the promenade, Rory sat at one of the tables under the shade of a white linen umbrella, flapping in the breeze and letting diffused dappled light through to dance on the glass tabletop. 

Watching the traffic and people stream by, she sat back in her chair, the shemagh tucked over her hair fluttering in the warm breeze at her back. Hazel eyes surveyed the crowds as she brought the cup of freshly brewed chai to her lips and sipped, decorated china tinkling as she returned the cup to its saucer, listening to the voice in her ear. 

“ Target’s just arrived on site .” Laswell’s voice came in clear through the earpiece. “ Ready to go when you are, Sergeant .”

“Copy.”

Sipping the last of her tea, she slid the cup and saucer away from her along with a few notes of Dirham for a tip. Reaching to the side of her chair, she lifted the handle of her small, hard bodied luggage case and stood up, dragging it behind her as she carried on down the promenade towards a sky-scraping hotel. 

With marble floors, fountains, and art adorning its interior, the hotel was clearly a place for only the wealthiest elite of tourists and travelers. Dressed as anything but a soldier, wearing designer fashion straight from the pages of Vogue, Rory moved through the scattered guests as if she belonged there and immediately made her way to the elevators, by-passing the front desk completely. Entering along with a group of several other guests, she happily took a spot in the back corner and quietly stood there, blending in as the other guests got off at their respective floors. Unassuming as always, they’d forget her as much as they would what they had for breakfast that day. 

Riding up floor after seemingly never-ending floor, she reached the very top and moved carefully through the halls until she found the roof access door. Climbing up another flight of stairs, carrying the case in her hand, she bypassed the lock on the exterior door and pushed it open. That much closer to the sun, surrounded by glass like an ant under a magnifying glass, the heat became almost unbearable, but she was willing to suffer whatever was necessary to see this through. She was so close, her trigger finger itching. Justice was in her grasp, it would never resolve the horrors in her head or the things his victims went through, but God, would it make everything that happened seem a little more worthwhile. Al Ghulam wouldn’t be another cruel man getting away with his monstrous acts because of money, power, or networking. Nor would he be serving out some pathetic sentence in more comfort than the average person had. He would be taken care of, a stain cleaned, scraped off like gum stuck on the sole of her shoe. 

Crouching down to take a spot behind the cement wall that bordered the roof for cover, she unclicked the latches of her luggage and flipped open the lid to reveal the spongy foam interior gently cradling the parts of her rifle, her scope and her rounds of ammo. Dexterous hands slotted everything together with ease, long fingers twisting the barrel on and cleaning the scope before attaching it. Giving her weapon one last appraising check, she glanced over the barrier wall at the soaring tower of condos across from her, the penthouse suite within her sight line. 

“ Are you in position? ” Laswell asked.

“Affirm. Exfil on standby?”

“ Ready and waiting .”

“Copy. I’ll be down shortly.” Rory slipped on her dark aviators and placed her rifle on the wall, placing her arm under the stock for stability and aimed through the scope to line up her shot. 

Behind glass that reflected the beating sun in a flare back at her, Al Ghulam paced back and forth inside his suite with a cellphone to his ear. Completely unaware. Living in luxury a man like him should never have been afforded after the way he had treated countless people. Safe for all this time, but no longer. The wolf was ready to snap her jaws around her prey. 

Taking a deep breath, she listened to the whistle of the wind, the low roaring past her ears as her head covering started to whip about, the airspeed faster with her elevation and little protection around her. Rory’s hand trembled the longer she watched him through her scope, anger building inside her, her blood heated in her veins as it rushed in her ears. Tightening her hand into a fist, she clenched her fingers tightly, letting her nails dig into the flesh of her palm. Letting all the rage and the guilt flow through her, having had it fester inside for long enough, she wanted to feel that pain now, to accept it, as her therapist had told her to do as part of overcoming her trauma. It would be a long road; this was just a single step – one that might help her sleep a little better at night. 

With her finger placed on the trigger, she took one last deep breath and waited for that perfect moment. Passing by the window, Al Ghulam paused his pacing, and appeared heated as he continued speaking on the phone. Hands shifting and moving wildly. 

Inhale . Holding the breath prisoner in her lungs, she squeezed the trigger. The bullet whizzed through the air, and within a second glass cracked and shattered, popping like a champagne bottle. The entrance wound. The exit wound stained the carpet below Al Ghulam in red as his body hit the ground, dead instantly, his eyes still open and with a hole left between them. 

Exhale . A slow stream of breath passed over her lip as her lungs finally cleared the stale air inside them. It was over. Done and dealt with. Her hands wiped clean of a burden that she had carried with her. A failure she wasn’t sure she could ever forget, but at the very least she might be able to forgive herself for one day. 

Wiping her brow of the beads of sweat that had formed there, she started to take apart her rifle, piece by piece. “Got a tap on who he was chatting with?”

“ His wife ,” Laswell replied.

Rory hummed. “That’s a pity.”

Placing each piece of her weapon neatly back into her luggage so it sat snug and safe, she treated it more like a child or a prized possession. It was her skill with the weapon that got her attached to working CIA black missions in Iraq to begin with, it was the reason she had ever been in contact with someone like Al Ghulam, and for all the nightmares it brought her, her accuracy with her rifle was still something she was proud of. The lives she had taken, the blood spilled, it all felt worth it in that moment. 

Following the same route out of the hotel, she gave no one any doubt of her reason for being there. Watchful eyes didn’t land on her, security didn’t stop her strut out of the foyer. As far as anyone needed to be concerned, she was a guest – nothing more. One with a trail of blood and bodies that followed in her wake. 

Upon exiting the building, a black luxury SUV with tinted windows pulled up. The back door opened immediately, and without question Rory stepped inside, taking her seat across from Laswell. The Station Chief had that same serious, no nonsense look about her she had had during their first meeting at Stirling Lines, even if this was an off the books assignment gifted to the Sergeant, Laswell was still all business. 

“Good work out there, Sinclair.”

Giving a little nod of the head, Rory crossed her legs and sat back in the plush leather row of seats, appearing far more relaxed than during their first meeting. “I appreciate you giving me this opportunity.”

“He was a threat that needed to be dealt with.” Laswell picked up the tablet from the spot beside her and passed it to Rory. “Now you can focus on bigger fish.”

“Al Qatala?”

“Al Qatala.” 

The tablet contained several confidential files and photos from recon, including one of the leader of the terrorist group. Her brow furrowed as she stared down at the screen, taking in her newest enemy’s appearance. “Who’s this?”

“Calls himself ‘The Wolf’.” Rory’s hardened gaze lifted to meet Laswell’s. “I figured you wouldn’t like that name much.”

“He’s the one in charge?”

Laswell nodded and continued, “AQ represents a threat to any and all western powers in the region. After twenty years of civil war in Urzikstan, they appear to want to strike back. Get even.”

Rory chewed her lip as she scanned through the rest of the files, flicking her finger over the screen. “Can’t have that, can we?” she muttered, knowing full well that despite being the enemy they likely had every right to want to take their country back for themselves.

“Glad we’re in agreement.”

“I assume he’s my primary interest going forward when I return to Stirling Lines?”

“You already work anti-terrorism in conjunction with MI6, you’ll be my go between. I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.”

“You trust me with this?” Rory lifted her brow skeptically, apprehensive about the deal being made with yet another member of the CIA.

“I do. Which says a lot, considering our line of work.” Pausing, Laswell added, “Also means you’ll be working closely with John.”

Lifting her eyes, she could pinpoint the nearly imperceptible smirk that pulled at Laswell’s mouth. She knew Kate was dangerous, that she would figure it out, never having even needed to be told. 

“He speaks highly of you. He likes working with people he trusts, and if he trusts you then I can as well.”

“Having blackmail over our careers probably helps to get things done as well, yeah?” Rory smirked back, understanding Laswell’s motives clearly. 

“Whatever it takes.”

Huffing out a laugh, she pulled the shemagh from her shoulders and ran her fingers through her hair, brushing through the short, tousled waves. “Whatever it takes.”

[pocket-size-cthulhu]

Dear Executives™,

In this day and age, each exec is surrounded by "yes-men" - guys that make you feel good, that match your energy, that tell you you have great ideas. But have you ever considered the ways this dynamic might limit your perspective?

Enter: the No-Woman™--

A voice of perspective-expanding truth and clarity to help you see beyond the flock of yes-men around you and towards a brighter future.

If you hire me, I will sit in a crappy chair in the corner of your office playing on my Nintendo switch and eating sour Skittles (expected as part of my compensation). When you have an idea, you may voice it, at which point I will either shrug my shoulders (indicating that you may go forward with your idea) or pinch the bridge of my nose and say "that's the stupidest idea I've ever heard. Where do you come up with this shit?"

In meetings with the other executives and board members, I will hold a very bright, very squeaky white board marker with which I will cross out the bad ideas on the board while loudly and disrespectfully chewing bubble gum or sipping an iced beverage (your choice).

Finally, when you're giving speeches, I'll sit in the front row with my feet up on whatever's in front of me. I'll scroll through my phone, but look up to shake my head and/or roll my eyes when I know your speech is going the wrong direction.

The rest of my time I will spend gossiping with your employees in order to get a more accurate read on employee sentiment to pass along to you honestly and anonymously when requested.

Please see my resume for a sampling of the many times executives like you have proposed an idea to which I've responded "that's the worst thing I've ever heard in my life", only for them to walk back on their decision a few months later, forced to eat crow. Imagine the humiliation I could save you!

I would literally do this job for $2 and a pack of sour Skittles, but since I know you can afford it, I will do it for the low low price of $100,000. Per paycheck.

Please consider employing me, I'm truly passionate about this work xo

[lilallama]

This might be a little bit of a weird question since I know you haven’t done this in a long time but- would you ever consider doing more hybrid y/n? I’m not a big fan of Y/n being this like sweet innocent lil thing the fanclub has to take care of- but I really enjoyed the wolf hybrid y/n short you wrote a long time ago and was just wondering if we would ever get something like that again (it’s okay if not tho)

[Of course! I hope this is alright. ❤]

It's been weeks since these strange humans have taken Y/n away. There has not been a single day where the wolf hybrid didn't attempt to escape. Every minute was spent searching through the limited number of areas they had access to. But they have yet to succeed in their attempts. The security was tight and not a single crevice was left unchecked for any openings. Y/n's chances of escape seemed rather disheartening.

The room they were mostly kept in was ridiculously huge. Paintings of them, that one of those bastards drew, covered the walls fraimed in gold. Y/n scratched and chewed up multiple, but those people just fawned over how cute they were. How patronising to be treated in such a way! It only made Y/n more furious at their captors. Constantly being coddled and pet was only stressing them further. If given the chance they'd jump to bite their hands off.

They've tried actually, multiple times. But they acted as if it was some great honour to be assaulted by the wolf hybrid. Not even a smidgen of fear seemed to be ignited within them. Y/n was convinced these beings were completely void of a survival instinct. How infuriating.

While they dressed them up, not without struggle and a bit of medication, Y/n could only think about their pack. Their family. How worried they must be for them. Y/n could only hope they hadn't thought they abandoned them. But the thought also gave them strength. The will to escape, no matter what.

"I was thinking of buying them this diamond necklace. Though I fear it might be a bit cheap for them." Namjoon studied the picture of a beautiful collar like necklace on his phone. Seokjin glanced at the price and rolled his eyes. "Only 30 thousand? Is that how little they're worth to you?" While Namjoon sighed and agreed with Seokjin, Yoongi cringed at the price. These rich people seriously have too much money. But Y/n does deserve the best so... If he had the money he'd buy them whatever they desired. Too bad his "friends" were a great deal luckier than he was. Finishing the last brush stroke, Taehyung took a step back to admire the painting of Y/n. "Aren't they glorious?" He sighed dreamily. Jimin, who was lounging on the couch, could not agree more, giggling about looking forward to getting to see their reaction. Taking a deep breath in, Taehyung already felt the anxiety bubble within him. Maybe this time his pure angel will deem his craft worthy? The youngest of the bunch, Jeongguk, had been circling the couch for a while while mumbling to himself. Hoseok scoffed, "Is that your sorry attempt of mimicking the circling practices of wolves to impress Y/n? Because I doubt that'll get you very far. You're not even using it in the correct way." Of course, Hoseok had read up on wolf hybrids, his darling Y/n was one after all. Jeongguk frowned towards the now laughing Hoseok. "Of course not!" But he couldn't help but debate for a second if that would impress Y/n. "It's just, Y/n has been very uneasy in their room. I was thinking of something to calm them down." Jimin looked towards them, "Maybe a big scratching post?" "They're a wolf, not a cat, idiot." Namjoon retorted. "Then a big ball!" "They're not a dog either."The youngest huffed, "I was more thinking of, like, video games or something." "What would a wild wolf hybrid want with video games?"

From the other room Y/n could hear their conversations and growled. How did these fools end up capturing them, how embarrassing.

[fourseasonsfigs]

Happy Birthday Swiss Rolls

My friends, if you have been following this blog, you may recall my dismay at the Gong Jun figs in the shape of Swiss roll desserts. Or rather, just Junjun's head poking out of the rolled up pastries.

You may also happen to recall me mentioning I was inadvertently overexposed to ghost stories (illustrated ghost stories) as a very young, impressionable child, and as a result it's a little unnerving to me to have disembodied heads or limbs just floating around. Some things just kind of stick with you, you know?

So you might be asking, why would anyone go ahead and spend their hard-earned money on things that kinda wig them out?

Well, my much more intelligent and thoughtful figthusiast friends, that's a great question. I can only say my quasi-obsessive completionist fig tendencies combined with the seller unloading her excess stock together with the sheer ease of simply clicking on "add to cart" created a perfect opportunity to leave myself to regret things later.

And if I happen to be regretting any certain life choices, well, as they say, sometimes your choices may serve as a warning to others.

These figs were sold separately, so per my own rules I should post them one at a time, but I only have it in me to do one post of these and move on with my life! So here we go.

The inspiration for the green Vegetable Roll, as it is called, is the cabbage dog from Gong Jun's post:

The inspiration for the blue Jun Roll is of course the sunhat from Go Fighting Season 8!

Which is of course my excuse for one of my favorite pictures of him! I love this one.

But maybe a few more pics before we have to dive into the figs...

Ahhh I feel fortified. Ok, let's brace ourselves and get this done, shall we?

So these are clearly resin, because they're snuggly packed in a custom polystyrene box. Normally I pay a little bit extra to bubble wrap resin figs to protect them on the long ocean voyage to the US. For these, well, I decided I'd leave it up to fate if they made it or not.

Oh, they made it just fine, gentle reader. And no wonder - they're as solid as bricks. I could probably use this as a self defense weapon. These will probably survive a major natural disaster.

Wow. What the heck. I'm not sure this fig needs any commentary, so I'll just drop the roll of pics here...

Ok, that's Swiss roll one down. They're not poorly done or anything, they're just...something. I'd say something like, who thinks of this concept?!?! but artists are artists, after all, they're bound to be creative. The more relevant question is, who buys this concept??!

Yep, it's me. I will say I wasn't even drinking when I bought them. I thought, well, if I was ever curious about these or wanted to complete my collection, now is the time since I'm certainly not going to pay Xianyu pricing for them.

I mean, I would take a drink now, that's all I'm saying. But in the meantime, I'm just gonna keep grimly forging ahead.

I kind of like that this is actually more swiss-roll like - you can see where the sponge cake is kind of wrapped. It's curious it's not like that on the other one. Maybe the other one is like some other variety of the swiss roll.

They are immensely heavy and very, very solid. They would make excellent paperweights or even bookends because they're so solid.

For context, here they are with a regular sized fig. The Swiss roll might be the same size in terms of relative height, but the gigantic disembodied face and of course the sheer solid mass makes these feel very big on the shelf up with the rest of the figs.

Yep, these are from the Happy Birthday dessert collection.

Never have I blown through a fig post as fast as this one. No lingering over the figs here!

Material: Resin and some childhood heebie jeebies

Fig Count: 317

Scene Count: 23

Rating: Aiya wo de tian ah

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

[lemonwrap]

Tongues & Teeth - Chapter 22

Read it on Ao3!

Soap remains in the infirmary for five more days. Ghost had stayed with him nearly the entire time, only leaving when Soap had urged him to go get them food or to take a walk and stretch his legs. He didn’t really know anybody else on base other than the 141, and had little desire to talk to anyone except for Soap and occasionally Price, and was therefore fine spending almost all of his time with a bedridden Soap. 

Ghost is currently sitting in their shared room on his bed, reading a book from the base’s scarce library. He doesn’t remember reading it previously. He can’t really remember much from his previous life, so he’s still figuring out what he likes. So far, classics and fiction weren’t that bad. His meager bags are packed, and Soap’s are as well. He looks up when the door opens, slightly tense, and then relaxes when he sees it's just Soap returning from the showers. 

Soap is freshly bathed and looking reinvigorated. He had been unkept and unwashed for days, forced to avoid bathing to keep his wound dry for the first week. His wet hair clings to the back of his neck, his blue eyes are bright and cheery, and there’s a pep in his step. There’s just something about him that makes Ghost want to be closer. 

“Hey,” Soap says. 

Hey, Ghost responds. He looks away from Soap. He hears Soap shuffling around, and looks back up to see him holding a large bandage and beginning to take off his shirt. 

Do you want help? Ghost asks him, unthinking. He never had wrapped or bandaged others, but he had plenty of experience dealing with his own wounds alone. It couldn’t be that hard. 

“Aye, that’d be nice,” Soap says. He begins to take off his shirt and throws it on his own bed, before sitting down on the edge of Ghost’s next to him. 

Ghost pointedly tries not to look at how muscular Soap’s arms are, instead taking the bandage from his hands and opening it. He gently presses the large bandage over the still open but healing wound and smooths the edges down so there’s no bubbles. Soap is warm to the touch; Ghost lingers for a second on the heat of his skin before pulling away, lifting his hands to sign. 

Good?

“Aye. You ready to ditch this base?” Soap asks him as he rolls his shoulder lightly, testing the bandage. They are leaving for the airport soon, and Ghost doesn’t know how to feel. What would it be like, being a civilian after all these years? Would he enjoy it, or would he itch for blood on his hands again? He was tired of killing now, but what if he got bored? Until recently, being a weapon was all he had known. 

Yes, he fibs. 

“Good. I’m ready, too,” Soap says. He gets up and carefully pulls his shirt back on. 

They hang out for another half hour or so, until it hits ten o’clock.

“Alright, let’s get goin’,” Soap says with a bright smile, picking up his bags. Ghost grabs Soap’s bags from his hands, heaving them up over his shoulders instead of making Soap carry them.

“What a gentleman,” Soap says, batting his eyelashes at Ghost, who bites back a laugh. They make their way out of the base and into the garage, approaching an idling truck. Price had offered to take them to the airport. 

“Soap, Ghost,” Price greets as Ghost pops the trunk and throws their bags in. Soap gets in the front seat and Ghost climbs into the back of the vehicle.

Price twists in his seat and hands Ghost a set of documents and a black face mask. A birth certificate, a passport, and an ID, all with his real name on them. Simon Riley. It’s still strange to think of himself like that. He wasn’t going to ask how much trouble Price went through to get these documents, so he just signs Thank you.

“Don’t lose ‘em. You’ll also need that mask for the airport, because they’re not going to let you on looking like a terrorist,” Price says, eyes crinkling in a smile. He turns back around and takes the car out of park. Price drives off the base and towards the airport, which was only about twenty minutes away from the base. They’d be taking a public airplane, and Ghost is a little apprehensive. A public airline was different from a military helicopter.

Ghost stares at the fabric face mask. He knew he probably wouldn’t be able to wear his balaclava on an airplane, but his throat still closes up a little. While Soap and Price are both distracted, he pulls the balaclava off his face and quickly puts on the face mask instead. Luckily, it covers the brand on his cheekbone, but it leaves a few of his scars too out in the open to the public for comfort. His face feels naked and unprotected, much too unconcealed for his taste. He stuffs his balaclava in his pocket and idly listens to the music on the radio as they drive, gazing out the window, trying not to nervously fidget. He wasn’t used to showing any part of his face other than his eyes. 

After a bit, they roll up to the airport and park. Ghost and Soap get out and Ghost begins to unload their bags from the trunk. They walk up to the driver’s side to see Price. 

“Bye, Captain,” Soap says. 

“See ya around, boys,” Price says out the window before reversing out of the spot and driving off, leaving Soap and Ghost to navigate the airport parking lot by themselves. 

“You changed your mask,” Soap says when he sets eyes on Ghost. “Your hair is a damn mess, too. Can I?”

Ghost nods. Soap reaches up and smooths down Ghost’s blonde hair to an acceptable level of neatness, tucking his hair behind his ears. Ghost allows it, knowing, trusting that Soap would never hurt him. He’s different, even if Ghost’s instincts want to tell him something else.

“You need a haircut,” Soap comments as they begin to walk across the parking lot. 

You need one too, Ghost replies. I think that’s out of regulation.

“It is,” Soap says. “Price dinnae give a shit, though.”

How often are you on planes? Ghost asks Soap curiously as they walk into the building. Did he do this often? He seems completely at ease, as opposed to Ghost. 

“Every once and a while,” Soap answers. “Why? You nervous?”

Ghost shakes his head. He wasn’t exactly nervous, just vaguely uncomfortable without even a knife on his person and without his balaclava. It was an odd feeling to be unarmed, and to feel as if he was on display. 

They go through TSA fairly quickly. Ghost is incredibly relieved they don’t ask him to remove his mask, instead enduring a few scrutinizing looks before being allowed through. 

What’s it like? Ghost asks as they board the plane. 

“In Scotland? Pretty nice. I’ve got a house in town, lived there for about six years or so. I can show you around later on,” Soap says, obviously in a good mood. Ghost hopes it was as nice as he said, considering he’d be staying there for who knows how long. If he saves up enough money, maybe he could move back to Britain, visit his family’s graves, and live a normal life. As long as he still got to see Soap occasionally, he thinks he’d be happy with that. 

They settle into the plane, with Ghost by the window, Soap in the middle, and a stranger in the aisle seat. Unarmed and face feeling exposed, Ghost is a little on edge from the amount of people, but he reminds himself that he’s faced worse. A planeful of untrained, equally unarmed civilians were no threat to him. Soap gently touches his arm, as if sensing his doubts. 

“We’ll be there in, what, eight hours? Just hold tight.”

Ghost nods. He had sat longer waiting for targets. His and Soap’s thighs touch due to the small airplane seats, but Ghost finds that he doesn’t really mind all that much. 

After a few hours, Soap nods off, resting on Ghost’s shoulder and snoring. Ghost lets him, and he might’ve even leaned a little on Soap. Soap still needs all the rest he can get after being shot, even a week later. In Ghost’s opinion, he should’ve rested longer before taking the journey to Scotland, but he wasn’t Soap’s keeper. 

They’re on the plane for a long time, so long that Ghost is getting tired of looking out the window and watching movies on the small screen in front of him. Soap stays asleep nearly the entire time, his body warm against Ghost. Ghost kind of likes it. He’s tired, but he refuses to go to sleep, unwilling to let himself be so vulnerable in a public place. 

They eventually make it to the Scotland airport, and Ghost gently shakes Soap awake. Soap mutters and buries his face in Ghost’s shoulder, stubbornly refusing to wake up. Ghost smiles and shakes him harder this time. Soap opens his eyes, lifting his head off of Ghost’s shoulder. 

We’re here, Ghost says. 

“That we are,” Soap replies, rubbing his eyes and yawning. 

They begin to get out of their seats and off of the plane, stepping foot into yet another airport. It’s dark when they step outside, and when he catches a glimpse of Soap’s phone, the time is nearly ten o’clock at night. They’re in a city. Soap quickly flags down a taxi and they both clamber in the backseat with their bags, knees touching. It’s about an hour’s ride from the airport to Soap’s house. 

The taxi drops them off in front of Soap’s home. It’s a cozy looking brown stone house with red shutters, a little on the older side. The grass is a little overgrown and the flowerbeds are filled with weeds, but it's nothing a little TLC couldn’t fix. 

“Home sweet home,” Soap says, unlocking the door and stepping inside, flipping on the light. They walk into the main room, where there’s some comfortable furniture and a TV crowding the room. It’s not a large house, but it seems comfortable enough. It suits Soap. Ghost likes it.  

Soap flicks on the hallway light as they walk further into the house. 

“There’s the bathroom. That’s my room, and there’s your room. And that’s my study,” Soap says, pointing at each door as he goes. Ghost goes towards Soap’s room and sets down his partner’s bags. 

“Go to bed. I know you’re tired,” Soap says when he notices Ghost stifling a yawn as he walks out of Soap’s room. “I’ll cook us something good later, yeah?”

Ghost nods and ambles into the room Soap had said was his. It’s a decently sized room, with a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe, and a closet. The grayish-blue walls are bare except for a singular painting of a landscape, but it's still homey. The bed is already made, so Ghost plops his bag on the floor, kicks off his boots, and tucks himself in, still clothed. The sheets smell stale, but he’s too jetlagged to give a damn about anything but a nap right now. Ghost falls asleep quickly.

[depressed-sock]

Mirror Image

Alright I’ve got no plans to actually do anything with this so I decided to just throw it out into the wild rather then let it gather dust.

Puppet and Sidestep au story. Puppet pov

...

The first time you see Nova without a shirt, it's to stitch up a wound on his back. It looks worse than it actually is but it still leaves you worried.

It's not often Nova gets sloppy but it's been known to happen in these last few years you've been with him. In those few times, he's never had you help him with his injuries. Has never needed your help. Or maybe he's never been comfortable showing his skin to you.

Even though you've known exactly what's been under his clothes since the first day his mind touched yours. (Before that even. When skeletal hands had touched your face and made everything hurt. You saw him. Your almost perfect copy. A doppelganger who was older and jaded and marked as other.) It would be impossible for you not to know either way. Not with the shared nightmares and memories you've inherited with him sometimes riding around in your head.

It means something that he trusts you with this. Your brother in revenge is leaning on you because he finally realized he needs to. It's worrying for a lot of reasons. The main one you're focusing on is how vulnerable he is.

How, in a visceral way, you know exactly why he waited this long to ask for help.

"What happened?" You ask to distract yourself. Force yourself to focus on the injuries and not the rancid orange you wish you could dig out with your own hands. It's weird sometimes. Feeling this strongly for someone who is not you. You both have had only yourselves to count on for all your life…and now? Now you have this strange companionship that neither of you can untangle from. You don't think either of you really wants to anyway.

Not with the way Nova leans into your touch rather than flinching. As he trusts you in a way he never would with anyone else. He looks back at you with an exhausted smile and only the explanation of, "Got in over my head doing something stupid."

Stupid and risky and… Another Regen? You can feel the shape of what happened, his mind so very open with yours. "Did you kill them?"

He winces. Guilt tasting rancid at the back of your throat. The biggest difference between the two of you. He feels guilty about a lot of things. You have nothing to feel guilty for. (That's what you keep telling yourself at least.)

Fuck, that sucks though. You know he doesn’t like to kill. "That's not going to draw their attention right?"

"No. It shouldn't. Not with it dead."

You wince because you can feel what he’s trying to do. Distance himself. Make himself and the other Regen objects rather than people. "Don't do that. None of you are objects."

"Not all of us prefer human pronouns," he snorts and you just roll your eyes. Classic diversion. Doesn’t really work on someone who shares a mind space with you in close proximity.

"I know, I've got memories of that place from you, remember asshole?" You very gently smack his shoulder. Making sure to avoid anywhere near the injury. You've both been hurt too often to willingly inflict more on each other. "I also know when you're being shit to yourself and other Regens."

He frowns as you finish the final stitch. Turning to face you. Too intimate, too close, too much at risk with this discussion. (Your eyes go to the barcode. You wonder how much he’s worth.) “We are not going to a grocery store to use a barcode scanner.” A twitch of his lips, fighting off a smile but you can see the laughter in your brother's eyes.

“You gotta admit, it would be a little funny if you were the same price as a box of Oreos.”

“Sunny.” His tone is serious. “We both know I’d cost the same as a pack of gum.”

The giggle that hits you is maybe a bit too hysterical. Bubbling up from your gut and being held back by a hand to your mouth. “Oh my god. I bet you’d cost the same as the one stupid movie. What was it? Sidestep and Charge? No, it was something else…”

“Please stop,” he groans, head in his hands now.

“Oh wait, I remember. Charged love! Where they made you a woman.”

“Oh Hell no. That can go burn in a trash fire.”

“See that makes it the perfect price!” you somehow say with a straight face. “Because your life is a trash fire!”

That does it. Finally breaks the smile free and the absolute joy of talking about stupid shit feels amazing. The worry is gone.

After a few breaths of laughter, Nova shakes his head, looking at you with narrowed eyes. "You're becoming more empath than fortune teller at this rate."

"Well asshole, that's your own damn fault.” You throw his shirt at him. Pausing a second before nervously handing over his jacket too. “Secondly, do me a favor and try to avoid cars for the foreseeable future."

He pulls the shirt on, scrunching his nose a bit and doing his best to hide the wince. "You saw something?"

"Not the full thing. Just a taste of it. It's still far off enough I can't get a clear read."

He hums in thought, slipping the jacket on next. "Anything about Shroud?"

It's hard to hold back the snarl that wants to twist your lips at her name. "Nothing prediction-wise. I have some feelers out though. There's something going on and we should be expecting Lord Ember to pay a visit to the city in the near future."

"We can work him into our plans if we need to. Especially if he’s bringing her along."

You nod your head. "Focus on building our organization first. Once we’re established it’ll be easier to fry the bigger fish."

He nods back. Moving to sit next to you, his weight leaning into yours. "Any news on Dr. Mortum?"

"Everything is going as planned. Armour is on schedule and the nanovores will be neutered. I’m guessing you're going to need me to deliver them next?" You turn to look at the container on the nightstand. Not exactly able to feel them, but you get the impression of them from Nova’s proximity. Excited little rat brains.

They’ll look out for Nova. You know it with absolute certainty.

"Yes. Be gentle with them.” Nova stares at them with a quiet fondness that has you rolling your eyes.

Honestly, you need to get him out more if his best friend is going to end up being a bunch of rat brains in a jar.

“I thought you were my best friend?” He nudges you with a smirk.

“No. I’m family.”

“Oh?” You pretend he’s not getting choked up by that admission.

”Yeah and you need someone that’s not telepathically tied to you. So they can tell you when you’re being stupid with absolute certainty.” (And zero influence. You don’t say that, barely trying to even think it. You’ve got your worries and you don’t want to give them away just yet. Not when there’s something lurking around the corner in both of your minds.)

“Well since that’s not happening guess I’ll just have to stick with the Ratking.”

You sigh, knowing better. “Yeah. Guess so.” You don’t mention the diner. Some things are just meant to happen.

…

The door slams hard enough to shake on its hinges, making you want to wince. You don’t though. You keep your eyes focused on the computer screen in front of you. Online gambling. Some habits are harder to break than others. Except this time you’re actually being careful. Making sure to lose often enough that no one can accuse you of cheating.

Nova storms into the living room. Pacing back and forth as panic fills your mind enough that you finally look up at him. “What happened?” (You know what happened. The alcohol spills as Nova’s name is said with reverence and disbelief. Older face, a mustache that makes him stand out. Charge was always meant to find him.)

“Ortega.” His voice is rough and panicked. There are going to be nightmares tonight. “I can’t fucking believe this.” Nova sits on the couch beside you. Head in his shaking hands.

“Do we need to worry about him?”

“I don’t know,” comes the muffled reply. “Fuck!”

“Ok. Well does he suspect anything?”

“No,” he shakes his head, dropping his hands to look you in the eye. “He asked me to help Lady Argent. Go into her head and figure out who fucked with her mind.”

“Oh.” You can feel the look of horror on your face. “That’s so fucked up.” It had been a necessary evil. You both agreed on that after debating it to hell and back. But this? Going back into his victim's mind with the intention of ‘helping’? That leaves a sour taste on your tongue. You would have been horrified if that had happened with Shroud.

Nova knows it too. He doesn’t feel guilty about taking over her body. That was just what needed to be done to get the nanovores out without any extra damage. But this? This isn’t necessary. It was supposed to be a one-and-done. Now it’s not.

God. They make shit villains don’t they?

“Will she be able to tell it was you?”

He shakes his head, “No, I’ll change up how I feel. The problem is I’m going to need a scapegoat.”

“I can make a list.”

“They need to be a hero or related to hero stuff.” He rubs a hand over his shaved head.

You look at him for a second before drawing out the word, “Why?”

He closes his eyes, back hitting the cushions, “Apparently it felt like a ‘hero’ did it.”

You stare at him. He closes his eyes harder.

A bark of laughter escapes you and he just puts his hands over his face with a groan. Turns out you’re not the only with hard habits to break.

[supercute4ever]

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[thepinkwriterr]

Capricorn Season Chapter Nineteen

I am very sorry for the huge lapse in posting. I was going through a lot, but I am back now! Enjoy this update. 

Table of Contents 

My heels clicked against the laminate floor of Heathrow airport. It was packed. I didn't want to fly and I didn't want to be there, but I had to. I was nervous. Too many people. Too many voices.

My outfit was tight and uncomfortable but that was the price to pay for beauty. I wanted to look nice the first time Jimmy saw me after a few months. It wasn't like me to be so worried about what he thought but my anxious thoughts got the best of me. I worried he would be disappointed after not seeing me in so long. I wondered if it was even worth considering. I wore a pink dress I bought recently with some white pumps. My outfit matched my luggage.

Everything was fitting together, running flush as I started this new journey. It made me feel better about the uncertainty ahead. And there was lots of it. It wasn't like me to jump into things like this, not without knowing every little detail.

As I walked to my terminal I looked at the throngs of people. Whether they were waiting in line or sitting on the floor, they meandered. They wandered like clueless chickens with their heads cut off. They clucked and flapped their beaks as they tried to find their way to baggage claim, stomping around and fluttering their sickle feathers as they searched for their passports. I couldn't help but laugh at how ridiculous they all looked.

Not that I was much better. I was so nervous I couldn't see where I was going. I almost went to the wrong terminal! I checked three more times as I opened the door to the lounge marked with a big red 5, just to be sure. Thankfully I was in the right place.

"Here you are, miss, just take a seat and wait for the plane to board." The fair-skinned desk lady gave me a thin-lipped smile and handed me back my pink passport. Another piece of the ensemble. I followed her orders and went to find a chair, releasing a large breath as I finally sat. It had been almost a year since I had been on a plane. This would only be my second flight ever, which was the reason for all this anxiety.

I sucked in a breath and stepped into the hallway. It was time to board the plane. The worst part. I could feel anxiety bubbling in my chest. I found my seat in five short strides. My nails hit the rigid plastic armrest as I nervously tapped. I'm sure everyone was annoyed with me as my feet clomped against the carpeted floor, but I couldn't help it. I had to get my nervous energy out somehow.

I remembered being amazed when Dominic told me about his plane ride to and from Africa, and how wonderful the experience was. That was his first plane trip and he was delighted to be flown by David E. Harris, the first black pilot. Harris became the plane captain by 1967, a year and a half before I flew for the first time. I compared my experience on this Pan Am flight to Dominic's account.

Sometimes I let him creep in, allowing his judgment to run free in my mind. It was so long ago, I know, but I couldn't help it. It felt good to swim in that lake of nostalgia. I remembered his words from so long ago and the way he drew out his syllables, how his face contorted in total joy when he made himself laugh, and how gorgeous he looked with smoke coiling around his lips.

He's actually the one who told me about England. He spoke about Reading and told me all about how magical the culture was, about the history, food, and architecture. He told me about Reading festivale and how one of his friends saw The Rolling Stones. He said he wanted to take me there. His face was painted with total elation. He had a huge mouth, lips, and teeth cracking into a geode smile, glittering and beautiful. I always thought he was a very pretty man. I wondered how he looked now, if he was still gorgeous, if he was still an asshole.

That's why I think I still let him into my head the way I did. His effect couldn't be understated. He still presided over my life, affecting where I lived, even with just his words. I worried that he would always have some measure of control over my life. I still judged myself based on his rubric, still looked off his paper as I made moves across my life. I didn't know if that was because he was my first and last boyfriend, the only man who filled the role of my absent father, or if I hadn't gotten over him yet.

Love had always been hard for me. I always wanted love but I didn't know how to get it, or how to give it. Love was always a guessing game. But the gap was bridging, just as the space between Jimmy and I, as the plane came closer to New Haven. I was getting closer to love. I could feel the flame drawing ever closer, and I could feel the drip of molten wax down my shuttering frame. I wished not for a fall from grace.

But I did move to Winnersh, the place I still call my home. It was a nice little area. Although the people were pretty conservative, I enjoyed it. I wondered if Dominic would like it there. Probably not. He would think it too still and sterile. Too white.

The airplane seats were a lovely shade of green and had a white towel draped over the front. I wondered what they were for at first, but then I saw people patting their faces as the flight went on. I thought it was gross and abstained from joining in.

Three stewardesses accompanied us, surveying the aisles and providing everyone with drinks and meals. The food selection started with hors d'oeuvres, which Jimmy later told me was common on English flights. I declined the stewardess's offer because I saw the crackers had mushrooms on them. Yuck!

The next dish to be passed around was a salad. It didn't look like any salad I had ever seen.

"It's an English garden salad. There are potatoes, runner beans, spring onions, sundried tomatoes, Cheshire cheese, mint, mustard, and honey." This stewardess had red hair. It was lighter than mine but longer and curly. Her eyes were huge and blue. Her long eyelashes were coated in a thick layer of mascara and her cheeks were covered in blush. She was pretty but wore too much makeup. She put me off because runner beans, or lima beans, were not beans at all. They were legumes. So I told her so.

"They're actually not beans, they're legumes. Like peanuts."

"Oh. Would you like some salad?" She asked again, holding out the dish.

"Sure."

She put a large serving of salad onto my rounded plate and walked away with a smile. Her mouth was small. I was surprised she could put her lipstick on. I looked down at my plate and saw that it was not salad at all, but a pile of mashed ingredients. The English were terrible at food. No wonder so many of them were stick-thin.

Thankfully the salad never entered my mouth. The turbulence caused it to fly onto the floor, collecting at my feet. A stewardess, this one brunette and portly, scurried over and cleaned it up. She apologized profusely as she put the sticky food on a napkin and carried it off. She was gone before I got a chance to tell her it was okay.

I tried my best to squeeze my eyes shut and sleep. But I fought blindly in the dark behind my closed lids for the entirety of the flight. I was too nervous to eat or drink anything. And getting out of my seat before the plane was on solid ground was out of the question. The worst part was that my bladder was calling to me, pleading desperately to allow me to empty it. I patted my tummy and sighed, telling myself I would get to go when we were back on the ground. It wouldn't be too long, I kept repeating. Not too long.

In the black desert of space under my eyelids, my mind started to wander. I was bored. I had thumbed through the on-flight movie selection and came up empty-handed. I had either seen everything or wasn't interested. I laid my head back and let memory sweep me away, thinking of the last few days.

It was all so crazy. I let Jimmy find me a job, something I had never done before. I didn't want anyone's help, certainly not from the guy I was seeing. But he found me a good job, one with a good boss, one that allowed me to be excited about what I would be doing.

I was more grateful to him than I ever had been to anyone. No one had been as kind as he. Where I come from, kindness was something to be earned. It was hard-fought and scarcely rewarded. But he gave it to me endlessly. I didn't even have to ask. I was given kindness and respect without begging. Something I'd never had.

"Right, love, I've made some calls. I know you wanted to go as freelance as possible, so I've found a manager for you. His name is William Wells. You'll be able to join us and take photos and send them to William, then he'll send them out to other companies." Jimmy's voice was broken and patchy on the phone. We were miles away, countries apart, and the reception was an annoying reminder.

"Are you serious? Oh my god, that's like the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I can't thank you enough for this." I was embarrassed, having needed his help, but was grateful in spite of that fact.

"Well, you don't have to. I just want you with me as soon as possible. And I know you'll take some great photos of the band."

"I'll give him a call right away. Thank you so much! Really, thank you. I will see you soon!"

"That sounds great, love. I'll see you soon."

There was a slight silence as we lingered on the line, just for a moment or two. I could hear him breathing and a pain hit me in the chest. I missed him. Of course, I was happy he was having fun with his band, but I was selfish. I wanted him here with me, in Pangbourne once more.

"I'll see you soon, bye," I said.

After I hung up the phone I paced around anxiously. I was really going to join them on tour! And soon. Oh my god... oh my god. I'm fucking going on tour with a band. I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know what to pack or what to think. What do you wear on tour? Was it going to be hot? Of course, it's going to be, it's America in the summer. I've lived in America longer than anywhere else. I was going crazy with excitement.

First, I had to call William Wells and arrange a time to meet. Then, I had to go and sign stuff, then I had to worry about packing. I was getting so ahead of myself. I couldn't help it. I was going to see Jimmy, we could spend every day together for the next few months.

The dessert was good, at least. It was a "Victoria sandwich", which was just a sponge cake with whipped cream and raspberry jam. What the hell was with the British and cream? They were obsessed with dairy. They served it after another nasty bout of turbulence. I thought my head was going to fly off my neck!

It wasn't long after a glass of champagne that the flight ended. I was shaky and needed to pee really badly. When people began to file out of their seats I bounced anxiously. I didn't know if I could make it, honestly. I had to go so badly. Annoyance started to build in me as people shuffled down the aisle. My carry-on had started to get heavy as well. I wanted off the floating tin can from hell.

The cab's window rattled as we drove over bricked streets and busy intersections. Heavy rain pummeled the car. It was peaceful to see the raindrops racing on the window, crashing into one another as the downpour continued.

I was growing tired as the day dragged on. But I knew salvation would be coming soon. I could lay down in a bed with Jimmy and sleep. Nothing sounded better.

I was once again entwined with recollection as I dissipated from the smelly cab. I was walking my steps from yesterday, my hands shaking in the confines of the metal car just as they had as I walked down the office hallway.

The office was hot and I wondered when I'd get home. If we hurry this along, maybe I could make a late lunch and still be home in time to beat the rain. I hated driving in the rain.

William came in shortly after. He was tall and pleasant, like a scarecrow. He shook my hand gently, the sign of a good man. "Hello, I'm William," His face was clear and bright, with a thin structure and hollow cheeks. His eyes were warm and friendly. Dark blue. "I trust you found your way here alright."He sat back in his red oval chair with a smile. He was all too warm and friendly. I wondered if it was a facade. He speaks like an American, like me. I felt at home in his dip-thong and drawn-out syllables. He's a Yankee.

"Yes," I nodded, "just fine."

"How are you doing today?"

I was taken aback by his small talk. I knitted my brows together and tried to make a daisy chain of an answer, "I'm fine, I guess," I stumbled through an appropriate response and searched for anything to add onto. I had to turn on my corporate brain, "hoping it doesn't rain. I'm sick of the rain".

He laughed. "Yeah, me too. Ever since I got here it seems like it hasn't stopped raining."

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Indiana. Yeah, I know, big guy from the big city!" Oh, so he's a Hoosier.

Now I laughed. Short, small bursts of air puffed from my nose. "Where in Indiana? I've never been but I'm familiar with most of the state capitals. Have to keep in touch with the American roots," I joked.

"Muncie. It's a little college town. Blue collar. I don't expect you to know it."

I shrugged, "no, I don't. Is it close to Indianapolis? When I moved to Winnersh, I had a layover at the airport there."

"No, not really. It's about an hour and a half away. Where are you from?" He turned the question on me awfully fast.

"California."

"Wow, so that must've been an interesting experience."

"Oh, yes, it certainly was," I tried my best to laugh.

Now it was time to get to business. I could see the corporate mask slip on. His expression changed from friendly to serious. His lips pulled together and his brows lowered. "When Mr. Page showed me your work I found it incredibly interesting. You capture action very well," he opened the leather-bound portfolio and rifled through the thick pages of black paper. White tabs held the photos at each corner, allowing for an unobstructed view and the ability to remove the picture at will. "That will be a valuable skill when taking shots of the band. You also have an excellent eye for detail and great depth of field. I'm very impressed." He closed the portfolio.

I was quiet. I nodded. What was I to say?

"We should move onto business, shouldn't we?" He asked. His nose was narrow and pointed at the end, almost in the shape of an arrow.

"I suppose."

"Well, if you were to join our team you would be shooting the band and sending the film via mail. I would have them developed and get them to publications that were looking for photos. Mainly magazines that are running articles. And, of course, we would publish them in our magazine at the start of every month, given what article is being run. You could also be sent out for shoots when you're not working with the band. It's just that Zeppelin is very in demand right now, so we would want that to be your main focus."

I was so nervous I didn't really know what to say. It sounded great but I wasn't sure if the money would be great.

"If you're worried about your photos in other hands, don't worry, our team of developers is excellent. They are highly trained and-" he spoke with stressed features.

"No, that's not it. I actually used to work as a developer. I spent most of last year in a dark room," I interrupted. he laughed, his brows coming back up, "I just don't know how great of a fit I would be. I mean, I haven't really done something like this. I've only shot three or four bands."

"You have a personal connection with the band, as Mr. Page made it sound, and I see here that you are very adept. I think you would do wonderfully."

I sighed. This was new territory. I don't know what Jimmy told him, but it seemed like he was desperate for my employment. "I-I just don't know. How good is the money?"

"Well, we can't guarantee, of course, but most buyers pay per photo. For in-demand bands, you could get anywhere from 15 to 20 dollars. For an entire roll, which publications such as Rolling Stone or Circus will pay for, usually go for 30 or 35 dollars. We take a certain percentage, which can be negotiated if you agree to our terms."

Thirty dollars for a roll? Wow! My rolls would go for five or ten if I was lucky. Jimmy got me in good. There must be a catch. Surely. "What percentage do you usually take?"

"Five."

I clicked my tongue. "That's a bit steep."

Now my corporate mask was thinly strung across my face.

He jumped in his seat, lurching forward, "I can assure you that it averages out for our services."

"Four percent."

He sighed and placed his palms on the table. "Okay, four percent."

I smiled. I was content with my quibbling. Sudden confidence had come from his apparent interest in my work. This was the first time someone was willingly offering me a good position.

"Now is the matter of your stay on tour, which is the major concern of our contract. The tour is finished on September 20th, as Mr. Page told me in our lengthy phone conversation. You will be staying through the entirety, correct?"

"Yes."

"Alright, that is sound. Now," he put his fists on the table with a smile, "I don't expect that you'll be filling a roll each night, but I do expect one roll every week. On the weeks they have minimal shows, you could do one for every two weeks."

I sat back in my chair and the tension in my body diffused. I was more relaxed than when I first entered. The sweat on my underarms had dried and I was able to take in my surroundings better.

His office was large and neat with modern furniture. A large brown desk sat between us, riddled with stacks of papers and a lamp on the corner. A picture window lined the back wall, blinds occluded any view into the street below.

We were on the third floor of the tall building. His office was one of three on the level. Four rows of cubicles occupied the majority of the space left on the floor. I had passed people writing copy and reviewing shots on the way in.

"Right."

His secretary sat outside his office at a small desk. I could hear her humming while reading a magazine as I waited for William to see me in.

"Now, let's just sign the papers and we can get it finalized." He said. The brash overhead lights shined off his slicked-back brown hair.

We ended the meeting with the signing of papers. My hand shook as I held the stout pen. I scratched my signature on the allotted lines, looking down at the dark ink. It's set in stone now. I've got my first real job, where I'm taking the photos I want. People were going to see my work!

The cabbie helped me retrieve my luggage from the trunk. I slapped a 20 in his hand and was on my way. I ran through ran into the hotel lobby, seeking refuge in the heat of the bright room. It was pretty nice. White sitting chairs surrounded oaken coffee tables. Gold chandeliers hung over the red runner that started at the entrance. My heels squeaked with each step as I trudged up to the front desk.

"I'm here as a guest under Grant." The dark-skinned woman worked on checking me in. I took notice of her big, blue eyes and red nails. Her hair was long and sleek. "I love your nails. I can never go for a color that bold. Wouldn't look good on me." I was soaked from the rain and felt out of place in the lovely interior design but tried to appeal through flattery.

She gave a short laugh. "Thank you. I think it contrasts with my eyes and skin quite well." She held a boney hand up to her cheek, posing with a smile.

"Yes, you look absolutely ravishing!" I mocked Jimmy's grandiose accent.

She waved me off with a smile, telling me the room was ready. I didn't get a key.

"One last thing, if you don't mind me asking," she caught me before I turned away from the counter, "but you are here for the band, right?"

"Yes, I'm the photographer." I stood curiously at the counter. There was a puddle at my feet.

"Oh, well, I was going to ask if the rumors about them are true. About the lead singer, y'know?"

I pulled my brows together. "What about him?" I leaned in close as her voice lowered to a whisper.

"That he has a big... Y'know."

I hollowed in laughter, slamming my hand on the counter. I was tickled by her assumption. I wish I knew.

After my fit died down, I could see that she was uncomfortable. "Oh, well, I don't know about that. I'll have to find out about that. I'll report back to you if I get that information."

And I was on my way down the hall to the elevator.

Taglist:

@anothercanyonlady​ , @jonesyjonesyjonesy​  @paginate54 , @seventieswhore , @jimmypages , @jimmys-zeppelin​ , @jimmysdragonsuit13 

[baobikhangloi]

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