#have no caretaking responsibilities beyond a cat

[secret-third-thing]

just curious...how much do you write every day?

Rest days? none.

Bad days? ~300 words

Good days? 5k+

Most days? ~2k-3k

[vasiktomis]

Loophole (Zayne x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Zayne has an Evol flare-up while you’re visiting Snowcrest. You’re a good friend, so you help him out.

It doesn't mean anything if you don't move, right?

Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~6800. Tags/Warnings: Female Pronouns and Anatomy for Reader, Reader is MC, Caretaking, Friends to Lovers, Inappropriate Doctor/Patient Relationship, Childhood Friends, Bickering, Cock Warming, First Time, Vaginal Sex, Photography, Unsafe Sex, Porn with Feelings, Switching. Post-chapter 4 spoilers. Read it on Ao3 Here!

“Let’s get you inside.”

The cold weather poses something of a threat to Zayne, you've realised.

He'd never admit such a thing, of course, but if he hadn't wanted you to make such an observation, he shouldn't have made it his responsibility to impose such an unexpectedly strong presence in your life.

A year ago, you barely knew him. To say he kept you at arms' length was an understatement, but with everything that's occurred in recent months — with such a void left in your life from the loss of Caleb and Grandma — and the ugly mysteries eclipsing once-happy memories — your doctor, of all people, is the one dedicating almost every minute of his time outside of work to trying to fill that void. It's not like he talks your ear off — he's Zayne, after all — but he makes a noticeable effort to make himself accessible to you whenever he can.

He's been a good friend to you at the sacrifice of his own comfort.

In the seven months that have passed since the explosion, you've had more exposure to Zayne than you've had any of your other friends. He rarely strays from his quiet stoicism, but it's far easier to read him. These days, you can't believe you once thought him intimidating. The softer aspects of his personality aren't offered willingly, but accidentally. A slip of the tongue here, a too-long stare at a community cat there, a smile he doesn't think you notice. He masks his requests for you to visit him in his overtime hours as nagging reminders for you to water the plants. He never asks you to bring him dinner, but there's always an extra seat pulled up at his desk when you arrive with it unannounced.

You’re sure he likes it well enough; getting to know you after all these years. You’re just not sold on how fond he is of you knowing him.

It shows stark on his typically taciturn features. Streetlamp light bounces off fluffy snow at all angles in the little village laneway, illuminating the man with an almost healthy glow as he walks stiffly beside you, right hand clutched against his side and his left doing all it can to keep from crushing the bones in yours.

“I’m fine.” He insists while you lead him up to the cabin, grimacing at a sudden chill of wind passing over the porch. There's a certain tone he uses when he's putting on the bedside manner. As a patient, you'd be soothed. As a friend, your patience wanes. He's not fine.

”I’ll get a fire going.” You mutter, ushering him inside. He tries amidst obvious pain to be gentlemanly, waiting for you to enter first, but a scowl on your part has him conceding defeat and ambling through the door. “Get in the shower. Can you turn it on by yourself?”

There’s no more warm light from the street in here. Dr. Noah likely would have fallen asleep hours ago, shortly after you’d left for dinner. Still, even in the dark, you can sense the irritation in him.

“You act like I’m frozen solid.” He retorts on his way to the bathroom, knowing better than to stick around despite the attempt to uphold his pride.

”Get your butt in the shower before I throw you in there myself.”

The warmer months gave you no initial reason to suspect anything, but as the weather worsened and temperatures dropped, Zayne began to feel more on-edge. You’d bore witness to his attacks in the past, but he was no more willing to share his condition with you beyond the odd occasion of being unable to switch it off after a battle. You knew what it looked like when his Evol was acting up. It almost caused a fight, the first time you asked about it. Then, when it became clear you weren’t simply going to leave him to his own devices whenever he was displaying the signs, Zayne steadily, reluctantly, began to let you assist. He couldn’t stand it — he still can’t, you’re sure — not playing caretaker for once, but the two of you found a rhythm; keeping an eye on his temperature, steering clear of fluctuations, little remedies that help him bounce back quicker when his Evol gets the better of him. It became second nature to you, like carrying an Epipen for a loved one at risk of anaphylaxis.

You won’t lie, though. It pisses you off. He’s a constant nag when it comes to your health regarding your heart condition, but there was no allowable mention of his  condition when he brought you to Dr. Noah. Not that your opinion counts for anything, apparently, but what idiot cashes out his annual leave for an extended stay in a tundra when he's so prone to such reactions?

It had shocked you even more when your friend declared he’d be staying back for the foreseeable future, conducting research for the old man on a solo expedition on Mt. Eternal. Your friend — the one who'd taken it upon himself to be a stand-in for your lost family — alone, in the worst possible place he could be in his condition.

It was unthinkable.

Four weeks was your breaking point after you’d returned home without him.

Sure, he responded to your texts within seconds. Reception wasn’t good enough for calls, but he made sure to give you no logical reason to worry about him. It didn’t help. Once your dreams started to take the shape of him disappearing into the mountains, you cut your losses and decided to visit for the weekend.

Just as well, considering he’d been massaging his wrist in your periphery for the entirety of your first day. Still, he'd insisted on showing you around Snowcrest, spending as much time away from Dr. Noah's cabin as possible. You knew his tells. He was bordering on a flare-up and hiding it from you. Had he mentioned it and agreed to stay in tonight, you might not of had to drag him home with frost seeping out of his clothes and a foul mood. Instead, he chose to be proud about it.

Idiot.

God knows what could have happened to him if he hadn't come down from the mountain to spend the weekend with you.

He’d never let you get away with such stupidity, and it’s hard not to hold it against him. You came here out of worry in the first place, and the visit isn’t doing a thing to set your mind at ease.

You tend to rekindling the dimming embers in the fireplace, content to mind your business once you hear the shower turn on. At least he’s doing what he’s told.

The living room heats up steadily. New flames settle into a longer-lived glow. You get yourself changed into more suitable bed wear; a commandeered hoodie from your doctor’s medical school era, large enough to reach halfway to your knees. The frayed cuffs have since lost their elasticity and there are a few choice stains, and most condemning, the drawstrings have been chewed to tassels — but god, if it isn’t comfy. Time stretches on, and while the worry gnaws at the back of your mind, you leave Zayne to his privacy. So long as you don’t hear a thump, you’re content to imagine he’s probably just in there being mad at himself over not being the sensible one for once.

Zayne keeps himself locked away for the better part of an hour, in the end. Even Pie pads out into the living room to investigate what you’re doing up alone in the middle of the night before a scritch sends the fox on its way back to bed.

You’ve slid most of the way off the couch by the time the man emerges from his room in fresh pajamas. With your back to the rug, you watch him approach stiffly, slowing to a halt upside-down. He’s still rubbing at that wrist, you note.

“You’re still up.” He mutters, brow knitted in discomfort.

There’s frost on his neck. His lips are blue. It wasn’t even this bad when you were outside. A pit forms in your stomach.

Then, his wake hits you. Cold air, chilling you to the bone, and you sit up in a flash.  

“Zayne—“

He silences you with a little hand motion, stepping around you to seat himself as close as he can to the fireplace.

“You’re half-frozen.” You continue when he offers you nothing else. Crawling onto the couch beside him, you reach up to tug at the collar of his sweater, trying to inspect the severity of the attack. “God, you should have said  something.”

“I thought you were asleep.” He replies quietly. “I’ve seen — how much it takes to wake you-“

Zayne flinches from your touch when your fingertip skims his neck. The most aggressive warning to stay back that he can risk without waking his mentor. You ignore him, of course. You always do. Sitting close, you press yourself to his side on the couch, guiding his right arm between your thighs. Your fingers lace between his from both sides, covering as much surface area as possible as you use your body to fend off the cold.

A moment is all it takes to see some of the tension in his face disappear. He breathes through the pain, eyes closed, and you shift your gaze to the fireplace to give him his privacy with it.

���You’re in so much trouble when this passes.”

A short, sharp chuckle slips through Zayne’s teeth. He nods once. “I know.”

You sit together like this for a long while, letting him sap the heat from your body to combat the flare-up. If not for the fire, you’d be shivering. It takes time, but eventually Zayne’s breathing evens out. His face relaxes, bit by bit. His half-frozen arm feels just a little cold to the touch.

Neither of you part. Not just yet. There’s too much left unsaid, and Zayne takes far too much solace in quiet to make the first move.

You let your temple drop to his shoulder. “Snow village dates are nice, but most girls would say yes to ‘Go Fish’  and hot cocoa if it means their date makes it through the night.”

After a second, Zayne rests his head against yours.

He inhales.

He pauses.

Then…

“I wanted you to have a nice time. I didn’t think it through.”

…God, he’s such a sweet man. It’s not wonder he’s got you wrapped around his finger.

There’s such a sense of finality to the way he says it. You suppose it’s not necessarily a wrong way to think of it, but it’s not his fault. Sure, it’s your last night together for what may amount to months, and he was stupid enough to think he could get away with poking the bear, but you’d rather have him come home alive and well. Not a victim to his own Evol.

It doesn’t sit right with you to let it end like this. The moment he’s recovered, he’s going to insist you both go to sleep. You’ll take the guest bed, and he’ll take the pull-out trundle, and he’ll remain there, soundless with his back to you. In the morning, you’ll say your goodbyes, and that will be that. The next time you see him will probably be for a check-up, and he’ll spend the entirety of the ECG acting like you’re mere acquaintances again.

No, you’re not losing momentum.

You’re not sure if it’s warmth in general, or if it’s a reaction specific to you — through trust, or the Aether core — there’s just no telling. Zayne keeps his cards too close to his chest for you to ever be sure, but you do know for certain that you hold the quickest remedy. If it’s just warmth, he never lets anyone but you get close enough to supply it. If it’s trust, likewise. The Aether core? You’re the only one.

“What are you—“

Zayne stiffens when you climb into his lap. He winces in discontentment; at such an intimidate proximity, at the physical danger he still poses, at the feeling of your thighs astride his. He doesn’t look pleased in the slightest, but still, his knees shift together, offering you a more comfortable perch on which to explain yourself.

You can feel the cold still radiating from him, fighting his body to keep from regulating its own temperature. It’s unpleasant, the way the chill claws at you, reaching across the expanse of your front. The joints in your hands already ache just from holding his arm to your chest. It’s imaginable, what it must be like to host such an Evol. What it must be like to have your own flesh freeze from the inside-out on a whim.

“Not done keeping you warm.” You answer simply, making a conscious effort to keep your teeth from chattering for his sake. He’s exercising enormous restraint not flinging you off of him already. You shouldn’t push your luck by sending him into any more of a panic.

“It’s not safe for you to be this close.” Zayne protests.

“Then I’m making you safe.”

This time, a growl escapes him. Pain cuts his patience with your impudence short. “You’re going to get yourself hurt—“

Zayne’s words die in his throat when you drape yourself over him, chest to chest, arms languidly curling over his shoulders. He goes completely silent.

“Aren’t you always telling me you can control it, anyway?” You muse, relaxing into him, moulding yourself to his body. The white frost that blooms beneath his skin begins to fade from his throat, unable to contend with the warmth of your breath. “If you didn’t want me doing this you shouldn’t have shown me how well it works.”

“That was after the aid of a hot shower.” Zayne argues. His logic might apply for that aborted attempt at an early-morning hike, but it falls flat tonight. “I was trying to warm up after the shower.”

Yeah, look how well that turned out. He’s as bad at lying as you are.

“So you’re saying I ought to have—“

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“If it’s not helping, Zayne, tell me.”

“…It’s helping.” He mutters.

You declare your victory with a hum, tucking your face into the collar of his sweater.

Even his scent is cold, somehow.

Beneath you, Zayne shifts, conceding defeat. You feel his lips ghost the side of your head. Considering — then retreating from a kiss — opting instead to rest his chin on you. His affected arm remains wedged between you, while his free hand comes to rest on your waist.

Minutes pass. Zayne’s breathing steadies to a resting rhythm. Eventually, the ice retreats into his flesh, disappearing with only a lingering chill. It shifts, marking the man’s return to normal, but he doesn’t announce anything. Instead, he tugs his arm out, only to wrap around you, surrendering to the moment.

“Do you have plans, while I’m away?” He asks.

“Tara’s been looking at the blank spots on my calendar, so I’ve probably got things on without knowing, yet.”

“Blank spots.”

”Yeah. Some of us have those.”

”Sounds like you don’t know what to do with yourself without me.”

“Please. I won’t have to worry about you bullying me. Maybe, y’know, I’ll do just fine without you.”

A chuckle escapes him. Tentatively, he toys with the fabric of your hoodie. “You’re not going to wash this at all, are you.”

Heat climbs up your neck at the suggestion. Of all the night clothes you had to bring, why did it have to be something you’d stolen from him?

You’re no coward. You rise to challenge. “Can’t miss you when it feels like I’ve got you with me.”

“I know  you’ll miss me,” Zayne retorts, and wow, he’s really  angling for a comeback after having you subject him to being taken care of, “But that’s no excuse for poor hygiene.”

“Poor hygiene—!”

You lean back to glower at the man, only to find him smirking up at you.

“I’ve half a mind to expect to find you asleep on the platform when the train pulls in, simply because you were too excited to wait at home for me to drop by.”

Your ears are positively scalding. You feel yourself shrinking, suddenly not so confident taking up as much space in the room. How does he have you so well figured out? Are you really that much of an open book? Compared to him, sure, but you’d hoped you carried a little more mystery about you than sitting on a station platform for a quasi-boyfriend-without-benefits  like a dog.

Even if that is  the case — does he really have to rub it in your face?

He can’t get away with this.

Speaking plainly, Zayne’s warmed up plenty. There’s no real reason for either of you to remain this close, and yet — despite lauding himself as the rational half of this friendship, his arms almost keep you from moving any further away.

His expression doesn’t falter with your silence, remaining ever-undisturbed. It unnerves you. His smiles never last more than a second, and you can count on one hand the amount of times he’s looked you in the eye with a pleasant face on. He’s on a power trip. If you don’t cut him down right this second he’ll go nuclear. He’ll leave you hanging with a ‘goodnight’  and a kiss on the forehead and you’ll both never speak of tonight again.

This is it. This is the last straw. Tonight, you leave him  hanging. 

“You want me to miss you so fucking bad, huh?” You accuse him, tapping a finger to your chin as you pretend to wonder. His eyebrow ticks. “Is that what you’re into? Man, you medical staff are all so power hungry.”

Zayne looks thoughtful for a moment. A thumb idly traces back and forth along your skin, barely tucked beneath your hoodie. It’s such a cautious touch. You wish  he wasn’t just all talk. “Perhaps you’re easier to deal with when one considers you might actually like getting bossed around.”

There’s no hiding the erection that sits wedged between you. There’s no ignoring the heat that pools in your core every time it strains against your cunt, blocked only by his sweatpants and your underwear.

There’s no way he can’t feel your heart beat throbbing against him.

And yet — he pretends not to be taking part in any of it.

You think about it for a moment.

Then, you roll your hips forward, slowly, gently. Your nerves spark as your clit finds the pressure it needs against the underside of his cock.

It takes everything in your power to keep from doing it again.

A tiny shiver makes its way out of Zayne. Frustration, perhaps. You angle a knowing little smile at him, and his throat bobs. He knows he’s been caught.

Checkmate.

“Doctor Zayne, are you getting off on this?” You ask, and his face flushes scarlet. His eyes widen, caught off-guard by you finally crossing the threshold.

”I…don’t know what you’re talking about.” He answers lamely, pointedly avoiding looking down.

“You are!”

“Not so loud. It’s n-… it’s nothing.” He insists in a hushed voice, shooting a look over your shoulder before he’s satisfied that the coast is clear of anyone who might be privy to what the two of you are doing. “Just a biological reaction to stimuli.”

“Which stimuli?” You ask, feigning curiosity. “The cuddling, or this?”

To stress your point, you do it again, biting back the swell of enjoyment at the way his lips part of their own accord. A little hum spills forth, and his own hips chase the motion, just for a second, before he halts.

“Please.” Zayne murmurs, moving to hold you still. Inching you back onto his thighs, condemning himself to reveal two little damp patches. One where the grey fleece of his sweatpants pulls most taut. The other a little lower, where you’ve been rubbing your cunt along his clothed shaft.

“You need to learn when you’ve teased enough.”

What — fall back? Now? When all your nerves are alight?

Your tongue wets your lips as you take in the sight of him. Well on his way to wrecked, but not quite there. His expression remains otherwise impassive, but his pupils are far too blown to help him maintain the facade.

“You’re one to talk. Can’t hack it when it’s not you in charge?” You challenge him. “You’re not usually one to shy away from uncharted territory.”

You can’t help but reach out, itching to touch him. Fingertips smooth along his length, feather-light from the bottom up. His cock twitches when you reach the tip, begging for more.

“Ah—“ Long fingers snatch at your wrist, holding you fast. “Try no man’s land.”

“It’s nothing.” You assure him. “You said it yourself.”

Nothing. No different to how he so often strays into treating you, with all his dates and touches. Nothing, midday naps and linking your pinky-fingers as you walk together. Nothing, like the spare clothes you both reserve a drawer for.

“Just warming you up. That’s all.”

Zayne’s chest expands. His gaze fixes on your fingertips curling insistently at his waistband despite his grip keeping you at bay. “That’s all.”

Disbelief? Determination? Disappointment? You’re not familiar enough with how each of these sound in his throat to properly identify it, but Zayne’s grip on your wrist releases nonetheless. He opts to help you make more comfortable work of his track pants, pushing them down just a little to allow you easier access. There’s no presence of approval at how greedy you are about it, pawing and snatching at your prize while he tries to remain nonchalant.

You do try to give him the dignity of privacy by not looking down when he settles and you finally wrap both hands around his cock. He’s already indignant as it is, and the rumble that vibrates deep in his chest as your fingers close around him isn’t helping.

Oh — maybe just a little tease.

“Hey.” You chide, grinning. His eyes crack open, just enough to narrow at you. “Don’t make it weird. I’m a professional.”

It earns you a scoff. Zayne’s fingers, settled on your thighs, give a retaliatory squeeze, thumbs pressing just hard enough into your adductors to skirt on discomfort. He watches you tense at the feeling, and sensing an opportunity to shift the attention back off himself, decides to squeeze harder.

You finally flinch with an “Ow!”, and the man smiles to himself. Mission accomplished. He lets go.

”You’re the professional? How many surgeries have you performed?”

”How many have you  performed?”

”…A lot, genius.”

“Didn’t you tell me that some of your worst patients are doctors themselves?”

“Your point being?”

There’s no point — at least not in arguing with him. He’s only trying to distract you. You shift over him, and his attitude dissolves. He leans back, maintaining as much distance as he can — or perhaps to watch, as you tug your underwear to the side — line yourself up — and sink down onto his cock.

Zayne’s chest expands, but he makes no noise. His eyes close. His lips part. A minor crease forms between his eyebrows. It might as well be a sob. You’d use such a reaction against him if you weren’t more concerned with suppressing your own, lest he catch you out. Your cunt burns from the sudden, full intrusion, and his diverted attention gives you the moment you need to grow accustomed to it.

Once you’ve gotten over the initial shock of the feeling, you brush any intrusive thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter if he’s one of your oldest and closest friends. It doesn’t matter if he’s your doctor. You were already squarely planted in conflict-of-interest territory the moment he took you on as a patient.

You try to ignore your own desire. Your body catches up with your actions quickly, igniting touch-starved nerves that you’ve long-fantasised him satisfying. Heat builds inside you at a nervous system realising you’re finally giving it what it wants, and it only screams for more. Of course you’ve wanted Zayne. You adore him, but he’s not the kind of man who could balance a friendship with benefits; if anything, he finds a way to be the inverse of such a thing. He gives you everything in the way of a relationship except sex, and with him steering so clear of crossing that boundary with you, you have to tread carefully.

As much as you want to, this is delicate.

“My point is: zip it and let me take care of you.” You manage.

Besides, its not like you’re actually having sex with him. He’s continually pushing the boundaries of platonic with all his touches and hugs anyway. It’s not like he has a leg to stand on if he wants to protest what sitting on his cock might mean for your relationship. Hell, this isn’t even the first time he’s been hard when you’ve had his hips pinned down with your own.

If anything, you’re doing the guy a favour by taking the responsibility off him to go this far.

Zayne doesn’t bounce back as quickly as you do. His eyes remain scrunched shut, his core engaged beneath your palms as you brace your weight to settle into a more comfortable position in his lap. He looks worried. Apprehensive.

“Doctor Zayne?” Concern begins to creep in, just a little. “Okay, you can say something now.”

“Please,” He grits between his teeth, and relief floods your body as some semblance of calm returns to his expression, “Don’t call me that — like this.”

“Like what? I’m just warming you up, remember?” You offer a smile when he opens one eye, mood shifting to quizzical.

“You’re so immature. And for the record, this constitutes malpractice. You’re a terrible doctor.”

”Trust the process.”

”Fine. What’s the course of treatment?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.”

You can’t help but chuckle at such quiet outrage. It’s getting easier to read him. Relaxing against his front, you ignore a little gasp on his part to loop your arms around his neck again. Dishonest pretences be damned, this really is doing the trick. “All you need to do is stay still.”

Zayne weighs up his options for only a moment before giving in. His arms slip around your waist. His chin hooks over your shoulder, just barely nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s breathing in your scent, and the following exhale into your skin has you stifling a shiver.

Then, there’s a flex within you.

“Hey!” You choke, “I said stay still back there!”

“Quiet down. It was only a reflex.” Zayne defends, a little too cavalier to fly under the radar. “Besides, I’m not the one squirming.”

“I’m just getting comfortable. Your hips are pointy.”

Zayne’s hips slot up into yours, and the feel of him nudging just a little deeper has your eyes stinging. You fail to stifle a little squeak, and you’re shushed for it immediately.

“Just getting comfortable.” Zayne’s words lick at your ear, and the sound of him sends shivers through you, pooling between your legs, pleading with you to satisfy the ever-nagging want to start riding him. “You’re like a vice.”

He has to know how much of an effect he has on you. There’s no way he doesn’t.

You don’t respond to his attitude — however, the condemning, responding, constricting  of your insides around his cock surely doesn’t go unnoticed, and with a hollow breath, he lifts you, just a little, enough to draw back and push back in. He’s slow about it; infuriatingly so, almost like if he inches in and out at enough of creeping pace you’ll either not bother to be strict with him, or you’ll simply abandon your own rules in favour of crossing the boundary he’s silently begging you to cross for him.

No. He’s not getting the upper hand here. Not when he gets to pretend all his little actions are forgettable. Platonic. Accidental. Misunderstood. There’s only so many times a guy can subtly grind on someone during a spooning session and claim ignorance when called out about it.

You lock your feet beneath his knees, and sink down onto him, hard. Pleasure blooms. Your cunt aches for more. A sharp breath escapes Zayne, threatening to blossom into an appreciative groan that would only serve to tempt you without your hand clapping over his mouth and a ‘shh!’.

“You can keep still, or this stops.” You announce in a whisper, and he watches you defiantly from behind your hand.

Zayne’s gaze eventually breaks away from yours. Conceding. For now, at least. You lower your hand from his mouth, and relax, reaching across the cushion to pluck your phone from the couch and check your messages.

Already, he’s bothered by your lack of undivided attention.

“You’re on your phone.”  He huffs.

“I’m not rewarding your behaviour.” You reply simply.

“You’re not implying that behaving differently would warrant a reward, are you?”

That’s for him to figure out.

You shift your weight maybe just a little more than you need to, indulging in the feeling of his cock shift with you, within you, pressing insistently against that one spot that almost has your constitution coming apart at the seams. Zayne trembles momentarily beneath you, swallowing hard. He’s keeping his cool well enough, but as you settle into the new angle, no longer moving, his frustration makes itself known with another twitch inside you.

If he keeps doing that, you’re not sure you can hold out.

“You really  think this is helping?” He asks, voice tight.

“You don’t believe me?” You pout, tapping your home screen and opening your camera app. “Fine, let the expert see for himself.”

Switching to selfie cam, you watch as the man glances at his image on the screen for half a second, before tearing his gaze away. Not a shocker, you reason. He’s probably never seen himself with a hair out of place. Flushed cheeks and dilated pupils? You might as well have shown him a traffic collision.

“Aw, come on. Look how much colour’s come back to your face.”

Zayne musters the courage to look up, but not at the phone. His eyes narrow at you. Accusatory. “I’m not interested in giving you blackmail material.”

“What? Get real. There’s nothing incriminating going on. Especially not when you angle it like this.” You switch on a filter and lean down into the man. “See?”

Curiosity gets the better of him, and his head tilts to get a better look at whatever scheme you’re cooking up. On the screen, both your flushed faces smooth out, blushing perfectly. Cat ears and whiskers. Cheek to cheek. Just another one of your countless selfies with completely platonic friends.

You take the shot. The shutter clicks.

“Cute.” Zayne mutters drily.

“You think so?”

“Only how much fun you seem to be having of it.”

Your brow knits. “Oh yeah? All right, stick in the mud, you take over.”

He gives too much away at that response. His long fingers immediately slip over your hips. He’s readying to flip you onto your back before he notices you’re holding the phone out to him. Then, knowing he’s shown his hand, he has no choice but to recover his pride.

Much to your chagrin, Zayne plucks the phone from your hand, aborting whatever miraculous step he’d been about to take. A corner of his mouth ticks, minutely. He angles your phone away from you, tapping and swiping. His own phone buzzes. Then, he casts the device at the other end of the couch, out of your reach. “I think it’s getting a bit late for screens.” He murmurs. Fingers smooth up and over the swell of your hips. His long arms uncoil from your waist, releasing you as he leans back. Leaving you with a lonesome chill.  “And you ought to be going to bed.”

Is that…rejection? Has he just been humouring you up until this point?

You tilt your head. “I’m sorry. Is this not okay?”

“This is fine.”

He looks at the fireplace. Stoic as ever.

“Then what?” You frown.

He doesn’t respond.

Your throat runs dry. Dread creeps up through your heart.

“Hey. Talk to me.” You urge, smoothing your fingers along his jaw, and he leans into your palm.

Seconds pass. Zayne finally regards you again. There’s an acknowledging incline of his head — almost a polite bow. A pre-emptive apology for what he’s about to say. 

“What happens after this?” He asks. “Do we part ways at the train station in the morning and the next time we see each other, it’ll be as doctor and patient?”

Oh.

“Is that what we are to you?” You ask, not entirely sure if you want to know.

He dodges the question the best way he knows how: with rationality. “I feel that if that scenario is what you want, we should say goodnight. My understanding of our relationship won’t change, I promise you, but if this goes further, at least one of us is going to feel differently. It would be better if there were no misunderstandings between us.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something dreadful and lovely all the same, anxiety and anticipation at the prospect of a tipping point, at least before saying goodbye. Trust Zayne, of course, to turn to smoke and mirrors when it comes to a confession of feelings, but you’ve known him long enough to see how far out of his comfort zone all of this is.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” You ask, aborting an attempt on his part to avert his gaze with a finger beneath his chin.

His expression remains inexplicable. Then, there’s that little tilt of his head. The quirk of an eyebrow. “Your assumption is correct.”

The apprehension that’s been building in the back of your mind disperses the moment he says it. Your resolve all but disappears.  “My understanding,” You begin, reaching up to cup your hand over the other side of his face, “is that I’ve wanted you ever since I walked into that restaurant last year.”

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds yours in a heartbeat. Previously unsure hands pull you against him, locking you in his embrace. He’s so awfully gentle about it all despite your combined strength. Such a gentleman. It comes as no surprise that he shudders at the intrusion of your tongue past his lips — what does surprise you is how quickly he catches up to your pace. Inviting you in. Slipping an arm lower to brace your weight, and you feel yourself being pulled up off of his cock, just until only the head remains at your entrance. 

The loss of him has you incensed. He keeps you from sinking back down, and your protesting whines are suffocated with another kiss. All he’s left you with to express yourself is your hands, and you seize the opportunity, combing your fingers through his hair and tugging, just slightly at the roots.

He breaks away with a little noise. Not pained, but shocked. Another one of his spots, you reason, and he’s just as displeased that you’ve found it. 

“You don’t know when to quit.” Zayne pants. His fringe dusts your forehead. “What — what were we saying about bad behaviour going unrewarded?”

You’re too mindless right now to play any games. There’s no more thrill of the build that you can handle. Not after this long. 

You break, instantly. 

“Please —“ You whimper, almost trembling in his grip, trying in vain to take him back in again. “Zayne, I need it — please—“

Zayne relents right away. He gives you what you want, lowering you, burying himself in you to the hilt. Then he lifts you again, building into a steady rhythm.

”You’re so — you’re so frustrating.” He manages between kisses. “Should’ve told me this is all it takes for you to do as you’re told.”

More. You need more. Heavenly as it is, it’s not enough, just having him in you. You push back, and Zayne takes the hint. He’s said his piece. He lets you take the lead again without a fight, admiring the view as you roll onto the balls of your feet, gripping the back of the couch to keep yourself stable. The new angle feels deeper, each stroke rolling drifting sharply over your nerves as he brushes that spot inside you. It takes a moment for Zayne to kick into gear, brain short-circuiting as he watches you squat on his cock, taking what you need from him. Then, he leaves you to support your own weight. Fingers wrench at the front of your hoodie, yanking it up to your sternum, and his tongue sweeps a nipple. In the time it takes for you to react, his other hand has snaked between you, between your legs. His thumb rolls over your clit just as he latches onto your nipple and sucks. The keen barely escapes your lips before Zayne’s hand claps over your mouth, continuing his assault. 

It goes from too little to too much. It creeps up on you so fast, so suddenly, and there’s nothing you can do but ride through it. A muffled hum is all the warning you can give him. Your pace staggers as the burn in your thighs catches up to you, but Zayne only goes faster, rubbing merciless little circles into your nerves. His hips roll up into you, compensating as best he can for your loss of control. Finally, the band snaps, and you sob against his hand, spasming around him, tears pricking at your eyes with the intensity of it all. You go positively boneless, and Zayne breaks away just enough to let you collapse into his chest as he carries you through it, breaths quickening as the lingering spasms of your orgasm invoke his own. 

“Fuck, I’m—“ He barely stammers, releasing you only to coil his arms around your torso again, readying to pull out.

“Not going anywhere.” You promise, clinging to him. Your fingers comb through his hair, tugging again, and a whimper dies in Zayne’s throat. He buries his face into the crook of your neck. His hips roll up into you once, twice, thrice more, and then he goes still. Buried in you to the hilt as he tips into oblivion.

He’s so subtle about it that you barely even realise he’s coming. Maybe it’s the effort not to wake Dr. Noah. Maybe it’s like this every time. Having him hold you with such desperate reverence while he does his best not to judder in stark contrast to to the feeling of him pulsing within you, you reason you’d like to find out. He hides his face from you throughout, only pulling his forehead from your clavicle when the aftershocks have come and gone.

Zayne looks lovelier than ever like this — coming out of a blissful haze, gazing up at you with cautious adoration. His focus flickers between your eyes and your lips. His chest expands and collapses like he’s like a 5-miler, but his breaths are smooth.

Even now, he’s trying to maintain a cool composure.

“Forgive me.” He mutters, not quite meeting your eye.

Your head tilts. Chasing him. “Huh? Why?”

“I exercised poor judgement. That was rotten of me. I should have known better, given I’ve never prescribed birth control to you.”

“You really think I’d come to you for birth control?” You snort.

Zayne’s brow creases. An incredulous look totally undermined by how positively wrecked he looks right now. “I am  your physician. Or has your other doctor friend decided to become real after all?”

Your fingers comb through his hair again. Despite a pleasant sigh on his part at the sensation, his expression remains steeled.

“Hey.” You finally manage to capture his gaze, only for any tells to evaporate. “Could you tell me something?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Are you more jealous that I might have had sex with someone who wasn’t you, or that I might have gone to another doctor?”

Zayne considers his answer for a long moment. His head tilts in that particular way it does when he has to make a decision, eyeing you expectantly. Punishment for daring to push him out of his comfort zone.

He presses a hand to your forehead. 

A thoughtful hum escapes him.

“Curious. Your temperature’s dropping. On second thought, you should stay another day so I can observe you.”

“You’re avoiding the question!”

“Here. I’ll keep you warm. You can install those camera filters on my phone to pass the time.”

[skyscratch-wc]

Skyfall Clan Ranks and Structure

UPDATE 9/2/2024: Changed Doctor and Priest from RiverClan to WindClan. Head Mentor is now a ThunderClan specific role.

I have made significant changes to the clan structure and ranks for my AU. I wanted to create a backdrop to make the cats easier to characterize and to give the clans a wider range of jobs beyond fighting stuff.

Each clan has a slightly different set of ranks, but all clans include the following:

The Leader:

This role functions identically to canon. The Leader is the cat selected by the clan and Starclan to be the final decision maker. These cats lead their warriors into battle, perform ceremonies, and are the role models for their clan. They receive 9 lives from Starclan and thus have a longer lifespan than the average warrior.

The Deputy:

The Deputy is the second-in-command to the leader. Selected by the leader (and voted on by the clan in the case of Modern Skyclan), this cat organizes patrols and the day-to-day operations of the clan. They help select mentors for apprentices and step in for the leader if they are unavailable.

Clerics:

In all clans except WindClan and Modern Skyclan, the Cleric is the same as the Medicine Cat role from canon warriors. They are both doctors and spiritual leaders within their clans. In WindClan and Modern Skyclan, however, these roles look a little different.

In WindClan the role of Cleric is divided into two: the Doctor and the Priest.

The Doctor is responsible for the well being and health of the clan, while the Priest is a dedicated spiritual guide who acts not only as the clan's connection to Starclan, but also as an emotional support figure and the main cat to perform religious rituals at birth and death.

In Skyclan the role of Cleric is similarly divided, only they refer to the ranks as the Heart and the Soul, although when they arrive at the Lake cats may also refer to these ranks as the Doctor and the Priest. These roles function effectively the same as WindClan.

Senior Warriors:

Within each sub-rank (see below) there is a Senior Warrior. This Warrior, called the "Head [Rank Name Here]" is responsible for leading and maintaining their sub-rank of cats. There is one senior warrior per sub-rank and they are advisors to the leader and deputy.

In ThunderClan there is a Head Mentor, who oversees all apprentice training. All clans also have a Head Queen/Caretaker, who makes sure the voices of the parents and kittens are heard in clan decisions.

Warriors:

Warriors are split into sub-ranks, but as a collective are referred to as warriors. On a day to day basis though, most cats will identify with their sub-rank within being a warrior. Sub-ranks include the following:

Protector - These are cats specifically trained to patrol and usually lead battle patrols. They are the clans first line of defense and are usually most skilled fighters in the clan.

Hunter - These cats are specialized in, as their name suggests, hunting

Crafter - These cats are artisans that produce leatherwork, ceramics, and other tools for the clan. This role is especially coveted in Shadowclan, Riverclan, and Skyclan.

Collector - These cats collect materials, herbs, and other knick knacks for their clan. They tend to work in tandem with Clerics and Crafters, going out into the territory or town to collect needed items. They also trade with local non-clan cats, making them the most knowledgeable in the clan as far as non-clan information goes.

Tunneler (Windclan Only) - These cats dig and survey the tunnels that run under the moor for both battle and hunting

Tanner (Shadowclan Only) - Due to Shadowclan's extensive use of hides, Shadowclan has a cat specialized in tanning and preparing hides for use in crafting

Sentinel (Riverclan Only) - Sentinels are 1-2 cats from the protector group that patrol the territory for signs of flooding and monitor weather patterns in order to warn the clan ahead of flooding or similar disasters

Trail-Builder (Thunderclan Only) - Trail-Builders are 1-2 cats that clear paths in the dense undergrowth of Thunderclan territory in order to make traversing the territory easier, especially for the young and old making their way to gatherings. These cats are usually protectors, but can come from any rank.

Mediator (Modern Skyclan Only) - This cat leads clan voting and discussion and is responsible for mediating clan relationships and helping maintain a sense of closeness and community within the clan. Mediators may also help with inter-clan diplomacy.

Scout (Ancient Skyclan Only) - In Ancient Skyclan, these cats were sent out ahead of battle patrols to scout enemy positions and where often the first to attack as an ambush patrol from the trees. These cats were a specialized group within the Protector rank.

In Modern Skyclan, the ranks above are named differently and some ranks may not exist at all. More detail in the Skyclan Culture post linked here [COMING SOON]

Queens and Caretakers:

This rank includes nursing parents and other cats directly responsible in the raising of kittens. This rank can be temporary while raising a litter or a permanent position (Example: Daisy and Ferncloud in Thunderclan). Most pregnant or nursing mother cats will take the title Queen, however, some cats may opt for the title Caretaker, especially toms and gnc cats. Either title is welcome to be used by a cat of any gender, however.

Queens and Caretakers are responsible for the care and raising of kittens. This ranges from suckling kittens to teaching them basic hunting skills to teaching them clan history and lore (a job also undertaken by the Elders).

Apprentices:

Apprentices are young adult/"teenage" cats, usually between 6 months and a 1 year old, who are training to become warriors, clerics, or caretakers. Kittens are made apprentices at 6 months and most graduate around 1 year. Cleric/Doctor/Priest apprenticeships often last a few months longer than warrior apprenticeships. Apprenticeship looks slightly different from clan to clan, and details about that can be found on the various Clan Culture posts.

Apprentice names take the form of First Name + -paw.

Kittens:

Kittens are young cats under 6 months of age.

Kitten names take the form of First Name + -kit.

Elders:

Elders are the oldest cats in the clan who have retired from warrior duties. Most cats retire around 10-12 years old, although some cats may chose to never retire to retire earlier for various reasons. Elders help perform burial rituals and are the storytellers of the clan.

[lost-carcosa]

The Devastating Effects of Fireworks on Pets and Wildlife

By: Kendra Coulter     

Fireworks have become a fixture of many celebrations around the world, from weddings to national holidays. But there are many among us, including the furry, feathered and finned, who feel fear with every thundering boom.

Animal caretakers, wildlife rehabilitators and fire services see firsthand the damaging — and sometimes fatal — effects whenever and wherever fireworks are deployed.

Real risks for animals

Cats and dogs both experience sounds at far greater intensity than humans. Fireworks appear for them as discordant noise without warning.

Studies suggest up to 50 percent of dogs are afraid of fireworks. Frightened animals awakened from sleep or startled from a state of relaxation will hide, pace, shake, cry or flee, unable to process what is going on or find a safe haven.

I had a tough and confident rescue dog named Ms Macey who was only afraid of one thing: fireworks. She would try to find reprieve by hiding in the bathtub.

Horses’ innate fear responses can take over when they hear fireworks. This led to the tragic death of a horse in Nova Scotia in 2022, neither the first nor last related equine casualty.

So far this year, Murphy and Tallulah were two horse victims of fireworks, the latter so afraid she ran through a wooden fence.

It’s not only animals who are at risk either. Spooking horses can accidentally hurt people trying to handle and comfort them. Bystanders can also be injured when horses bolt out of fear.

Wild animals’ responses

The dangers are serious for wild animals like birds, squirrels, frogs and fish too. During fireworks explosions, nearby resting birds will flee in fear en masse from trees and ponds, and fly off into the night sky.

Some birds have flown so far out to sea, they would not physically have been able to return to land alive. Birds can crash into buildings, get lost and disoriented and literally fall, by the thousands, onto communities.

Because fireworks are launched at night, the full effects on wild animals are challenging to document. Researchers expect that millions of birds are affected around the world and that the results linger after the smoke has disappeared.

In spring and early summer, when animals like birds and squirrels are nesting or in the early stages of rearing their offspring, the risks are even greater. Babies die of dehydration or starvation when terrified or disoriented animal parents cannot find their way back to their nests and burrows. These painful deaths are particularly tragic because they are completely avoidable.

Risks to people

The negative impacts of fireworks extend beyond animals — they can also trigger refugees and veterans.

When set off, fireworks can release toxic chemicals and pollute the environment. And during warnings of the potential of an intense and dangerous fire season, the incendiary risks of fireworks are even more dire.

Nearly 20,000 blazes were started by fireworks in the United States in 2018 alone, killing five people and injuring dozens more. The fact that fires are already decimating forests and communities makes these facts even more alarming. It’s difficult to see why fireworks are permitted at all.

Harm is nothing to celebrate

Thankfully, some communities are taking action and exploring alternatives to conventional fireworks.

In 2018, the Italian town of Collecchio made headlines as the first in the world to implement “silent” fireworks; they aren’t completely noiseless, but make far less noise than traditional fireworks.

That same year Banff, Alta. moved to a much quieter pyrotechnic display for its Canada Day event. And this year, the city suspended the light show to “review the impacts of noise and light flashes on wildlife and the secondary impacts on pets and people in the community,” which is laudable.

It is a disturbing display of ego that the human desire to light up the quiet night sky with explosions continues despite the serious effects it has on vulnerable people, other species and our shared environment (not to mention the cost when governments are footing the bill).

Since backyard and community-run fireworks continue in most places, concerned animal caretakers should take steps to protect their animals.

But individual actions aren’t enough to mitigate the damaging effects of fireworks on domesticated and wild animals. The more this issue is raised, the more likely this harmful practice will be replaced with alternatives that are more respectful and genuinely joyful. Harm should be prevented not cheered. Governments ought to ensure celebrations consider the well-being of humans and other animals alike.

[dahyeltal]

Thinking about Leonard and Joss letting little Jo pick her very first pet. They told her that she needed to do all the research and convince them that she could take care of it, whatever it was. She did a damn fine job and answered all their questions with facts and figures. Unfortunately, Leonard and Joss forgot to ask two important questions: how big does this thing get and how long does it live?

Little Jo, turning ten, picked out the tiniest tortoise of the bunch. She was excited to bring him home and give him loads of love and attention. Leonard was grateful she chose a long-lived pet, having known the deep loss of his first pet, Cuddles the cat. Joss took a while to warm up to the little guy but loved having someone to eat her melon rinds. Mister Torty didn’t bark or scratch things, and the most he’d done was accidentally bite their fingers when they were careless while feeding. Overall, he was a surprisingly welcome addition that showed them how responsible their baby girl was.

Over the years, over the decades, little Mister Torty became not so little. When he got too big to live in the house, Leonard, Uncle Jim, and Clay fixed up a section of the yard to house him. Aunty Ny helped Jo build a small dictionary that she and Mister Torty used to communicate through colored buttons that say a word when pressed. Uncle Hikaru and Ben helped Jo plant a garden full of Mister Torty’s favorite fruits and veggies. Uncle Scotty engineered a hover device specifically for when Mister Torty gets too ornery to return from their walks.

But the biggest job of all was for Mister Spock, and Jo only asked him after he and her daddy got married. She was scared at first, but she was nearly an adult and knew how much longer her friend would live compared to her. Jo also knew how much longer Spock would live compared to her and her daddy. It wasn’t the most pleasant topic, but Jo did promise her parents that she would care for Mister Torty for the rest of his life, not hers.

The next shore leave after their wedding, when they were visiting her momma’s place, Jo pulled Spock aside for a walk around Mister Torty’s enclosure. “Did you know that Mister Torty will live to be between 150 and 175 yeas old?” she started quietly.

“With your dutiful care, he may very well live beyond that.”

“I... won’t.”

Spock put a hand on Joanna’s shoulder and guided her to the picnic bench. Mister Torty saw this and came bounding as fast as a tortoise could, knowing that was where he was usually spoiled with love and treats. “What is on your mind, Joanna?”

“Will you take care of Mister Torty for me when I can’t anymore?” Jo popped the lid on the fruits and veggie scraps and started feeding the tortoise. “You don’t have to or anythin’, but I don’t have kids, and I’m not sure I want ‘em. I want to make sure he’s taken care of no matter what happens.”

“It would be my greatest honor to care for Mister Tort-ty,” Spock assured, still struggling with the childish name. “Though with your father’s efforts, your future efforts, and the general stubbornness of McCoys, I foresee both of you reaching ages that will rival even tortoises.”

Jo laughed and agreed, and later that evening they made up a special will that assigning Spock as Mister Torty’s primary caretaker if she’s ever unable to care for him. Joss and Clay would take care of him while she went off to medical school and then Starfleet Academy, though. Knowing that Mister Torty’s future was guaranteed, Jo could venture out into adulthood and her career with ease. And when she became a commissioned officer and joined the Hope with her daddy and Spock, they let her bring Mister Torty with them. 

(Sorry, I made it sad after this.)

Nearly a century and a half later, Spock found himself on New Vulcan with his tortoise companion. His bondmate had long since passed peacefully, as did Joanna. He did not expect to inherit the lifespan of a Vulcan, especially considering his counterpart’s shorter life. Spock did not want it, but Leonard’s last wish was for Spock to live as long as he could and to look after Joanna. Joanna made the same wish, though it was now Mister Torty he was to look after.

Spock was never more grateful for agreeing to take care of Mister Torty, for he was a companion that loved Leonard and Joanna as he did and enjoyed sharing those memories. Spock smiled at the memory that started it all: Leonard making a foolish bet that Mister Torty did not have a memory as good as a human’s and Joanna begging Spock to perform a mind meld. Leonard lost, of course. But Spock won more than fake credits that day.

Though both had slowed with age, they maintained a daily walking routine around the estate and ate their meals in the tortoise-friendly garden Spock and Leonard had constructed ages ago with the help of their friends. It was a peaceful living for both of them and suited their needs as much as anything could when the loves of their life had returned to the universe. At the end of each night, they would share a meld and tell each other a story. Spock was fond of the routine, it gave him some form of purpose.

And when it was their time to return to the universe, they passed together, watching the red skies fade to blue as the sun set for them one last time.

[valleyfthdolls]

Hello tumblr user Vallyfthdolls. You have a day to infodump about whatever you want related to your analog horror that isnt spoilers. You will be attacked by small puppies if you fail. You wont actually die that was the first non violent thing i thought of, good luck.

SJKSDFHSDFHEBGH HII *kicking my feet and twirling my hair*

One of my first concepts for The Nursery was actually a FNAF fangame. I still have those concepts which I've considered using for some kind of a promotional thing for The Nursery, but that might not ever happen. It's a fun idea nonetheless though!

This fnaf fangame concept features an alternate version of Lori named Lucille "Lucy" Adelae, a caretaker at a local children's entertainment venue called Silver Belle's Garden rented out for parties with a series of animatronics based on old toys that were popular in the founder's childhood in the 1990s. The cast includes Reddie, based on a teddy bear with a voice box, Rascal Goldie, based on a toy golden retriever with animatronic parts to make it walk, "twin" characters named Lucy and Lola May- the former of whom Lucy absolutely despises as it is beyond terrifying to her- based on a line of dolls with a series of different responses to specific stimuli (such as putting things in their mouth, flipping them upside down, touching their hands, etc.), and the titular Silver Belle, based on a simple grey stuffed cat.

Over spring break of 2016, Lucy is left in charge of the night shift at Silver Belle's Garden, and on top of the animatronics' malfunctions, a series of bizarre events (Reddie's voice box recording and repeating AMBER alerts, the restaurant being inexplicably vandalized, a buildup of pungent black fluid in Lola May's insides, the locks on the doors going loose, and water leakage from the nearby river) leads Lucy to become tormented and deeply paranoid that she's being hunted by a demonic entity she calls the Thing until it literally drives her mad. The fun tie-in to The Nursery, aside from sharing an obvious villain, is that it ends with Lucy throwing herself into the river trying to hide from the Monster of Salem and seeming to drown, then waking up in Lori and Cody's dorm as Lori. (Which I hope is an obvious indicator that this doesn't actually happen in the universe of The Nursery, there's no FNAF stuff going on there. It's mostly just a symbolic thing.)

Now, while I don't plan on making a fnaf fangame, or at least, don't have my heart set on it (Lucy I love you anyway) and it isn't canon story-wise, that doesn't mean that elements of it don't still appear. Since Lucy is just a different version of Lori, you won't be seeing her, nor will you be seeing her boss, or anyone else who works there, at least not in the context that they work there, obviously. What you will be seeing, though, is that the torment of being hunted down does take its toll on the Thing's victims, which is something Lori will have to watch out for, since she's essentially carving herself a spot at the top of its list with that channel of hers. You'll also not be seeing any potentially possessed animatronics, but you will be seeing AMBER alerts, inexplicable vandalism, water leakage, rivers, pungent black fluid, and childlike imagery. Keep an eye out for the use of children's toys as things progress.

[builder051]

No black cats allowed

(Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise)

This is the We fit like an Enfit ‘verse (tube ‘verse)—HOWEVER, it is completely removed from the currently published timeline. I always mean to fill in the cracks, but I never get to it, so here’s what you should know. The story runs like this: Steve and Bucky were high school sweethearts, then Bucky went overseas with the Army, had terrible experiences, got hurt, and got shipped back home. He tried getting back with Steve when he first made it stateside, but things were a little rocky, and eventually they broke up. It’s then, post-break up, that Steve starts having his own health problems and winds up getting tubed. He tries relying on coworkers to help him, but his issues continue, and he desperately needs a caretaker, or at least someone who can spend time with him and drive him to appointments. He reaches out to Bucky again, and after a little getting used to each other again, they move in together (and with Bucky’s cat), and they’re back to their previous relationship situation.

This story takes place in the “right back home” period, when Bucky has returned from Iraq and is still dating Steve. It’ll make sense as a stand-alone story, but placing it in context might be tricky.

This fic has a lot of stuff regarding war, mental health, PTSD, panic, therapy, hospitals, gore al la blood and vomit, some truly disgusting food talk, superstition, a nod to the existence of sex. It’s the usual mixed bag; there’s a huge amount of backstory, then story, then a tiny wrap-up with an open ending.

_____________________________

He probably shouldn’t have stacked the appointments. Looking back through the lense of hindsight, that’s exactly when things went wrong. It lies some three weeks previously, when he’d taken the return call from scheduling and neglected to note the dates and times in his planner. Bucky should’ve known the system would bite him in the ass. Again.

As much as Bucky hates to admit it, he’s probably the one responsible for the ass-biting. He shouldn’t take calls during his lunch hour. He tries, since that’s the only time he can slip outside the echoing warehouse. The stacks of cardboard and wood pallets do nothing to absorb the noise of crashing boxes and the temperamental swamp cooler. Signal’s always shitty, too, even on the outdoor loading deck. The building’s sad excuse for WiFi lies beyond possibility for the connection necessary for web calls. Regardless of means, the voice on the other end is crunchy and segmented. Bucky’s lucky to hear every third word or so. There’s just enough static to blur words out of meaning. Bucky isn’t quick enough to pack potential consonant blends into their respective gaps, and that’s his fault. His lapse in speech therapy practice. It’s his anxiety getting in the way of fulfilling every carefully noted point on his daily schedule.

Bucky didn’t used to have anxiety. Sure, he’d grown up with all the ups and downs of adolescence. He doesn’t like to think about the shameful day he’d ditched two final exams and barricaded himself in a janitor’s closet, puking up the previous night’s samplings of whiskey, edibles, and potato chips. But that happened to everyone, right? Through the rest of his time spent in secondary school, community college, basic training, Bucky remembers others laughing through self deprecating stories of the same.

It was just a universal thing, he’d thought. It had to be. Stress, probably. He’d had a lot going on during his seventeenth and eighteenth years. Football had him in two grueling practices a day, and the gods of senior year must’ve found his list of trespasses. Whether they were punishing him for his academic faults or general life choices, Bucky knew not. He had a feeling it was both; and he’s still sent reeling from time to time when a bad memory strikes. He leaves the room if anybody pops a bag of anything sour cream and onion.

Bucky had wanted to rush to the nearest exit when his VA appointed counselor gifted him the distastefully pink and quote-filled planner book. The dumpster out back would be a good place to stash it. Then he could hide out with an angry cigarette or two until he was calm enough to drive home. Therapy wasn’t for him, he’d decided, all in the same flustered moment. He’d just stop coming to his regularly scheduled appointments.

Halfway to the nearest gas station, though, Bucky had remembered his driver’s license was over a year out of date. The only valid ID on him was his base pass. It sometimes invited awkward conversations where people thanked him for his service. Truth be told, he’d rather have his arm back than any 20% discount. And the more he’d thought about it, the more he was sure that smoking tobacco would be a bad idea. It would probably have him honking up his breakfast before he could even inhale. He’d been forced to quit cold turkey somewhere in the Afghan desert. Taliban guards hadn’t been generous with their stashes of candy and drugs and diet soda. The same had been true for the nurses in any hospital he’s visited since. He should stick with weed. Edibles could certainly be obtained online these days.

That brought up the question of his ID again, though. Would some text bot in central Colorado rat on him for buying gum drops laced with delta 9? It would have to, if there was a subpoena. That’s stupid, Bucky told himself. It didn’t help much. When he arrived at his apartment, he was just keyed up enough to have the shakes and visual sparks that so often heralded migraines and bad memories. Once he shut the front door, Bucky grabbed an oxytocin from the bathroom cabinet and collapsed onto his bed. His jeans and boots didn’t matter. With any luck, he’d soon be having solely out-of-body experiences.

Bucky gets four hours of relief, no matter what he tries. Chemically negotiated sleep, alcohol-induced giddiness, a couple of chess games with Steve— his outlets, healthy and non, never bring him completely down. He’s never felt satisfied, never fully charged. His year in the desert stole more than just his body and mind; Bucky feels eternally depleted, like he can’t breathe in enough oxygen or drink enough water, despite his esophagus and lungs taking only minimal damage. The blisters from caustic smoke inhalation were completely healed, medical staff in Kandahar had informed him. Apparently mouths and throats and other wet, mucousy areas of the body have superior healing powers. None of it has convinced him to make an appointment with an ENT, an allergist, or a dentist, but Bucky makes a concerted effort not to discount the experts. At least not too much.

Bucky usually catches himself before he does anything too rash. Sometimes his excuses aren’t great, such as the time he used a hammer to smash open a jar of tomato sauce after an hour of fruitless one-handed twisting. The wrist ache and stubborn desire to put a cooked dinner on the table pushed him a little far, he’ll admit. But as far as he knows, Steve is still oblivious to the fact that he’d eaten pasta that was carefully strained to remove bits of shattered glass.

Bucky’s dissected the entire experience with his counselor over multiple sessions, and they’ve pretty much organized his breakdowns into different categorical reactions preceded by similar warning signs. Those urges to run, hide, throw rocks at the pigeons on his balcony— they should cue him to do something grounding. Looking at his planner would be an optimal choice. Breathing deeply and focusing on the pastel watercolors that border each page’s scheduling block. That might encourage him to reap more benefits of the fat spiral-bound book. If he wanted, Bucky could schedule his life from 6AM to midnight every day of every month of every year. Apparently the planner comes from a curated luxury brand, and a trip to its website could enable him to order complementary stickers and expander pages. The counselor cheerfully joked that he could go broke, the array of pastel and neon and vegan leather office supplies were so tempting. Bucky supposes it’s a success, then, that he’s never pulled up the site, let alone sit and browse with his wallet open.

Bucky likes planning his days more organically. He wakes up a solid four hours before he leaves for work, so there’s plenty of time to dress and shovel down some breakfast and call Steve’s office phone and plant an endearing message in voice mail box. They don’t live together anymore, technically, but their pair bond hasn’t completely disappeared. Bucky would lose his subsidized apartment if he put his name on a lease somewhere else. The rule runs the other way too, preventing anyone but Bucky’s solitary disabled veteran of a self occupied the blank-walled studio. It doesn’t keep them from meeting up from time to time. The times do seem to be falling a little less frequently as time stretches on, but thinks he knows why.

It’s Bucky’s fault, again. This time for falling into the greedy trap of bonus pay for work hours outside his regular shifts. He doesn’t want to buy anything with the extra cash, but the rotating schedule does give him something to jot down in his planner. Maybe he’ll get some outrageous stickers after all. Something loud and especially obnoxious, like glittery rainbows. He’d use them to mark special occasions. A dinner date with Steve, perhaps. At one of those nice-but-not-fancy places, like the diner that lights up the end of the block with its 24-hour incandescent window lights and perpetually flashing ‘fresh coffee’ sign. That could easily pin them down together for the four-hour stretch between the end of work and the beginning of Jack Hanna’s Wild Countdown at 11pm. Bucky has begun to recognize the reruns of the reruns, but he’s not in it for the fun facts. It’s the camaraderie he likes. His friend Jack keeping him from other, less savory companions like Jack and Coke.

The VA’s phone tree and call waiting systems haven't changed in the five years Bucky’s been subjected to them. The whole communication setup seems stuck in Windows 98. Bucky’s seen the telltale screensaver bouncing around on his rehabilitation doctor’s desktop. He’s fairly sure the hospital could afford to upgrade, though the staff probably hadn’t realized that patients glimpsing a monitor here and there could trigger memories of young recruits sitting in a sweltering tent and logging into the heavily filtered .gov email system on an ancient Macintosh. Sometimes a loved one sent a sweet message and a picture of a cat, which was always appreciated, even though the hard coded regulations reset the text to all caps interspersed with phrases like ‘censored’ and ‘jpeg not displayed.’ Just as often, though, a buddy with a satellite connection would dash off a succinct report of lives recently lost in the latest (redacted) mission. Harsh as they were, Bucky appreciated those notes just as much. His higher-ups rarely passed down accurate weather reports, let alone information about their brothers in other companies. Demoralizing content was cut more and more as the conflict in the desert stretched on. They said it would detract from the bravery of the young, impressionable troops. Bucky laughs now to keep himself from grinding his teeth. The policy won’t fall out of fashion any time soon, no matter where the army continues to send him.

If Bucky uses his morning free time to call any of the hospital’s departments, the nurse at the desk invariably tells him that they’ll take a note and pass it onto the next in the chain of command. An MA, an intern, some kid doing work study to earn his mess hall rations… As responsible as any of them may be, the note never makes it further than the trash can behind the reception desk. That’s what Bucky assumes, since he hasn’t received any communication back.

The same is true for his evenings; Bucky gets off work around 4:00 most days, and he’s lucky to be put on hold while the desk person searches down for someone with authority. The system shuts down promptly at 5:00, and the tinny classical medley of the hold music dies and gives him a dial tone instead. Some days Bucky steels himself and leaves his name and predicament with the voicemail, trying hard not to sound too angry or annoyed. He’s pondered on the idea of letting his emotions seep into his speech along with some heavy sighs, but he doesn’t want to risk it. The last thing he needs is for his counselor to find out and refer him to anger management.

What he’d needed, badly, was a follow up with audiology. The kind practitioner in plainclothes carefully helped him through the process of a complete ear health and hearing examination. The tiny booth for the beep and button test had given him pause, but, as with everything else so far, he’d survived. After the audiologist collected her data, she’d tried to interest him in filling out the form for his hearing aid order. The diagnosis of partial deafness had come as no surprise, but Bucky had declined to participate. “Whatever brand, whatever color. I don’t care,” he’d told her. Stress had been mounting, and the audiologist had let him escape the office with a fleeting, “See you later. We’ll call when you can come pick them up.”

The call had come, much to Bucky’s surprise. He’d felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket as he was pushing a refrigerator box across the warehouse. A quick glance at the screen had shown an unknown number with a local prefix, and he’d figured he should pick up. Maybe it was the front desk at Steve’s office. The community college puzzling over his student loan and GI bill. The local police, perhaps, trying to cite him for abuse of pigeons.

Surprisingly, though, it was the VA. “Hold on, hold on, I have to get somewhere I can hear you,” he’d barked over the rest of the caller’s sentence. Bucky had quickly ducked into the windowless closet they used as a break room before saying, “Ok, go.”

The quality of the call had been especially terrible. “Hearing aids”, Bucky was able to decipher. Then, “Schedule pickup.”

“In the morning,” he’d replied. “I work weird hours.”

“The thirteenth?” The caller had offered.

“What, like, tomorrow?”

“Next month.”

Bucky’d pushed his hair back off his forehead, wondering if he could pin down his work times that far in advance. “I’ll try to make it work.” That was the best he could offer.

“And PT?”

“What was that now?”

“Physical therapy,” the caller had clarified.

Bucky could’ve sworn he’d already graduated from the program. He’d been relieved when he’d stopped going. The humiliation of pedaling an arm bike with only one arm regularly took a chunk of his self esteem.

“No-show last session,” Bucky had managed to understand. “Reschedule.”

“Um…” He could’ve explained his understanding of the situation, but he’d already been eager to get off the phone. If anything, he could pretend to go to PT and really just use it as an opportunity to tell his therapist face-to-face that he was quitting. “Sure,” Bucky had sighed. The rush of air had reverberated through the call and caught him back like a waterpik to his eardrum. Hard of hearing, he was. Not hard of feeling. “Ugh, sorry.”

The caller had paid it no mind. “Nine o’clock for audiology and 9:30 for PT?’”

“Sure.” Now Bucky was cringing at the sound of his own voice. “Thanks.” Then he’d hung up, not waiting to hear a goodbye.

He’d meant to jot the appointments down in his planner. He’d amused himself with the thought that the thing might finally serve a helpful purpose. Bucky’s good mood had carried on through the afternoon. He was even inspired to pick up a box of donuts and drive over to Steve’s office, where he’d sat on the hood of Steve’s car and helped himself to a chocolate glazed. Steve had come out the door shouting at Bucky for defacing his vehicle. But then he’d eaten a sugar dusted lemon creme and inticed Bucky to lick the sweet powder from his fingers. The trip back to Steve’s place was a given. It wasn't the first time he’d given Bucky a lift to pick up his car in the morning.

The next few weeks had passed uneventfully. It was back to the mundane work/rest/tv cycle that drove Bucky’s life. He and Steve were a little tense again. He was living on cereal again. Bucky figured he’d work it out with his counselor at the next appointment. Until then, he’d cope. He hadn’t counted, but he knew there weren’t that many days left in the week.

Friday dawns grey and cloudy. Bucky’s scheduled to work a swing shift, so he doesn’t have to leave his apartment until the afternoon. He gathers the box of cornflakes and the milk carton, then sits at the kitchen table in his bathrobe. He intends to let his cereal marinate for a moment while he browses social media, but he doesn’t get that far. Bucky feels a jolt in his gut as squints at the expiration date stamped on the side of the milk. The thirteenth. Today, he realizes. Friday the fucking thirteenth. He should just go back to bed now.

But no, he has work later, and he rarely sleeps during daylight hours without the help of some chemical or other. Getting high would be nice, though. He could call in sick. The thought of the dishonesty hardens into a lump in Bucky’s stomach, though. On the other hand, he does feel a little sick. He doesn’t particularly want to slog his balding car tires through slick streets and mud puddles. No, he can’t do that. He’d run the risk of becoming the butt of somebody’s joke about being scarce on the unlucky day. Anxiety pits itself against anxiety, and the discomfort moves upward into Bucky’s chest.

Something else isn’t right. Bucky stands and grabs his planner from the top of a stack of phone books in the kitchen corner. The poorly bound yellow and white pages usually serve the purpose of sound damper when he has to resort to a screwdriver or hammer to bust open packaging. Otherwise, they’re a convenient shelf for stuff he likes to keep handy, which is really just a flimsy excuse for not tidying up.

Bucky flips the leaves of the planner. He’d left it open to some date last week, and, though he hasn’t written anything in the schedule blocks, he’s starting to feel positive that he’s missed something important.

Important. Bucky whispers the word under his breath until it slurs into something unintelligible. Appointment, Bucky realizes as he lands on the page for today. “Don’t let the rain spoil the sunshine” the inscription reads. It’s in a curly novelty font, and Bucky can swear he feels the eye strain crystallizing into a headache. Friday the fucking thirteenth indeed.

Bucky can’t remember the time he’s scheduled to arrive at the VA, so he books it, just in case. If he’s late, someone will cancel the appointments. Usually some front desk person, a scheduler or a receptionist, who seems to lavish in other people’s distress. If he’s early, well, he’ll sit and suffer in the waiting area, listening to the front desk person ruin other people’s day.

Bucky leaves his pajama top and hustles into jeans, then grabs his wallet and phone. He stuffs his feet into some clogs. Even slip-ons that require a manual heel adjustment are too much for him today. He’s almost out the door when he spots the milk and dry cereal still sitting on the kitchen table. Bucky falters in an anxious pause, then decides it’s not worth the effort to put them away. The milk is scheduled to expire today anyway.

Bucky pauses again outside the front door when he remembers that he needs keys. They live on a hook next to the door, so he only needs to open it as wide as his arm. He scrabbles at the wall with his fingernails, and the keys fall on the floor. “Fuck,” Bucky mumbles as he bends to retrieve them. The change in position kicks up a wave of vertigo, and he has to lean on the wall for a moment to stop his visual field from spinning.

Now flustered, Bucky races across the parking lot and jumps into his car. He backs up without turning his head, hoping Friday the thirteenth doesn’t bless him with a dent in his bumper. Luck wins, and he speeds toward the main road. He breathes deeply before turning at the stop sign. Getting out of his parking space must’ve been a false positive. He steels himself for whatever terror the hospital has for him today.

When he slides into the hospital lot, Bucky knows he’s pulled in crooked. He cracks the door, and once he sees that his tires are only a centimeter or so across the line, he calls it good enough. He slams the door, but when he goes to lock it, he realizes he’s left the keys in the ignition. Bucky begs the car not to auto lock, but it does anyway. The beep is barely within his range of hearing, but the high, tinny sound makes him squeeze his eyes shut. He has his phone on his body, so he can at least call roadside assistance when it’s time to leave.

“Fuck.” Bucky curses himself again before starting to hold his breath in preparation for the VA’s revolving door. If he’ll ever get stuck in it, it will be today. The door grinds and scrapes over waterproof carpet, but Bucky manages to shove it into working order. It spits him out in the middle of the overly lit entrance hall. Blast fluorescent lightbulbs. Bucky’s head gives a good throb, and he remembers to exhale. His heart’s going a mile a minute. He needs to calm down before some staff member sees him and decides to give him a piss test to make sure he isn’t misusing his amphetamines.

Lo and behold, a woman in scrubs crosses the hall right in front of him. She has her head down and her thumbs moving madly as she types on her phone. She pays him no mind, and Bucky’s glad for it. He hopes she doesn’t run into something, it being Friday the thirteenth and all. After a glance in both directions, Bucky heads to the audiology clinic. With the lights above reflecting in shiny puddles across the floor, he hopes he doesn’t run into something either.

When Bucky reaches the front desk, the elderly man behind the counter glares. “You’re a few minutes late,” he announces.

“Sorry,” Bucky gasps. He swallows and tries to get his diaphragm and lungs back into alignment. “I’m sorry. Uh, traffic, you know…”

The man nods. He knows. He probably thinks he knows everything. He might be a retired general or something; Bucky’s only seen this degree of hatred coming from the eyes of a higher ranking officer who’s dead set on stomping anthills.

“You’re late,” the man repeats. “I’ll have to call your practitioner.”

Bucky averts his eyes as the man picks up a landline and peruses the list of extensions on an index card taped to the side of a computer monitor.

“I can just go,” Bucky offers. Better to leave on his own volition rather than take the demerit and perseverate on it on the drive back to his apartment. No, rather when he loiters back in the parking lot waiting on a tow truck.

“It’s fine.” The doctor in plainclothes appears in the doorway adjacent to the reception desk. Today she wears a t-shirt bearing a stylized painting of a cochlear implant. “You’re picking up, right?” She glances at the back of the desk man’s head. “Appointments like that don’t take much time. You’re good to come back.”

Bucky’s relieved to avoid the tense session of waiting room sitting; he steps quickly through the door the audiologist holds open for him. Her office is the first door down the hall. Blessedly it’s carpeted, and the chairs for patients have real cushions on their seats. Bucky starts to sit, but the audiologist stops him.

“Here.” She grabs a small box off her desk and hands it over. “Just pop them in.”

Bucky takes it and does as he’s told. The box hinges open, and there are the aids. His aids, now. The part that sits behind his ear is metallic grey with a few bright, silver, and overly technical looking buttons. Dark red tubes secure to the slim side of the aids to navy blue molds, which Bucky assumes are custom cut and fabricated from the uncomfortable gel impressions he’d suffered through at his first appointment.

“Alright…” Bucky takes one and pushes the earmold deeply in his left canal. The soft silicone squishes slightly, but maintains its shape. It feels as if he’s shoving a bouncy ball into his ear. Once the aid is positioned, it completely blocks his sense of hearing. He’s reminded uncomfortably of the compressed foam earplugs he’d worn when he was training on the firing range. “Is it supposed to be quiet?” Bucky asks. He points at his ear, and, unable to hear his own voice, hopes he isn’t shouting.

“I’ll turn them on and tweak the programming once you have both in.” The audiologist speaks at what Bucky assumes is a regular volume, but she moves her lips in an exaggerated fashion. God, will he be happy to get rid of that problem. He isn’t good at lip reading. He can if he has to, but just looking someone in the face spikes his anxiety.

Bucky puts in the other aid. He’s disconcerted by the further silence, even though he’d known it was coming. He gives the audiologist a thumbs up. He’s willing to do anything to speed up the process.

The audiologist returns the gesture, then turns to her computer and clicks through multiple drop down menus. The aids suddenly spring to life, making Bucky cringe. The change from silence to sound is more abrupt than he’d expected. It’s as if he’s in the middle of the ocean, but without crashing waves to see and feel to ground him in the experience. Bucky wonders if the walls are moving, the painted cinderblocks rumbling against each other as the room closes in from all sides. The discomfort of his headache moves down to his sinuses and his jawline. No, not now. The last thing he needs is creeping nausea.

“How do they sound?” The audiologist’s voice rings out loud and clear.

Bucky can’t quite reason whether the aids are doing their job or if she’s still just speaking loudly. “Um.” Bucky swallows. “I hear you.”

“Good.” The audiologist moves her mouse and clicks a few more buttons, then presses a few keys.

Bucky hears the sound of her typing. Is it normal for typing to make such a clatter? The whole computer setup is as ancient as anything else in the hospital with a towering processor and large cube-shaped monitor. Old keyboards make a lot of noise, Bucky knows. And the audiologist has long fingernails.

She looks up at him, eyes full of pleasurable excitement. “How do they sound?”

“How am I supposed to know?” The words are out of Bucky’s mouth before he realizes he’s probably sounding rude. “I mean,” he tries to backtrack. “I think they’re ok?”

The audiologist nods, unperturbed. “Both sides sounding the same?

“Um.” Bucky tries focusing his attention to only hid sense of hearing. It’s a difficult feat, though. Nausea flares again, and his head gives an almighty throb. “I…yeah? I guess?”

“It’s challenging at first.”

Bucky wishes the audiologist had led with that. It gives him a granule of comfort, though his discomfort stays at the same level.

“The volume buttons are there.” She turns her head and points midway down her ear. “Definitely play with that. And if something feels off with the sound or the fit of the ear molds, just swing by. I do walk-ins.”

Bucky forces a smile. He knows he won’t visit again. He doesn’t want to know what the desk sergeant would say if he came into the clinic unscheduled.

“Yeah, ok.” Bucky nods, then regrets it. He becomes all the more aware of the tension in the back of his neck.

“Alright.” The audiologist stands and walks toward the door.

Bucky follows, highly aware of his clogs scraping the aged fuzzy carpet. “Bye,” Bucky says as he steps over the threshold into the hallway.

“Yeah, see you. Come in any time.”

Bucky makes no response. He hears her voice; the words come in clearly and sound clipped with precision, even though he’s already turned his back. It’s definitely an improvement, but he’s anticipating a learning curve.

With this potentially difficult done with, Bucky should feel encouraged. He’s done a thing; it was successful. His counselor and DBT workbook would want him to evaluate, then non-judgementally file it for safekeeping. He did something hard. Therefore, the next hard thing should be easier. He can’t quite feel the vibe, though. It might be the headache spreading its domination over more and more territory in his brain. He imagines double-masted ships bumping into the coastlines of North America and Africa, then spitting out little red-coated troops to run inland and raise the British flag. It could just as easily be a C-130 dropping off a fleet of Army-colored Jeeps in the desert, Bucky and his buddies lined up to sprint into the cargo bay and jump in the drivers’ seats to back them down the incline.

Great, that’s just great. Bucky grits his teeth. The stupid war that cost him his stupid arm and grounded him out of a career. And now he’s meant to live out the rest of his stupid life, full of stupid appointments and therapy, which keep jumping onto the stupid calendar whether he wants them or not. The sound of moving air in his ears is replaced with a cringe-worthy grind. Bucky stops in the middle of the hallway and looks around before realizing it’s his own clenching jaw. He brings his hand up to massage his mastoids. The pressure in his head and face rearranges itself again. Maybe he could just go home and leave a message with PT. He’d apologize for the last minute cancellation and say he got sick. It wouldn’t even be that much of a lie. Doubt raises its voice in dissent, though. Someone would probably recognize his car… For which he’ll have to call roadside before he can go anywhere.

For a moment, Bucky entertains calling Steve. He hates to look weak and dependent. He hates asking for things. Steve’s boyfriend had gone to Iraq, and this idiot with long hair and one arm came back. Bucky wants to slide back into place as the protective one, not the one needing protection. He can’t make up for the deficit with boxes of donuts, at least not all the time. Bothering Steve during work, for which he’s savagely underpaid and actually seems to enjoy… Bucky slogs on toward the therapy office. He’ll be a lone wolf today. Hopefully his position as the lame one far behind the pack won’t get him eaten by a polar bear or something. The PTs and their wall posters of bisected humans made of red muscle would be bad enough. They probably knew very well how to butcher him and roast his meat on a spit.

Bucky searches in his head for a thought that isn’t nauseating. His stomach feels knotted and lifted into his rib cage. Had he eaten this morning? Had coffee? Bucky doesn’t remember, nor can he figure which situation is worse.

The moment he reaches the waiting area in front of PT, the woman behind the desk tells him to go ahead into the exercise room. Bucky nods. Ordinarily he’d feel a little wary of the familiarity; he doesn’t care for situations when someone he barely knows has all his information. Some days he can’t recite his own social security number. On a day like Friday the thirteenth, he hopes he doesn’t have to sign any forms. He isn’t sure he’d be able to spell or even remember his full name.

Those thoughts disperse immediately when he walks through the door to the exercise room. He’s used to it smelling like rubber gloves and past its prime gym equipment. Today, though, the scent of potato chips is overwhelming. Just plain, salted, greasy chips. Bucky tells himself he actually likes regular chips. It’s kitschy flavors and toppings that set him off. He has to try willing away his disgust. It has to be the headache. Bucky likes food, at least better than the reflux of tube feeding formula. Even military hospital food outweighed the NG. Other people eat. He isn’t offended. He just doesn’t feel well. It’s completely his own problem.

Bucky looks around from the threshold of the exercise room, expecting to see his usual therapist. Natasha is unmistakable with her high red ponytail and chiseled musculature. She makes black scrubs look high fashion. Bucky hasn’t dated a girl since 8th grade, but he’s open minded. About friendships and things. He’s a little jealous of Natasha, when he gets down to it. Had he not been injured, he too might’ve maintained his shape and strength and social life. She’s alluring, but also intimidating. It seems as if every time Bucky comes in, he’s forced to remember how different things could’ve been. She’s successful and he isn’t, and that’s the way things will stay. He’s very set on his decision to quit. Then he might improve at talk therapy with the removal of Natasha as a trigger.

There seems to be no Natasha today, though. Two male therapists sit facing each other, one sitting on a desk and the other perched backward on the seat of a stationary bike. The one on the desk has the crinkling, yellow bag of Lay’s.

“Hey, sorry.” The man on the desk chews and swallows quickly before crunching the bag into a ball and shooting it into a trash bin. “My kids have me hooked on snack time.”

“Hm.” Bucky inclines his head and makes a sound of acknowledgment, trying not to react to the angry sound of the chip bag hitting the rim of the bin.

“Yeah, well.” The man on the bike stands up in one fluid motion. “Client’s here. Gotta pretend to go back to work.”

“M, yeah, I guess.” The one on the desk wipes his hands on his knees, chip crumbs and grease prints now adhering to his pants. He hefts a file folder. “Data entry. Super fun.”

The man now off the bike gives Bucky a wave. “I know you belong to Nat,” he says. “But they’ve got her running a training in Baltimore today.” He pauses a second, then asks, “I’m Sam. You mind working with me?”

“Um,” Bucky wavers. “I was, er, going to turn in my papers?” He’s met with silence, so Bucky goes on. “Like, telling you all I don’t want any more appointments?”

“Oh, sure.” Sam nods. “Yeah, we don’t have to reschedule you. I think you’re on the list of recurring clients.” Then he addresses the man at the desk. “Hey, Clint, while you’re entering data, can you put his name on call-to-schedule?” Sam looks to Bucky. “It’s James, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms. There’s no need to explain how he goes by his middle name, but also not really.

“Sure…” Clint squints at his monitor and scrolls slowly. “Yep, there you are. And done.”

“Thanks.” Bucky shuffles his feet. He wants to turn and run, but adding any kind of bounce to his gait will surely stir up his gut in the worst of ways. Maybe he can inch backward first to initiate a smoother exit.

“Do you want to do anything today?” Sam offers. “Legs or abs or soft tissue?”

“Uh.” Bucky feels called out. He still has every right to leave, but now there’s pressure. He hates not delivering. He hates giving up a challenge, knowing it contributes to his air of disability. Statistically, a lot of vets get caught up in PTSD and alcohol and drugs and wind up hibernating until they’re arrested or dead. Shirking commitments is a primary sign, and with Bucky’s awareness of his want to ingest substances and get horizontal… He has to remind himself that even trained therapists can’t read his thoughts. “I don’t know…” Maybe he should offer an excuse? “I really have a headache and I have to call to get my car towed…” he trails off, feeling much more lame than he had when he’d started.

“You’ve done soft tissue work with Natasha, right?” Sam points to the door of one of the small private rooms coming off the main. Bucky knows there are massage tables and rolling stools inside. He has done soft tissue work with Natasha, and it has alleviated his back and neck aches before. It’s overly personal, though, and awkward. Bucky’s never sure if he’s supposed to keep his eyes open or closed.

Honesty takes control, and Bucky answers with “Yeah, I have.”

“Might bring down the headache. I’m no magician, but I do know pressure points.” Sam grins at him. “I went through all this when I came back, too. PT saved my basketball game.”

Bucky knows he’s being kind, but he can’t help thinking of his unbalanced body trying to dribble and shoot lay-ups. He’d look worse than the last kid in gym class.

“Or you can just lie down for a while.” Sam laughs. “I don’t disclose what happens in there. HIPPA, and all that.”

And there, without even trying, they’ve formed such a close friendship that now they’re in the territory of dirty jokes. It’s stranger intrusion, one thousand percent, and even though it makes the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stand up, he no longer has the choice to leave. Bucky wonders if this guy’s a master of manipulation, whether he knows he’s contorting the inner threads of Bucky’s brain and removing all traces of his own volition.

“Um, I guess.” Bucky’s voice is so loud in his own ears that it makes his head throb. Once the pain has reverberated to his stomach and back, he continues, “I guess we can try.”

“Cool.” Sam reaches for a clipboard and pen, but stops before picking them up. “No notes today, right? It’s your sunset session.”

“Right.” Maybe lying down would do Bucky some good. The sickness that’s been building in him is edging toward physical sensation. It’s no longer confined to his mentality, and any hope of thinking it away is far gone. Bucky walks toward the private room. He’d better not look as terrible as he feels. He doesn’t think he can take any comments of sympathy.

“Face up, ok?” Sam closes the door behind them and plants on a stool.

Bucky obliges and sits on the edge of the massage table. One of his shoes falls off as he’s lifting up his legs. He jumps at the sound of the clunk and quickly apologizes. “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s cool. Probably more comfortable to take them off.” The wheels on the bottom of the stool squeak slightly. Bucky both hears and feels Sam coming closer. His spine tingles and an ache starts up between his shoulder blades. There’s nothing like anxiety throwing spears at his body. Wholistic approach to medicine aside, Bucky swears his brain and body are egging each other on.

Once Bucky’s flat on his back, he combs his fingers through his bangs to keep the hair from sticking to clammy sweat. Sam will probably be grossed out before even touching him. He’s infinitesimally glad to see the therapist putting on exam gloves.

“Alright.” The stool squeaks again, and Bucky feels Sam slide his fingers beneath the arch of his neck. “We’ll start right here at the top of the spine.”

Two thumbs plant on either side, just below Bucky’s occipital lobe. The pressure brings with it a feeling of pain that’s just short of pleasure. If he didn’t have vertigo, Bucky might’ve thanked Sam for spotting a problematic area on his first go.

“Ok. And here…” Sam’s fingers rest lightly on the jaw muscles stretching under his chin and down his neck. He adds force to the pressure points behind Bucky’s head. His touch is light, and his fingertips stay still and professional. Natasha’s work on his tense muscles had been just fine. Maybe Sam had more advanced training? Or was he pushing a fallacious invitation of intimacy that comes when people mistake shared backgrounds for real empathy. The first and last time Bucky had tried attending a support group, someone who’d last fought in Vietnam had tried to give him a hug.

Sam slides his touch outward toward Bucky’s ears, and a horrific scraping noise resounds in the hearing aids, which seem to have barely escaped disturbance. “Turn your head to the side.”

Sam hasn’t stated a direction, so Bucky falters, and the weight of his head wavers to the right before he commits to turning left. Vertigo swells over all other sensation, and Bucky holds his eyes wide open, looking for a substitute horizon. There are subtle lines between the painted white painted cinder blocks of the wall. Bucky tries to choose one to lock his vision upon. He daren’t blink. The overhead light sears into his peripheral vision, though, and dark and light spots start to gather on both sides.

“Alright.” Sam puts his palm against Bucky’s jawline and directs his fingers to the tight muscle running lengthwise from his ear to his shoulder. “You comfortable?”

“Um.” Bucky can only stutter before he has to gulp down something horrible and sour. His thoughts run frantically. He hadn’t consumed the spoiled milk this morning; he remembers that for sure. It was probably treating his tiny apartment to dank odor of curdling dairy. The first day of his deployment, Bucky had learned not to leave a cup of yogurt outside in the sun. He’d opened it when he sat down at the outdoor table, then obviously misjudged how long it would take him to finish the rest of his meal. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before it had developed a thick skin and gave off a smell of sweet rot.

“James?” Sam lifts his hand. The imprints of where his fingers had been develop a sensation of negative pressure. Bucky can’t remember which line he’d chosen on the wall. He blinks, and he’s disoriented even more. Bucky’s stomach races upward ahead of his heartbeat and turns liquid somewhere inside his esophagus.

“You ok?”

“I—actually—uh—“ Bucky’s entire body trembles, and it seems gravity has loosened its hold on him. He can barely feel the floor under his stocking feet when he pushes himself up on his arm and turns. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Sure, man.” Sam pulls his stool backward with the shove of one sneaker, then turns back to Bucky and proffers a small trash bin. “Here.”

Bucky holds down a retch long enough to get the bottom of the bin between his knees. The next heave is huge and convulsive. Bucky instinctively breathes in, then chokes when the air hits liquid resistance in his mouth and nose. He coughs hard to clear his airway. His vision swims and brings on another wave of sickness. Bucky doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until his sternum aches from pressing against the bin’s hard metal rim.

It’s all Sam’s work keeping him stable, Bucky realizes. His mind would fall into weakness and stupidity if his body wasn’t already robbing every bit of his attention. It’s just his luck, just his Friday the thirteenth, pushing him into such a compromising position. What had he been doing, thinking about spoiled milk? Bucky’s mental image quickly replaces the milk with a rumpled chip bag. He’s never eating a potato again, whether it’s a chip or a fry or a baked potato with sour cream and chives…

“Ugh.” Bucky hacks again, feeling ropes of mucous and saliva sticking to his lip. He squeezes his eyes shut, and unintended tears roll down his face. They get caught in the scruff of his beard before passing his cheeks. Bucky wonders how soiled his mustache will be. And the hair on his chin. But those are small potatoes compared to his rushing thoughts of food. Fuck potatoes. Fuck cereal. Fuck donuts and starches and sugar.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam’s voice is uncomfortably close. Bucky assumes Sam’s leaning forward too, trying to bump their heads together or something. When he peels his eyes open, though, Sam’s still at a reasonable distance. His hands and knees hold the bin while his back remains straight and tall.

“I’m—fuck.” Bile runs down his tongue, and Bucky’s unsure whether he wants to spit or swallow. He tries the swallow, but his epiglottis refuses to close, and he winds up letting more liquid sick flow into the bin. “Sorry,” Bucky gasps. He wants to rake his hair back again, but he’s afraid he’ll fall over if he doesn’t keep his hand grounded on the massage table beside his hip.

“Hey, no big.” Bucky isn’t sure how Sam’s able to maintain such composure. Maybe he has kids? A loved one with cancer? Steve takes good care of Bucky when he’s exceptionally down, but there’s always a nervous jumpiness weighing in on the situation. It’s just Steve, Bucky thinks, who has a nervous jumpiness about everything. He stresses over other people’s stress, constantly puttering and hovering. It’s probably why he still looks like a skinny teenager; he burns so many calories with his perpetual motion.

“It’s ok,” Sam says. “Humans are messy sometimes.” He must’ve absorbed the entire DBT book, Bucky decides. Wise and observant and unemotional. He could be one of those kids unnaturally excited for Anatomy and Physiology Lab. Blood and guts might turn him on. He could be a CSI on the side. Or maybe a serial killer.

“I’m—god, I’m sorry,” Bucky apologizes again. He lifts his head an inch and catches a glimpse of Sam’s face, trying to reset his flighty sense of judgement. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, Bucky says inside his head. Calm. Observe. Bucky shakes his head a little from side to side, but the world shifts on him again, and he wraps his arm around his abdomen. It does nothing to help steady him; his organs are still shoved up in his chest.

Bucky dry heaves. A rancid tasting belch pops in the back of his throat, but it brings nothing up with it. Good, maybe? He’s done? Bucky’s sure he’s empty now, at least.

“No, you’re good.” Sam pauses a moment. “I mean, I can’t imagine you feel good, but don’t rush. Try not to stress. It’ll make you tense up. Then you’ll have to come back to visit PT.”

Bucky’s never stepping foot in this office again. Not into the VA at all, if he can help it. He can push his meetings with his counselor back to Telehealth. He’ll figure out his hearing aids by himself. There has to be a website or something.

Now that he’s thinking about them, Bucky recognizes the swirling water sound coming in. It’s amplified enough to shake his eardrums. Bucky presses the balls of his feet into the floor and lets his arm free to pull the aids out of his ears. They make a high-pitched squeal as he holds them together in his palm, but Bucky depresses the off button on one, then the other. Bucky enjoys the blessed silence, but then Sam says something again, and Bucky’s right back with his original deficit.

“Those new?” Sam nods toward the aids in Bucky’s hand.

“These?” Bucky checks. “Yeah. This morning, actually.” He swallows a couple of times, hoping to kick the chafing and hoarseness out of his throat.

“Ah.” Sam gives a half smile. “I wouldn’t advise ophthalmology right after breakfast, either. Or load up on Zofran. You got a script for that?”

“One of the boxes on the bathroom counter, I think.” Bucky thinks he has a pack of the foil-coated pills. Or was that Xanax? No, Xanax comes in a regular prescription bottle. Either way, Bucky should probably carry both on his person at all times. He’s turning into a stereotypical civilian. Though jeans and shirts are severely lacking in pockets when compared to Army duds.

“If I had any, I’d give you a hit.” Sam’s smile turns mysterious. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that. No secret chat with someone at the pharmacy counter.”

“Naw, I’m good.” Bucky waits a tick, then says, “You’re not going to tell on me for this, are you?” He glances into the bin, then lifts his gaze quickly. “I don’t want to be called in for a flu test or anything.”

“No worries.” Sam looks toward the bin as well. “Done with this?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms. “Definitely done.”

“How’s the headache?” Sam asks before setting the bin on the floor out of Bucky’s line of sight.

Bucky wonders if Sam’s reading his mind again. But Bucky had fed him that intel, he remembers. And he’d spilled the beans about his car. He really couldn’t be caught any worse. “Eh.” Bucky shrugs. “It’s a pretty constant thing. On and off, I mean.” Everyone who’s read his chart notes knows everything about his TBI and its physical symptoms it causes. Most of the world could probably guess, too. The scar along his hairline is as good as poof. The crabby looking guy with a battle mark— his look is enough to turn people away.

Sam remains quietly engaged. He really could be a sociopath. No, Sam’s probably the normal person. Bucky might be the sociopath. He hasn’t really come to terms with the man who came home from the desert, despite Bucky’s inability to retain the identity he had before shipping out.

Normal people ask questions back when chatting with others, Bucky remembers. He should do that. “You, uh, you said you’d served?” Bucky thinks he remembers that too.

“Yeah. Air Force. Two tours,” Sam says with little emotion. “I thought being a PJ was all about jumping out of airplanes.” He averts his eyes momentarily before looking Bucky in the face again. “But it’s way more putting in IVs in the back of an H-60. Talk about turbulence. Had to grow an iron stomach for that.”

So that’s where he gets it. He got to load the wounded and dying into the bright yellow cage lift. Bucky hadn’t been conscious through his own medevac, so he has no triggers regarding bungee cords and helicopters, thank god. He wonders how Sam had managed to make it back stateside, but Bucky knows he isn’t allowed to ask. Bucky tries looking at things from Sam’s end, dredging through red blood and orange sand, looking for skin sticking out of singed uniforms. He probably hates Army green now. And maybe bright yellow bags of chips.

Bucky’s pondering has allowed the conversation to trail off again. Another fail on his part.

Sam seems not to mind, though, and as soon as Bucky’s mentally checked in again, he asks, “You ever been in a helicopter? In the seat, I mean?”

“Uh…” Bucky struggles to recall. “I think we did an aerial tour of the map once before I got assigned to a camp.” The memory comes back as he verbalises it. “I had the jump seat, and they didn’t give me any headphones. I think I looked at a bunch of piles of sand.”

“I wish I’d had a pleasure tour,” Sam replies. “I usually didn’t know where we were going until we were ready to repel. I guess it didn’t matter so much. Helped keep us focused, maybe? I honestly couldn’t point to all the places I’ve been if you gave me a map. I was just along for the ride, you know?”

“Every ride in a tank is just as long and bumpy,” Bucky tells him. “And hoping I didn’t draw the short straw and have to sit backwards.”

“Oh, yeah. Flight school, it’s a big thing.” Sam laughs. “Tank school, though? Drivers’ ed?”

“I never went.” Bucky puts up his hand to mark his innocence. “I can only speak for myself, though.”

“I feel you.” Sam takes the pause to switch subjects. “You said your car wasn’t working, right? Do you need a ride?”

“Oh, well.” Bucky bites his lip. “I locked the keys inside,” he admits. “It’s Friday the thirteenth. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Friday the thirteenth,” Sam repeats. “I actually had no idea. You’ve had a day, though, man. And it’s only…” He glances at his watch. “9:37 in the morning.”

“I better call the insurance. Can I come back in here if it’s raining?”

“Sure. Or we can walk together across the parking lot. I have an umbrella. And leather seats.” Sam rises to his feet.

“I should just bite it.” Bucky picks up his hearing aids and stands as well. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and slips the aids inside. “I mean, I should call someone. My boyfriend has a car…” As soon as he says it, Bucky knows he’s slipped. He’s stuck in non action again. It won’t be a big deal unless he makes it a big deal, and then there will be full-on tension.

“Can he come get you?” Sam asks, nonplussed.

“He works for a travel blog, actually,” Bucky says, hoping he isn’t disgracing Steve by talking about him and his work. “They’re in this old newspaper office. It’s kind of a cool place.”

“Sounds neat. Old places are nice. Unless they’re here,” Sam says with a laugh. “I’ll probably be old and grey before they give this place a facelift.”

“Oh, I agree.” Bucky laughs too, then averts his attention back to his phone.

“You still have more than twenty minutes of appointment time,” Sam says. “And I have a break before I’ll be needed here again. You sure you couldn’t use a lift? I don’t want you getting tripped up over a sidewalk crack and fall into a mirror or anything. Step in front of a black cat, probably get all hissed and scratched at.”

“I’ve been thinking of getting a cat,”Bucky says, somewhat seriously. Then, “It really won’t be a bother? I’d hate to give you and your car any of my bad luck.”

“Seriously,” Sam assures. “I’ve got to go do a weather check. Take out the trash, all that stuff.” He’s already bending to remove the trash bag from the bin. As he speaks.

“Oh, I can—“ Bucky starts.

“No, I’m good.” Sam twists the top of the bag and ties it off. The bag is a frosted clear color, so its contents are not immediately apparent. It has a liquid sag visually, though. Bucky feels an edge of sick guilt, so he engages in putting his phone into his pocket. It bunches up on top of his hearing aids, but he’s determined not to be caught picking at his ass and losing his last shred of dignity.

Bucky and Sam exit the private PT room side by side. “Here, we’ll go out the back door,” Sam says, pointing.

“You bringing back Starbucks?” Clint, still at his computer, raises his eyebrows.

“No,” Sam says blankly.

“Where you going, then?”

“Going to take out the trash and take this brother for a drive.” Everything Sam says is plain and glib, and his tone could’nt be mistaken for anything but the honest truth.

“Can you take my trash out?” Clint points to the bin behind the desk, which is overflowing with wadded balls of paper.

“No,” Sam tells him again.

“Come on.”

“I’m not catching the blame for putting sensitive material in the dumpster.”

“It’s not sensitive. It’s trash,” Clint tries to explain.

“I don’t make the rules.” Sam waves him off. “Check your calendar, though, I think you’re scheduled to have a bad day.”

“What?” Clint shoves a pile of folders to the side so he can scrutinize the desk blotter. He squints and looks closer, and the top folder slides onto the floor, absenting itself of all the paper within. “Fuck. Really?” Clint gives the mess a dirty look. “You really should pick me up a Starbucks.”

“It’s probably raining and the drive through’s closed.” Bucky laughs as Sam blatantly bull shits.

“Huh?” Clint seems to know he’s been insulted, but can’t see exactly where. “You haven’t done a weather check.”

“I’ll text you,” Sam offers. He turns the knob of the exit door and ushers Bucky to follow. “There’s an emoji for that, right? Happy cat for sun and crying cat for rain?”

“Yeah, text me.” Clint gives Sam a final unsure glance before returning to his calendar.”

“Roger,” Sam says as he steps out the door. As soon as Bucky is out as well, he says, “The dumpster’s just behind this wall, and my car is there.” He points to a shiny red BMW. A fine layer of miniature raindrops coat the hood and windshield. The air itself feels cold, yet muggy. Bucky feels slightly choked, and he’s glad he’s already emptied his stomach. With the weather and the remaining headache, it’d just be his luck to ruin some new friend’s upholstery.

Sam clicks the remote to unlock his car. Bucky doesn’t hear the beep, but the solid click of the two front doors alerts do the job to alert him that it’s time to open the passenger door. There are indeed leather seats. And it still smells like new car.

“One second.” Sam picks up his pace and disappears behind the edge of a grey and weather stained wall. There’s a moment of silence, but them Bucky hears Sam’s voice again, shouting, “Oh, shit, man, you’ve got to come see this.”

Bucky shuts the car door, wondering if he should be concerned. He follows Sam’s route around the wall, then laughs at what he sees. Two green dumpsters sit side by side, accumulated rain dripping down to the pavement. Sam must’ve already thrown the trash, and he’s pointing at an old wooden ladder leaned against the face of the far dumpster. Its bottom step is busted, missing a good amount of wood between the jagged ends.

“I’m not touching that,” Sam cackles.

“I can see why they left it,” Bucky offers, pushing down his own mirth. “You’d have to hold it over your head to toss it.”

“Yeah, I’ll be leaving that right there.” Sam walks toward Bucky, and they return to his parking space. “I’ll make Clint take his trash out later. I wonder, is there a ladder emoji?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky opens the front passenger door again. “But which cat are you going to use for cloudy as fuck?”

“I don’t know that either.” Sam slams his door and puts his key into the ignition. “Maybe somewhere there’s a black cat? Past the smiley faces and in the animal section?”

“That makes good sense.” Bucky takes his phone from his pocket again. He recalls his aids being in the pocket as well, and he takes the opportunity to get ahold of them before he winds up throwing them into the washing machine. The car is quiet, so Bucky cautiously turns them on and snugs the earmolds into his ears.

“Testing the waters again?” Sam asks, glancing Bucky’s way.

“Yeah.” Bucky ruminates on the sound of his own voice for a second. “No harsh lights. And your engine runs really quiet.”

“I really hope they run better for you.” Sam comes to a smooth stop and turns out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, I hear a difference already. Bucky catches his phone as it’s about to slide off his knee. “I would look up an emoji for you,” he offers, “But I don’t want to risk any consequences.”

“I trust your judgement.” Sam laughs and slowly brings the car up to speed.

“I—“ Bucky goes to say something else, but his breath catches in his throat. There’s something in the road several feet in front of them. It looks to be moving across the lane. “There’s a—“ Bucky hopes it’s not a cat.

“It’s a plastic bag,” Sam assures him. The object moves again and turns in a 180 as it enters the next lane. The huge, red Target logo stands out boldly on the other side.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, relieved. “Those damn sneaky plastic bags…”

They stop at a light, and Sam says, “Just tell me where to turn.”

Bucky realizes he hasn’t given him a hit of a direction. He supposes he’d thought Sam already knew, with the ease of their bond and all.

“It’s up a little ways. On Sandersville.” Bucky pronounces the street name a little awkwardly. He finds it displeasing, since it doesn’t lead to a village or a sand pit.

“Oh, yeah, I know what’s around there. I’ve had a few buddies who’ve lived in the buildings.” Sam nods. “I’ll get you home nice and safe. And, here—“ Sam pops the center console and pulls out a business card. “It’s probably too formal, but it’s got my number. The work line and my cell.” He points out the bottom line as he hands the card to Bucky.

“Thanks,” Bucky replies. “I’ll text you when I’m all settled? Then you’ll have my number, too.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Sam offers him a smile. “Call me if you get on the wrong side of any more plastic bags.”

“Steve works till six, so I guess I do have a lot of bad day left.” Bucky recalls his former plan to get toasted and lie on the couch. It still appeals, but maybe he’ll do something a little productive first. He’ll download a user guide for his hearing aids. Maybe see what the cable channels play Jack Hanna during the daytime. And he’ll call for his car, when he’s up for it.

“You take it easy, now.” Sam looks at him again. “It’s good to get to know you, James.”

“I, um. I go by Bucky,” Bucky says, embarrassed. It’s a perfectly natural thing to tell a new friend, he reminds himself. Sam hasn’t had a reason to call him by his name yet, anyway. “It’s short for my middle name,” he says, hoping it’s a good enough explanation.

“Well, good to know you then, Bucky,” Sam replies without missing a beat. “Let me know when you’re all good. What do you think, the grinning cat with its eyes closed? To sound the all-clear?”

“Perfect.” It may be the worst possible day, but now that Bucky’s sealed the deal with a new friend and a secret handshake. “I’ll have to explain the cat thing to Steve, though. I don’t want him getting jealous or anything. I don’t think he’s a great fan of cats.”

“No worries,” Sam says. “Maybe you can introduce us later. Something casual, you know. Like at Starbucks. I do like coffee, and we don’t have to talk about cats.”

“We like our coffee, too,” Bucky laughs. “It would be fun to meet up later. On a nicer, luckier day.”

“Sure.” Sam reaches the light for Sandersville. “That is such an odd name for a street, especially for one all full of vets’ houses. Did they call it Sand Ville when you were over there?”

“Yup,” Bucky says. “My thoughts exactly.”

Sam brings the car to a halt when they reach the edge of the first building. “This you?” He asks.

“Yeah, right there.” Bucky points to his front door. He undoes his seatbelt and tells Sam, “Bye.”

“Yeah, text me.” Sam waves as Bucky steps out onto the curb. “I still have my med kit and my EMT license, if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

“Back at you, man.” Sam waves again and does a U-turn in the street and heads off it the other direction.

It’s still cold and wet, but the rain seems to have stopped, at least long enough for Bucky to get back to his apartment. He stops dead at his front stoop, though. His keys are back in the car. At the VA.

“God fucking dammit.” He’ll call Steve. The upturn of the day has collapsed in on itself. He listens to the low sound of the wind for a moment. Everything sounds more balanced now. The hospital must just produce its own woeful environment. Bucky tries to reign his breath and focus on the principles of his DBT. He feels the weight of his phone in his hand. It’s hard and smooth, until he passes his thumb over the edge of the business card, which is a slightly different quality of hard and smooth. Bucky decides he can buy himself a few more minutes to think while he sends a text. He awakens his phone and dials Sam’s cell number into the top of a new message.

Hi, it’s Bucky, he types. No emojis. He presses send.

Barely a second later, the same number sends him a reply. Hi Bucky. Another second, and there’s a third message.

Are you locked out? Occurred to me when I got back to the corner.

Bucky feels his face flush with embarrassment. He backspaces through a few quivers typos before he manages to send back his undignified yes.

Bucky still has his eyes on his screen as it populates with another text.

Turning around.

Thank you.

Bucky’s day has reached uncertainty yet again. He feels like he has better odds now, though. If nothing else, he’ll live it out with his friend.

[sunnyuto]

I spent basically the last year of my life experiencing the realities of elder care firsthand. My grandmother was diagnosed with ampullary cancer in January of 2023 and passed away in November. If it weren't for my dad and his brother being involved, I'm almost certain she would have passed away in February from kidney failure and we wouldn't have even found the cancer. Her husband passed away in 2007 and she lived alone in a condo with her two cats and hardly ever went anywhere, so if the two of them hadn't been going over there regularly, lord only knows how long it would have taken someone to notice that she wasn't okay.

But beyond that, as caregivers, elder care is brutal. Grammy went from vaguely unwell and deciding not to treat her cancer to in acute kidney failure in a matter of weeks. She left her condo in February to go to the hospital and never went back - she spent three weeks in the hospital then a month in rehab before moving to assisted living where she stayed until she passed. She was in the assisted living facility for six months with an absolutely fantastic team of nurses and CNAs and signed onto hospice care in October. Even still, my parents were making almost daily trips to see her, especially as things grew nearer to the end. They were responsible for her appointments, her medications, monitoring her general health, and basically everything in between. The facility staff were also helping with these things, but my parents were doing the lion's share of the work. Once she signed onto hospice, they had a hospice nurse visiting three times a week, nurses at the facility took over her medications as they started to include controlled substances, and CNAs were helping to position her, feed her, and keep her clean as she became bedbound and oxygen dependent.

Even with all of this assistance, my father's flexibility in owning his own business, and my mom's experience as a former hospice nurse herself, my parents were so burnt out by the time it was all over. We all were, but the impact this level of caretaking had on my father was indescribable. He has been putting off a hip replacement for a year now because, in his words, he couldn't afford to be laid up while Grammy was sick. While I had come to terms with my grandmother's death long before it happened, I spent the last month of her life increasingly worried for my father's health as he just continued to plow through this with no breaks because he had no other choice*. And I wasn't wrong to be worried. Two weeks after Grammy passed, Dad ended up in the hospital with diverticulitis and a perforated bowel, which means he now has to push the hip replacement off even longer while he fixes that first.

*You may be wondering at this point where his brother was. Welcome to the club. They had not been on speaking terms since April until he finally reappeared when she went onto hospice. They are once again not on speaking terms now that the will has been executed. They were not on speaking terms after their father passed either.

Not only does a lack of comprehensive, socialized, community-based elder care leave childfree people in a lurch when they reach the point of needing that care, it also creates this absolutely devastating situation for children who do become caretakers of their elderly parents where they have to do the work of multiple trained professionals with zero compensation or reprieve on top of their regular day to day adult responsibilities. No matter how much you love your parents, it's absolute hell and I wouldn't wish what my dad went through last year on anyone.

Elder care is not just an elderly issue, it's not just a childfree issue, it's an everyone issue. Everyone will at some point become a caretaker or become old enough to need one, and at that point it will be too late to start caring.

It feels taboo as a childfree person to admit this but I actually do have concerns about who is going to take care of me when I'm old. The elder care system in our nation relies A LOT on the unpaid care labor of adult children. I just don't think that's a good reason to have kids.

"But you'll have more money!" does not completely put this to rest for me. Neither does "Buy care insurance!" Even if I can afford direct personal care, who is going to advocate for me to get it? Who is going to navigate bureaucracy for me when I'm 80?

"If you do have kids, there's no GUARANTEE that they'll take care of you when your old!" That's true, but doesn't solve my problem.

I think childfree people get very defensive about this question because its used as a kind of "gotcha!" against us, but I actually do not feel we can afford to be in denial about this reality. Based on current trends of more people in their 30s stating they intend to be permanently childfree, we are going to see a huge wave of childfree adults hitting the eldercare system at once in a few decades. Childfree people in their 30s should be advocating around eldercare NOW.

[adrianasunderworld]

Papa Crewel headcanons. A continuation of sorts, to this.

Crewel likes to joke that Yuu stole his dogs. They immediately took a liking to the Prefect and constantly wanting their attention. Probably because Yuu wasted no time in showering them with affection and feeding them their table scraps and extra treats when they think he’s not looking. 

Crewel doesn’t really have a lot in way of chores for his new ward. He has a housekeeper, so there isn't much point in making Yuu clean beyond their own messes. But since the dogs love them oh so much, they can fill their food bowls and take them on walks. So far they are very diligent in these tasks.

Grim has taken to curling up at Crewels feet or on his lap when they're watching tv or doing work. He’s never been much of a cat person, but he supposed he’d make an exception for the little monster.

After a few weeks, Crewel takes Yuu on a day trip to visit their friends. Yuu spends the whole day running around with Ace and Deuce. And then another weekend to see Trey, Riddle, and Cater. Their hometowns are not that far, so they even come and visit Yuu whenever they can. They joked about how weird it felt to be in their teachers house at first.

They take a trip to visit Sam in Port o'Bliss. There’s an annual festival over there, and Divus usually goes every year at Sams insistence. Yuu hit it off with Sams neighbor. A boy their age that works in a local restaurant and his very bubbly friend. They happily showed Yuu the town. Which is good, those boys were very responsible and would keep Yuu out of trouble. Which meant Divus and Sam could pregame for the parade without worry.

"Pup, why is there a bunch of teenage boys in my yard?" Crewel everytime Yuus friends pop over for a surprise visit. "You can go play, just remember I'm not taking in strays."

Yuu has never been more fashionable, one of the first things Crewel did when they came into his care was get them new clothes of good quality.

Crewel had a few summer school classes to teach, so Yuu would often tag along with him to campus. They would mostly see the ghost in Ramshackle, then use the mirror to see their friends that lived much farther away. Like Azul and the Tweels or Kalim and Jamil.

Crewel actually overheard the video chat conversation with Ace and Deuce. It felt like a confirmation of what he already knew. His fondness for Yuu had crossed over to a paternal feeling. Yuu was his pup and only wanted what was best for them. 

When school was about to come back into session, Crewel inforned Crowley that he would be taking over as Yuus caretaker. Anything like conferences or thing things requiring parental permission, etc, he would take over.

 Despite moving back into Ramshackle for the school year, Yuus room at the house was still mostly intact and ready for them. Them and Grim often go home with Crewel on weekends. They love seeing the dogs and Crewel will take them on outings like the movies or out to eat.

Is the parent that will stop by the starbucks or dunkin donut drive through on the way to work and often picks something up for Yuu along with his morning coffee. Yes all their friends are jealous over this simple thing. Crewel will call in the morning and ask what they want and whoever is with them will try to get something too, only to be shot down. “Mr. Trappola, for the last time I am not buying you Munchkins. Stop asking!” “But I’m craving the chocolate glaaaze!” T.T

If Yuu likes someone, trust they will mysteriously be paired with him on an alchemy project. 

Yuu and Grim hiding in his coat whenever they feel like. Especially if its cold. Sometimes they get to borrow it, and you’ll just see a black and white fluffball with legs wandering around.

[twisted-wonderland-shenanigans]

Hi, Faun! I return with more curiosity for your Deity AU

Can you tell us about the Shroud brothers? What are they deities of, do they mingle with people or keep to their sacred place/s, what kind of people they they help?

Again, I leave it free for you to expand and talk about them as much as you want!

Thank you 💗

[Ah, a question regarding one of this universe’s most mysterious and elusive of the pantheons. Quite the curious little mortal, aren’t you? An amusing quality…though I must advise caution, as some do not take kindly to such behavior. Do you still wish to know more…?

…very well, then. You have come this far. It is only fair that I indulge your curiosity. Hmm? Faun, you say? Ah, never you mind her. She is preoccupied with other matters for the time being and will rejoin us shortly. I am merely here to assist as her…shall we say, “muse”? Now then, let us begin.]

*~*~*~*~*~*

As the God of Death and the Afterlife, Idia is responsible for monitoring the life force of mortals and ensuring the continued cycle of rebirth. Were one to see his realm, you would see machines unlike anything ever seen—even amongst the other deities. It might come as a surprise, however, to learn that Idia is quite shy and anxious. Very rarely venturing outside his realm or even interacting with others, you might compare him to a skittish cat. Do not take offense, dear mortal, for this behavior extends to most of his fellow deities as it does your own kind. It simply takes him a while longer than others to get comfortable enough to speak, let alone approach of his own volition.

Idia prefers his sanctuary hidden deep in his realm, using scrying orbs to monitor the events of the outside worlds while working tirelessly to create all manner of machines to keep up with the number of souls that cross over. You could even say that many of the technological advances in the mortal realm were thanks to his divine intervention…though in truth, one of his prototypes had been lost during one of his rare visits, later to be found by a curious young mind who later became an inventor. Because of this, Idia has been praised as the Patron of Inventors, many a prayer calling upon him for inspiration. You might think it unwise to seek guidance from the God of Death…

Should he be asked, however, he might argue that everyone else is draining his life force rather than the other way around—an exaggeration I assure you. Perhaps this is why he prefers to use machines to monitor the Hall of Candles, as I recall him once saying, “Too many candles. Too many voices speaking and so many silenced all at once…”

Despite not being very “social” as some might say, he does have a soft spot in his heart for grieving mortals who’ve lost a loved one. He feels their pain as though it were his own, guiding them on the path of healing and gently coaxing them to continue living.

/

Of all the deities, it is Idia’s younger brother Ortho—God of Souls and Curiosity—who is by far the most peculiar of all. His appearance—although humanoid—seems to be more machine than flesh and blood, bearing a striking resemblance to an angel or a Valkyrie due to his armor. Over the centuries there have been many depictions of him with wings or flying across the night sky on a comet, but one thing that remains consistent is that he is always accompanied by orbs of light known as “souls”.

As caretaker and guardian of souls, he knows and remembers each one that passes through the Well of Souls and nurtures the new lights that come into existence. He’s particularly drawn to lost or broken lights, housing them in Limbo and tending to them until they’re strong enough to safely travel through the Well. For those who are in dire need he keeps them close, the light and warmth of his fire keeping them stable. In some cases, unfortunately, a soul may be beyond saving and will simply…cease to exist.

Compared to his older brother, Ortho is far more likely to venture out and explore the mortal realm. Ever curious of the constant flowing change of civilizations, he loves visiting “places of knowledge and learning” to gather more information to add to the Archives—I hear there are tomes of information that were once lost by mortals safely stored there thanks to his diligence. His presence is said to inspire curiosity in others, challenging them to think of new possibilities in the world around them.

Given his mostly mechanical nature, it is unclear if he was truly created by the Heavenly Ones…or if Idia himself had a hand in his creation. How curious…

/

[I am afraid that this is all I am able to share with you, little mortal. After all, where would the fun be if I revealed everything? Do not worry, there are plenty of paths and stories to tell, and I would be more than happy to share them, for I am so kind…]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

What the? Who the heck wrote all this?! I’m gone for a few days and come back to this? Wait…these are my notes, but there are some things here that I didn’t have before. Who…huh...muse?…well, I guess there’s someone helping me now. Even though I didn’t ask for it. Huh…hey wait a second! Jeez louise, very funny whoever did this, you left out some of the fun facts!

Hnnh…well, in any case at least I get to feel like I did something for this post. Here’s some of the little details that whoever this “muse” person is conveniently left out. I’m gonna do some digging on what just happened here, so you folks just sit tight and enjoy these little tid-bits!

Fun Facts:

Very rarely do circumstances occur where Idia will spare a mortal from a tragic fate. If you were to ask him why he spared one over the other, he would shrug and gesture to the still burning candle and say, “It wasn’t their time yet.” It’s unclear just how much control he truly has over the lives of mortals, but it is safe to say that he does what he can to aid mortals on their journey through life.

Through scrying orbs, Idia has developed a fascination with human entertainment—particularly those in the video game and anime franchise. Suffice to say he’s managed to create his own version of “internet” and gaming systems so he can play online games with unwitting mortals. Given that conventions, concerts, and competitions are the few reasons Idia leaves his realm, Ortho doesn’t particularly mind this as it means his older brother is “meeting new people”.

There’s no solid proof, but it’s quite possible that Idia is the main reason why cats are rumored to have “nine lives”.

To call upon his blessings, it was recently discovered that a pumpkin is required (though anything pumpkin related will do so long as there is a candle). The tradition started when someone carved a face into a pumpkin and lit a candle inside, the orange flame turning blue to signify his acceptance of the offering and his blessing. (It is also safe to say that he may have developed a taste for pumpkin spice).

Ortho loves mysteries and riddles, and each time he hears one he will catalogue all the new variations of the ones he’s heard or record the new ones so that he may share it with others.

[thecitythatdoesntsleep]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 14] [Chapter 16] [Story Masterlist]

(Tags/TCW: implied whump, blood, vaguely implied intimate relationship, implied depression/relapse in mental progression, referenced injury/physical trauma, psychological horror, vampire-centric horror, polyamorous relationship, whumpee turned caretaker, fantasy elements, plot building chapter)

There was unease, restlessness, in Mina’s bones for the rest of the night. No matter what she did, she couldn’t settle in her state of mind or her heart.

Not a bath, not reading a book, nothing would manage to take her mind off of the weight that had anchored there.

The thing she couldn’t get her thoughts off of the most was how much love, and adoration she felt coming through the planted vision.

Someone out there loved Lukas so strongly it made her stomach ache. She felt strings of jealousy, and anger; begging to pull her in directions that held no sense when this person wasn’t fighting. They were surrendering.

Willing to have someone, anyone, have Lukas if it saved him from Sang and the club. If it put him somewhere safe that he could ever start to heal.

That’s how much they loved him. Enough to give him up if it meant something better for him than the dreadfully grim life he lives now. It was remarkable, admirable, to see it and feel it but she couldn’t say she was anywhere near that perfect. When she felt so miserably distraught from the knowledge alone.

Someone else.

She wasn’t the only one. She never was, never will be.

It was well into the night when Mina got up from her attempts at sleeping and made up her mind to quench her desires. She needed to see him, touch him, and make sure he was okay. It was beyond rationalizing, far away from being able to shove it down or push it away. She needed him. She could feel it in every nerve, every tingle of her body.

She carried herself around her home, pocketed what she needed, and dressed for the chill in the air. This time of night, she could travel quickly and no one would pay mind or notice. After stepping into shoes and pulling a coat around her shoulders; she slunk out like a house cat.

Through the yards, onto the street and a single pause was taken before she made record time across the city. Down the streets, through the empty sidewalks. Deeper and deeper into the districts until the nightlife started to populate again. She got strange looks; prying eyes into what brought her here at four in the morning.

She creaked open the door to Grim’s and met eyes with the attendant as soon as she’d closed it. The woman wore a frown upon seeing her and something already didn’t feel right. Her stomach hit the floor and scraped along as she walked closer, the old vampire giving a slow shake of her head.

“I’m sorry honey, Lukas is out of work today, maybe the rest of the week.” She denoted and watched the younger vampiress cloud in further distress. She could feel it, the way her energy changed.

“What happened to him..? Is he okay?” She pushed out through tightening vocal cords. The longer she stayed, the more she felt dread mixing in the depth of her belly. Something was wrong and it blossomed as pain in her chest like she was having a heart attack; if she still had a beating heart, all the way down to her fingertips.

“He will be, he was still responsive to the blood we gave him so, it’ll just take some time. The client with him last only left a couple of hours ago, around 1 or 2." The woman could tell the information was bothering the other female as her face furrowed and limbs stiffened. She almost felt bad, Mina was one of the few that had shown her any kindness.

"Can I see him..?" Mina whispered, locking eyes with the older woman and pleading with her stare. Her eyes were glossy and thick with tears, lashes already dewy with how much she was holding herself back.

"I'm sorry hun, I don't think it's something you need to see, trust an old bat this time." When the younger woman broke down in a quiet sob, the wrinkly vampire stood slowly and circled the cut-out in the reception desk to come to her side. She rested a hand on her shoulder and gave it an idle rub of comfort.

"Hey.. Don't cry, why don't you write down your number for me and I'll call you now and then, alright? I'll let you know how he's doing, so it'll ease your mind a little bit." She didn't know why she'd extend such an offer but something about the female seemed so sincere, it was more than obvious she'd fallen in love with Lukas.

"Y-You'd do that for me..?" Mina asked in bewilderment, watching the old vampire pick up a notepad and a pen to hand to her.

"Well… Woman to woman… I can tell he's special to you. And I might be a jaded old bag of immortal bones but I still like to see love now and again. Even in this hellhole." As the younger vampiress scribbled down her numbers, her email, and every information she had to offer, she took the notepad back and set it back on its desk.

"Like I said honey, he responded to the vampire blood we gave him so now it's just gotta heal the damage that was done." She offered a small edge of a smile and Mina looked grimly still, she could already tell the question on her mind.

"How bad was it..?" She whispered in morbid curiosity but she ultimately needed to know what he'd be recovering from. What all someone had done if the woman would give her insight.

"To spare you the nastier details his face was bad off. A lot of broken bones, and a lot of damage to his neck and chest. But he's on a transfusion right now of donated blue blood and he's already back into normal vitals considering what stress his body is under." The woman knew she shouldn't have been telling her all of this, breaking policy, entertaining the idea but she couldn't help herself. Not when she seemed so desperate to know anything at all about the man in their keep.

"Oh my god…" A hand covered her mouth and she held back another sob, finally connecting the dots and realizing who owned the dread she was feeling.

It was Lukas.

Speaking, pulling, and clinging desperately to the cells of her power. The blood that they shared, the blood she'd given him that still lingered so perfectly in his system. It had yet to be washed away with how much he'd both taken and been given.

"I promise, I'll call you this afternoon and let you know how he's doing. It should only take about a day maybe two for him to regenerate with the pureblood he's being given." The woman assured and took a business card off of the clutter of her desk once more to give to the vampiress' shaking hands.

"Call and ask for Tilda if I don't get to you in time, if I'm not here tell ol'James that Ms. Matilda said to give ya my cell." She gave a gentle hand to pat Mina's back and she carefully turned her towards the door. "Go home and get some sleep, deary. Worrying about him isn't going to change what's already happened but I'll make sure you're the first to get to see him."

And just like that, cold air was drying the wet trails down her cheeks and she felt numb from her eyes, down. Her throat was dry, her stomach grumbled and ached, stilled heart spasmed with phantom cramps.

Her vision blurred, her eyes rolled and her head swam with buzzing tension. She'd made it down the steps before her legs gave out and she was left holding herself up on the ground. The cracked tiles under her palms swirled, mutated and she lifted her hand like she'd continue to crawl before crashing back down.

She choked and felt like something was suffocating her until dirt-covered fingers scraped across a boot print. Finally, her sight cleared, her head fell back on her shoulders and a vision fully painted itself behind her eyes.

A body came down the entry stairs, awkwardly carrying bulky items in their arms. They walked up to a dark green vehicle and popped the trunk open to clear their burdens, closing the door before glancing down at their wrist to tell the time. It took a moment for her sight to focus but she made out the numbers after a stent of focus.

2:18 AM.

They rounded the car and the vehicle shifted in color, a dark blue by the time they opened the passenger seat. They peeled off their shirt and looked at bloody smears all across their arms before putting on a fresh one they'd had in the back. They did the same with their pants and her sight drew in towards the bloodied clothing in the parking lot when they looked down at it.

All she could smell was blood, so strong, so overpowering she couldn't define the scent. It made her throat burn, eyes water, and turn into swirling pools of vivid acid. Bloodlust pulled at the edges of her mind and made her body give a single spasm.

She saw them walk to the driver's door and again, it had turned to a purple color as they opened it and got in to start the car. They glanced back and saw something that caught their attention, getting out of the vehicle once more to grab something they'd dropped on the sidewalk. Where she'd felt the wind knocked out of her deflated lungs.

When Mina came back to her senses, she gave a single, strained gasp and proceeded to cough until blood met the pavement. She sputtered as her nose dripped and she spit bloodied salvia past her lips.

She already knew, without a doubt, who had bragged about their color-shifting car. Who'd shown it to her, proudly fixed it into her mind and her brows fixed with rage as she blinked the building stress tears from her eyes.

Mina stared, squinted from her angle as she spotted the items of clothing she'd seen, carelessly disposed of in the parking lot. As soon as her groundings were back and she was able to stand, she wobbled her way over to them, smearing red across her face as she wiped at her nose with her sleeve.

Immediately, she could smell Lukas' blood. It was drenched, covering up almost every other scent besides him. She picked it up, brought it closer to search deeper within the fabric, and closed her eyes to focus her senses. Her confirmations were settled when her mind registered Sang's scent almost instantaneously.

Sang was the last one visiting Lukas and he was the one who maimed him so badly, he was once again, in limbo between life and death.

He'd gone too far again and this time, she wasn't going to just warn him.

"You have access to vampire registries, right?" Mina asked her donor, sitting across from her at the dinner table with her and Desmond both.

"I do but I can't access them for longer than 15 minutes at a time. Is this still about Lukas, Mina?" Andreia asked, stuffing a fork of spaghetti into her mouth and taking a drink of water to wash it down.

"You know it's about Lukas, but I need to know who gave you those documents and the only lead I have is 'Valen Zugravescu'." The vampiress took a sip of the blood in her glass and reached for the bottle of wine to pour a few teaspoons into it.

Desmond reached to snatch the bottle out of her hand before she poured too much in and Mina gave him an exasperated expression. "I know you're stressed out, Mina, but you don't need to pick up vices."

"I know dinner isn't the time for interventions but… I don't know if you should keep digging into this, Mina. It's already dangerous and it's getting more and more involved… I'm worried, WE'RE worried." Andreia started, glancing at the blonde male beside her and watching him trade gazes down the line to Mina.

"And I'm worried, Andi, if I don't do something, figure this mess out Lukas is going to get killed- I-"

"That's the life he's living, Mina, that's not your fault, it's not your problem to deal with!" Andreia huffed in frustration and Mina's brows pinched in emotion.

"So you expect me to just let him die?!" Mina bulked irrationally, the human woman slamming down her glass and giving an exasperated groan.

"That's not your choice to make, Mina! What don't you understand about that? You're walking into a building with ten, twenty humans being treated the same way, what the hell makes him so different?!" The woman shouted, pushing herself back from the table and watching her husband turn sight towards her as he held attention to both sides.

"Tell her, she's being crazy- She's going to get herself killed, Desmond, we both know it!" She roped and Desmond gave a prolonged sigh, barely opening his mouth before the vampiress sparked again.

"You don't understand, Andreia! Neither of you does!" Her hands slapped to the surface of the table in blatant frustration and Mina's eyes had long become glossy with tense frustration building. "You can either help me or I'll do it by myself!"

"Help you do what, Mina?! Charge head-on into danger and throw away what you've told me has been a hundred years of fucking hell for you?! I mean shit, I've only been here for what, a decade and I've seen what still happens to you when someone like Lukas attacks you?!"

The two women were locked in a stare and the man between them held little knowledge on what to say to diffuse the situation when they had both edges of the steering wheel. He saw both sides. His wife's concern and anger towards her recklessness and Mina's unexplainable pull from a bond that was centuries older than any of them.

"He couldn't help it! You haven't seen what they do to him- what Sang, does to him, Andreia!" Tears streaked down freckled cheeks and Desmond was quick to unfold his fresh napkin from under his silverware to offer her. "You haven't seen- how he looks at me- like he knows I understand what it feels like to have every ounce of empathy or compassion stripped out of you.."

"Why do you think I'm scared, Mina? Why do you think that I spend night after night on my knees before bed, praying to the gods that you're safe and sound." Andreia reasoned and her sight fell away with her tears, pallid hand coming to wipe them away once she'd dropped vision to the floor.

"Can the professional talk for a moment? I do have just.. a little experience and I don't think either of you is wrong in this case." Desmond spoke up and both women turned to look at him, as teary-eyed and bewildered as the other in their emotionally clashing uproars. He'd teasingly raised the ID badge from his button-down and let it slide back into place once he'd drawn attention to it.

Dr. Leonhardt, M.D.

"Mina, not only are we worried but we've both been watching you and your health. Pretend for a moment, we're just patient, and Dr and please just listen, alright?" He requested softly and the vampiress nodded, head hanging a bit lower as she did just as he asked and settled enough to merely listen.

"You don't look well, Mina. You've been skipping feedings, sleep, so much so the Director of the gallery has noticed. You've reclused, haven't been socializing like you were and all of these things are worrisome when it comes to how healthy you had been before meeting this man."

Every word shattered through her like an earthquake and it was as if she'd never seen it like she was facing the consequences of her actions all at once. The longer he spoke, the more she listened to Andreia sniffling back her tears as she let him try to reach her; the more her stomach curdled with remorse.

"We've watched you come a long way, Mina, even in the handful of years we've all known each other. Andi, especially, has watched you heal and get better. So you can imagine how scary it is to see that start to fall apart."

"It's not about Lukas, Mina… I've always told you to keep your heart open because we're not just meant to love one person, you and I…" Andreia finally spoke up, reaching a hand across the table for her and dripping with another set of tears across her smile when the vampiress took it.

"I don't want to lose you, because that heart is too big.." She sniffed and a larger hand covered both of theirs, two sets of water-logged gemstones glancing up at the man.

"We don't want to see anything hurt you or make you lose the progress you've fought so hard to keep," Desmond added, sliding another hand under the pair and giving them a squeeze between his. "We love you, Mina. I think at the root of it all, we just want you to remember that. So maybe you'll be a little more careful, fight a little harder, for our sake."

He raised both girls' hands to his lips and kissed the back of each one, glancing between the two as they'd managed to dry their tears and more often, looked at each other with fondness instead of tension.

"I'm sorry, Des, Andi… I'm sorry I've been so selfish lately.." Mina whispered, "I don't know what's driving me, I can't stop- he's all I can think about…" When Mina started more emotional release, the coupled looked at each other with pinches of concern and Desmond was the one that reached out to her.

He picked her up out of her chair and scooted his closer to Andreia so she could sit on both of their laps between them. She couldn't fight the sobs that overwhelmed her when two sets of arms wrapped tightly around her and a hand pulled her head to a warm shoulder.

"Shh, you're far too depleted of everything, to be able to keep going like this, Mina-rina.." Andreia mumbled, pressing a warm kiss to the temple closest to her. She peered over at the male beside her and gave way her thoughts in a glance.

"Let's get you fed, Mina and once your stomach is full, we'll all go to sleep together." Desmond suggested, his wife slowly uncurling from the vampiress so he could pick her up and carry her with them. Her legs easily wrapped around his waist and she buried her features into his shoulder as he adjusted his grip on her; starting up the stairs when Andi did.

It took a while but they followed through on their plans, the couple tending to the woman like she was their love-child. Andreia bathed with her to get ready for the night and Desmond offered himself to feed her, the three laying in bed like nesting dolls.

"She's out cold, poor thing must be exhausted to fall asleep drinking like that.." He whispered to the woman who rested comfortably against the vampiress' back, stroking fingers through wet strands.

"She's been pushing herself, I've seen the stress all over her face lately and there's nothing I can do to fix it.." Andreia mumbled, giving an idle kiss to an exposed shoulder that peeked through the fuzzy blankets.

Desmond reached for Andreia's chin and shifted just far enough to place a gentle kiss on her lips, then her nose and forehead; pausing to look her in the eyes.

"She isn't ours, Andi, we both know that. You're hers, I'm yours.. but she isn't ours to keep away from her true match, no matter how dangerously they're living." He cupped a pale cheek in his hand when she pushed further into it with a pinch of her features, the words building a ball in her throat that she couldn't swallow. Even if she knew he was right.

"But what if-" Andreia started and cut off with a silenced sob.

"She made it 400 years by herself, through everything life can throw at someone… She'll survive this, too and I can already tell, she'll be happier for it."

Brown eyes looked at him with a sadness that almost hurt him, how deeply it ran and how much it was given to someone else. How much Andreia cared for the female, how much she'd let him shamelessly care for her too.

He reached to find a warm hand and held it gently, tracing a soft thumb around the edge of her palm. "It'll all be okay, love."

"Should I help her..?" The woman whispered in question, nesting back to the edge of the vampiress' body and letting her fingers idly stroke against his.

"I think anything that gives her an advantage, we should try to do." Desmond encouraged his arm tilting under Mina's head to reach out and find Andreia's hair to twirl around his fingers.

"I'll look up the name when I go into the labs tomorrow… I just hope it'll be helpful and not just another thing to disturb her peace."

"At this point, not knowing is going to ruin her faster, I think."

-

We're about to get to the actual event I started in.. early December? November? Gosh, it's taken a while but the next chapter will be the grand reveal of Sang's project as well as another series of surprises and twists.

As always, thanks for your time and for allowing me to craft this tale for us.~ It's a pleasure.

Feel free to ask to be tagged or removed-

@wolfeyedwitch @thecyrulik @i-msonotcreative @whumpy-writings

Apologies if I've missed anyone or included someone that didn't ask. ; ;

[ms-demeanor]

For the record: Because of the feral cat situation in my neighborhood, I've been talking to both no-kill and the municipal shelters.

In order to get spays/neuters/vaccinations for cats and kittens through the local no-kill rescues, I would need to take responsibility for the colony as a caretaker and would be financially on the hook for treating cats and kittens that were too well to euthanize but which needed treatment beyond the bare minimum of neuter/vax. I can't do this. I can't afford to do this, these aren't my cats, this isn't my colony, this is a bunch of neglected animals that I can't afford to care for, that I don't feed, and that I primarily know as the sick cats who shit in my yard. I can't afford to give them medication for their ear mites and gut issues, and they're too feral for me to medicate anyway, but this is what would be expected of me if I was to get help from kitten rescues in this area.

The municipal shelter has a TNR program that costs zero dollars; I can choose to buy my own trap or put down a deposit for a trap from the shelter, and other than taxes that's what I pay for the services they offer. They are the ones who showed up to trap a feral kitten with a broken leg when I couldn't get over my neighbor's fence (they were on a vacation for a month and hadn't seen the kitten) to take it to the shelter. If I trap cats in my yard I take them to the shelter where the the cats are then spayed/neutered/vaccinated then released back into my neighborhood. If the cats are ill and too feral to be medicated reliably, they are humanely euthanized because it is cruel to let a cat with untreated worms or ear mites to be released to suffer through a short, miserable, life with parasites and the attendant infections. And if you've never dealt with ferals you likely don't understand how difficult it is to medicate and care for a feral cat. It's literally like trying to provide medical care for a wild raccoon or coyote, and is similarly dangerous for you and stressful for the animal.

Rescues and no-kill shelters don't take ferals. They don't treat ferals. They don't spay and neuter ferals unless they can find someone (you, the person dealing with a colony) to take financial responsibility. When I started talking to local rescues I was despondent about the feral cats in my neighborhood because their approach meant that there was no possible way that I could get these cats vaccinated or treated; I couldn't even get them spayed or neutered without a massive commitment of time and money that I simply don't have.

The local municipal shelter, which isn't a "kill" shelter because all shelters in LA are no-kill (which I think is bad; I think it's bad that our shelters are overtaxed and required to go through extreme contortions to avoid being a 'kill' shelter when they already were going out of their way to avoid unnecessary euthanasia) lets me take steps to improve this situation. They accept ferals and vaccinate them. They give one-time medications to animals who can be treated that way. They spay and neuter so that hopefully this large colony of neglected animals will dwindle and cease to suffer and cease to be a health risk and attractive nuisance in the neighborhood.

Anyway. "Kill" shelters are great, euthanasia for animals who can't be placed in homes or given a good life is a thousand times better than simply allowing animals to suffer untreated, and for the love of fuck please spay and neuter your pets because reducing the number of unwanted animals is an enormous step in improving this situation.

I think this is super important to remember.

[hufflesocks]

Ok so I am a huge fan of the head cannon that the cores were once human so basically I’m just going to give my head cannon for what happened prior to GLaDOS taking over the facility and the events of Portal and Portal 2. And since I have been holding these head cannons in for too long, so I’m just going to info dump:

Due to the importance of Cave Johnson’s project of putting one’s consciousness into a computer, I would assume that those working on the project would want to run tests prior to the real thing. And what’s better than testing on the real thing: other people. For the very first test, the scientists working on the project decided to have the subject be one of Aperture’s many maintenance workers. This was due to that fact that if the test was successful then they could continue to use the core for maintenance work, and a robot doesn’t need breaks nor do they get sick. The candidate they chose was an immigrant from Norway named Virgil Evensen. He had no remaining close relatives and outside of a friendly old lady that he would cat sit for no one who would miss him. They put a lot of effort into the exterior of the core’s shell even going so far as to giving it floral designs that matched the tattoos of the subject they were using. The scientists wanted to make a very good first impression, and they did. The first transfer of human consciousness into a robot was a success. Though they learned the hard way that in order to avoid any existential crisis the memory of said person had to be completely whipped. Using this information they began to perform many other similar tests, with many other employees to create the personality cores.

Two particular Scientists who were involved in the project were Craig Nelson and Richard “Rick” Owens. Craig was originally on the project dealing primarily with with the science of actually transferring over human consciousness, while Rick was later partnered with him to help with the robotics aspect. Their relationship as co-workers was strained at first, but soon evolved into one of reluctant tolerance. Craig had a tendency to be a bit stuck up and arrogant, while Rick was more well adventurous and a bit of a braggart(think of him as a flirtatious cowboy). Rick developed the the type of attitude towards Craig that’s like “it’s not ok for anybody to pick on this person, but me.”

Rick grew up on a ranch in Montana with his older brother Connor. Connor went to school for Aeronautics, and eventually found himself under the employment of an up and coming science institute: Aperture Science. Rick followed in his brother’s footsteps getting a job at the same facility but in the field robotics. Rick enjoyed living and working in close proximity to his brother as he had a falling out with his father soon before he got the job. Eventually his brother got married and had a kid, named Kevin. One day, however only a few months after Kevin’s birth, his wife left in the middle of the night without a trace. So Kevin grew up with his father and his “cool uncle Rick.” Often Kevin would stay with Rick while his father was on space missions. This prompted him to develop an extreme love for anything and everything space. But one typical two week visit with his uncle became a permanent one. Rick had no idea what to do when he found out that his brother went missing in space. He was torn between grieving and figuring out a how to take care of Kevin. He was supposed to be “Cool uncle Rick.” The guy his nephew would hangout with, while his father was busy, not the kids primary caretaker. And the hardest part was figuring out a way to tell the kid his father wasn’t coming home. In the end he tried to explain that his father was now in space living amongst the stars. He hoped the kid understood the metaphor. But instead it just turned Kevin’s interest in space into an infatuation with going to space. Regardless, Rick managed to make the new situation work. Though taking care of Kevin by himself often ment bringing Kevin to Aperture’s daycare center when he couldn’t find a baby sitter.

Around this time employees began to seemingly disappear out of thin air. Due to the fact that Rick was on the lower end of Aperture’s personality core project he never knew the real reason. He just provided the blueprints for the cores and checked them over when they were done. He never picked up on the fact that their personalities seemed a bit too human. One day about several years after his brother’s death and only a few days after the CEO of Aperture’s, someone very important stopped showing up to work. Caroline was one of the few people at that facility who actually listened to what he had to say and didn’t just brush him off. Plus he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t developed a small crush on her. First Rick asked Craig if he knew anything, to which he received a curt “no.” Figuring Craig was just being himself, Rick began asking around with the higher ups. All of whom seemed to side step the question, say that she must have quit, or claimed they were too busy with Aperture’s new, biggest project GLaDOS. Eventually Rick was forced to drop it.

Craig was more involved in the higher ups of the personality core and GLaDOS projects. Thus, meaning that he knew the scientists were getting more desperate in using cores to control GLaDOS as well as which employees were up next for the trials. Apparently asking around about the disappearance of a higher up at Aperture was a sensitive subject. So when Craig heard who the project’s next test subject was, he immediately went to warn him. If anyone asked, Craig hated his coworker Rick, but in reality the two had formed a begrudging friendship. Plus the fact that Rick had a nephew to care for, didn’t make the decision to use him as a test subject sit well with Craig. Craig tried to warn Rick as best he could, without divulging the warning’s motive. But saying that Rick should quit immediately for no reason and leave Aperture pissed Rick off for some reason.

The next day when Rick went to work, Craig wasn’t at his desk, and Craig was always at his desk. This made Rick extremely worried. No matter how mad he was after their recent exchange; the guy never missed work, not even for sick days. This time he was more forceful in his questioning, demanding to know the reason for his friend’s disappearance. But the only answers he received were shrugs and suggestions that he get back to work.

By this point he was fully aware something real bad was going on, and was really reluctant to bring Kevin in with him the next day. But he couldn’t find a babysitter and he couldn’t leave the kid alone. After dropping off Kevin at the daycare center, he went to his desk. As he looked up from putting his “adventure” hat in the lower drawer of his desk, he saw two men in lab coats standing beside him. One addressed him by name and asked him to follow them for a scheduled testing session(something that employees were often asked to do every so often). However, Rick had a bad feeling about it and was reluctant to go. The two Scientists tried to restrain him, but he managed to fight them off. Once free his next thought was to find his nephew and get out. But before he could take another step a needle was injected into his neck and everything went dark.

The Scientists knew they had been too careless, when a daycare employee approached them. It was the end of the day and the employee asked when one of the young boys’ uncle would be arriving to pick him up. They were desperate. The GLaDOS project was failing and they needed to cover up any loose ends that could possibly lead to the beyond unethical actions of the project being released to the public. So they followed the daycare employee to the center and found the boy sitting at a table playing with a rocket ship. Recognizing the lab coat attire as one that his uncle often wore Kevin asked where his uncle was. In response the scientists offered to take the boy to his uncle.

The last three cores were hastily made. They were full of bugs and sported the personalities of Fact, Adventure, and Space(if one could even call those personalities). It was no surprise that they didn’t work when GLaDOS was booted up. The scientists were running out of ideas, and began to think the project a failure. Until one of the younger scientist by the name of Dr. Doug Rattmann offendedly and sarcastically mentioned using artificial intelligence based personality cores instead. Much to his dismay the scientists took his idea. They had enough data collected from the numerous personality core tests, that they could easily develop an AI software. Perhaps using AI would be better for managing a Human based robot, rather than other human based robots. The first test was run using a core with a focus on curiosity. GLaDOS lasted a whole quarter of a second before trying to kill the scientists. The test was a success and it looked like with just a few more cores, the scientists could get the machine under control.

[darnell-blog-stcg]

Additional evidence for FMP 3

(This illustration was also completed when I intended to create an entire chapter)

As a brief explanation, The caretaker is supposed to be waking from a dream/nightmare in a cold sweat, the room is illuminated on the left side by what was intended to be a lightning strike. Above her head is a thought/dream bubble like object who funnels dream sand (like the sandman) onto her forehead which is responsible for the nightmare. The stream of sand however is now disrupted due to the caretaker waking up causing the dream to end. 

Illustrations depicting the Sandman (A folklore character who provides good dreams for those who he sprinkles his magic sand on) and his bag of dream sand.

Extra details

. I chose to depict the child funnelling sand onto he woman’s head as an obvious homage to the sand man, with the main difference being that they are causing a nightmare and not a pleasant dream. This choice was made to further the story’s connection with dreams and ethereal concepts but to also consistently characterize the child as both cruel and playful but not entirely malicious. 

. Around the child’s fingers are strings composed on the same sand in the “cradle” position in the game Cat’s Cradle. I chose to depict this as I originally wanted to have strings emerge from the child's fingers to represent how the caretaker would soon be ensnared and entangled in a role that she severely underestimated the difficulty of, but I couldn't draw it without it looking silly. So I decided to look for a way to have them entwined around the child’s fingers (drawing from imagery of a tricky/controlling spider or puppet master) and settled on Cat’s cradle for a couple of reasons

1. Cats Cradle is a game and an especially old one at that, It would be very recognisable to a viewer [provided I depicted it well enough] and would continue to present the child as immature and maybe provide clues to how long the child had actually been around. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cat%27s_cradle)

2. The “Cradle” position is the very first position of cats cradle and generally must be achieved before moving on to any other positions. by choosing the position over the others I could symbolise a new beginning for both characters but also that the caretaker lady would have to meet the child on their terms to make any progress (to continue to new Cradle tricks she would have to embrace the opening position- unconditional love)

Cat’s Cradle opening position

3. I always just thought the term Cat’s Cradle sounded creepy and had some sort of paranormal association, upon research however, this isn't true in the slightest and I guess then I just my own personal touch.

The flowers the Woman is holding are a budding daffodil and a wilting lavender. These were chosen simply based on their symbolic meaning in the language of flowers. Daffodils often represent hope and new beginnings due to their ability to weather winter and arise in spring. By having the plant be dug up before maturing fully, the newly budding daffodil now symbolises wavering hope or the improbability of success- as I wanted it to be somewhat ambiguous just how beyond redemption the child was, when writing the story. Lavenders are connected with both intelligence/wisdom and spirituality. They also have feminine connotations. the symbol I was going for by having her hold a partially wilting lavender was the degradation of her sanity in acting as a parent to a child truly beyond worldly comprehension. The Daffodil isn't quite fully ready to bloom and the lavender is no longer in its prime - Hope isn't assured and neither is sanity. By having both flower not truly be as developed as they should, the idea that there is potential for success but that it is mostly up to chance is created

Also the child’s fingernail’s are painted red and purple mostly because I thought they matched the childish sleepy, bedtime aesthetic I was going for but also to amply androgyny. While the child is not genderless, they are otherworldly So I thought that it would make sense for them to to not strictly follow gender norms, also from an anatomical perspective, the younger a person is, the harder it is to tell their sex facially as the defining facial characteristics developed during and after puberty are less pronounced or not even present at all (Larger more defined brow ridge in men, sloping forehead, more separation of nasal and mouth regions- generally the opposite in women).

Watercolour

This Illustration was done digitally however I used a watercolour paper texture and brush to complete it in an attempt to give it an interesting and authentic feel

A couple of months prior to my project proposal, I experimented with Analog Materials such as Watercolours, markers and pencils in the hopes that I could have my Fmp be done traditionally due to feeling kind of like a fraud For using digital media and seemingly not having to work as hard as others who made art the traditional way, Nowadays I couldn't care less but it definitely heavily influenced the early conception and production process. Here are some examples of my attempts at practicing watercolour techniques and mark making for the first time

Feeling somewhat confident, I then thought I was ready to start painting people so I experimented with skin tones 

Turns out I was Garbage

Ever since that day I've made a solemn vow to stick to what I'm good at

Jokes aside I obviously did take away some analogue influence from this which is evident in my use of the water colour brush and texture in the first image.

These simply landscape ish paintings came out rather nicely though so that's a plus, the use of blues and sunset colours link back to the nocturnal aesthetic i intended to create going forth soo that's consistent at least

Evaluation

In terms of difficulties with this first illustration, the major problem would be the lighting. As stated previously I was trying to depict the room being illuminated by a nearby lightning strike in typical horror movie fashion. At the time I couldn't find an reference at all online, books were no help and I didn't have time to watch movies frame by frame in the hopes they contained the horror trope. try as I might, something so obvious simply wasn't available

(turns out all I had had to do was look up tumblr gifs)

So for the illustration I had to use my very limited colour theory knowledge to get around the lack of reference. I darkened the right side of the scene and lightened the left. I then pulled the colours on the left side of the scene towards a light blue (lightning flash) and desaturated them. I did a similar operation on the right side but instead I darkened the scene, desaturated the colours and omitted some detail.

The lighting still didn't look convincing though, so I added curtains to imply a nearby window that the lightning was shining through. In the end though this wasn't enough and I could only go so far without reference.

Improvements

If I could do this illustration again I would heavily exaggerate the lighting as consequent lightning studies showed me just how much detail is destroyed by the intense light and subsequent shadows of a lightning flash. I would also dramatize the woman’s facial expression more by adding larger beads of sweat and making her eyes larger. I would also employ the use of cross hatching to imply more depth in the scene and make more use of hard edges to counteract the sheer amount of soft ones I used. This would serve to make the image seem less flat and also imply more depth.

In conclusion

This Illustration is the one I put the most effort into and as a result, is the one with the most errors. I've learned a lot and hope to grow from this.

[thealwriteytrashdump]

Coincidence (a Jeff the killer short story)

The feeling of waking up in the middle of the night is a strange one. The heaviness in your limbs and in your soul. It seems like time has stopped and the world has gone still. Until you hear the faintest wail of a siren in the distance and suddenly the nightly sounds of your city arise. The sudden hum of the AC kicks in and every so often, a helicopter flies to the nearby hospital. Someone speeds by on a motorcycle, revving to their heart’s content as they drive. You looked at the clock, 3 am; not yet time for you to begin your morning but ultimately too late to go back to sleep. The old apartment building creaks with age, and you hear the faint jingle of your recently acquired kitten. She has decided to keep you company as you both lay in a comfortable pile in your sheets. Truth be told, you’ve adopted out of sheer loneliness, the empty silence of your small apartment has driven you slowly mad over the months.

Sure, you had friends and loved ones, but you’ve since isolated yourself in an attempt to be independent. Before you had moved out, you lived with your sister, and while the company was nice, she had bullied you into doing household chores on top of paying a fairly decent size of the rent. Your parents assumed she paid for everything herself and you were living scot-free but that wasn’t the case. Both you and your sister worked very hard to keep your respective lives afloat, she worked hard for her children and was rarely home, hoping you’d be there for her kids when they needed it.. You, however, worked full time as well as went to the local community college to build up credits. After a couple of years of constantly fighting and losing, you had enough and moved away to a different part of town, burning the closest bridge you had for support. Now living in a smaller rundown apartment, working several jobs, and trying to make it through the semester, you lived paycheck to paycheck; making ends meet but not by much. At first, you’ve felt free, you’ve been living like how you wanted to and no one could stop you. For several months, it was your dream come true, you did whatever you want when you wanted. However, slowly but surely, you felt the loneliness creep in; working hard no longer filled you with a sense of purpose, and college work drained you of your motivation. Living the bare minimum began to take its toll on your mental health and your sheer iron will, or perhaps stubbornness, began to tire out.

You hear the soft jingle again and feel the comforting hum of your kitten’s purr. The madness you experienced in the past months drove you to make a rash decision on your part to adopt a kitten from your brother and his spouse. As rash as it was, it was also a decision you’ve yet to regret. As this tiny grey tabby proved, just a small amount of company did wonders for your sanity. Your kitten took some time to adjust to you but has come to love you as her caretaker and companion, and you’ve come to love her as your baby and loved one. Her eyes were a bit bulgy and her head just a tad too small but she was a beautiful kitten with a feisty spirit. Her name was a bit strange, and your family didn’t hesitate to let you know, but she was yours and you had thought her name was perfect. Now that little kitten slept soundly near your inner thigh, purring loudly and kneading your left calf.

You laid very still, looking up at the ceiling and listening to the world around you. The silence simultaneously existed with the noise. The quiet hum of the AC, the excitement of the world beyond but also the barely audible sound of your breathing and your heartbeat. The soft noises of your kitten and the settling of the walls. Noisy and yet not so.

Eventually, the sharp call of your alarm tells you four am has rolled around, and it is time for you to begin the day. You get up slowly so as to not disturb your cat, stretching, and yawning. You walked through the bathroom to the kitchen to turn on the lights and to boil some water for coffee. As the water began to heat and the kettle slowly whistled to life, you decided to take a quick shower. Your first job starts in two hours, with plenty of time to get ready and have a quick bite of breakfast, however, you preferred to be early rather than late. As the sun starts to peek out, you brew yourself a cup of caffeine and gather your backpack. It’s time to set out for the day, you leave extra food out for your little babe, and make your way to the bus.

The day usually passed by uneventfully, the coffee shop you worked at opened at six in the morning and stayed busy until 11 am. You stayed until noon, then caught the metro to your classes. It was just a couple of hours before heading back home to your little kitten to check up and prepare for your second job. As you walked onto the large campus, fellow students came and went as you headed up towards your classes. You heard bits of chatter and gossip,

“Did you hear-”

“-vered with blood-”

“That’s party was si-”

“There were so-”

“-arely slept las-”

“So what-”

Unable to hear full conversations or even full sentences, you passed by absentmindedly. There was something going on about a string of break-ins and robberies, but you paid no mind to it. Of course, you always needed to be careful, even in the safer neighborhoods. Gunshots were always heard every now and then, and there were lots of police around but nothing really happened in your immediate vicinity so you didn’t feel the need to keep your guard up. Still, you were very careful to keep to yourself and to check for any suspicious behavior regarding your person. You head to your first class as the crowds thicken, walking up the stairs to the central courtyard. As you approached the large area, you see in the distance a rather tall building with very large windows. These classrooms were for the English and History classes with some other misc. classes and a fairly large library. Unfortunately, the building was across campus from the Metro station, and mostly out of the way. The large courtyard is filled with hundreds if not thousands of students, you opted to take a roundabout through the large parking garage, most likely full of cars and other modes of transportation. As you round the corner, you bump into someone moving fast and land heavily on the concrete. You yelped in surprise and almost immediately excused yourself. Instead of a response, you hear the sounds of skates or rather a skateboard and look up just in time to see the man, with a dingy white jacket, already on his way without a second thought. Picking yourself up, you huff in annoyance and begin rushing away, muttering obscenities under your breath.

Jogging away, you dusted yourself off and started gathering your homework to turn in as you entered the building, you spotted off in the distance, your professor speaking to some of your classmates. She was delightfully wonderful to students, especially the younger ones who just started college for the very first time. The older woman was tall and very beautiful, she had a powerful presence that intimidated most. She was not afraid to speak her mind, and she was very much sassy to both students and professors alike. Her class was still boring and most of the troubled students disliked her for a number of reasons. While she was kind to the students, she didn’t believe that excused them for slacking off or failing her class. She was open and willing to help those who were failing but there were no favorites in her class. Slipping into the classroom, you sit in an empty spot around the middle area where there were a couple of seats open. Everyone liked to sit up front or near the back, and usually, you’re able to snag a glorious three seats of space in the middle area. Today wasn’t that spacious, but you aren’t complaining as you are seated next to the large nearly spotless window that looked out onto the small park nearby. The very last of the class files in and you begin your first lesson of the day, taking out your notes and doodling little figures.

As the class began, your professor walked in and greeted the class. The first order of business was to remind the class that assignments were due tomorrow and if the paperwork wasn’t in her inbox by the end of the day, she was giving out failing grades and speaking to the offenders personally. You continued doodling little figures and half-listening for important information. Fortunately, you had finished your assignments for your classes a few days ago. You were currently working on assignments due in a week’s time. It was better to be ahead to buffer workload and make it easier for yourself in the long run. Luckily, most of your professors allow you to be proactive in your learning so long as you still took notes and listened to the lectures. It was a great opportunity for you to keep yourself and some of your professors sane for the most part.

Some other students groaned quietly, but you continued to sketch out a face in the corner of your notebook. Your professor finished her speech and turned to start the lesson for the day. An hour dragged by, and a yawn escaped your lips involuntarily. You stare out the window, bored, the trees sway silently as clouds pass overhead. You tap your pencil against your notebook, you have already written down notes and important timestamps and pages for your books. You were confident you would pass the open notes exam next week, and you’ve made it so you had a light schedule that day as well. The day was almost perfect, you thought about getting takeout and treating yourself to some video games. Your jobs had you take a day off so you could focus on your schoolwork, and you were grateful for it. You smiled to yourself and yawned again; it would be a nice time to catch up on sleep as well. Another hour passed by uneventfully, and as class ended, you half jogged to the professor’s desk to turn in some work and to ask for the homework for the week after next week. She squinted at you and sharply said, she only had a rough idea of what the week entailed but she was more than happy to email you some copies when she wrote out the assignments. You nodded and thanked her, wishing her a good day and heading out to the hallway.

The two other classes you have for that day go by slowly as you fight to keep your eyes open. After the last hour of history was over, the plan was to head home for your “second job,” as you call it to your parents. In truth, it was a glorified online data entry job you did for a friend who started a business a while back. It was steady tedious work, but as a friend, you were called into action. It was your first job and the only reason why you were able to move out and start college. The pay was good and your buddy gave you great “benefits” as they were. He just needed some paperwork and bookkeeping done for his clients. While it looked legitimate for tax purposes, he mostly dealt with some particulars who preferred to keep their business and their lives private. It was a decent job, and most of the time, you never dealt with the clients themselves thankfully. It was just simple work done in the safety and privacy of your apartment. As a lower-tier worker bee, you were relatively safe, however, you never really knew if it was ever a guarantee. You never minded, you hadn’t died yet, right?

As the day ended, you spent the five-hour shift working and listening to the news. A tiny cat jingled around at the speed of light; she’d nipped at your toes before speeding off to tackle a chew toy. Working until you hit a wall in terms of motivation, you get up to make some tea, watching some of the news that you played for background noise.

“-Tonight at 11; In other news, a horrific breaking and entering at McCorrick and Washing Dr tonight as security cameras catch the nightmare unfolding. Police say two adults: one male, and one female, were found with three stab wounds in the chest and fatal cuts on their faces and throats. They were pronounced dead on arrival. One survivor, a young girl, escaped with heavy injuries and extreme loss of blood. EMTs rushed her to the hospital where she remains in critical condition. The footage shows the brave girl jumping from her second-story balcony and making her way to the local gas station where the cameras were located. The suspect seems to be a man in his late 20s, wearing what seems to be a white jacket and a face mask; although later eyewitnesses account that he, himself, was brutally mutilated.

This seems to be another case in a string of homicides by who authorities call the Glasgow killer, named so because of what he does to his victims and what he has apparently done to himself. Although, there’s nothing connecting the murders in terms of age, gender, or race, and there is no apparent pattern to each home hit, the suspect does cut a Cheshire smile cut into each unfortunate victim. If spotted-”

The whistling of the kettle catches your attention and you finish making hot tea with milk and honey. You had a light supper of leftovers and now you were drinking some tea to wake up a bit, You still had a few hours left before you could clock out and get some sleep. Sipping and holding your mug close to your body, you sit back down and stare at your computer screen. You knew what the underbelly of your city was capable of, the things people were uncomfortable talking about. Your city wasn’t the safest nor was it the place to go start a long and prosperous life, but it was a city of opportunity for those willing to cross that line. It was a hellscape sanctuary in the desert where the old and the rich come to vacation for the winter, only to leave when the summer heat arrives to cook the denizens unfortunate to live here. Only people with nowhere else to go were desperate enough to live in this scorching concrete jungle. Your city, the city of hope and of ruined pasts, was also the city of new beginnings for the rotten. Rated one of the highest for crime and deaths by murder. The land of opportunity was often paved in blood and sacrifice. You were no different, you came here for the promise of a better life just like the rest of the people. You turn back to the tv where the news showed a picture of the survivor and what looked to be a professionally drawn picture of a zombie with an unnaturally large smile. His sunken eyes seemed to be too large for his thin face and his nose seemed to have rotted away. Eyewitnesses described him as a moderately tall man with a sturdy build, wearing a tattered dirty white hoodie. His drawn picture bored into your soul and you were grateful when they decided to go into more detail about the victim instead, as you stretched again and continued working.

A young woman in her late teens, not much younger than yourself but definitely still a minor by law. You watch as the newscaster shows a picture of her from her social media, happy and smiling in a sea of blurry faces. She was very pretty and had a nice smile. You take a sip of tea, ready to get back to work when the stoic newsman claims police say they have security footage from a store nearby the incident. Pausing once more when you hear the name of said store, you focus on the tv as it cuts to the grainy video. It showed the gas station lot but in the background, there seemed to be something else going on. You see the distant apartments’ second-story homes. A small figure jumped from one of the balconies onto a brick wall and frantically crawled over: the young survivor barely covered and clutching her shoulder, struggling to make it over the brick wall. She landed heavily but crawled to her feet and limps to the gas station. A larger figure, suspected to be the killer, emerges from the balcony and follows her albeit with more grace akin to a cat. He leaped onto the balcony railing and used the brick wall as a stepping stone. He landed running and looked to be ready to grab the poor girl, but she was fortunate enough to make it inside the gas station and out of his reach. He skidded to a stop, looking through the glass before making his way away from the building and into the darkness.

Something is knocked into the camera and it abruptly ends cutting back to the newsman explaining the poor girl’s fate. She was carted away to the nearby hospital but as she had lost a lot of blood, she was still unconscious. She had stab wounds on her right shoulder, right thigh, and both in her hands. She was beaten to near death with bruises on her throat and face. Her family wasn’t so fortunate, having similar stab wounds, but a fatal cut on their throats and mutilated faces. Whoever has done this likes to cut joker smiles into his victims, leaving them to bleed out to steal anything of value from the residents. The news cuts to another story but not before showing the professional drawing of the killer again and cautioning viewers to be safe.

You let out a shallow breath you didn’t know you were holding, your hands trembled slightly. Closing your eyes, you knew that this was the very same gas station you visited the night prior. You had recognized the hospital to be the very same hospital you lived near. According to the timestamps, this seemed to take place right before you woke up. You had heard the very ambulance that took her. Small world. You steadied your breath and continued working, feeling much more alone and vulnerable than ever. The jingle of tiny bells rings out and your little kitten runs into the bedroom, chasing invisible prey into the night.

[achromaticbibliophile]

You sure you don’t have a culinary degree, cause there’s a lot of cooking going on here~ This whole set up makes me think of Imagination Forest from the Kagero Project series:

The story of an unloved, unwanted Beast sneaking through the hidden passages of the castle, watching curiously at the people going about their lives. Do they know this is their family? And if so, how heartbreaking it is for them to only watch and never interact with them, forever alienated and believed to be dead. Even the king who ordered their un-personhood never interacting with them, happy to ignore them beyond the reports from the servants tasked with keeping the Beast out of sight.

Do they even have a name? Or are they ever called Beast or You that they adapt to Yuu so they feel a little less other?

Knowing that their two caretakers, who are kind enough and their only company, are only obligated by duty and even after years the Beast sees how the nurse (who they may have thought of as their mother only to be scolded out of it) flinch slightly if they appear too suddenly or more too fast.

Escaping to the outside world they’ve only glimpsed from cracks and hidden windows and books, taking shelter in a crumbling manor far from that lonely castle that they make into their home, with only the local wildlife and a cat as company. They learn to live in the loneliness and take comfort in the fact they no longer have to lurk in secret passages, that they can feel grass underfoot and walk freely in the hallways.

The terror and fear when they hear another’s footsteps and try to hide. But they’re too large, too out of practice from their days in the palace to effectively do so, and are caught, both shocked and uncertain of what to do now.

Perhaps it’s a lover of nature, stumbling across this supposed abandon place and deciding to search it for any fungi. Only to find a much more fascinating sight within: a Beast that flinches away and panics all the more as Jade walks further in, smiling and peppering them with questions they nervously answer (so lonely, aching for company that will talk back, they barely even think of danger). Agreeing to keep the Beast’s presence their little secret, so long as he’s allowed inside whenever he wishes, already planning to introduce his brother to his curious new friend. Said brother who takes one look at this massive Beast who keeps curling in on themselves and Floyd promptly dubs them “Shrimpy”.

Or maybe it’s a silver haired youth, one the Beast found sleeping against a tree one day and hastened to cover up with a blanket, returned with the freshly washed item to return to the manor’s resident. Silver doesn’t visit often as he wishes, still responsible and attentive to his duties, but enjoys the Beast’s quiet presence and takes care to knock when he arrives so they aren’t nervous by his sudden arrival.

Maybe it’s a second prince storming off away to the woods to avoid his family and meeting the Beast by chance, both finding someone to share the woes of being overlooked and neglected by royal family members, even if for different reasons. Willing the hours away as Leona teaches the Beast chess, scoffing at their beginner moves but only resetting the game after he steals their king yet again.

Just so many possibilities here~ especially love your idea of Rook being the Belle figure and listing all the charming things about the Beast, who cannot fathom why anyone would think they were beautiful.

Something, something, Beauty and the Beast AU. Except reader is the beast and one of the twst boys is the beauty.

Poor reader is a cursed noble. Maybe it's like the story of the jersey devil, where the poor thing is the 13th child of a king or queen, and they're born a monster. Rather then slaying the infant, the baby is hidden away. Raised away from their siblings and parents with only a nanny and a single maid sworn to secrecy(the world thinks the child died in birth and the King has claimed they will have no more children.) The nanny and maid are kind, but it's not the same. Sure, they know how to read, write, etc.... but it's such a lonely life. They sometimes sneak through the passages within the castle just to catch a glimpse of their family. How they wish just once they could be praised for their intelligence or their beauty like their siblings. They can only glimpse the world their family lives in from the shadows. Perhaps one day it becomes to much, the years of loneliness.

So they run away.

They find a dilapidated old manor. It must have been a beautiful place once. But time has done it no service. But they decide to make this their new home. The only company being the gargoyles who silently watch over, and the nearby songbirds. They even find an old housecat living there. Sure the cat is cranky, but at least he hangs around them.

Reader spends some years living in the old manor. Most people stay away due to the rumors the place is cursed or haunted. That's fine with them. That means nobody can see their grotesque form. They actually start feeling a little happy, because they have the entire manor and gardens to themselves. Nobody to tell them they're hideous or inhuman. They're free to move about how they please. They begin to find peace with their solitary existence.

Until one day he shows up.

Maybe it's the mysterious man who showed up one day wishing to explore the old place and study the gargoyles.

Or perhaps it's the strange hunter who they believe is a liar, they think perhaps he wishes to turn them into a trophy. Because nobody would ever praise a thing like them for being beautiful.

Or maybe it's the young man desperately trying to prove himself as a knight, who talks only of his mother and how much he wishes to bring pride to her and their family name.

Or perhaps it's someone else?

and maybe, just maybe, they can finally find an actual happily ever after.

Now who would you pick?