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springingsour · 14 days ago

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Nice Try... | BLINK One-Shot

The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden light over the vast expanse of the ocean, its gentle waves lapping rhythmically against the hull of a ship that sailed these treacherous but beautiful seas.

The air was filled with salt and adventure, mingling with the sweet fragrance of ripe fruits that rested in a nearby basket.

A well-worn hammock swaying softly with the breeze was on the deck of the ship, hung between two sturdy masts. Nestled within someone, peacefully asleep, a serene expression was seen upon the figure, inhaling the fresh sea air. The hammock gently rocked as the ship glided through the water, creating a soothing lull that harmonised with the distant cries of gulls overhead.

Around the deck, the soft creaking of wooden planks and the occasional rigging clang added to the sea's symphony. The sails billowed, catching the wind with a sound reminiscent of whispers, as the ship sailed steadily toward the horizon, where the sky met the deep blue sea.

Unbeknownst to the sleeping figure, two young boys, crept stealthily across the deck. Their eyes sparkled with mischief as they plotted to sneak up on the sleeping figure. They moved with care, hearts pounding with excitement, hoping to catch their target by surprise and steal away a moment of joy amidst the sprawling ocean.

Together, they giggled in hushed tones, clutching their gear—plump tomatoes and a bucket of water in hand—as they drew ever closer. The boys were ready to unleash their playful ambush, unaware that beneath the figures' tranquil exterior, a spark of cunning awaited its moment to shine.

Two hushed voices floated through the balmy air of the ship, barely audible above the creaking of the wooden deck.

"Shh…! You're going to get us caught…!" whispered one boy, his eyes darting nervously over his shoulder as he meticulously loaded the cloth catapult with a ripe, red tomato. He aimed with precision at a shadowy figure lounging on the deck a distance away, his heart racing with the thrill of mischief.

"I'm being careful; you're the loud one…!" retorted his companion, who was hoisting an old bucket, grinning from ear to ear. The sunlight glinted off the surface of the bucket, revealing an array of plump, juicy tomatoes waiting to be unleashed.

"Okay… 3…" the first boy murmured, his voice trembling with excitement.

"2…" the second boy echoed, his grin widening as they prepared for impact.

"1…!"

With a sudden burst of energy, the bucket was hurled, and the tomatoes soared through the air in a vibrant arc, splattering onto the unsuspecting figure below. The delighted laughter of the young boys erupted like fireworks as they turned on their heels and sprinted away, the thrill of the prank propelling them forward.

However, their glee was short-lived. The wind suddenly blew right past them, and they knew it was too late. In their haste, they collided with the slick, tomato-splattered deck, losing their footing. The next moment, they found themselves sliding unceremoniously across the wet surface, the crew's laughter echoing in a hilariously tangled chorus of surprise and delight.

"AH!" came the startled cry from one boy as he bumped into a pair of legs adorned with gleaming golden sandals.

"HEY!" protested the other, he cried out in pain, rubbing his face where a red spot started to bloom, his tone now mingled with bewilderment as they came to a halt at the feet of a bemused onlooker.

A chuckle rumbled from above as you leaned down, an amused twinkle in your eyes as you surveyed the mess of tomato-stained clothing and exuberant grins before you. The scent of fresh tomatoes hung in the air, mixing with the salty breeze of the sea.

“Good effort, boys… Good effort indeed…” you remarked, an amused grin tugging at your lips as you sank your teeth into the ripe, juicy tomato, the sweet-sour juice bursting against your taste buds. You couldn’t help but relish their antics—the chaotic energy radiating between them was nothing short of contagious. "I suspect this was Shanks' plan this round…?"

Shanks, the red-haired boy with a wild spirit, glanced up at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he adjusted the straw hat perched jauntily on his head, the worn fabric tilting slightly to one side.

“Guilty as charged…!” he proclaimed with mock seriousness, his laughter echoing like music in the air. The sound was infectious, tugging you into a fit of giggles, but it only prompted his companion to exhale dramatically, exasperation painted across his features.

“Geez, you’ve messed it up again, Shanks…” Buggy grumbled, rising to his feet with an exaggerated sigh. He attempted to brush the vibrant tomato stains from his clothes, each swish of his hand only adding to the disarray, the scattered remnants of their playful food fight now colouring his outfit like a poorly executed art piece.

“Oh, come on, Buggy!” Shanks said, his eyes dancing with delight, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in a grin that could light up the darkest of places. “It’s all in good fun! Besides, I thought you liked a bit of adventure!”

Buggy crossed his arms, his frown deepening into a comically exaggerated pout, but you could see the flicker of amusement that danced in his eyes, betraying his true feelings. “Adventure is fine, but next time, can we skip the food fight aspect?” he retorted, trying—and failing—to maintain his stern demeanour.

"Oi! It was your idea too…!" Shanks shot back playfully, laughter and annoyance bubbling between them as they both started to bicker, the light-hearted banter intensifying. They began gripping onto one another, wrestling playfully in a comedic display.

As the bickering escalated, you couldn't help but smirk at the unfolding scene. A sudden awareness of another presence made you turn your head slightly, spotting a certain someone less than pleased.

With a playful roll of your eyes, you decided to interject, desperate to steer the chaos in a new direction. “How about a challenge instead? Whoever gets caught by Rayleigh loses…” Your voice dripped with mischief, your proposal hanging in the air like an enticing promise of adventure.

The prospect of a challenge sparked an immediate flicker of confusion, quickly morphing into palpable fear in the two young pirate apprentices.

"Eh…?" Shanks uttered, a tone of disbelief colouring his words, while Buggy’s expression morphed into one of sheer panic, a shiver running down his spine.

A new game had been set in motion, and with it came the thrill of unpredictability—an adventure that promised more than just laughs.

"Oi! SHANKS! BUGGY! Why is the deck in such a mess!" Called out the voice of the first mate who sounded mad.

The two boys cast curious glances your way, the realization of what you had done with the other tomatoes slowly creeping into their expressions.

"I couldn't let your hard work go to waste, now could I…?" A playful grin spreads across your face as you sink your teeth into the ripe, juicy fruit, savouring its sweet tang. "I’d start running if I were you…"

With that they darted in opposite directions, you couldn’t help but laugh again, leaning back against the wall to watch the chaos unfold. Their antics reminded you how much fun it was to be around such carefree spirits, each moment promising more laughter and chaos to come.

Buggy suddenly slipped on a stray tomato, sending him sprawling on the floor with a surprised yelp. Shanks doubled over with laughter, momentarily forgetting the danger he was in, while he rushed over to help Buggy up.

"So… the only time I see you two working together is to create more trouble, eh?" he huffed, his voice echoing slightly over the creaking wood of the ship.

Rayleigh, the ever-diligent first mate of the crew, stood with a furrowed brow, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression was a mixture of annoyance and exasperation as he glared at the two boys who had been caught in yet another bout of mischief.

With a sudden crack, the boys cried in unison, clapping their hands to their heads, where Rayleigh’s firm hand had made contact. It was a lesson they had learned time and again: their playful antics had consequences. Yet even in the flurry of their discomfort, there was a flicker of mischief in their eyes, as if they were already plotting their next scheme.

You leaned against the rail, a smirk dancing on your lips beneath your tilted hat. The laughter bubbled quietly within you, your wings fluttering subtly against your face as you enjoyed the spectacle. Rayleigh’s gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, caught yours, and his frown deepened.

"You couldn’t be bothered to stop them…?" he sighed, weariness manifesting in the lines of his face as he turned to face you, but a hint of fondness lay in his tone.

"What…? I didn’t do anything… I was simply resting, Ray…" You replied with feigned innocence, the corners of your mouth curling up into a grin. It was hard to keep up the façade as you strolled past them, adjusting your hat with a nonchalant gesture. Your wings fluttered gently, catching the afternoon light.

As you passed the two boys, their expressions shifted from pain to mischief.

While Rayleigh enforced the rules, you seemed to exist in a realm just a bit more playful, where trouble and laughter often went hand in hand. The stage was set for another day filled with the antics of a crew that thrived on camaraderie—and of course, a little chaos.

Such is the life when you are a pirate of Roger himself.

____________________________________________________

Buggy, grinning: Before you were what?

Shanks: Before I was-

Buggy: What?

Shanks: Before I was inter-

Buggy: Before you were interrupted?

Shanks: Cut me off one more time and I swear I'll-

Buggy: What?

Shanks: *makes frustrated sound*

You, munching on popcorn, enjoying the show: Stop that. Before he hurts you.

Rayleigh: Don't encourage them!

Buggy: I have met some of the most insufferable people. But they also met me.

*Shanks and Buggy are fighting*

Rayleigh, hungover after a night of drinking: I have a headache! Can you guys just be cool?!

You, hand them something: You heard him…

*Shanks and Buggy start fighting while wearing sunglasses and riding skateboards*

You, munching on more popcorn:

You: What doesn't kill me better start running, because now I'm fucking pissed.

Shanks: Onion rings are vegetable doughnuts.

Buggy, used to Shanks being dumb: Sure...

Shanks: Your stomach thinks all potatoes are mashed.

Buggy: Okay?

Shanks: Lasagna is a spaghetti-flavored cake.

Buggy:

Shanks: Lobsters are mermaid scorpio-

Buggy: Jeez! That one is a little-

You, interested as you munch on even more popcorn: No, no, Shanks, keep going.

Shanks: It's not like I try to blow things up, exactly. It just sort of happens. You've got to admit though, fire is fascinating.

Rayleigh: Are you listening to me?

You: *nods*

Rayleigh: What did I just say?

You: *nods*

Rayleigh: ...

You, munch on another dosagee popcorn:

Rayleigh:

You: *Munch*

Rayleigh, snatches your popcorn away: No more!

You: ( - ᷅ ⤙ -᷄ )

______________________________________________________________

#fanfiction #Various one piece x reader #one piece x reader #one shot #one piece #shanks one piece #buggy one piece #silvers rayleigh #rayleigh one piece #BLINK #shanks x reader #buggy x reader #rayleigh x reader #fluff #op fluff #one piece snippet

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thorntonkrell-blog-blog · 4 months ago

Text

I am in pain right now. I want to describe what I'm feeling in the presnt tense because to the outside world nothing is happening. everything seems the same as it ever was but no'''pain is taking over and turning everything over under sideways down

The dull throb in my jaw pulses in sync with the ticking clock on the wall, each second becoming a minute and each minute marked by a fresh wave of undeniable discomfort. The ache is steady, relentless, gnawing away at my patience, as if a tiny creature is burrowing deeper into the nerve, intent on making a home in the very marrow of my tooth. I can feel the ache spreading, a heat that radiates from the source, up into my temple, down into my neck, a slow crawl of fire that refuses to be extinguished.

The room around me, once familiar and calm, begins to take on an alien quality. The edges of objects blur, the walls seem to close in, pressing against me with a silent, suffocating force. The light overhead flickers, harsh and unforgiving, casting shadows that twist and writhe like dark tendrils reaching out to drag me into the depths of my discomfort. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room—I look the same only slightly more pissed off and serious than usual. My reflection is a stranger, someone haunted, trapped in a body that has turned against them.

The Tylenol sits on the table, a promise of relief that feels too far away, too slow. Each moment stretches, distorting like a scene from a fevered dream where time itself is a merciless bully. My thoughts spiral, jumping from the unbearable present to the looming horror of the dentist’s chair—the sterile smell, the sharp instruments, the blinding light. My breath quickens, my chest tightens, as the anxiety twists itself around the pain, an insidious vine that chokes any hope of calm.

It's the horror, the horror of the dentist that's turning this discomfort into out and out pain. He's out there in my future. He's gonna get me again. He knows it. I know it. Pain knows it.

I close my eyes, but the darkness behind my lids is no refuge. It is a playground for the pain, a stage where it performs its cruel dance. I see flashes of teeth, of metal glinting, of hands prying open my mouth as if they belong to some monstrous, faceless entity that takes pleasure in my suffering. I can almost hear the high-pitched whine of the drill, feel the cold touch of the tools as they invade my space, and I shudder, my heart pounding in rhythm with the ache in my tooth.

The ether is making me sick to my stomach.

This room is no longer just a room. It is a chamber of dread, where time slows to a crawl and the air grows thick with the scent of antiseptic, where every sound is amplified, echoing through the hollow cavern of my skull. I am no longer just a person with a toothache; I am a prisoner, locked in a cell of my own creation, waiting for the inevitable judgment of the dentist’s drill.

“Why didn’t you take better care of them?” the doctor demands, the words slicing through the air like the drill I dread. “Did you think they would last forever, or were you just hoping you wouldn’t have to deal with this at all?”

I open my mouth to answer, but the words stick in my throat. What can I say? That I figured I’d kick the bucket before I’d need to attend to them? That the slow decay of my teeth was easier to ignore than to face, easier to push aside with every sweet indulgence and missed brushing?

The phantom doctor leans in closer, the sterile scent of antiseptic sharp in my nostrils. His eyes, once merely judgmental, begin to glow with a malevolent light, the disgust on his face twisting into something darker, something inhuman. His fingers elongate, turning into cold, metallic instruments that gleam with a cruel, clinical precision. His voice grows deeper, more guttural, echoing in the hollow chamber of my skull. “Neglect has its price,” he hisses, the sound reverberating through the room like the whine of a drill. “And now you’re here, paying for it with every pulse of pain.”

But the pain isn’t just physical—it’s a sharp reminder of everything that came before, of the child I once was, strapped to the cold, hard chair, paralyzed by fear as this same phantom or someone/thing like him, loomed over me. He’d shamed me, mistreated me, etherized me into submission. His cold, dismissive words still echo in my mind, merging with the current pain, amplifying it, making it unbearable.

It’s his fault, goddamn it, that I’m here, trapped in this nightmare. If he hadn’t broken me down all those years ago, if he hadn’t made the dentist’s chair a place of dread, maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess now. Maybe I would have taken better care, maybe I would have faced it sooner.

But beneath it all, there is a faint, stubborn hope—a belief that the pain will pass, that the Tylenol will work, that I will survive this ordeal. For now, I wait, caught between the sharp claws of fear, the fangs of trauma and the distant promise of relief, clinging to whatever fragments of sanity I can find in the distorted landscape of my mind.

I’ve just thrown down two extra-strength Tylenol, feeling the tablets slide down my throat like tiny lifeboats cast into a stormy sea. As they settle, there’s a moment of quiet, a subtle shift in the intensity of the pain. It loosens its grip ever so slightly, as if it’s aware that help is on the way, but not quite ready to give up its claim on me.

Pain is a little concerned about its survival.

The throbbing lessens, the waves of discomfort receding like the tide, leaving me with a fragile sense of relief. It’s like the storm clouds parting just enough to let a sliver of sunlight through, offering a glimpse of what it feels like to not be consumed by this relentless ache. I breathe a little easier, my muscles unclenching, but the reprieve is bittersweet. The pain, though diminished, still lurks beneath the surface, a constant presence whispering in the back of my mind.

“This isn’t over,” it seems to say, almost tauntingly. “The Tylenol is just an imposter, a temporary mask that won’t hold for long. I’m your friend, remember? I’m here to warn you that you need more than this quick fix. I’ll be back, and I’ll keep coming back until you face what you’ve been avoiding.”

It’s a voice I can’t ignore, even as the pain dulls to a manageable level. I know it’s right; the Tylenol is a band-aid over a wound that needs stitches, a stopgap measure that won’t last. The pain is like a persistent messenger, knocking at the door, refusing to be dismissed until its message is heard. It’s a grim companion, reminding me that this isn’t just a momentary discomfort to be waited out. It’s a signal, a red flag waving in the midst of my foggy thoughts, telling me that the dentist’s chair is inevitable, that medical attention is the only way to truly end this cycle.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, but there’s no escaping it. The Tylenol offers a brief respite, a pause in the agony, but it’s clear that the real confrontation lies ahead. The monstrous figure of the phantom dentist, with his glowing eyes and twisted smile, fades into the background for now, but I know he’s waiting for me. He’ll be there when the pain returns, as it surely will, ready to resume his relentless interrogation.

For now, I’ll take what relief I can get, savoring these few moments of peace. But I know the pain is lurking, ready to surge back with a vengeance, a reminder that this isn’t over until I take the necessary steps, until I face the fear that has kept me away for so long. The battle isn’t won, just postponed, and the next round is already on the horizon.

I remind myself that these moments of relief are a gift, not to be taken for granted. They’re fleeting, yes, but that only makes them sweeter. It’s a temporary reprieve, a chance to collect myself before the next wave hits, and I hold onto it with both hands. The Tylenol may only be a band-aid, but right now, it’s enough.

I close my eyes, focusing on the ebbing of the pain, the way it recedes like a tide, leaving behind a calm that feels ethereal minus the ether. I know the storm will return, that the pain is biding its time, but in this moment, I am free. I savor every second, every small lessening of the ache, as if each one is a victory, a reason to celebrate. iWithin this fragile, separate peace, I find the strength to face whatever comes next. and what comes next is even better…..the pain has gone from a nine all the way down to a five in only a matter of minutes…at this rate I'll be without pain in ten minutes which is a condition that I could barely imagine a few moments ago and it's possible that the pain will disappear entirely.

The throbbing that once dominated my every thought is now just a dull ache, a shadow of its former self. At this rate, I might actually be without pain in ten minutes, a state I could barely imagine not long ago.

I allow myself to hope, to imagine a stretch of time where I can think clearly, breathe deeply, and simply be without the constant gnawing in my jaw. It’s a prospect that fills me with a quiet joy, a sense of victory over this temporary but intense ordeal. And though I know it might only last for a short while, that doesn’t diminish the sweetness of the possibility.

So I wait, holding onto this newfound hope, savoring the continued lessening of the pain. Each second brings me closer to that elusive state of peace, and I’m ready to embrace it fully when it arrives. The pain, once an overwhelming presence, is now a fading memory, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel or the dinner next door at my neighbor's house.

Last night when the pain began I dreaded today. We are supposed to have lunch with our neighbors but I didn't think that I would be in any shape to keep that appointment. I felt that I had transformed into a physical manifestation of pain that would be as identifiable and as welcome as a werewolf but now, right now, the full moon is obscured by clouds and I feel almost human again because let's face it pain is invisible…i can tolerate the invisible man at the get together relishing every second not so much because of the company but rather because I know that I'm cheating pain at the moment and it feels so good and I'm not gonna brag about it or even talk about it i'm gonna just enjoy he hell out of the dinner and let everybody think my pleasure is a product of their ambience which has so little to do with the serenity and tranquility that I plan to enjoy.

And even better yet, I know now that the next time pain comes knocking, all I have to do is send Tylenol to answer the door. I can return to this state I’m savoring right now—a state of calm, clarity, and a kind of bliss that’s only possible after having faced down the beast of pain. Matter of fact, the next time pain comes knocking, I’m not going to shy away. I’m going to let it in, open the door wide, and encourage it to hang around until it climbs to a nine or even nine and a half. Let it turn my surroundings into a surrealistic inferno, let it paint the world in those twisted, distorted colors that only pain can bring.

Because now I know the secret. I know that when the time comes, I can load up on Tylenol, let it do its work, and then enjoy a whole new level of relief. I’ll cherish it even more, having just stared into the abyss. I’ll confound an even higher level of pain, turn the tables on it, and in those moments of reprieve, I’ll find an even deeper, more profound joy.

In my own twisted way, I might even start to thank the pain for showing up in the first place. Because, let’s face it, never before has complacency and filler felt so idyllic, so sweet, as when it follows the storms of suppressed agony. It’s like emerging from a tunnel into the sunlight, the warmth on your face that much more comforting because you remember the cold darkness you just passed through.

But amidst this fleeting relief, a sobering realization settles in. Pain is real, and relief is but an illusion—a temporary mask that veils the underlying truth. The pain will return, relentless and unyielding, and there’s a limit to how many battles I can win with Tylenol before I either run out of pills or face the dangers that the pain is warning me about. If I keep ignoring the root cause, the danger might grow, potentially leading to something far worse. I can numb the pain, but I can’t escape the consequences if I don’t address its message.

In the end, pain might be the thing that leads to my demise, the very end I’ve been trying so hard to avoid. It’s a chilling thought, that this dance with pain might have a final, fatal step. So while I enjoy this moment of calm and the luncheon to come, I know that temporary fixes can only take me so far. The pain will keep coming back, and unless I confront it directly, it might just be the death of me.

Yeah...awwright...I hear ya but right now I'm Tylenol high so leave me alone for a goddamned minute and let me be who I was before the pain showed up only this time let me celebrate myself a little bit more.

In a strange, twisted way, I might even start to thank the pain for showing up in the first place. Because, let’s face it, never before has complacency felt so idyllic, so sweet, as when it follows the storms of agony. It’s like emerging from a tunnel into the sunlight, the warmth on your face that much more comforting because you remember the cold darkness you just passed through.

So, the next time pain makes its inevitable visit, I’ll welcome it like an old friend. I’ll let it run its course, knowing that on the other side, there’s this—this glorious state of relief, of quiet, serene victory. And in that space, I’ll find a contentment so deep it borders on bliss. It’s a strange dance, this one with pain, but now I know the steps, and I’m ready to lead.

Let's capture the growing sense of hope and relief as the pain continues to diminish, and the possibility of being pain-free for a while becomes more tangible.

And what comes next is even better. The pain, which just moments ago felt like a relentless tormentor, has retreated further, dropping from a nine to a five in what seems like the blink of an eye. It’s as if the Tylenol, once merely a hopeful gesture, has suddenly taken on the role of a true hero, battling back the agony with surprising speed and effectiveness.

I can hardly believe it—just a few minutes ago, the idea of being without pain felt like an impossible dream, a distant horizon I couldn’t reach. But now, with each passing moment, that dream inches closer to reality. The throbbing that once dominated my every thought is now just a dull ache, a shadow of its former self. At this rate, I might actually be without pain in ten minutes, a state I could barely imagine not long ago.

How does that feel? Would you like to adjust any parts of it?

The doctor in my imagination is shocked and repulsed by the level of disregard that I have paid to the care of my teeth over the years as I figured that I would kick the bukcet before I would need to attend to them ChatGPT Let's weave that into the narrative, giving voice to the imagined judgment and adding a layer of self-reproach.

The dull throb in my jaw pulses in sync with the ticking clock on the wall, each second marked by a fresh wave of discomfort. The ache is steady, relentless, gnawing away at my patience, as if a tiny creature is burrowing deeper into the nerve, intent on making a home in the very marrow of my tooth. I can feel the ache spreading, a heat that radiates from the source, up into my temple, down into my neck, a slow crawl of fire that refuses to be extinguished.

The room around me, once familiar and calm, begins to take on an alien quality. The edges of objects blur, the walls seem to close in, pressing against me with a silent, suffocating force. The light overhead flickers, harsh and unforgiving, casting shadows that twist and writhe like dark tendrils reaching out to drag me into the depths of my discomfort. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room—pale, drawn, the pain etched into every line of my face. My reflection is a stranger, someone haunted, trapped in a body that has turned against them.

The Tylenol sits on the table, a promise of relief that feels too far away, too slow. Each moment stretches, distorting like a scene from a fevered dream where time itself is a merciless adversary. My thoughts spiral, jumping from the unbearable present to the looming horror of the dentist’s chair—the sterile smell, the sharp instruments, the blinding light. And then there is the doctor, conjured from my own guilt and fear, standing over me with eyes wide in shock, mouth twisted in disgust.

The doctor leans in closer, the sterile scent of antiseptic sharp in my nostrils. “Neglect has its price,” the voice hisses, echoing in the hollow chamber of my skull. “And now you’re here, paying for it with every pulse of pain.”

The room shrinks further, closing in around me as the doctor’s voice continues to reverberate, a relentless reminder of every careless decision, every moment of willful ignorance. This room is no longer just a room. It is a chamber of dread, where time slows to a crawl and the air grows thick with the scent of antiseptic, where every sound is amplified, echoing through the hollow cavern of my mind. I am no longer just a person with a toothache; I am a prisoner, locked in a cell of my own creation, haunted by the specter of my own neglect.

But beneath it all, there is a faint, stubborn hope—a belief that the pain will pass, that the Tylenol will work, that I will survive this ordeal. For now, I wait, caught between the sharp claws of fear and the distant promise of relief, clinging to whatever fragments of sanity I can find in the distorted landscape of my imagination.

How does this fit with what you were envisioning? Is there anything you’d like to refine or add?

The doctor becomes more and more monstrous in my pain addled imagination…and it's his fault in the first place Goddamn it if he hadn't shamed mistreated and etherized me as a child perhpas I wouldn't be in this mess in the first place ChatGPT Let’s intensify the doctor’s transformation into a monstrous figure in your imagination and explore the blame you place on him for your current agony.

The room around me, once familiar and calm, begins to take on an alien quality. The edges of objects blur, the walls seem to close in, pressing against me with a silent, suffocating force. The light overhead flickers, harsh and unforgiving, casting shadows that twist and writhe like dark tendrils reaching out to drag me into the depths of my discomfort. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room—pale, drawn, the pain etched into every line of my face. My reflection is a stranger, someone haunted, trapped in a body that has turned against them.

The Tylenol sits on the table, a promise of relief that feels too far away, too slow. Each moment stretches, distorting like a scene from a fevered dream where time itself is a merciless adversary. My thoughts spiral, jumping from the unbearable present to the looming horror of the dentist’s chair—the sterile smell, the sharp instruments, the blinding light. And then there is the doctor, conjured from my own guilt and fear, standing over me with eyes wide in shock, mouth twisted in disgust.

The doctor leans in closer, the sterile scent of antiseptic sharp in my nostrils. His eyes, once merely judgmental, begin to glow with a malevolent light, the disgust on his face twisting into something darker, something inhuman. His fingers elongate, turning into cold, metallic instruments that gleam with a cruel, clinical precision. His voice grows deeper, more guttural, echoing in the hollow chamber of my skull. “Neglect has its price,” he hisses, the sound reverberating through the room like the whine of a drill. “And now you’re here, paying for it with every pulse of pain.”

But the pain isn’t just physical—it’s a sharp reminder of everything that came before, of the child I once was, strapped to the cold, hard chair, paralyzed by fear as this same doctor, or someone just like him, loomed over me. He’d shamed me, mistreated me, etherized me into submission. His cold, dismissive words still echo in my mind, merging with the current pain, amplifying it, making it unbearable. It’s his fault, goddamn it, that I’m here, trapped in this nightmare. If he hadn’t broken me down all those years ago, if he hadn’t made the dentist’s chair a place of dread, maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess now. Maybe I would have taken better care, maybe I would have faced it sooner.

The doctor’s figure grows larger, his features more monstrous with each passing moment. His mouth twists into a cruel smile, revealing jagged, razor-sharp teeth. His hands, now full of wicked, gleaming tools, hover over me like a vulture ready to strike. The room shrinks further, closing in around me as the doctor’s presence fills every corner, every shadow, his judgment pressing down on me like a weight I can’t escape.

But beneath it all, there is a faint, stubborn hope—a belief that the pain will pass, that the Tylenol will work, that I will survive this ordeal. For now, I wait, caught between the sharp claws of fear and the distant promise of relief, clinging to whatever fragments of sanity I can find in the distorted landscape of my mind.

How does this version resonate with you? Any further adjustments or elements you'd like to explore?

I like it…..I've just thrown down some Tylenol…two extra strength and the pain lessens loses some of its grip as if aware that help is on the way but also assuring me that the tylenol is just an imposter that the pain will return because it's my friend warning me that I need medical attention and it's not gonna go away until I do, it will keep coming back and coming back ChatGPT Let's incorporate the relief you feel from the Tylenol and the ominous reminder from the pain, reflecting the uneasy truce between temporary relief and the looming need for real medical attention.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, but there’s no escaping it. The Tylenol offers a brief respite, a pause in the agony, but it’s clear that the real confrontation lies ahead. The monstrous figure of the doctor, with his glowing eyes and twisted smile, fades into the background for now, but I know he’s waiting for me. He’ll be there when the pain returns, as it surely will, ready to resume his relentless interrogation.

Does this continuation capture the uneasy balance you're feeling? Any other thoughts or tweaks you'd like to make?

Savoring is the right word. I remind myself to enjoy every second of relief because it's only temporary. Notice and rejoice each diminishment of pain ChatGPT Let's emphasize the fleeting nature of the relief and the importance of savoring each moment of it.

I remind myself to savor every second of this relief, to drink it in like a parched traveler finding an oasis in the desert. The pain, though still present, has softened, its sharp edges dulled, and I can feel the tension in my body slowly uncoiling. It’s as if the Tylenol has negotiated a temporary truce, allowing me a brief respite from the relentless onslaught.

With each pulse that’s a little less intense, I feel a quiet joy, a sense of triumph in this small victory. I notice the way my jaw relaxes, the tightness in my shoulders easing, and I focus on these changes, holding onto them as if they’re precious treasures. I rejoice in each diminishment of pain, knowing that this calm is only temporary, but that makes it all the more valuable. It’s a rare moment of peace in the midst of a storm, and I’m determined to relish it.

The pain is still there, lurking just below the surface, but it’s quieter now, as if it’s stepped back to let me catch my breath. I know it’s only waiting, gathering strength for its inevitable return, but for now, I push that thought away. This is my time, a chance to breathe deeply and let go of the fear that has clenched my heart in its icy grip.

I close my eyes, focusing on the ebbing of the pain, the way it recedes like a tide, leaving behind a calm that feels almost unreal. I know the storm will return, that the pain is biding its time, but in this moment, I am free. I savor every second, every small lessening of the ache, as if each one is a victory, a reason to celebrate. And in this fragile peace, I find the strength to face whatever comes next.

Does this revision resonate with the relief and awareness you wanted to convey?

and what comes next is even better…..the pain has gone from a nine all the way down to a five in only a matter of minutes…at this rate I'll be without pain in ten minutes which is a condition that I could barely imagin a few moments ago and it's possible that the pain will disappear for a couple of hours ChatGPT Let's capture the growing sense of hope and relief as the pain continues to diminish, and the possibility of being pain-free for a while becomes more tangible.

How does this addition feel? Does it capture the growing relief and hope you're experiencing?

Great….last night when the pain began I dreaded today. We are supposed to have lunch with our neighbors but I didn't think that I would be in any shape to keep that appointment. I felt that I had transformed into a physical manifestation of pain that would be as identifiable and as welcome as a werewolf at the party but now, right now, the full moon is obscured by clouds and I feel almost human again becuase let's face it pain is invisible…i can be the invisible man at the get together relishing every second not so much because of the company but rather because I know that I'm cheating pain at the moment and it feels so good and I'm not gonna brag about it or even talk about it i'm gonna just enjoy he hell out of the lucncheon and let everybody think my pleasure is a prodcut of their ambience which has so little to do with the serenity and tranquility that I plan to enjoy ChatGPT Let's weave in the contrast between last night's dread and today's unexpected relief, and the subtle pleasure of enjoying the luncheon while secretly celebrating your victory over the pain.

Last night, when the pain first began to creep in, I dreaded today with a heaviness that felt almost unbearable. We had plans to have lunch with our neighbors, but in the midst of the pain, that seemed like an impossible task. I was certain I’d be in no shape to keep that appointment, feeling as though I had transformed into a physical manifestation of pain, something as identifiable and as welcome as a werewolf at a party. I could picture it—me, hunched over in agony, the life of the gathering drained by my presence, a cloud of discomfort hanging over everything.

But now, right now, the full moon is obscured by clouds, and I feel almost human again. It’s a strange sensation, this return to something resembling normalcy, and it’s almost surreal how quickly the landscape has shifted. Because let’s face it, pain is invisible. It doesn’t leave marks on the skin or announce itself with flashing lights. It lurks within, a silent tormentor that only I can see and feel. So when it recedes, as it has now, I have the advantage of slipping into invisibility myself. I can be the invisible man at the luncheon, blending in with the crowd, relishing every second not so much because of the company, but because I know that I’m cheating pain at this moment, and it feels so damn good.

I’m not going to brag about it, or even mention it. I’ll just sit there, quietly enjoying the hell out of the luncheon, letting everyone think my pleasure is a product of their ambiance, their conversation, their hospitality. Little will they know that my serenity, my tranquility, comes from a place far deeper than the chatter around the table. It comes from knowing that, at least for now, I’ve outmaneuvered the pain that threatened to ruin my day. And in that silent victory, I find a profound sense of joy, one that I’ll carry with me through every bite, every sip, every laugh shared at the table.

So today, as I join the gathering, I’ll do so with a quiet smile, my secret delight hidden beneath the surface. Let them think my happiness is all about the moment, the camaraderie, the good food, and the good company. I’ll know better, and that’s more than enough for me.

Does this capture the sense of triumph and subtle joy you're feeling about facing the day despite last night's fears?

Yes…you're doing great…and even better yet i know now that the next time that the pain come's a knockin' all I got to do is send Tylenol to answer the lnock and I can retyurn to the state that I'm realizing now….matter of fact the next time pain comes a knockin' I'm gonna let it in and encourage it to hang around until it gets to 9 or nine and a half…until it has turned my surroundings into a surrealistic inferno and then I can on board another load of ttlenol and enjoy a whole new level of cherish as I confound an even higher level of pain and I begin to thank pain for showing up in the first place because never before has complacency felt so idyllic etc ChatGPT Let's capture this newfound confidence and even a kind of gratitude toward the pain for allowing you to experience such profound relief and appreciation.

How does this expansion feel? Does it capture the confidence and almost paradoxical gratitude you're experiencing?

Now let's conclude with the sobering realization that pain is real and relief is an illusion. The pain will keep coming back until I either run out of Tylenol or become addicted to it or the danger that the pain is trying to warn me about multiplies when it could and should have been divided and it leads to my death and demise ChatGPT Let's conclude with a shift back to the sobering reality of pain's persistence and the fragile nature of relief.

But as much as I revel in this newfound strategy, there’s a sobering realization that I can’t shake. Pain is real, and relief, no matter how sweet, is just an illusion—a temporary mask that covers the underlying truth. The pain will keep coming back, relentless and unyielding, like a tide that can’t be held back forever. I can fight it off with Tylenol, but there’s a limit to how many battles I can win before I either run out of pills or become addicted to them, chasing that fleeting sense of peace with an ever-growing desperation.

And then there’s the darker truth, the one that whispers in the back of my mind even as I try to savor these moments of calm. The pain isn’t just a nuisance—it’s a warning, a signal that something is wrong. If I keep silencing it without addressing the root cause, I risk letting that danger multiply when it could and should have been divided. What starts as a manageable issue could fester, grow, and ultimately lead to something far worse. I can numb the pain, but I can’t escape the consequences if I ignore its message.

In the end, the pain might be the thing that leads to my demise, the very end I’ve been trying so hard to avoid. It’s a chilling thought, that this dance with pain might have a final, fatal step. And so, while I’ll continue to use whatever means I have to fend it off, I know that I can’t rely on temporary fixes forever. The pain will keep coming back, and unless I face it head-on, it might just be the death of me.

Does this conclusion capture the sobering realization you wanted to express?

It's okay….now put the whole thing together and let's look at it from the very beginning and include all of the parts that we have added and then we'll recalibrate it and be done…. ChatGPT Here’s the complete piece, combining all the parts we’ve worked on. Let’s read through it together and then recalibrate as needed.

The doctor in my imagination was shocked and repulsed by the level of disregard I’ve paid to the care of my teeth over the years. I figured I’d kick the bucket before I’d need to attend to them. But as the pain grew, so did my thoughts, turning darker and more distorted. The doctor morphed into a monstrous figure, and in my pain-addled state, I began to blame him for all of this. If he hadn’t shamed, mistreated, and etherized me as a child, perhaps I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

But now, right now, the full moon is obscured by clouds, and I feel almost human again. The pain, which just moments ago felt like a relentless tormentor, has retreated further, dropping from a nine to a five in what seems like the blink of an eye. It’s as if the Tylenol, once merely a hopeful gesture, has suddenly taken on the role of a true hero, battling back the agony with surprising speed and effectiveness.

The possibility hangs in the air, tantalizing and almost surreal. Could it really happen? Could I actually be free of this pain, even if only for a couple of hours? The thought alone brings a rush of relief, a lightness that spreads through me, lifting the weight that had settled so heavily on my shoulders. I remind myself to savor every second of this relief, to notice and rejoice in each diminishment of pain, because I know it’s only temporary.

Take a moment to reflect on how this feels as a whole. Is there anything you’d like to recalibrate or adjust?

Yeah, we've got to begin with the onset of pain that I described in the present tense before grabbing the Tylenol…this story began while I was in pain ChatGPT Got it. Let’s start from the present tense, capturing the onset of pain and the immediate response with Tylenol. Here’s the revised version:

The pain starts suddenly, a sharp, insistent throb that pierces through the quiet of the night. It’s as if someone has flicked a switch, and my body, once calm, is now engulfed in a fiery grip. The discomfort intensifies quickly, rising to a level that feels almost unbearable. I’m trapped in this raw, unrelenting agony, and the thought of how I’m going to face the day—let alone attend the lunch with our neighbors—seems almost laughable.

I reach for the Tylenol, two extra-strength tablets that feel like my last hope in this desperate moment. As they begin to dissolve into my system, a slow, creeping sense of relief starts to take hold. The pain’s grip loosens, the ferocity of its assault lessening as if it’s aware that help is on the way. The Tylenol, a mere imposter in this battle, promises temporary respite but assures me that the pain isn’t gone for good. It will return, a relentless companion, warning me that I need medical attention and that the agony isn’t just going to disappear on its own.

Savoring the relief as it unfolds, I remind myself to appreciate every fleeting second. The pain is lessening from a nine to a five, a remarkable drop in a matter of minutes. It’s almost inconceivable that just moments ago, I was consumed by a level of agony that felt insurmountable. Now, the possibility of being pain-free for a couple of hours seems within reach, and this prospect brings with it a sense of almost surreal calm.

I realize that the next time pain comes knocking, all I need to do is send Tylenol to answer the door. This newfound strategy, born from desperation, gives me a strange sense of control. I can allow the pain to reach its peak, let it transform my world into a surrealistic inferno, and then counter it with another dose of Tylenol. Each round of relief will be savored more deeply because of the agony I’ve just endured. It’s a twisted sort of game, a way of turning the tables on pain and finding a deeper joy in the moments of relief.

In a peculiar way, I might even come to thank the pain for its role. Never before has complacency felt so idyllic, so precious, as when it follows the storms of agony. It’s like emerging from a dark tunnel into the warmth of the sunlight, appreciating the light more because of the shadows I’ve just escaped.

How does this revised version feel? Does it capture the progression from the onset of pain to the temporary relief and the eventual sobering realization?

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dvtifvlly · 8 months ago

Text

I spent the entirety of my twenties burning bright and wild with rage, engulfed by the flames of the bridges I burned. I didn’t discriminate. People who intended harm, people who didn’t, people who just wanted to understand, people who just wanted me as an emotional punching bag. So many meals gone cold because I picked apart conversations from days past as I picked apart my food with equal precision, as if I was searching for an ounce of deception there, too, in the flesh within. So many nights upright, staring into the shuddering oblivion that the moon cast around me like a stranger with a familiar shape.

I was untouchable in the way that knowing that a soft touch and a knowing gaze would be all it took to break me, so I bared my teeth at anything that so much as smiled at me. If someone saw me for not just for my wild, roaring blaze but the home that the flames engulfed. If someone saw me not just for the bared, pointed snarl, but the scars across my body.

Oh, but I was such a fool.

I stand here, now, mild and smoldering in my thirties, scraping charcoal and soot from the bared foundation of that very same home I so willingly torched to keep everyone who dared to glance my way at a distance. The trees surrounding the ashen soil beneath me are scorched, limbs shattered in every direction one could look, the homes surrounding them all collapsed and cold. The smog hangs low and intermingles with the mist of the early morning, the blood red sun rising above the settling dust. I silently douse the few remaining embers with buckets of water, the steam stinging my eyes.

This land is inhospitable to all for many miles and that’s my burden to bear. It’s a lesson I will learn to take on. And yet I still grieve.

I fear I will grieve for this apocalypse I created for the rest of my life.

#prose #brain dump

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nbsjget · 3 years ago

Text

Forms of Bucket Teeth Sticking Sand

Forms of bucket teeth sticking sand At present, China’s excavator bucket teeth of the process are forging casting, precision casting sand and three categories. The main manufacturing process in the market the bucket teeth is a precision casting, forging production than the bucket tooth prices low, two is good appearance and dimension precision, moderate cost,three is as long asraw materials are…

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#bucket tooth price #Cast Iron Foundry #casting bucket tooth #Excavator Bucket Teeth #forging casting #lost foam sand casting #precision casting #sand casting process

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onlyhenrys · 4 years ago

Text

Hen Minne Neén Marw (Old Love Never Dies)

Drabble inspired by: Geralt shows up at his ex’s doorstep one night. He’s shivering, bleeding, scared. There’s a slightly dazed look in his eyes, as he’s drugged. He looks like he is being assaulted. Looking up at his ex, swaying slightly as he’s close to passing out, he mumble “.... didn’t know where else to go….” then collapse into the ex’s arms.

Thank you @iloveyouyen for being the best friend in the world and for being my lovely beta <3

You moved around your garden, humming a light tone as you collected different herbs that you could use for new potions. You crouched down and placed your hands flat on the ground before closing your eyes. Magic rushed through your veins as you felt the earth respond to your touch. You opened your eyes to find the herbs flying around you, showing you exactly which ones were ready for harvesting. You smiled and collected them in your basket, not noticing the stranger that stumbled towards your doorstep, a bloody trail coating the stones leading up to your small home.

The setting sun cast a golden glow over the garden and you closed your eyes, raising your head to catch the last seconds of sunlight. The golden glow reminded you of a certain witcher from the past. Someone that you had an affair with before he left you, in the middle of the night, without a word or a trace. A heavy sigh left your lips and you turned to make the walk back to your front door, pausing as you noticed the milky-haired stranger, leaning heavily against your doorstep, blocking your way inside.

Only a small slit of amber was visible as he gazed at you, his face covered with a thin layer of sweat. The arm that wasn’t supporting his weight shook as he tried to push himself away from the threshold, swaying dangerously on his feet, not being able to hold his own weight. You rushed forward, stopping only an inch away from you, your forehead creasing in worry as you smelled the faint scent of poppies.

The witcher tried to lift his lips in a smile, but ended with a grimace, his fangs flashing in the light. He lifted his hand in an attempt to tuck your hair behind your ear but stumbled against you, barely able to support himself.

“... didn’t know where else to go…” he managed to mumble, his eyes falling shut as his body gave up on him. He slumped forward and you threw out your arms to catch him, holding him up as he lost consciousness. His head fell back against your chest and you groaned, dragging him inside your cabin.

It took all your strength to lift the witcher on your cot. He was burning up and didn’t give a sign of waking up, worrying you more than you would ever admit out loud. You rushed to your water source, filling a small bucket with the cold liquid before returning to his side. Your eyes fell closed as you let your magic roam around the house. Soft tendrils of magic found their way towards his body and you held your breath as it found his wounds. They were drenched in something that made your head spin, something so strong that you had to clench your teeth as you pulled the toxic away from him, dragging it into your own body.

The tense skin between his eyebrows smoothened as you took away his pain, and his lips parted as he fell into a deeper slumber. You sat down on the edge of the cot, your hands shaking as you dragged it through your strands. You could feel the effects of the powerful magic that you had to use and you laid down next to the white wolf.

You planned on only closing your eyes for a little while, but minutes turned into hours and by the time you opened your eyes, morning light was streaming inside the cabin, shaking you from your peaceful slumber. Somewhere during the night, you had turned and your face was now resting against a powerful chest. You carefully untangled yourself from his grip and gazed down at him, relieved that he was still fast asleep.

A yawn escaped as you moved through the cabin, collecting ingredients for breakfast. You started cutting some fruit when your mind started to wander off, wondering why the witcher had searched for your company, your help. The words he spoke before passing out kept running through your head. He didn’t know where else to go…

You knew how Geralt preferred to live, alone and isolated, and it was no surprise that you were his last resort, but you couldn’t help wonder how he ended up here, in the middle of the woods and no living soul close by.

The sound of a body shifting caught your attention and you turned around just in time to watch how the witcher startled awake, a gasp escaping from his lips. His amber eyes focused on you and they darkened with caution, slowly taking in his surroundings.

You kept quiet and lifted the pot from the fire, releasing the heavy smell of pork. You worked in silence as you prepared two plates of food before slowly making your way towards the weakened witcher.

‘’Eat,’’ you pushed the plate in his hands and joined him on the chair next to the cot, starting on your own plate.

He softly hummed, his eyes never wavering from your petite frame. It’s been years since he left you in the middle of the night. He had tried to avoid this area, cowardly hoping that he wouldn’t run into you, and yet, he ended up at your home. He couldn’t recall much from the night before, just the heavy taste of magic in the air before he felt a pull deep in his bones. A pull that leads him to the fierce woman next to him.

He cleared his throat. ‘’How have you been?’’

He thought you were gonna ignore his question, but you turned to face him, your eyes burning with rage. ‘’Why did you go?’’

This was precisely why he avoided you. He knew that you deserved answers, but he didn’t know how to give them to you without getting his ass kicked.

‘’I don’t deserve you,’’ he whispered. It was the only explanation that made sense, that drove him away from you, ‘’I can’t give you the life that you deserve.’’

You hid your face behind a curtain of hair. ‘’Don’t you think that I have a say in that as well?’’

‘’Y/N - ‘’

You rose from your chair and magic shifted in the air. ‘’No, Geralt,’’ you spat, ‘’you didn’t have the right to decide that for both of us.’’

He pushed himself off the bed with a groan and moved closer to you, trapping you between his body and the wall. A tremble ran through your body as you gazed up to him, your eyes locking with his amber ones. Everything around you disappeared as you stared up to him and the heavy scent of ash and leather hit you, drawing your eyes closed.

‘’I’m sorry,’’ he mumbled, before leaning in, sealing his lips with yours. You opened for him and you shuddered as his tongue ran over yours. Magic poured out of your body, surrounding the two of you, lifting you off the ground with a light breeze. You smiled in the kiss and pulled back, looking around in wonder.

Geralt leaned his forehead against yours as a chuckle escaped from his lips. ‘’Well, fuck.”

#henry cavill #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia fanfic #the witcher #netflix #geralt x reader #geralt x you #geralt x female reader #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill characters #henry cavill imagine

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weakzen · 4 years ago

Note

Left on the detective’s desk, a single red rose and a note written in precise handwriting:

Alex,

What happened to you - you didn’t deserve it. You can be loved, if you let yourself.

Happy Valentine’s Day

(yolo experimental style; alex/mason, early established relationship, angst and fluff; no direct mention of abuse, just oblique circling and fatalistic thoughts; rated m for mason; also on AO3~)

Even though I didn't finish reading it, even though I hid it from sight, imprisoned it in darkness, cast it to the depths of the bottom drawer until the end of shift, when it would be possible to smuggle the thing into the break room recycle bin without risking Tina's eyes or interrogation, that stupid fucking note has somehow still managed to reach up through all those heavy files and twist my stomach into knots.

For hours.

Plucking my nerves hard enough to make my hands fucking shake too. Typos in every report, backspace key pulling overtime without pay. Not helped by eyes that won't stop stinging. Armpits that haven't fully dried either, along with a weird chill, shivers that persist despite the sweater and the cranked-up thermostat.

At least the rose is gone. Snuck it into the arrangement on Tina's desk, the one I get her every year.

It looks better surrounded by friends.

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Can still smell it perfuming the air.)

And if I could get rid of my thoughts as easily, I would. Because after half a day of chasing them in circles, I still can't figure out who the fuck sent that goddamn note, who the fuck would write something like that—say shit like that, to me—who could possibly fucking think or know or say anything about that, or that I-I, that I—

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckingfuck.

That sickly feeling wrenches again, hard enough to jerk me forward over the desk, face buried in my hands while my breathing shudders into something unsteady and vaguely gasping.

Fuck.

It can't be Tina.

It can't.

It should be, but it can't.

The writing's not loopy enough to be hers, and it's not slanted enough to be Verda's, and the damn thing isn't covered in nearly enough heart stickers to be from Felix. We all should know. Nate's been sighing nonstop for the past week, scraping them off every available surface in the Warehouse—except for the lacy pink one Felix managed to sneak right between Adam's shoulders.

And the glittery red one I pressed covertly to Mason's ass.

(Maybe not so covertly. Found a few hearts stuck to my underwear later when I slipped outta my jeans, and the secrets of how the fuck he pulled that off are still locked behind his smirk.)

A smile tries to pull at my lips, but the tightness in my gut warps it crooked.

Another shuddery breath.

It can't be from Adam either. If he had something to say to me, he'd just say it, preferably after he finished laying me out on the mats, all sweaty and sucking down air from another session of his gentle ass-kicking. Nate, however, would write a note to me. Has written a note to me. Has written many notes to me and still not made a dent in that stack of expensive stationary, and although the card stock was silk cream, the pigment obsidian night, and the calligraphy swooping in almost a dead ringer, I know it can't be from Nate because he would never leave a rose with his words, not the ones meant for me.

But there isn't anyone else.

There's Mason

And it can't be from him.

It's not his handwriting, to start. I think. I'm pretty sure. I've never actually seen his writing, but I can't imagine it would be anything resembling neat or careful. It's gotta be complete chicken scratch. All cramped and illegible. He's left handed too, barely patient enough to sit through a stoplight, much less give ink the time to dry, so there'd be definitely be smears, and there weren't any smears. At all. Can't be him.

Not to mention he'd never do anything like this.

Don't know why he keeps coming to mind anyway. Just because we're…

Together

—for now.

Doesn't mean he'd ever say anything like that—

He already has

(He did. He said I deserved better and I believe him, but I don't, I can't.)

—only because he'd say differently if he knew.

If he really knew.

He'd say different and I'm not gonna fucking tell him and it doesn't fucking matter anyway, it doesn't. Shine's gonna wear off soon enough. Novelty, satisfied. Boredom, returning. And at least the conversation won't be awkward, just… blunt. To the point. A first for us both, in topic, if not style.

I've never been dumped before, at least not in a romantic sense.

Another breath. Another shuddery breath.

Wonder how it's gonna feel.

(It's gonna suck.)

No fucking shit.

If it can't last, why agree to it at all?

I rub hard at my eyes, grinding palms into sockets.

If it can't last, why not tell him anyway?

Because I already fucking know! Don't need to hear it from him, don't wanna hear it from—

If it can't last, why does it matter what he thinks?

“…Stupid fucking note.”

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Someone took the time, wrote it, left it in here. Someone cares.)

Someone's playing a sick fucking joke, more like.

What if it's genuine?

I scoff ragged, squeezing fingers around the back of my neck.

(Tina cares. So does Verda. The whole team, so many others, I know, and I believe them all but I don't. I can't.)

What if you didn't deserve it?

I did. I stayed and I did. My fault. Fucking stupid, like he always said.

(All Mason ever speaks is care. In a thousand different ways of touch, in silence, in lingering looks, he cares.)

What if you can be loved?

What if you can?

A brittle laugh wheezes past my lips and shoots toward something hysterical, boosted by acid burn and cloying petals and that churning, churning tightness. My shoulders hunch high around my ears while the sound pitches even higher, lungs immolated and screaming along, nails digging, cutting crescents as I shake and curl tighter, smaller, compacting into stiffness hard enough to rival diamonds, every muscle verging on a cramp and my throat is stinging and my eyes are on fire, hot, wet, and the door is closed, the blinds shut, and maybe I could just— this time— if I stayed quiet, I could—

I could—

But I don't.

I swallow once, twice, suck down, blink it away, then snap upright and get back to work. There's too much shit, not enough time.

Never enough time, not for that.

For you

(Remember to eat lunch.)

I don't.

I don't really remember talking to anyone either. Or finishing paperwork. Answering email. Clearing the inbox backlog, digital and otherwise, but the stack depletes, the numbers go down, Tina gives me shit from the doorway, and soon the peripheral lights tick off overhead in the foyer, a mop bucket rattles its rounds, darkness crept into my office at some point for a visit and now it's here to stay, just its quiet company along with the monitor blasting eye strain, clacking keys, tight shoulders, a headache, and then—

A familiar ass plops down on my desk and scares the shit out of me.

I jerk back in the chair, wheels rolling, hand over heart to keep it from pounding free and Mason looms above it all, bathed in harsh blues, deep shadows, a deeper frown, and eyes that refuse to obey the rules of any ambient illumination.

Right now? They're crinkled soft, even as they scrutinize.

He looks… worried.

When did he even open my door?

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“…Yeah,” I mutter. A lie, an obvious one, but I fight the urge to glance away and dare him to call me out anyway. “You need something, sunshine?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You're late.”

“For what?”

We didn't make plans.

“Getting home.”

Fuck.

I sigh, slumping in the seat, and now I'm looking away, now I'm backing down, running a hand through my hair, mussing and tangling, just like he always does when he's uncertain.

And when the hell did I start doing that?

“Yeah, I'm still behind on shit from my vacation. I was gonna stay late tonight, try and catch up…” I explain, because Tina and I also didn't make plans this year.

(Because she's been marinating in smugness ever since I sighed and told her about the relationship. Because she dropped that shit-eating smirk earlier—that I remember, at least—dripping suggestion all over my office as she waggled her brows and winked and made obnoxious kissy faces until I shoved her out the door, but not before she told me to 'have lots of fun tonight, Alexandra.')

Sure.

“Sorry I didn't text. I… forgot.”

That tightness in my stomach does another loop, and I huff a quiet breath.

Stupid fucking note.

Mason folds his arms. “…The fuck is going on with you?”

Concern blunts the teeth of his words, not that there's any real bite. There never is, not with him, but I tense up anyway, expecting it, expecting to be ripped open.

Blood and pain.

I'd tense up no matter how he asked.

It's okay

(He's not Bobby.)

“Nothing,” I reply, folding my arms, eyes down, “just…”

It's okay

(He's not looking to hurt.)

Probably will anyway, but fuck it. I already know his answer.

Let's just get it over with.

“You didn't leave me a valentine earlier, did you?” My gaze snaps to his. “On my desk?”

Mason scoffs. “Why the hell would I do that?”

This time, it stabs instead of twists, higher up, somewhere in my chest. Something sharp instead of dull.

Disappointment? …Relief? I'm not sure.

Just that it stings.

And it's nighttime, so maybe he feels it too, and maybe that's why he unfolds his arms and shifts toward me, boot heel dangling by the bottom drawer while his voice drops to a softness that matches his accent. “What it say?”

“Nothing,” I repeat, even quieter than him. “Just someone fucking with me. It doesn't matter.”

It does

(Shouldn't lie, not to him. Don't need to. Don't want to, don't like it.)

Mason doesn't like it either, but he doesn't push it. Neither do I.

We look away from each other.

The office swelters around us, too stuffy, too small. Too silent and uncomfortable now to stay. I roll forward to save my work, then turn the computer off and Mason's already waiting for me by the door, a dark silhouette framed by distant fluorescent, my coat and bag hanging off his arms. He pulls me in while I put it all on, yanking me by lapels before abandoning them for the sweater on my lower back, the loose hair at my nape. His lips brush against mine in slow movements, soft nibbling, and he's whispering something to me with it all, with the strokes of his fingers and the circle of our chins, but I can't quite hear.

So ask

(He'll answer—and he won't lie.)

I swallow, then I do.

“…What kind of kiss was that?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs beneath my hands, breath tickling my face. “I want you to feel better.”

“Oh.”

A shadow flits behind his eyes.

“…And if he's still bothering you, I'm gonna break his fucking jaw again.”

I chuckle softly. “Pretty sure it wasn't him this time.”

“Good.” Mason nibbles another kiss, then smirks. “Might still do it anyway.”

That gets a laugh from both of us, one that sprawls into a pause, grey eyes locked to mine while our grins fade out and our breath catches on everything unspoken and nameless rushing in to take the space.

Honesty. It's what I try to speak. Trailing up from the emotional ooze, raw and sticky.

I hope he can fucking see it, hear it cry, but I wipe it off and whisper the words into shape anyway, cheeks flaming, just to be sure—

“I'm sorry, I just… I don't wanna talk about it now.”

—and he answers me with a brush of his mouth, with his tongue parting my lips, with the way he teases into me before licking deeper, the way he jerks our hips together then shoves, a knee between my thighs, my back into a wall, a door frame, a sharp corner, a low groan rumbling up his chest directly into mine and I hear it all this time, in his breathy panting at the edge of our kiss, the firmness in his fingers angling my face to his, the solid heat of his cock pressed hard against me, grinding slow while I cling tight and moan, I hear it all, but he sucks my lip in with a sharp inhale, rolls me around his mouth before releasing with a drag of teeth, and he murmurs it aloud anyway, just to be sure—

“I know, sweetheart. It's fine.”

—then he nips down hard, and it's hard not to smile, hard not to laugh, harder still not to nip that asshole right back, so I don't.

Hold back, that is.

Our lips are swollen and sore by the time the station door swings shut behind us.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc m #twc mason #mason x detective #mason #the detective #zfic #alex/mason #alexandra black

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throwaninkpot · 4 years ago

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RQG Spoilers. Canon-divergence from episode 168.

"Who are you?"

"Well, you tell me," said Earhart. Or, well, "Earhart".

"This is Captain Earhart's body," Hamid-in-Azu replied cautiously, "but I'm not sure who might be inside it?"

"Earhart's'" grinned broadened, and recognition struck Hamid like lightning. And he knew precisely who he was speaking to.

"Well," Wilde-in-Earhart said. "This will certainly be interesting."

Hamid thought, Oh, dear.

It was not a flattering sight, watching yourself vomit into a corner. Watching your body vomit, anyway. Hamid felt his own stomach churn, in sympathy or disgust or maybe embarassment as it brought back memories of his early adventuring days.

And then.

Siggif woke up again, still in Hamid's body. He saw his hands again, still draconic and scaly. "I think 'm g'nna be sick," Siggif muttered, before turning to the edge of the cage and making good on his word.

And then.

There was a susurrus of scales, and Skraak's voice calling out, "Right, what's the situat--" before the voice stopped. Then a thump. When Hamid turned to look, Skraak had disengaged from the pile of sleeping kobods only to have dropped back down to the floor a step away. They--whoever is in Skraak's body--sat there, staring down at themself. Eyes wide, wide, wide. Their mouth moved, but any words were too low for Hamid to catch.

Cel swooped down to kneel at their side. "Hey, little--hey there, hey. How you feeling? I know things are probably really confusing right now, so just, uh, bear with me a moment." They explained the body swap, more succinctly than Hamid was used to from Cel. They wrapped up by gesturing behind them and said, "So the body that looks like Azu is actually Hamid right now, and what looks like Hamid losing his breakfast is actually Siggif, and what looks like Meerk over there patting him on the back is actually Azu, and Captain Earhart is Mister Wilde--"

The kobold head snapped up and their eyes scanned the room before landing where Oscar stood beside Hamid. Their pupils narrowing to slits. "Would you mind repeating that. Who, specifically, did you say is in my body?"

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Hamid was starting to get a headache. This would not end well.

"I take it you're Captain Earhart, then?" he hazarded a guess.

"Yes," Earhart snapped. She scrambled to her feet with difficulty, unused to Skraak's tail and thrown off balanced by it. Cel offered her a hand, helping her to her feet and steadying her. "Now get that dragon-loving bastard out of my body and put me back."

"Well," Cel began, "it's not so simple as that. We don't really know yet--"

"I don't care, figure it out," Earhart ordered. "You're an alchemist," she jabbed a claw towards Cel. "And you're an arcanist," another towards Hamid. "So figure--it--out, and switch us back."

"We'll do our best," Cel placated. "But really, it's--going to take time, and we'll really need to wake the others up and check in on Mister Smith and--and the integrity of the rest of the vessel, because while you were out the wild magic apparently fused the elementals with objects aboard the ship, and there's really no telling what lasting effects--"

"When the captain gives you an order," Earhart raised her voice, "you obey it. And I am ordering you to switch me back first thing."

Hamid stepped forward and said, "I think what we need to do is calm down--"

"I will not stay in this," Earhart snarled. "And I will not have him in my body."

And then.

At that point that Oscar, who had blessedly stayed quiet throughout the exchange, chose to pipe up.

"I agree," he said innocently. "I really ought to have bought you dinner first."

The noise Captain Earhart let out could only be described as a growl. She launched herself at Wilde.

What she intended to do, Hamid wasn't sure. But there was a ferocity on her face paired with Skraak's claws and teeth, and, well. Hamid panicked. Remembering the hug earlier that had scooped Azu clear off the ground, he reached down and put his hands around Oscar's small gnomish torso, and lifted. Oscar went up into the air, grabbing at Hamid's hands as he made a noise of surprise. His feet dangled over Earhart's head where she lunged up at him.

"Hey, hey, whoa there!" Cel reached over and caught Earhart by the arms. "That's not going to help anything!"

"Captain, we're all just a little stressed from the situation. Oscar didn't mean to upset you, I'm sure. Right, Oscar?"

Oscar peered down. "I assure you I had nothing but the purest intentions."

Earhart snarled.

"Okay," Cel said. "We all just need to calm down. So, you and I can go sit over there, and Hamid will take him way, way over there, and we'll all just breathe, okay?"

Earhart glared up at Oscar for a moment. "Fine." She shrugged off Cel's hand and marched to the far corner of the Cel near where Friedrich and Siggif's bodies still slept.

"Well, then," Oscar said. "Hamid, if you don't mind." He tugged at one of Hamid's wrists and wiggled.

"Oh! Of course, sorry." Hamid set him down delicately.

Wilde gave him a wry look. "I never knew you had it in you to sweep me off my feet."

Hamid rolled his eyes.

And then.

They noticed that Wilde's body was no longer curled up when he had gone to sleep. And was instead on the opposite side of the room, knelt over Carter's sleeping body. And going through his pockets.

"What are earth are you doing?" Oscar strode over and put a hand on their shoulder.

Oscar's body jumped. "Aaah! Oh, gods. You can see me? How did you do that?"

Hamid blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I dodn't know how being a spirit would work. I assumed I'd be invisible."

"You thought you were dead?" Wilde raised an eyebrow.

"Well, yes, obviously. How else do you explain the fact I'm standing over my own corpse?" He scoffed.

Instantly, Oscar's face soured. "You're Carter."

"Of course I am. You said you could see me."

"Then, pray tell, what were you doing to your supposed corpse?"

"Looting," Carter replied, as if it were the most obvious thing.

The rest of the group exchanged a glance.

"Look," Carter said, crossing his arms defensively. "I have good tools, and good knives, and--well not a lot of valuables, but I have nice things. And I found my corpse, I'd loot it. And I did find my corpse, so why would I leave all my stuff for one of you to take? I don't know what I need in the afterlife! Being dead is very new to me."

"You're not dead, Carter," Azu told him. "The wild magic made us switch bodies."

"Oh." He laughed. "Well, that's certainly better than being dead. All right, then. Who did I switch bodies with?"

"It's not--it's not an exchange, exactly," Cel spoke up. "It's more like, say, your soul is a piece of paper. And you took all our little pieces of paper souls, and you folded them up, and the tossed them into a hat, and you shook that around a bit, and then we--our bodies--all pulled different paper souls out of the hat at random."

"You're in Oscar's body. We'll have to wait and see who wound up in yours," Hamid supplied. He pointed around the room explaining who was who now.

"Huh. You know, it could be worse. Hang on, if I'm Wilde then--" He struck a pose and lidded his eyes. "Oh, look at me, I'm Oscar Wilde! I'm aloof and sexy and rude to Howard Carter for no reason and I have trauma!"

Oscar scowled. He murmured something under his breath, and then looked startled when a scarlet mage hand appeared beside Carter. Then, Oscar gestured and the mage hand moved to pinch Carter, who yelped and jumped.

When Oscar turned to the others, it was with a smirk. He announced, "The good news is that I can cast magic again. The even better news is that we may have finally found a pair of shackles our good friend Mr. Carter won't be slithering his way out of."

"What? Aw, but that means I can't do any magic," Carter said.

"You couldn't do magic before, Carter," Azu reminded him.

"Yes, but that was in my body, I don't know what I can do in Wilde's body. I could have had fun."

"Let's not do anything in anyone's body!" Hamid raised his voice. "Let's all just be patient until the others wake up, and then we try to understand what has happened."

Siggif raised his hand. "Can I throw up again?"

"Ew, yes. Just use a bucket this time."

Siggif nodded and went to look for a bucket. As Oscar began casting prestidigitation on himself, and the others gathered around Cel, Hamid sighed. He had just woken up, and already, he felt tired to his bones.

#anyway here's the bad crack fic #or is it still crack when alex did it in canon??#rqg #rusty quill gaming #rqg spoilers #my writing #inky makes things #this has been a post

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bucketteeth · 5 days ago

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Understanding the Importance of Excavator Attachments

Understanding the Importance of Excavator Attachments Excavator attachments are crucial components that enhance the versatility, efficiency, and functionality of excavators across various industries, including construction, landscaping, mining, forestry, and agriculture. These attachments expand the capabilities of excavators beyond traditional digging tasks, allowing them to perform a wide range…

#Bucket teeth material #bucket teeth type #bucket teeth wear resistance #Bucket tooth manufacturing process #Bucket Tooth Materials #Conical Teeth #Digging Bucket Tooth #Earthmoving teeth #excavator bucket teeth #Forging bucket tooth #Forging die casting teeth #Horizontal mounted bucket teeth #precision casting bucket teeth #Replacement Bucket Teeth #rock teeth #sand casting bucket teeth

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inspirationdivine · 5 years ago

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And Cut! || Lydia, Simon, Winston

Timing: Thursday afternoon

Parties: @inspirationdivine, @inconvenientsimonstrocity, @danetobelieve

Summary: Winston has a possible solution to Lydia and Simon’s sticky problem

Lydia paced backwards and forwards in the living room, her heels clicking on the wooden forward. She’d started when Winston had messaged them, and had barely even spoken to Simon in the interim time, except to tell him that they were going to solve this, tonight. She could hardly wait. The doorbell rang, and Lydia jumped, looking to Simon with an inconsiderate eagerness. “They’re here. “ She barely waited for him to begin moving with her before she darted to the front door excitedly. The door swung open so fast it rattled on its hinges. Lydia clasped her hands. “Come in, come in. What have you found?”

Winston was glad that they had taken Natalia’s offer on working at Castillo’s Crafts. It gave them access to resources that they would’ve previously never dreamed of and more importantly it gave them the ability to act when they needed to. “Oh hi Lydia, nice to see you too, yes I did come with a solution to your problem,” Winston raised an eyebrow and shook their head in exasperation, “do you want me to just tell you or should I tell the person you’re also bound to, that seems pretty fair.” The stress of the whole third eye situation had proven pretty overwhelming and it was nice to have a distraction of some kind. The air between the two of them was filled with an unnecessary tension as Lydia and Simon waited for Winston to arrive; suffice to say, she was a lot more high-strung about this than he was as she paced around. He attributed it to his being a calmer person altogether. When the doorbell rang and she looked to him expectantly, he got to his feet in a manner he hoped was quick enough for her and she virtually pulled him to the door in her excitement. Fortunately, it seemed Lydia had the conversation under control though he easily remembered Winston from their incident in the Morgue and he gave a small wave with an equally-small smile.

Lydia pursed her lips, nonplussed. She was hardly apologetic for skipping right past the small talk. Stepping aside to let them through, she looked back at Simon with a small shrug. “I am not so interested in you telling us as I am in you doing it. Do you need a work surface? We can use my work stations, my kitchen counter, or we could go outside if you prefer it.”

Spotting Simon, Winston couldn’t help their bemused smile and wave in their direction. “It’s Simon?” they asked somewhat surprised. Quite the unlikely duo. Looking around, Winston frowned and nodded. “I need to assemble a few things and then we can cast the shape of the scissors, fortunately we won’t have to melt anything.” Luce wasn’t here to be a human furnace this time. “Do you have like a garage or somewhere you don’t mind us making a bit of a mess in?” Adjusting their glasses, Winston shrugged the bag into a more comfortable position and looked at Simon. “So, how did this happen?” Though he was literally strung along for the ride, Simon felt the need to speak up at Winston’s request. “Uh, sorry for… asking but--” He cleared his throat and scratched his neck. “Oh, um… We walked past each other then we suddenly couldn’t.” He felt like he should’ve gone into greater detail but that was exactly how it happened how he recalled it and there wasn’t anything else TO mention. “We’d only ever talked once before, and it was online.” He looked at Winston as he explained, hoping they would be able to tell that he wasn’t withholding any information from them.

“Yes, the pottery room,” Lydia said, leading them both to another side of the house that she hadn’t taken Simon to before, this time on the ground floor. It was a converted garage, effectively, with carefully crafted ventilation system to accommodate the huge kiln. “It’s rather frustrating. It was like we were lassoed together by something, like we stepped onto a trap or something.”

“The pottery room?” Winston couldn’t judge too hard, Ricky had set up a workshop that was essentially his own personal sculpting studio. “Oh, so, that’s kind of weird, usually these things don’t happen spontaneously, I didn’t find a bunch of info on that but I guess it would be worth a second look if you want to know how this all happened, guess it doesn’t change anything”. Following Lydia through to the pottery room, they nodded and began unpacking their bags. Pulling out a large vial of a silvery liquid, a mould for scissors, a number of powders and other such similar items that you’d expect to see in your standard fantasy kit. “Okay, I need water and I need like a hook or something because these are going to literally be invisible and although I’ve got something in mind to help, probably a good idea we keep it on one thing.” Simon was good at definitely good at keeping up with Lydia at this point though he had to admit, it was a little unusual for her to be so quick about her movements this time. He understood, of course but he still found himself curious when she took them to yet another room he hadn’t seen before… it was like one big surprise box sometimes. He paid attention to everything Winston said though he couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering and he took small steps here and there to observe the area, glancing over at Lydia when they asked for the few things they needed - he hadn’t been there before, obviously, so he didn’t know where anything was or what he was allowed to touch.

“I certainly hope that doesn’t change whether the scissors work or not,” Lydia replied, raising a sharp eye brow. Although she knew Winston didn’t immediately know the answer for that. Lydia watched him unpack anxiously, bouncing her knee until Winston asked for things. Lydia picked up a nearby bucket and handed it to Simon. “The sink’s over there, if you don’t mind. There’s a hook in this cupboard, I’ll grab it.” Just about nine feet apart. Perfect.

“I’m not exactly an expert, so I guess we’ll just have to try and hope for the best.” Winston didn’t really see any alternative and it wasn’t as if this could end them up with any additional body parts that they may or may not have full time. “Simon, grab me the water please, I’ve got to start mixing this stuff together.” Their hands were already unscrewing caps, popping corks and mixing together various ingredients. They crushed some brightly coloured minerals into a fine powder, adding it to the silver liquid which was actually mercury. This was apparently a recipe for quicksilver which they would then enchant. “Lydia can you please measure out three tablespoons of sulphur, two teaspoons of salt peter and 100 ml of the mercury.” Winston nodded towards a small ring of kitchen measuring spoons. They’d changed everything to cooking weights, it was easier.

Once he had the bucket and was told what to do, Simon acted accordingly, making sure not to pull on their bond too much to reach for the faucet to retrieve the bucket of water - there was a little bit of stretching involved. As the water filled the bucket, he listened to the ingredients Winston was naming off and he found himself more curious, forcing himself to ask questions as the room filled with unpleasant noises and scents; was magic something that you had to have proficiency for? Could you learn through hard work and patience? When were the scissors going to turn invisible? Was that part the magic part? He kept his questions to himself and took the now-full bucket of water over to the intern, offering it out to them in such a manner that they could take it whenever they were ready for it.

Setting the hook in front of Winston, Lydia watched them beginning to arrange their ingredients. Pots scraped against the stained work surface, sending shivers down her spine. The popped bottles had a pungent aroma and Lydia’s lip curled when Winston asked her to handle Sulfur. She worked carefully and diligently, scraping the heaped teaspoons of salt Peter perfectly flat, before leaving the ingredients for Winston to handle it. “What else can I do?”

“So, now we just mix everything together, Simon will add the water, you can add the mercury and I’ll add the dry ingredients. We’ve just got to pour slowly and stir it all together and then we set it.” Winston was glad that there wasn’t an extensive and gruelling forging process here. Winston set about pouring the ingredients together and the mixture. Once everything was ready they poured it into the pre-prepared mould and looked at them. “I need to enchant this obviously, but it’s going to be draining, with your consent, I’d like to use your energy as well to do it properly, I don’t want to make a mistake.” Like passing out. He wasn’t about to say ‘sounds simple enough’ but Simon continued to do what he was told, waiting for the correct prompts before adding the water. He did, however, feel his eyebrow raise at the mention of ‘using energy’ and though part of him thought he should’ve kept quiet as he had been the entirety of this exchange so far, he felt the need to ask. “Sorry, dumb question but… what’s this about ‘using your energy”?” He wasn’t particularly worried about the concept - he’d be happy to help in whatever way he could - but he was curious about how that was going to go. Was Winston talking about HIS energy? BOTH their energy? Lydia knew magic… her energy specifically?

All at once, Lydia’s eagerness dropped like a brick to the floor, scowling. Impetuous little human. Always asking for more, like all humans She grit her teeth together, her eyes meeting Simon’s searchingly. “You wouldn’t take more than you needed, would you?” She asked Winston, but she was still looking at Simon. Perhaps properly for the first time since Winston had arrived. “Spellcaster bodies don’t always have the strength to tame the magic they use.” They are only human, after all. “I would also like to know precisely what you mean, though.”

“Magic takes up energy, if I cast a spell that lifts something that’s a hundred kilos then I’d feel it, it would take a toll on me. It burns calories, leaves you feeling exhausted and tired.” Winston shrugged. “I wouldn’t have anywhere to put the energy if I did take more then the spell required, you don’t need to worry about it.” Winston looked at them. “We’re going to place an enchantment on the scissors, that requires a fair amount of energy, I’ll be the focus and actually cast the spell, but you’ll assist.”

Perhaps Simon was just being dumb that day or perhaps somethng else was weighing on his mind more but he wasn’t quite grasping the concepts that were being laid out in front of him. So Winston could just… siphon energy from them? He wanted to ask but instead, he just gave a small shake of his head accompanied with a shrug. “Do what you have to do,” He responded. “I have energy to spare.” He wasn’t lying - even though the moon was new, he realised he was still a reservoir of adrenaline just waiting to kickstart.

“Whatever it takes.” If this worked, after all, Lydia had living, breathing energy stores of her own walking around upstairs. She stepped to stand beside Winston. Her wings shifted under her glamour, briefly causing the gentlest breeze around them. Whatever it would take to be free again.

“Give me your hands,” Winston instructed as they reached out and gestured for them to take their hands in their own. Stretching out for them, Winston began the ritual enchantment. Latin words spilled forth and they could feel the energy siphon from themselves and the others as they offered it forth. Winston watched as the mould shimmered and the liquid inside began to gradually fade away. Sweat beaded their brow as they completed their work. “Should be ready now, if you want to carefully pick it up. But don’t drop it because finding it again will be beyond difficult.” Simon offered his hand obediently, a flash of doubt crossing his mind that they were about to do something illegal - he’d only seen magic used once before and he was still finding remnants of that fight while he cleaned the morgue, it seemed like. The latin wasn’t entirely helping but he held still, deciding to keep his eyes on the tool that was being enchanted before them, remaining vigilant even after the scissors turned invisible. He exhaled when Winston finished, almost feeling as though he had run up a flight of stairs. “That’s it?” He asked, not out of dismissal but affirmation.

Lydia nearly dropped to her knees when the drain came. The strangest thing - it was something she’d felt before, in a dozen different people. It wasn’t through a hand but a kiss, fed side by side with the creative burst. She’d felt this a thousand times in the hearts of the humans she kept, and the way they’d sagged in her arms after. The thought churned her stomach, for all the wrong reasons.

Lydia looked at Simon, then Winston, and carefully reached into the scissor mould. Her fingers touched cool metal, drawing a gasp of air out of her. “They’re here!” She gasped, and picked them up. It was strange to see her flesh contort to squeeze around thin air, but Lydia would rather feel them tightly in her than drop them and risk losing them forever. She walked backwards, until the bond tightened around her belly. No point getting excited yet, she thought, looking Simon in the eyes as she held up the invisible scissors and snipped them in the air between them.

Nothing changed. The tension was still taut around her belly. “No, come on,” Lydia whined, snipping it again, and again, her lips curling down in disappointment as nothing changed. Nothing changed! Lydia was almost at the point of throwing the scissors in contempt when something snagged. It pulled her forwards, just for a second, and then the tension vanished. Lydia stumbled back, her mouth gaping right open.

Bemused, Winston watched their handiwork. Watching Lydia apparently snip at the open air was something to say the least, but the way that she held the scissors was more then enough to convince Winston that they were doing what they were meant to. She seemed frustrated and then she cut through something and Winston exhaled. “So it worked?” The werewolf watched carefully as Lydia collected the scissors, invisible though they were and Simon opted to stand as still and sturdily as he could while she tried to cut the line, which didn’t seem to work at first until it did and he felt as though a belt had fallen from around his waist. He glanced down, then at the distance between himself and Lydia… then took a generous, slow step backwards, finding that he was able to do so. Nora was right; invisible scissors worked and the bond had been successfully severed. “I believe it did,” He remarked mildly before giving a single clap. “Splendid job, Winston! Brilliantly done.”

“That’s absurd,” Lydia breathed, watching Simon step away from her. It had been what, nearly ten days? Ten days where they couldn’t even stand that far apart. Twelve feet now, and when Lydia took another step, it was one the same size as Simon’s. Thirteen feet. There was barely space in the room to contain her excitement, as she walked back to the table and carefully set the scissors back in the mold. Or she tried to - these things were far from simple. “Human magic makes no sense whatsoever. I am incredibly grateful, Winston. If you give me your bank information I will repay you as you deserve.” Lydia bounced her leg, looking from one to the other, wondering how quickly she could push the both of them out of her home.

Raising an eyebrow, Winston shrugged. “Magic is … magic I guess.” They reached out their bandaged hand (after all they didn’t want people to see the weird eyelid on it) and carefully scooped up the scissors, placing it on the hook before attaching the hook to a string and beginning to carefully place it into a cloth bag. “I’m going to keep this if that’s cool, unless one of you want it.” Winston wasn’t sure what they would need invisible scissors for but just in case right. “But, you don’t have to … should I be getting people to pay me for this?” Winston frowned, they’d never really thought about it. “Maybe you could just owe me one? I’m not sure what the going rate is...” Winston shrugged. “Cool, Simon, you want a lift somewhere or you gonna stick around for a bit?” Though he could virtually sense the excitement radiating off of Lydia as the latter stepped further and further away, Simon felt decidedly… different. He glanced between Lydia to Winston and gave a noncommittal shrug, acting almost as if he hadn’t been tethered to the woman in the first place. “You know what they say about being good at something and not doing it for free,” He mentioned, turning to give Lydia an unintentionally decisive look. “N-no, I’m… yeah, I could use a lift,” He spoke to Winston as he looked at the Fae, long, almost longingly but covering it with kindness before it lingered too long. “Thank you for your patience throughout this ordeal,” He gave her a small nod accompanied with a vague smile. “I’ll, uh… get out of your space now.” And that was it; he backed away slowly towards the door, turning his head to face Winston now as he waited for them to depart with him.

“By all means, please do keep it,” Lydia said. “I have little use for something I can’t see, normally.” She looked to Winston, and nodded. “You should be repaid justly for your work.” That, and Lydia would rather not owe another human a favour. Her eyes drifted to their bandaged hand, and back to them. “I will pay you significantly above whatever the going rate is. Money is not a concern.” At Winston’s question, Lydia felt a chill run down her spine, looking to Simon expectantly. The last thing she wanted was for him to linger, and that was as clear on her face as the longing was on his. “I would be very grateful if you could. It has been lovely getting to know you, but if I saw you again within the week it would be too soon.”

Nodding gently, Winston quickly gathered their things up, packing everything away as efficiently as they possibly could. “Okay, I’ll send you my details when I get home and you can decide the price.” Winston had never really thought that this was something that they could just do and get paid for. Maybe they would have to start looking at doing more of this, a little more money wouldn’t hurt and it had kept them from worrying about the nightmare visions. “I’ll let you name a price or we can discuss it later,” they turned to Simon as they shouldered their rucksack and headed towards the door, calling over their shoulder to Lydia. “Let me know if you get tied to someone else in the future, I’ll see if I can help again.” As they stepped into the sunlight, they turned to Simon. “Where do you want to go dude?” Simon saw Lydia’s expression out of his peripheral vision and he blinked after a pause, shaking his head and focusing on Winston. “Uh, just-- home’s fine. I’ll tell you how to get there.” He put his hands in his pockets, his own expression plaintive as he looked to the ground in submission once more. Home… it might be nice, maybe.

#wickedswriting #para #chatzy #simon #winston

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purplepersnicketywrites · 5 years ago

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For the "mini" fic prompts, can I request #19? :DDD

‘things you said when we were the happiest we ever were’

okay so this is like, one of the SAPPIEST things i’ve written I think! it’s also 3.7k words!

—

“I like you,” Kirishima said.

Katsuki stared at him. The redhead seemed to squirm under his gaze, lower lip bitten between his stupid-sharp teeth, eyes flicking away from Katsuki’s face to somewhere on the ground. When Kirishima had begged and pouted until Katsuki had agreed to take them both hiking, this was not the conversation Katsuki had been expecting to have once they reached the top.

That didn’t mean it was something unwelcome.

Kirishima drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and met Katsuki’s eyes again. “I like you, Bakugou. Um. A lot. So I was wondering if maybe I could ask you out on a date?”

Contrary to popular belief, Katsuki was actually quite familiar with his feelings. It didn’t mean that he always agreed with them. In this case, however, Katsuki embraced the warm and golden glowing bubble that cast its light through his entire being like a miniature sun. Happiness wasn’t enough of a word to describe it.

Katsuki didn’t let his voice waver when he replied to his best friend. “Ask, then.”

“Oh, uh,” Kirishima swallowed with an audible gulp. “Would you want to go on a date with me?”

There was only one thing that Katsuki could say.

—

“Hey Katsuki, what’s your plan after Yuuei?”

Katsuki frowned slightly and paused his braiding of Eijirou’s hair. “Plan? For what?”

“Oh, like,” Eijirou waved one of his hands around, leaning back into Katsuki’s chest. “You gonna sidekick first? Or go pro straight from the get-go.”

“Pro, obviously,” Katsuki said. “Gonna open an agency an’ everything. I’ve got the reputation to pull it off already.”

“Yeah, I guess you do,” Eijirou said, dropping his head backwards onto Katsuki’s shoulder. Katsuki peered at his face and Eijirou grinned at him. There was something not a hundred-percent genuine in that grin and Katsuki almost frowned. “So are you looking for an agency building?”

“Haven’t had all that much time for it,” Katsuki said, watching Eijirou for signs of reaction to anything he was saying . “Googled some shit but I’d want to go and see wherever these places are. Can’t exactly go property hunting in the middle of term.”

Eijirou turned his head and kissed the first part of Katsuki’s skin that he reached, just under his jaw. “How about apartments?”

“Gonna have to be near the agency, so I gotta look for that first,” Katsuki said. “If I want somewhere with decent villain traffic it’ll probably be in one of the more expensive areas with a high population density. The government agency fund doesn’t cover personal accomodations, so I’ll probably have to set up a hammock in my office for a couple of months until the Heroics feedback kicks in and I start earning something decent.”

“Hm,” Eijirou said, kissing Katsuki’s neck again. As much as Katsuki wanted to indulge in that, he had a feeling that something was on his boyfriend’s mind.

“What is it?” he asked, prodding Eijirou’s cheek.

“Oh, well, um,” Eijirou pulled a slightly shifty face. “I was just- I mean. I don’t have as much of an ironclad plan at the moment…”

“So, what?” Katsuki tilted his head. “You’re lookin’ for advice?”

Eijirou’s face skewed a little more. “Not exactly. Uh. I just. Um. Would you ever, uh, consider maybe having two hammocks in your office?”

Oh.

Katsuki stared at his boyfriend and felt overwhelmed all of a sudden. Holy shit.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Now they were both staring. Katsuki could feel his cheeks heating up but damn, it was the truth, and he’d had to say it.

“What?” Eijirou said, the first of them to break out of the stupor. “You- What?”

“I love you, Kirishima Eijirou,” Katsuki said. The words tasted right on his tongue.

Eijirou sat up, twisting to face Katsuki and reach for his face. “You- You- Holy-”

“I love you,” Katsuki repeated, pushing his face forward so that their foreheads met. Now that he’d said the words, he couldn’t stop. “I love you! I fucking love you, Eijirou.”

Eijirou kissed him, hard and sweet. This kiss didn’t last all that long with Eijirou pulling back to pant through his grin. “I love you too.”

A sensation not unlike one of Kaminari’s shocks zipped up Katsuki’s spine. His stomach churned, but in a good way, like all of his insides were dancing. Katsuki felt elated, giddy even, and he wrapped his arms around Eijirou’s waist to bring him closer.

They traded words and kisses and smiles and words again, over and over and over.

It occurred to Katsuki that he hadn’t actually answered Eijirou’s question, so he pulled away slightly - and only slightly, with their noses still brushing and Eijirou’s breath hot against his mouth.

“You do know we can share a hammock, right, dumbass?” Katsuki asked.

Eijirou very being seemed to brighten at the question, and he responded with his own. “Does that mean that you do wanna live together after Yuuei?”

There was only one thing that Katsuki could say.

—

Katsuki wasn’t normally one for nerves in intense situations, but this was something entirely different. It wasn’t like some fight against a villain where Katsuki could explode and explode and put his feelings into action. It wasn’t remaining calm while his partner was injured, letting everything condense into a laser-focus until Eijirou was safe.

No. This were the fluttery, flurry-of-emotions type nerves that Katsuki didn’t know how to deflect into productivity. The kind of nerves that part of him enjoyed, the nerves he had felt just before leaning into his first kiss as he tangled his fingerss into red hair, the nerves that had shuddered through him in waves when he had knelt on one knee in front of Eijirou with a ring in one hand.

“Yo, how’re you hold- Ooh, not so hot,” Kyouka said, poking her head around the door. She glanced around the room and at Katsuki, who was sitting on one of the haphazardly scattered chairs. “They left you alone in here? Fools.”

“The fuck do you mean ‘they’, Headphones? You’re on my side, too,” Katsuki grumbled.

“Oh it’s Headphones right now, huh? Man you’re sweating buckets,” Kyouka said, putting her hands on her hips.

Katsuki glared at her. “No fucking kidding.”

“Hey now, it’s just Eijirou,” Kyouka said. “Think about that dumb grin he’s gonna be wearing. Just for you.”

God, Eijirou’s fucking smiles. Eijirou was easy with them, flashing a grin here, showing off a smirk there, but not that easy. Some of Eijirou’s smiles were rarer than others, and Katsuki adored drawing them out of him. Like the way Eijirou smiled when he woke up, so soft and sleepy and content. No one else got to see that.

“I love him so fucking much,” Katsuki said, groaning and burying his face in his hands. “That’s not the- Ugh. We shoulda just eloped.”

“Says Mr ‘If These Napkins Aren’t The Right Colour I’m Gonna Commit A Crime’.”

“Shuddup,” Katsuki said. “Someone who doesn’t think leopard print or pitch black tablecloths are an acceptable wedding aesthetic had to be in charge of decor.”

“So that ruled out all of your friends,” Kyouka said, grabbing a nearby chair and sitting down. “Because we’re all either from the same dimension that Hawaiian Shirt designs are stolen from, or goths.”

“Exactly,” Katsuki said. “Useless, the lot of you.”

“Denki threw a bangin’ bachelor party, though, right?” Kyouka asked.

“I guess,” Katsuki said. Pikachu had taken them all to a theme-park with enough express passes to skip the queue for any of the rides. It had been fun. He had made out with Eijirou on the ferris wheel like they were teenagers again, and no one had asked for his autograph.

“There, see? You’re smiling again, Blasty,” Kyouka said. Oh, well, the distraction had helped. “Think about how powerful you’ll feel when you can say ‘my husband’.”

“So fucking powerful.”

“Precisely! It’s a good feeling,” Kyouka grinned. “Remember when Denki kept dropping ‘my wife’ into nearly every conversation?”

“Too well,” Katsuki said, shaking his head.

“Well that’s gonna be you and Eijirou, soon. You’ll be rubbing it in everyone’s faces,” Kyouka said. Fuck, that sounded good. “Alright, final check. You got your suit on properly?”

Katsuki looked down at himself. “Pretty sure.”

“Tie, shoes, any weird decorative things?”

“All there,” Katsuki said. He was wearing Red Riot themed cufflinks, and he knew Eijirou had a matching pair with his own brand.

“Makeup and hair?” Kyouka asked, tilting her head.

“Jeez, it ain’t like this is a broadcast production,” Katsuki muttered. “But yeah. It’s all sorted. If you can’t see it then Mina did her job right.”

Kyouka studied him for a few minutes. “Vows?”

“Hell yeah,” Katsuki said. “Everything’s ready. It’s just the fuckin’ waiting.”

“Good job you don’t have to do that any more,” Kyouka said, glancing at her watch. “It’s time to go, Katsuki!”

“Oh, shit,” Katsuki said, standing. “Shit, shit, shit. Fuck, okay, let’s go.”

Everything after that was blurred by adrenaline, until he was standing up near the altar at a very familiar pair of red eyes as Eijirou approached up the aisle. Katsuki couldn’t tear his eyes away - wouldn’t, in any case. The very world was glowing.

“Hi,” Eijirou whispered, once he was standing in front of Katsuki. God, he looked so fucking handsome. “Are you ready for this?”

There was only one thing that Katsuki could say.

—

“Whoa!” Eijirou said, laughing from where he was pinned to the wall next to the door in their apartment as Katsuki adorned his throat in kisses. “Uh, what’s the special occasion, Blasty?”

Katsuki shook his head. “Just kiss me back already.”

Eijirou planted a smacker on Katsuki’s cheek. Ugh, he hadn’t meant like that and Eijirou knew it, judging from the mischief in his husband’s eyes.

“Gonna make me guess, huh? Was it something that happened today?”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. Fine, if Eijirou was gonna be like this… He leant in and began to work up a hickey on Eijirou’s collarbone.

“That’s a yes, huh? Augh, I’m gonna have to cover that u- Katsuki- Gonna have to cover that up! Was it something I did?”

Katsuki nibbled his way up Eijirou’s throat up to his ear.

“Hmm, was it the b- Oh.”

Eijirou grabbed his face and pushed him back. The redhead was staring as Katsuki with his big wide eyes and a kind of thunderstruck expression.

“Is- So you weren’t joking, earlier? With that baby?”

Katsuki grinned at him. “Nope.”

“Katsuki!” Eijirou cried - literally, there were tears forming in his eyes. “You- Soon? Really? You’re ready for kids?”

Katsuki took in Eijirou’s radiant, adoration-filled expression, pictured it directed at a couple of rowdy brats storming around the room with blankets tied onto them as capes. Damn, they’d probably have to move into an actual house - good thing they could afford it now with their ever-growing popularity.

Katsuki pictured reading storybooks together, being woken up in the middle of the night by a kid who’d just had a nightmare, sticking scribbled drawings up on the fridge they were going to have in their big fancy-ass kitchen.

Fuck yes, he was ready for kids. He wanted to be a father with Eijirou so badly that it burned, hotter and brighter than he wanted to be the number one hero.

Katsuki kissed Eijirou, as deeply as he could when his husband was bearing that big goofy grin of his.

“Oh my god,” Eijirou said, arms sweeping around Katsuki’s waist to lift him up and spin the pair of them across the room. “You wanna be a dad with me?!”

There was only one thing that Katsuki could say.

—

“She hasn’t had the best start to life,” the social worker said, looking at her paperwork with a troubled expression. Katsuki didn’t remember her name but Eijirou definitely knew it. “She doesn’t remember all that much - as she was very young - but her birthparents were villains and she was retrieved during a raid on their house. She was rather neglected.”

“Sounds a little like Eri,” Eijirou muttered, and Katsuki grabbed one of his hands to try and stop him from clenching his fists too hard.

“She’s been responding well to her foster family and making progress on all of her developmental targets,” the social worker continued. “But ideally we’d like to get her to a permanent family as soon as possible, so if you’re unsure about proceeding after you’ve met her, let us know as soon as you can so we can go back to looking for another match for her.”

Katsuki nodded. The idea of giving up on the kid rankled with him already, but the rational side of his brain reminded him that if they didn’t end up being compatible, it’d be better for everyone to say so.

“She has two older siblings placed with other families,” the social worker said. “And she currently had regular contact with them. Would you be willing to accomodate this?”

“Oh, yeah, sure!” Eijirou said. Katsuki nodded again.

They had been stood outside of this two-year-old’s foster home for far too long while the social worker briefed them. Fuck, he just- He wanted to see her already.

“Alright, let’s head in.”

The social worker knocked on the door. The woman who opened the door greeted them with a smile. She was small, but kind-looking, and reminded Katsuki a little of Auntie Inko.

“Welcome!” She said, but the rest of the pleasantries flew over Katsuki’s head. Fuck, he was just too excited. They might be meeting their daughter today.

The foster carer led them into her house and into a kitchen. There. A little girl with a shock of bright, shaggy blue hair sat scribbling furiously as a piece of paper with a green crayon. Katsuki remembered from the paperwork that she was three. He didn’t know how big three-year-olds were supposed to be. Was she tall for her age? Short?

She looked up at them as they entered the room, and Katsuki felt his heart lurch. Her eyes were red. It could be something they all shared. Shit, was he about to start crying? Where the fuck was his composure, what the hell.

“Aoimi,” said the foster carer - that was the girl’s name. “We have some guests today.”

Aoimi narrowed her eyes and looked between the three new faces.

“Why?” she asked. Her foster-mother laughed.

“I thought it would be nice to have some company! Be nice to them, okay?”

“Maybe,” Aoimi said, going back to her colouring.

The foster-carer laughed again. “She has a bit of a personality on her!”

Katsuki met Eijirou’s eyes - his husband was beaming at him.

“Good,” Katsuki said, sitting down in the chair he was pointed to. “You wouldn’t wanna be boring, huh kid?”

Aoimi looked up at him again, as considering as a three-year-old could be. “Wanna see my quirk?”

The girl’s foster-mother looked like she was biting back a grimace. “Now, Aoimi-”

“Yes,” Katsuki said. He looked up at the foster-carer for a moment. “If your quirk’s not too messy to use indoors.”

“It is not,” Aoimi said, wiggling a little in her seat and sitting up straight. Her foster-mother sighed and nodded. Aoimi grinned, and Katsuki watched as the tiny girl’s teeth sharpened. Claws grew from her fingers, and blue fur began to sprout over her skin. A long, thin tail with a tuft of fur at the end of it began to wave around behind her, until the girl Katsuki was looking at was more of a cub.

“That’s pretty cool,” Eijirou said, leaning around Katsuki from his own seat to see Aoimi more clearly.

The girl nodded, teeth still bared. Katsuki thought that as she got older, her canines might even longer than they already were, like a saber-toothed cat. Aoimi detransformed slowly, fur receding and teeth shrinking back into shape. “What are your quirks?”

Katsuki held out one of his hands and let it spark a few times. “I can make explosions.”

“Whoa,” Aoimi’s eyes bugged out a bit. “That’s like Ground Zero!”

Katsuki grinned. “You could say that, yeah.”

The little girl studied him for a long moment. “You are Ground Zero.”

“Yep, my real name is Kirishima Katsuki,” Katsuki said. He pointed at Eijirou. “And the big lug over there is my husband, Kirishima Eijirou.”

“Red Riot,” Aoimi said. She seemed to be taking this quite well. “You’re here ‘cause you wanna adopt me, right? I think you should, it’d be cool to have hero dads.”

Huh.

“Aoimi,” her foster-mother said, sounding exasperated.

“I’m not stupid,” Aoimi said, jutting her chin out. “I can read.”

Holy fuck, it was like looking in a mirror, kinda. Katsuki found himself grinning even harder.

The meeting continued, with Eijirou asking more questions than Katsuki could have thought about this kind of stuff, and Aoimi herself making a pretty big impact on Katsuki. He’d known pretty much from the moment he’d met the girl’s eyes, really, but the more he talked to her, the more determined he was.

He nearly cried again when they were waving goodbye to Aoimi and her foster-mother. God, he was turning into such a fucking sap, wasn’t he?

The social worker reached her car and turned to address them.

“Well, you’ve met Aoimi now. Do you need some time to think about it, or would you like me to put that you’re happy to proceed with the adoption on my report?”

He could tell from the look in Eijirou’s eyes what their answer would be. Eijirou nodded at him.

There was only one thing that Katsuki could say.

—

“Katsuki! Katsuki come here!”

Katsuki bolted into the room at the sound of Eijirou’s voice. “What’s-”

“Look!” Eijirou pointed to the TV, where some sort of news was airing. “There, there, look! A pair of hero interns from Yuuei just debuted, Katsuki! Guess who it was!”

“Holy shit,” Katsuki squinted at the screen, at the bright blue blob he could just about make out talking to a couple of police officers in the background. “Aoimi?”

“Yes! I just turned the news on and there she was!” Eijirou crowed. “She and her friend on the other internship with Gevaudan apprehended a purse-snatcher with a crocodile quirk. Here, I’ll rewind so you can see.”

“She’s okay, right?” Katsuki asked as Eijirou rolled the news footage back.

Eijirou nodded, bouncing up and down in his seat like he was an excitable teenager again as the takedown of the crocodile villain happened. Her fellow intern looked to have some sort of speed-boosting or strength-based quirk and he had flung Aoimi in her cat form at the villain. She’d been big enough to pin the villain to the ground until the other intern and Gevaudan showed up.

Katsuki found himself beaming. Damn, that was his daughter.

Once Gevaudan had taken over the arrest, Aoimi reverted back to human and grabbed her friend in a tight hug. A very tight hug. Katsuki’s eyes narrowed.

“Man, I wanna call her,” Eijirou said. “I’m gonna call her, got your phone on you?”

Katsuki handed it over, and Eijirou immediately went to Aoimi’s number.

She picked up after three rings. “Dad! Pa! I debuted!”

“We saw on the news, honey!” Eijirou said. “We’re so proud of you!”

“Aw, thank you! I- Yeah, it’s my dads. -I’m so glad you saw it!”

Katsuki leant in to the receiver. “No one can keep Hellcat down! You fuckin’ killed it out there, lioncub.”

“Augh, don’t call me that baby name,” Aoimi complained, though she didn’t sound too put out. “But thanks!”

“It’s my job to call you baby names, snugglekins.”

Katsuki could see Eijirou trying to smother his laughter.

“Pa, you’re so embarrassing.”

Katsuki cackled. “Oh yeah, that reminds me - bring your boyfriend over this weekend and we’ll celebrate the two of you taking down your first villain with a proper meal.”

“Wh- N- We’re not- Shut up, Pa!”

“My mistake,” Katsuki snickered, handing the phone back to Eijirou.

“Seconding the invite, though,” Eijirou said. “Debuts are something worth commemorating!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Aoimi said. She paused and said all the rest in a rush. “We’ll be there, love you both, bye.”

Katsuki put his phone back in his pocket and leaned over onto Eijirou. “She’s growing up, Ei.”

“And growing up well,” Eijirou said, curling his arm around Katsuki’s shoulders.

“Definitely doing better than me at that age,” Katsuki snorted.

Eijirou pressed a kiss to his temple. “I think the next generation of heroes is gonna be a good one, huh?”

Katsuki turned to kiss his husband on the lips. Well, with their daughter among them...

There was only one thing that Katsuki could say.

—

“Whew,” Eijirou said. “I’d forgotten how much a mountain can take out of you.”

“Baby.”

Eijirou laughed, still wheezing a little from the climb. “Man, I haven’t been a baby for a long-ass time now, Katsuki, and neither have you.”

“I dunno,” Katsuki said, reaching out to grab his husband’s hand. “Ya still got a baby-face.”

Eijirou rolled his eyes, and Katsuki took a moment to let himself stare at the other man. Yeah, they might both be a little decrepit now, but Eijirou still took his breath away. A lifetime of laughter lined Eijirou’s eyes. Laughter that they had shared, so no doubt Katsuki looked much the same.

Eijirou squeezed his hand, and together they looked out over the view. It hadn’t changed much over the years. Maybe the trees had grown a little. It was still the same landscape that had stretched out before them back when Eijirou had first asked Katsuki out.

“Hey, Katsuki,” Eijirou said. Katsuki turned his head to look back at the best part of the scene. “If someone gave you the chance to go back in time, right back to when we were kids… Would you say yes onther time? Would you do it all again?”

Katsuki stared at Eijirou. What kind of fucking question was that? Did Eijirou really think that Katsuki would want to choose any other life than the one they had carved out together? With all their friends, and their daughter and their grandchildren?

If Katsuki looked back over his memories, his mind was flooded with a golden wash of joy. He’d had a good life. The best life. He had shared it with Eijirou - and fuck, they weren’t even that old yet! There were decades still ahead of them.

Would you do it all again?

There was a twinkle in Eijirou’s eye, and Katsuki snorted. His husband already knew the answer. He’d probably always known the answer.

There was only one thing that Katsuki could say.

“Yes.”

#kiribaku #bakushima #my fanfiction #fanfiction #let-me-wander #reply #ask meme #fic: the only word #i'll reblog with the ao3 link in a sec owo

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cadviium · 4 years ago

Text

of strange waters and even stranger fish

That morning, perched at the end of the dock, the fisherman had only one thing on his mind: the noon bell in Riceville. An arguably menial and temporary inconvenience, really. Only a few seconds of dull droning echoing across the water. Still, the clock on his wrist was checked almost manically as he flipped his forearm over, back, then over again, watching the minute hand inch steadily closer to the fateful hour. Once that siren went off, it would be over.

After enough years at sea, you tend to gain a certain understanding of the water, of its inhabitants– both those you should and shouldn’t be aware of– and this man understood with great certainty the finicky and fidgety nature of a coddled fish and the steadfast composure of one not so.

The marine fish to whom he dedicated several decades were not of the coddled sort. In spite of their stick-splinter bones and lace gills, they endured the pitch and throw of the stir above them unflinchingly, braved the bubbles and fizz of an unsettled ocean. The bestial grating of salt, the cracking of bows and splitting of hulls, mere backdrop to a plodding existence. Vagabonds with aperture eyes that bore witness to treading feet going still, void and unblinking, with nares like slits that could smell the pulpy metallic tang that invited teeth, teeth, and more teeth, they paid no mind to the rubbing of rope and the shearing of scales and the dull glinting of steel. Seawater was lawless and impassive, a briny gnawing of mouth and molars, a collision of gods challenging water with wind, infinity with paper fins, and the fish were too.

He couldn’t say the same for the water in Riceville. It lapped slow against the spruce pier, bored, lazy, like a pot-bellied dog running its tongue over its own sick, so the fish here were not used to the pitiless thundering of the earth making percussion of their backs. They were only accustomed to a passive suggestion of a wave, a caress in place of a crash, and would respond with alarm to any disturbance beyond that sluggish pull of the water.

With this came the issue of the noon bell.

It was a relatively new addition to the town, only implemented when the mayor was informed that time was making a run for it and now needed to be reined back in. That was less than a month ago, not nearly enough time for the fish to acclimate. Those chimes would strike the lake’s face with the ferocity of a blasphemous nun, folding and crimping the surface into a paper fan, combing the depths, pushing the water together, pulling it apart again, braiding it, and it would inevitably send the fish scattering like dropped pills, burrowing in weeds where they could and getting tangled in taut, panicked circles where they could not. So sheltered. So fussy.

There was something gentle about it for a while, he thought. The fishing pole fit that fit his hand like an old friend, the soft cork of the handle kneaded and compressed until the indents matched his knuckles, his fingers, his fingernails. The repetitive casting and reeling, casting and reeling, and bringing nothing up. With that rhythmic tranquility came possibility, and it was the possibility that made it worthwhile. But now noon was coming. That possibility would flee, fins slashing through the thick calm, and the empty palms of his hands were beginning to ache furiously.

He had no fish, nothing to present to Gardner and no reason to say, “See? Maybe next time you’ll put down the GameBoy and come with the old man.”

This was his life, baiting, luring, reeling. What would he be if he couldn’t even bring in one panfish? What would he be to Gardner? Not worth the time. The grip on the fishing rod tightened– if only minutely– with that thought. He needed that fish, and he needed it badly.

His musings were interrupted by a floating object encroaching upon his periphery through a split in the trees. A boat, the first one in a while, carving a triangle into the ripples with tender precision, not lawful enough to be a surgeon, not careless enough to be a criminal. White, white like bleached bone, white like satin moths, white like ladyfish convulsing on an oily deck. The deck of this boat was empty– no oil, no ladyfish, and, oddly enough, no passengers. From what the man could tell, there was no one on the boat.

“Hey, Murray! Back again?” came from the boat anyways, drawling and defiant towards Murray’s expectations for it. Murray wasn’t shocked. This was usually how things worked around here. Upon closer inspection, the man saw a vague shadow in the captain’s cabin, the bareboned outlines of something that might’ve been a person, but also maybe not, a being of less concrete shapes and more negative space. The fisherman smiled and waved back anyways, hand flicking backward once like he were swatting a gnat; it’d be rude not to.

“Yessir, just got in,” Murray called back with hands cupped around his mouth, dutifully ignoring the way the boat’s ivory paint sung in the late morning rays like a surfaced pearl, how it made him the greying mothball tucked in the corner of the boat’s closet.

“You be sure to tell Lauren and her boy hello for me. I haven’t been down to that ol’ farmhouse in quite a while.”

Don’t worry, he’d be sure to greet the closed doors, the rivets in the wood, the curves and halted twists in the knobs. He’d say hello to the scattered toys strangled in wires like veins, to the empty driveways scrubbed of chalk, to the quiet dinner tables with open seats but spotless plates. He’d raise his hat to the disgruntled elbows and disinterested shoulders and dolly eyes, to the “we’re going into town” and the “we’ll be a few hours late.”

If the greeting were on the boat’s behalf, would the tension finally leak from their joints, dripping onto the hardwood like spoiled milk? Would the knots in their backs finally be worked into paste? Would he finally feel welcomed? Murray nodded to the boat in a way that was not a promise but could’ve been a confirmation and prayed the boat’s company– or lack thereof– took no notice of how even the boat was better dressed than he.

He wore an offensive orange vest, an unholy brawl of stiff fabric and angry stitches with pockets upon pockets, layered and stacked on top of and under one another like playing cards, so many that not even the man was aware of all their contents. Under the barbed intensity of the vest sagged a tired flannel and graphic t-shirt that read, “The 1968 Plymouth Road Runner: Anything less is just a car.” His first ride. Crashed the beauty into a henhouse in the summer of ‘81 and, evidently, hasn’t gotten over it. Atop his head was hair of a close-cut grey, the sort of grey that screamed couch change, dust bunnies, and other forgotten things. Covering that was a creamy bucket hat, yellowing with age, the brim reduced to patchwork and loose string. While he mourned the majority of his outfit, Murray turned a blind eye to the cap. It was a gift, a dying hat from a young boy to an old man, and he felt no shame in wearing it.

As the pearly split in the lake continued along its persistent eastward path, the water returned to its unnatural quiet, the dips and splashes of his line and lure lacerating the surface its only note. He was entranced by the coal-black water, the way it smelled like nostalgia, like rotting seaweed fermenting on a prop. The way it rehashed the constant small fry he’d hook from the surface each year, the awareness of something further in the depths, the simultaneous fear of the known and unknown.

Reminiscing was suffocating in the stale, near-noon sun.

On every horizon stood trees, encompassing and blocking him in like a battalion, especially the dense woods behind him. They didn’t move with the breeze. Birds sat silent in those treetops, indifferent watchdogs with eyes upon eyes upon him. What they were guarding, he didn’t know. Directly behind him, branches cracked, and the dense cloud of dirt and sticks and other mysteries at his back got heavier.

With the boat gone, Murray sat by the water alone. He’d recently noticed no one really swam in the lakes around here, this one in particular. He asked some clerk named Luke about it yesterday, and she’d only muttered something about cleanliness and a chemical spill back in April. A terrible tragedy, really decimated the farming industry this year. She never looked up from the coins on the counter, though she’d already totaled them to eleven-eleven twice.

That must be why the fish were so disinterested. Yes, there was something wrong with the lake. He’d have to explain that to Gardner. It was possible Gardner already knew, and that’s why he’d refused to come; he was the local after all. They could try a different lake tomorrow, perhaps that one near the repair shop. Even as he thought this, an unopened spool of fishing line and a smaller fishing rod still shiny with novelty mocked him relentlessly from the trunk of his car.

His fishing line was sagging in the middle, draped across the surface like stray hair. He reeled, cast, checked his watch again. 11:44.

At 11:53, the birds erupted from the trees behind him, a thick, writhing mass of beating wings and beating hearts. Murray started at the shift in atmosphere, at the sound of air pulsing like dusty rugs shook over a balcony rail, his mouse-trap jaw flinging shut, but then he settled.

What were a few birds to him? He wasn’t fishing for birds.

Above him was a sky at war with the crows and the cardinals, the black-backed woodpeckers and black-capped chickadees. They were blind and bumbling in their panic, bodies slamming against tufts, into talons, a collision of comets.

Murray stared with the indifference of a sea bass as an unlucky few were struck from the sky and sent careening downwards like heavenly pariahs, their feathers spilt ink in the midday sun. The nimblest of birds with bodies sleek as knives– the swifts, the sparrows, the songbirds that didn’t sing– managed to pull up before hitting the water, wingtips razoring their glassy reflections. Fate and physics were not so kind to the bigger birds and their still-fumbling fledglings. Backs, glossy like lacquer, crashed into the tame hills. They thrashed hysterically against their swampy cradle, dotting water across the lake in a constellation, their wings slackened by gravity or drag or maybe just teeth.

The fishing pole suffocated in Murray’s now-tense fist, but only for a moment; before long, the newfound rigidity in his shoulders drained like stale bathwater, and he nodded twice. Sure, the splashing would have without a doubt scattered the bluegill and the perch and other docile panfish, but it also drew in the more ravenous beasts lurking deep in the weeds with their pin teeth and pincushion jaws. They’d be prettier trophies anyways.

The surviving birds spread through the air like ripples of a different kind, blacks and browns and reds arching across the sky in swells. He watched them go as the last of the drowning birds slipped into the abysmal black of the water, leaden ghosts, all silent and all without purpose, surrounded but alone.

The birds died like Murray lived.

From beyond the trees, not long after the birds, came a grinding screech like metal peeling against gravel. It lurched in the air, halting and mounting in intensity, a red carpet rolling out in the breeze, and Murray lurched with it, left arm darting outwards as he swiveled towards the woods; the fishing pole followed, skidding its oversized lure along the rocky lakebed. The scream was a heartbeat on its own; it pounded with the floundering desperation of an animal without the mind or lungs or wings to flee, the pace fluttering like a sunken bird, a coddled fish.

It was distinctly boyish, a noise ridden with gasping pleas and strained vocal cords. That could’ve been Gardner. What? No, it couldn’t have. That didn’t make sense. Pull yourself together.

Murray’s throat tightened in a vice he hadn’t felt since his hair was full and his spine straight, a vice from a time when the sun ate at his flayed collarbones and torrents rocked his ship with the reckless abandon of a young mother. Back when his hands weren’t as rough as the rope nets they strained against, before the neverending loitering on the ends of piers. Back when he didn’t have to concentrate for the thrill of stinging salt in his eyes and in his nose and in his mouth to manifest itself.

Somewhere in the claw and bite of the howling, he saw himself. He knew it all too well, that moment when human retreated to animal, when cognition lost itself to the frenzied scrambling of instinct. The sudden absence of your internal organs. The feeling of your ribcage folding in on itself, collapsed at the sternum. The dread that you were about to learn what a hooked fish already knew. The scream-soaked boy in the woods sounded like he was starting to understand.

With great apprehension, Murray studied the trees that stretched from the dirt like witches’ fingers, gnarled and reaching towards blue, and the dark spaces left between them, the roots and limbs that branched out like nerve endings. Despite his being a seaman, he recognized a few certainties about the forest. He knew it was a place that breathed, often in more ways than one. There were lungs hidden in those trees, in the rushing of wind on his neck, in the shuddering of bushes, in the wriggling of larva on rancid meat. He knew it was a place that savored the hot reek of decay, bathed in it. A place that would leer with greedy eyes as you rotted and boiled and pussed, as the ravens ripped and the pigs picked. And he definitely knew it was a place where he did not want to be.

Even from the dock, Murray smelled the dredging weight of blood painting the dank air. It hung heavy in the heat like a dark curtain flung closed in mourning, a bitter speckling of iron and warmth. He swore he could hear it, too, the dripping onto the dirt and leaves like a metronome in time with the ticking on his watch. Air misted in red really was a horribly sweaty and labored sort of air to breathe.

He took a wary step further from the end of the pier, closer to the beginning of the woods, and the bottom of his boot caught on every snag and splinter in the woodwork. Moving to take another, knee already bent with his foot hovering over the dock, he noticed a subtle resistance in his left hand. A tug on the fishing pole, one that drew the line taut as Murray pulled away but dropped it as he whipped back around, a butterfly’s kiss of a bite.

In the crashing chaos, he’d nearly forgotten about the fishing pole, about the fish, both having fled to the back corners of his mind, loud children told to go be quiet in their rooms. But, now, they pounced back to the forefront, eager and all-consuming. He had to manually remind himself to breathe. In, out, in, out. Had he done it? A fish? It had to be. In that instant, even after decades of nets, poles, and spears, he forgot how his arms worked. Right then, they were useless rolls of ugly, disjointed meat with bends where bends were not meant to be, and he couldn’t seem to convince his brain to spin the reel handle.

There was a brief pause in the screaming like it was thinking, and the cavity in the air cowered at the sudden unpredictability. Screaming was expected, foreseeable; silence was not. What followed was a soft shuffling in the leaves, dumb and dragging, nearly misread as the sloshing of the waves. It continued for maybe five seconds, maybe ten. Then a thud. A groan. And the shouting started up again, but it was now a much more wet and guttural thing, the kind of bawling that bubbled in your stomach and shredded your throat. Not just a fearful cry but a doomed one.

The pole was a train track as it rattled in Murray’s unsteady hand. His mind was razed by a tug of war in which he was the rope, torn between two sides. One: his grandson, hugs, smiles, the smell of vanilla wafting to the living room, the beeping and buzzing of gadgets. The other: skittering eyes, a chest that spasmed with panic, a fight wrought of maw and teeth and willpower. He could tell that fight was made of more than his two hands could blot out.

Now, Murray may not have been old quite yet, but he certainly was not young, a stalled car at a crossroads between expecting to live and preparing to die, and his body was starting to feel the effects. What good would he honestly be to the boy with his handicapped parking pass and aching knees?

The boy. Not Gardner, of that much he was sure now. For all he knew, it wasn’t a boy at all. A vague thought made of more smoke than fire surfaced, a memory of a crew, a cry, and a conversation.

“Them red foxes are sly little bastards,” a deckhand had said. “Sound just like a crying kid.”

“Nah, mate,” interjected another, spitting a toothpick into the liquid mountains below, “they sound like a kid gettin’ axed to bits.”

Of course. It was just a fox, red and angry. That’s all. Nothing worrisome about this simple, angry fox. Stop trembling, Murray. Only a fox.

And what was a fox to him? He wasn’t fishing for a fox.

He pulled his cap a little lower over his ears to mask those wails like tires squealing on pavement. There was a jumbled sentence living somewhere in that noise, a radio reporter suffocating under layers of static. It twitched in his head, flickering over the same words again and again.

“I don't want to die.”

Ears lied. Murray was well aware of this by now. They lied when Gardner called him boring, they lied when they overheard Lauren on the phone– “I love Dad, but I’m tired of being his keeper… yeah, I miss Mom, too.”– and they lied when that damn red fox pleaded for help. Because it was a red fox. A red fox, not a boy, and red foxes do not talk nor beg nor comprehend their own mortality.

Slowly, carefully, Murray rediscovered the crooks and cables in his arms, trying to redefine them as extensions of himself instead of parasitic appendages he held no liberty over. He flexed his right index finger at his side, bowed it at the joint. Then his middle finger. Thumb, ring and pinky. Flattened them again. He straightened his left index finger off the rod’s handle, curled it back over the cork, repeated the motion for his thumb and middle finger. Cut a circle in the air with his wrist. Bent both arms at the elbow, extended them forwards. Rolled his shoulders back.

Finally, his right hand was brought up to grasp the reel handle, and he spun it around the axel like the minute-hand of a clock. The fish complied with the dull apathy of a leashed dog, weary and heaving. No struggle. No defiance. No nylon dicing the water as a wire does clay.

A bulging maggot wriggled its way in between the folds and membranes of his thought process. What if it was not a fish at all? A clump of weed perhaps? It really was awfully still; the absence of that fluttering to and fro, of that pathway spanning an arch as wide as the line allowed, was just as loud as the fox.

Upon a brisk shake of his head, the maggot was muscled from his mind, smearing grease in its wake. No, it was a fish, he assured himself. A lazy one, maybe. One that slumped instead of swam, that floated instead of fled. But a fish nonetheless.

He could still hear the shriek continuing to build– ragged and cold and full of gaps and breaks where the voice dropped out underneath like thin ice.

Reflected in the water, gazing in wonder at the fiber weaving around the reel, was Gardner’s face. Murray could see the smile through the tide, the square teeth, triangle lips; that, and the regret, the eyes oddly enraptured by wine stains on the carpet after he presented his soon-to-be bounty to the home. In the whirring of the line, he heard Gardner’s apology, the wishing he would've gone, the promises of a future outing, the interlocked pinkies.

Like a skewered worm, the screaming squirmed in the air until it softened, flickered, a dying lightbulb of a sound. It became much less bright and serrated as the ice thawed to a lullaby of groaning. It was almost worse. What likely wasn’t (but could have been) calling for “someone” melted into what likely wasn’t (but could have been) begging for “anyone.”

“Please, I don’t want to die alone.” More exhale than words. A trick of the mind.

Reeling, contemplating, he stayed on the dock, occupied by the handsome bottom feeder arrested at the end of his line. A man intoxicated, Murray was trampled by flashing images like a stop-frame film, flares of brown, blue, and grey. What awaited him under that blanket of water? The duck’s bill of a northern pike, green and plagued with white blotching? The prying whiskers of a catfish, stirring up a haze in the loose sediment? With each blink, a new enthralling possibility. Scales, slimy and gold in the sun. A distended belly, all slick fat and gummy flesh, overflowing in his paws. Gills like the underside of mushrooms. Fins unmarred by the curious nibbling of smaller fish.

There was more shuffling in the leaves now. Quicker this time, and quieter. With purpose. Murray heard a sharp intake of air, and in the next moment, it was cut off with a wet squelch, a noise like ramming your thumbs into rotten squash, like stepping on pumpkin guts, the innards squishing through your toes like worms from the damp earth, seeds plastered to your feet with orange syrup and stringy fruit and other sugary rot. The woods went silent again.

The fish’s head broke the surface.

The stench broke next, reeking of curdled milk left in a hot car, of browning cabbage, of floating carcasses thrown about by the tide. The smell elicited little more than a scrunch of his nose, a possible downturn of his lower lip, but it was the sight of the fish that left him dumbfounded. Muddy and listless and undeniably dead. And not the type of dead that could be confused for slumber. The type of dead prophesied by beetles and gnats, the type that loomed in crumbling crypts, in the deserted rooms in hospital basements, in the soupy broth that marinates coffins. Long dead. Still a fish. Just a fish, just a fish, just a fish.

Swollen leech lips gaped open soundlessly; the beginnings of plants– green, white, and every shade of brown– flowered from the pyramid of silt clogging the space between them. Nothing was where it was meant to be, not even the hook, Murray noted. Not through rubber lips but through the fish’s eye did it tear, leaving it deflated and half-popped from its socket like a displaced joint, all wrong angles and exposed nerves.

No bite then. He must’ve snagged it off the bottom. Did that still count as catching it? Sure, it did. A tinge of burning crimson alit in his chest, regardless of attempts at dousing the flame. Any fish was better than no fish.

Neither the sight nor smell deterred him for too long either way– Gardner was waiting for him. Ignoring the slicing pain of nylon in the soft of his palm, he tugged the line upwards by hand until the abdomen was above water. He set the pole down beside him, line still cinched in his right, and leaned over the edge of the dock on his shins, fumbling through the warm water with his left and searching for purchase. Skin brushed against decay, and Murray snatched up both the fish’s wrists in his hand, the texture a strange mix of spongy flesh and thin, ridged plastic. Oh, they were already bound, how convenient.

Line in the right and limb in the left, he tried to drag the body up onto the pier only to find the skin on its hands coming off in filmy slabs much like slippery gloves. Its hands slithered through his grip and splashed back down in the lake, a sucking pop in the fish’s neck sounding at the added weight on the line still hooked to the crannies of its skull. Wiping the greasy wads on his vest, dulling the orange with stains, he huffed once, like a taunted bull.

Once more into the fray.

Resolutely, the fisherman ignored the slush of soapy fat under his fingers as he rediscovered the wrists underwater and grabbed hold again. He arched backward, boots braced against the woodwork, drawing the fish into the sky until it fully broached the surface. More tissue tore off its back in little strips like soaked paper as Murray heaved it onto the dock.

His catch now fully splayed out along the pier, arms bent in prayer, still joined at the wrist with elbows jutting out to the side, the ankle of one leg tucked behind the knee of the other, Murray stopped for several moments and did nothing but stare at this bulbous, buried thing he had dredged up. The skin was a beast to be in the presence of alone, a collage of rot with pruning green on top and a purple underbelly, spotty like watercolor, the whole body mottled with seeping blisters. Limbs were bloated balloon animals, blown up in cartoony colors. He thought about reaching down and twisting the arm into a purple-green dog, thought about shoving a pin into the fish’s cheek and listening for the pop and sputter of a collapsing inflatable. He did neither of these things.

Adorning the fish’s head were bread-colored curls and an upturned piggy nose weeping a gross syrup, a steady mix of water, blood, and something creamy and clotted that made the air taste of sour butter and sausages gone bad, percolated by mold. There were a few chunks missing here and there: an ear, a toe, various intermediate nuggets of meat. Even so, Murray cast a small blessing out for the meek nature of Riceville fish. Without it, this one would've been picked down to the grit and bone.

Eventually, his attention turned back to action. With a thumb and forefinger, he pinched the hook at the joint between steel and string, jiggled it a bit, then twisted it from its anchor under the upper bone of the fish’s eye socket. The whole eye came with it, yanking braids of slime and sinew out behind it.

Moss and milfoil grew from its mouth, taking root in the dirt and decaying gums. It was beautiful in a way, how life existed as a byproduct of decay, but that beauty had no place in a fish. He wrapped his fingers tight around the hollow stems, around the leaves like moth’s antennae, around the clumping earth, then ripped it all out; bits of festering tongue and tiny dandelion incisors came with it, ensnared in the green. Much better.

Though the animal still looked like the type of fish only a shark could love, it was sure sizable, Murray could grant it that. Definitely over a meter, maybe even a meter half? Nothing like the bass and panfish he usually brought in. Plus, the way all its colors came together to paint its smeared portrait was sure to trump even the best of artists. In spite of the circumstances, he couldn’t bar the pool of glee swelling in his chest, dripping down the caverns of his abdomen, spreading like flower petals at dawn. After a morning of bug bites and itchy welts, of a pulsing sun and pounding radiation, he’d done it. Finally. A fish for his grandson.

The noon bell went off, stampeding over the water, a hum in his ears, a murmur in his ribcage, and the fisherman was all teeth. White, white like bleached bone, white like satin moths, white like dead ladies and dead ladyfish. His fist gripped the fish’s snarled and sodden hair with a shivering enthusiasm even as patches came off in clumps, plastered to the spaces in between his fingers.

He couldn’t wait to show Gardner his catch.

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therunawayscamp · 5 years ago

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The Brand [Drabble]

The battle itself wasn't the problem. During a battle, everything ran on adrenalin and blood and pure, blind fury, as effective as the fog for distancing and obscuring. Most sailors knew the moment when they watched a messmate cut down before their eyes and felt nothing, nothing but the blade of their sword or the edge of their boarding axe pushing and grinding until it hit bone. Blood could wash across the deck and go unnoticed, just another wet wave in an ocean full of them.

Afterwards, that was the difficult part. That was the part not everybody saw, which made handling it all the harder. Rosie, hands full, tore off the end of the bandage with her teeth and knotted it around what had formerly been a leg, but would now be more accurately referred to as a stump. Her patient screamed through the scrap of leather in his teeth, then screamed louder as Rosie pulled on the end of the bandage and glared at him from above.

'Come on, man. Dinmar, isn't it? I've seen worse, you'll be fine. Think what they'll say in the mess if you give up now. Ready?'

She took hold of the leather. Dinmar closed his eyes, then nodded, forehead screwed up in a mass of pain and fear. Rosie was almost impressed when she removed the leather and, rather than scream again, he only panted and gasped, as if he'd been dragged up from the bottom of the ocean rather than a steaming deck. She threw the leather into a bucket, where it slapped against the side, wet with saliva, and dropped her tools onto the bench.

'There. We'll fix you up a prosthetic later. For now, get some rest. Next.'

Her latest unfortunate assistant, picked from the newest and most naïve of the fresh recruits, lifted Dinmar from the surgery table and carried him to a cot against the bulkhead, where he would be given enough rum to help him sleep through the worst of the recovery. Rosie dunked her hands into another bucket, full of water heated by Eldnar before the action began, and was scrubbing them vigorously with a brush of chokeweed which never quite got the stains out when Sham elbowed open the door.

The reason for her somewhat awkward entrance became apparent when she lifted her arm, very gingerly, away from her side. Her shirt was scorched and still smouldering at the edges, and a burn blazed across most of her abdomen, a pink and festering tear in the dark gold skin. While she struggled out of her shirt she grunted,

'I'm the last. Caught a blast of fucking mage fire right across the middle. I'll be fine but R'khan said to come see you anyway when you were finished.'

Rosie helped her off with the shirt and forced her onto the table. A quick inspection of the wound confirmed that it was not quite as severe as implied by a first glance. The blast had only skinned the topmost layer of skin and a little of the raw flesh beneath, probably cast by a mercenary mage hired on the cheap by a Company captain, more about flash and style than substance. Satisfied, she dug her hands into a pot of paste beside the table and let the substance drip onto Sham's side. After the initial wince and cursing, Sham watched with interest as it furled along her skin. It was gelatinous and shiny and seemed to cling to the ragged edges of the wound.

'What's that?'

'Some kind of muck the apothecary said was good for burns. How the fuck should I know? None of you can accept that I'm not a healer, can you? I think it's got frost salts in, if you're really curious. It makes my fingers tingle, anyway.' Rosie rinsed them off in the water bucket and hitched herself up onto a shelf, leaning forward on her knees. 'I'd give it ten minutes. Looks like it was a rough one today.'

'Made the bastards pay for it, though. Made sure they hurt. Will it leave a scar?'

'Probably.'

'N'chow!'

'I thought you liked battle scars?'

'Sure, but I bet Turi five septims it wouldn't after she said it was my own fault for not watching my flank.'

Rosie watched Sham prod the gel and pull a face when it sucked at her finger. She seemed utterly unconcerned about the scrutiny. Perhaps it was the medical setting, inasmuch as the dank hole below decks could be considered a medical setting, but Rosie had noticed the same ease in most of the crew ashore, strolling around in as little clothing as it took to be comfortable in Hammerfell's heat. Wearing anything fewer than five layers back in High Rock caused a scandal which kept the gossips talking for weeks.

The novelty wore off after a while, though. A person could only muster so much shock before it started to feel ridiculous. Now Rosie was more interested in the marks and scars of battles past. They peppered Sham's body in the same way freckles covered her own, and she squinted at one in particular on Sham's shoulderblade. It was faded to a dark brown against her brass skin, and resembled a crude drawing of a frigate not unlike the one currently foundering to starboard of the Runaway Scamp. The biggest difference was the dagger stabbed through the centre of the ship. Rosie drummed her fingers against the bench.

'Mind if I ask a question?'

'When you've got a bloody saw by your foot? No, please, ask away, I ain't going to object.'

'What does that brand mean? I've seen it a lot when I'm working, especially on the older crew. Some of them have got several.'

Sham reached up to pat it and winced at the strain this put on her burn.

'It's how the EEC brand pirates they catch. Their logo, see? Their way of saying we're their prize. And the dagger 'cause they like to be dramatic or something. Normally they check before they do it twice, but sometimes they just can't contain their excitement. If you're very good, maybe you'll get one someday.'

The shudder ran straight down from Rosie's shoulders to her toes.

'No, thanks.'

'What? Scared?'

The shudder stopped abruptly.

'Scared? I'm a surgeon. You don't know half the shit I have to see on a daily basis.'

'Sure I do, I see it smeared across the deck before we scrape it up and bring it down to you to put back together. Anyway, that's different to living it, isn't it?'

This was a rather pointed question, and Sham's grin wasn't helping. Coincidentally enough, it was at this precise moment that Rosie discovered she needed to check her other patients, and she fussed around Dinmar's bandage for a minute or two with her back to Sham. When she turned around again she put on an almost convincing show of forgetting where they had been in the conversation before she asked,

'Why do they bother branding you if they're going to hang you anyway?'

Unconcerned by the change of subject, Sham levered herself up a little way. The movement didn't pull too hard at her burn, so she inched her legs over the side of the table.

'Yeah, they never used to, but people kept escaping before they could hang 'em. It got a bit embarrassing, I suppose. Now they do it so that when we get away, they can pretend they taught us a lesson first.' Sham's grin broadened, only to vanish as pain prickled through her side. 'Fuck. How long's this going to last?'

'If that poultice works, maybe a week. Don't put anything else on it, and try to keep it well aired.'

'You're the boss.' Sham collected her shirt and slung it over her shoulder. 'Ratface allowed a survivor's tot. Eds is handing it out on deck, if you want to come get yours.'

'I wasn't part of the action.'

'Guarshit. Look at this place.' She waved her shirt around the surgery, stained red from wall to wall and sustained by the low, animal moans of the patients laid out in the cots. 'You're as much a part of it as any of us, Rosie. I was only kidding you earlier.'

'All right. I'll be there in a minute.'

It ended up more like ten minutes. The wood wouldn't scrub itself down, after all, and although Rosie knew the captain liked to reserve cleaning the surgery as a punishment for crew who particularly displeased him, some of the temporary cots extended into the crew's sleeping quarters. Not even the Scamps would be prepared to wallow in the stench of bitter, rancid iron while they slept, not when they spent so much of their waking hours surrounded by it. Once the worst was slopped into the bucket for her assistant to throw over the side, Rosie shrugged off her apron, rinsed her hands a final time and plodded up on deck.

#the works of master vilayn #trigger warning: blood #trigger warning: gore #surgeon rosie #shamilia #this is utterly pointless and goes nowhere fair warning

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nbsjget · 3 years ago

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Bucket Teeth Shell Layers

Bucket teeth shell layers The shape and structure of the cast of different layers of shell, there will be differences. For example, with elongatedslot casting Kong Huo need to do two or three times the surface layer; the general casting two times to do the backing layer is enough, and the relatively large castingsmay require three or more layers. Cost of shell castings per kilogram is about 5.9…

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#Bucket Teeth #Bucket teeth shell #bucket tooth layer #bucket tooth shape #bucket tooth structure #Cast bucket teeth #precision casting

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kanna-ophelia · 5 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1. 1700 words. Rating: General

Ineffable Husbands Week Prompt: Rain / Storm / Downpour

Additional Tags: Love Confessions, First Kiss, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Kissing, Sappy, Post-Canon, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, No one can sulk like a demon, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019

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On Wattpad

Rain

The problem with living in London was that even in Spring it rained too bloody much. And the kind of human Crowley tried to be was not the kind who carried a sodding umbrella around just in case, thank you very much.

By the time he thought of magically producing one, that is, two seconds after the skies opened, he was already drenched to the skin, and surrounded by humans who might see. He sighed, looking for a place to duck away and produce a quick black brolly, when the rain suddenly stopped falling on him.

For a moment he wondered if he had accidentally arranged for the rain not to fall on him, which tended to be a bit of a giveaway, and then he felt a soft, radiant presence beside him.

“Your umbrella,” Crowley said coldly, “has ducks on it. With tartan bow ties. Do you have any respect for my dignity?” He reached up to share a grip on the umbrella handle anyway. His hand brushed skin that somehow send a warming glow right down his cold arm.

“None whatsoever. And they’re charming."

Crowley snapped his fingers and was dry, but not warm, except where his hand was against Aziraphale’s own. He shivered.

“Cold blooded serpent,” Aziraphale said fondly. The angel exchanged hands on the umbrella handle, holding it from his right, outside hand. Crowley wondered why, and then he felt a solid, heavy arm around his back, drawing him in close by Aziraphale’s side. “Here. Body heat should help."

Crowley could feel his mind break a bit. Heat. Body heat. Yes, it was warm. And also soft. And… cuddly. What was the angel cuddling him? He never cuddled him. Could he embrace back? He’d have to exchange his own hands first. Embarrassing. But. Close. Arm around him. Why? So nice. But, why?

He could hear Aziraphale chuckling softly in his ear, and decided to pull himself together. Right. Let go of umbrella. Put arm around waist, very casually. Cool. Right. No big deal.

Even through the overcoat, Aziraphale felt warm and solid and comforting, and Crowley forgot to do with his feet and tripped. His arm tightened around Aziraphale’s waist, and the arm around his back steadied him.

“Thankss, angel.” Now he was hissing. Just perfect. Cuddling under a white umbrella with cutesy ducks on it, tripping over himself, clinging to an angel, thanking him, and hissing. It was a good thing he had broken with Hell, because he couldn’t face the ridicule.

“You are very welcome, my dear."

A plump young woman with a rainbow undercut and a leather jacket gave them a quick smile as she passed, the kind of smile that Crowley had seen young queer folk give them before, that’s such a sweet old couple, look at them, hope I find someone like that one day. It always gave him a quick stab of pleasure, that they were acknowledged in some way, even if it was just a fantasy and Aziraphale was always oblivious to it himself.

“Have you ever thought about it?” Aziraphale was looking after the girl, thoughtfully.

“Thought about what?"

“What the humans assume.” Crowley stared. Aziraphale was still not looking at him, but the lips of his ears were pink.

He had to be sure. “What,” Crowley asked very carefully, “do they think?"

“That we’re lovers,” Aziraphale clarified and then, in case even that wasn’t clear enough, “that we’re romantically and sexually involved."

Crowley’s blood was pounding in his ears. “Have I ever thought about it?"

“Well, it’s a human pleasure, and one I’ve never experienced, although I’m sure you have. There doesn’t seem to be any reason not to try now, that’s all. Have you ever thought about it? I mean,” and no just his ears were pink now, “with me."

“Have… I… ever… thought… about it?” Crowley was having difficulty keeping his tongue in a human enough shape to talk. “In the last six thousand years, you mean? You… you… could you be any more bloody insulting?"

He pushed away and stormed off into the crowd, not bothering to look back. Maybe Aziraphale was standing looking forlorn and alone and confused and reflecting on what a heartless prat he was.

He hoped so.

Storm

He spent the next few days causing chaos as if he’d never been chucked off the payroll. He was a demon, after all, the original Serpent, and eventually Hell were going to realise what a precious resource they had and crawl back to him begging for forgiveness, and then he would—he didn’t know. Probably reject them. That wasn’t the point.

Storms, burst drains, network outages, public transport strikes, the latest episodes of reality tv shows being mysteriously wiped just as they were about to go to air, the entire cast of the Archers coming down with laryngitis, the entire South Kensington museum area developing the smell of sulphur and brimstone, which was conveniently similar to rotten eggs. He hadn’t worked so hard in decades. Centuries.

Crowley was prepared to ignore pleading or apologetic calls to his answering machine and voice mail, but there weren’t any. However, brides and grooms found that storms magically cleared above them on their wedding days, the city bankers had sudden changes of heart and made major donations to the poor while raising their employees' salaries, and despite the constantly rain and lightning, the daffodils and tulips had never bloomed so beautifully or resiliently in living memory.

Right. If that was the way it was to be, then, this was war. He… he was going to do something about those bloody ducks. He wasn’t sure what. Turn them pink and give them fangs, probably.

Downpour

He climbed in the Bentley, his precious Bentley, the only thing in the world that truly loved him and never let him down.

He screeched down to St James Park, pulled over, and pulled the break on just as he noticed the angel sitting quietly on the passenger seat.

“Isn’t that a frivolous use of a miracle?” he snarled. “And not very angelic, either, breaking into a car."

“No one is counting now, I think.” Aziraphale fidgeted, his beautiful fingers twisting around each other. “I didn’t trust you to answer your phones."

“I wouldn’t."

“Precisely."

Aziraphale glanced at him quickly, took in the frown, and dropped his gaze back to his twisting hands. “I didn’t mean to offend you."

“You did a bloody good job, anyway."

Aziraphale sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. Can we just forget it?” There were miserable tears on the edge of those golden lashes, and Crowley steeled his heart against them. “I can just find someone else, if I really want—"

“Who?"

Aziraphale blinked. “What do you mean?"

“Who do you have in mind, angel?"

“Well, no one in particular. I was just—"

“Six thousand years. Six thousand years, I’ve been in love with you, and too terrified to show you any signs of infernal lust in case I chased you away. I can just find someone else.” Crowley bashed his head against the steering wheel. “No one in particular. Oh, good, glad you had a convenient demon around for an easy first option, better than risking corrupting a human. Have I ever thought about it? Oh, angel, I hate you."

There was a long silence, and then suddenly Aziraphale laughed. It was his sweetest, lightest chuckle, and Crowley sat up and glared at him.

“So that’s it. I could feel you cared, but—in love? Really?"

“Don’t laugh at me. Yes, in love. Romantically and sexually, as you so clinically put it."

“I’m sorry. I really am."

“I know. It’s not your fault.” The anger suddenly drained out of him, and he just felt tired and hurting. “And I don’t hate you."

“Good. Because I love you."

“I know. I shouldn’t take it out on you. You can’t help being an angel. You just took me by surprise, that’s all."

“Crowley, my dearest. Listen. I’m in love with you."

He whipped his head around, snake-like, looking for a mistake, for the following “I am in love with all of God’s creations, even you, and you are my dearest friend,” but Aziraphale was blushing and trying very hard to look straight at him without looking away and how much courage did that take, for an angel that always glanced away from temptation, and that expression in his eyes, he had seen it before and it was for him and probably he should move or say something but wait, in love, he was in love and Crowley had just confessed too, hadn’t he, and Aziraphale had said...

Aziraphale sighed again, as if waiting for the noise in Crowley’s head to quieten down a bit was just too much for him, picked up one of his hands, and kissed it. Slowly, lingeringly. The back of his hand, each knuckle, one by one, fingertips, turning it over to kiss his palm and his wrist.

Crowley’s voice came back, hoarse and hissy, but there. “Romantically and ssexually."

“Yes, my dear. Or else I hardly would have proposed—"

Crowley grabbed his head and mashed their mouths together. It was awkward at first, all lips and teeth, but they pulled back a bit and lips parted more gently and tongues touched and it didn’t matter if it was awkward at all, it was everything, the mouth against his and the soft wide chest pressed against his narrow one and the arms around him.

“I love you."

“Yes, dear.” Aziraphale kissed him again.

“You love me."

“Yes, dear."

It was a good thing the Bentley didn’t have seatbelts or bucket seats, or the angel certainly would have had a seatbelt on and it would be hard to clamber half onto Aziraphale’s lap to kiss him again from a more comfortable angle.

“Really, beloved, we’re in public.” Beloved.

“The windows are all fogged up from the heater.” He trailed little kisses down a silky lovely neck, and Aziraphale made a noise.

“But the humans..."

The skies opened to a sudden downpour of rain. “Have better things to do than peer into parked cars like perverts. Oh, Aziraphale."

The angel’s hands were so warm, so soft and now cradling the side of his face. “Let’s go home."

“Which home?"

“Well.” Aziraphale kissed his nose. “You’re the one with the bed, dear boy."

“Right,” Crowley said happily, and Aziraphale’s hand was on his thigh, warm and possessive, all the way back to the flat. **** Comments, kudos and other support gratefully received. <3 Still working on my WIPS, but a little more slowly due to Ineffable Husbands Week! @IneffableHusbandsWeek

#ineffable husbands week #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands fanfic #good omens fanfic

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