#shrapnel method

[eelnoise]

cut to the feeling

>in which zoro realizes he may have a thing for you

pre-ts!zoro x gn!reader cw: none! fluff! an: this was in my wips for so long but i'm so in my feelings about zoro that inspo finally came to me. also this is secretly selfship coded and is in the same canon as a few other fics. wc:2k

With another scorching day in the sun and a breeze that's hardly enough to move the ship at an acceptable rate, there’s a rare silence that spans the decks of the Thousand Sunny. The humidity is enough to keep even the more rowdy crewmates indoors with hopes of escaping the rampant heatwave.

Despite the intensity of the day, Zoro is ever a creature of habit—and can be found taking his usual afternoon nap under the slight shade of the mast, sans robe and sporting a large bandage wrapping along his bicep that covers the wound left by stray shrapnel from a skirmish with marines a few islands back.

It doesn’t bother him. Why would it? It’s just some extra sweat or an extra drink of water, might as well be a normal day for him.

Through the serene silence of the deck, Zoro's rest is disturbed all too early by the sound of one of the doors below creaking open. Familiar—though new—footsteps approach, clamoring up one of the staircases to his nestled spot in the shade.

He watches as you appear next to the mast and notes how your expression changes, seemingly surprised and somewhat relieved when you see him already wide awake and staring in your direction. He just looks at you, an eyebrow raised, as if waiting for you to begin.

“Do you have a minute?” you ask, fiddling with the strap of your bag and shifting on the balls of your feet.

Zoro tilts his head slightly, following your movements as you fidget nervously beside him. He remains silent for a moment, considering your request with a measured look. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and even. "A minute for what?" His tone is direct, betraying no hint of the curiosity that flickers across his features.

You take a moment to steady yourself, glancing around the expanse of the deck before focusing your attention back upon him. “Well,” you begin, your voice steadying as you notice the tension in his shoulders. “The short of it is—Chopper sent me to change your bandages.” You try to keep your tone light, but the seriousness of the situation lingers in the air.

Zoro grumbles something under his breath about Chopper being a mother-hen. He sits up slowly, stretching his limbs as he does. "Fine," he mutters, a hint of annoyance in his tone as he holds out his wounded arm in your direction. "Just get it over with."

"I'll make it quick, promise!" you say with a reassuring smile as you move to sit cross-legged at his side. The shift in position brings you closer, your warmth mingling with the afternoon sun, and Zoro finds himself oddly aware of the intimacy of the moment.

You work methodically, lifting his arm to rest gently across your lap. The warmth of your touch sends a rush of unfamiliar comfort through him, as if such kindness is a rare gift. His nostrils flare as the scent of your shampoo wafts toward him while you reach for the small scissors designed for cutting medical bandages.

He observes silently as you take his arm to gently rest in your lap. Zoro tries to remain collected, but he can't help but notice how your touch is both soft and sure—like you've done this a hundred times before. The slight scent of your shampoo wafts through the air, and a part of that signature tough-guy image wants to lean into it, to bask in the pleasantness of it all. But he resists the urge, simply taking in the moment as you reach for the scissors.

Zoro’s gaze follows your every movement as you tend to his wound, his focus intense yet unwavering. He remains still, allowing you to work without interference. As you gently lift his arm, he feels a strange warmth wash over him, unfamiliar and unexpected.

He tenses slightly at the unusual feeling, his senses suddenly heightened. Zoro's brow furrows as he tries to understand what this sensation is. He's used to discomfort, pain, the sharp bite of a sword against his skin. But this is something different. It's gentle, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

As you continue tending to his injury, Zoro silently observes every meticulous gesture you make. There's something intimate about this entire situation—the gentleness of your touch, the closeness, the way you focus so intensely on him. It's a foreign concept, something he's never really experienced before.

His hardened exterior slowly begins to crack as a sense of vulnerability creeps in. He can't help but notice the feeling of heat where your hands lightly brush against his skin, his muscles involuntarily tensing in response.

You find the wound is intact—not a single stitch busted open, the clean lines of the bandage reassuring in their neatness. “No broken stitches! Any pain?” you ask, your voice laced with concern as you carefully examine the area, searching for any signs of trouble.

Zoro shakes his head in response. "No pain," he replies gruffly, his stare shifting away from yours. His brow furrows as he tries to suppress the faint touch of redness that flushes his cheeks slightly. "I've had far worse than this," he adds, the hint of pride in his voice an attempt to return to his usual cool demeanor.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” you reply, turning to grab some antiseptic and a cotton pad from your pack. “You’ve got quite the steel will, from what I’ve heard.” You pour the liquid onto the cotton and gently dab it across his stitches.

Zoro tenses slightly as the cool liquid hits his skin, the slight sting pulling him back to the moment. He studies you closely as you gently dab the cotton pad across his stitches, the faint scent of the antiseptic lingering in the air.

He gives a small huff in response to your comment, the compliment making his heartrate spike ever so slightly. "You could say that," he says gruffly, his usual nonchalant tone cracking slightly.

You hum, a blend of a smile and soft laughter, as the breeze playfully tousles your hair, sending strands dancing around your face. Zoro feels an urge to tuck it behind your ear, the simple act stirring something in him he can’t quite grasp.

As you continue to clean the wound, Zoro's mind wanders. He finds himself acutely aware of your proximity, the warmth of your body so close to his own. It's a sensation that he's not accustomed to, one that stirs something deep within him.

There’s a silence that comes over the two of you as Zoro tries to fathom why you’re making him feel this way. He can feel his hands shake each time the pads of your fingers grace his skin, and it’s enough for him to ignore the remaining ache in his shoulder.

What is going on?

Zoro's heart races each time your hands touch his skin, his breaths becoming a little shallower than they should be. He can't understand why he's reacting like this to something as simple as changing bandages. He's never been fazed by something so trivial—and yet, the sensation of your touch against his skin sends tingles down his spine.

He fidgets slightly, shifting his position on the deck flooring, desperate to regain some semblance of cool composure. Zoro's thoughts are a whirlwind of unbidden, uncharacteristic impulses, the silence between the two of you growing thicker by the minute.

He feels like he should say something, to break the silence in an attempt to ease himself, and, maybe, he just wants to hear the caring timbre of your voice again.

“So,” Zoro begins, still not caring to look at you—his eyes fixed on the horizon ahead instead, “What’s the long of it?”

“The long of it?” You reply, and he catches you tilting your head up to him in his peripheral, but fights the urge to break his waning focus.

“You said the short of it is Chopper asked you to change my bandages.” Fuck. Why is he so bad at this? What even is this? Zoro can't help but inwardly curse at himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. He doesn't understand why he's so compelled to keep this conversation going, why he wants to hear more from you, more of your voice, more of your laughter…

“Oh!” You giggle, a sound so endearing that it disarms him, making it impossible to maintain his facade. “The long of it, huh? Well, you know Chopper doesn’t fare well in the heat. He’s busy whipping up extra burn salves.”

Your laughter wraps around him like a soothing balm, easing the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. He finds himself locking eyes with you for a brief moment, captivated by the brightness in your expression, before he quickly looks away, a flush creeping to his cheeks.

“Burn salves, huh?” he murmurs, his tone low and thoughtful, as he works to keep his demeanor nonchalant despite the flutter of nerves beneath the surface.

“Mhm, you know Usopp goes through the bulk of them.” You explain as you unravel the replacement bandages. "I don't think I've seen a full stock since stepping onto the ship."

Zoro lets out a low chuckle, the tension easing slightly. "Usopp is a walking disaster," he mutters, "always finding new ways to burn himself." Despite his harsh words, there's a hint of fondness in his voice, showcasing the bond they’ve forged through countless adventures.

Another giggle from you as you adjust his arm across your lap to ready it for rebandaging. How can such a small sound make him feel so tingly? Why is his free hand shaking with the temptation to touch you?

Zoro tries to suppress the shiver that runs down his spine as your giggle echoes through the air once more. He finds himself staring at your face, the way your lips quirk upwards into a small smile, and he has to resist the urge to reach out and tuck a strand of stray hair behind your ear.

His free hand clenches into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles paling from the force of it. Why is he feeling so drawn to touch you, to feel the softness of your skin against his calloused fingers?

Gently, the wound is wrapped up in a very neat way. You take your time to ensure it isn't too tight or too loose—finding a happy middle ground to keep his wound safe for healing. 

As you diligently wrap up the injury with a practiced touch, Zoro can't help but appreciate the care you take in your work. Your precise movements and attention to detail are soothing, almost captivating. He silently notes the way you find the perfect balance between compression and looseness, making sure his wound is protected yet unrestricted.

He takes in your every move, his attention shifting between your focused expressions and the gentle precision of your hands as you work. There’s a quiet intensity in the way you concentrate, and he finds himself drawn to the delicate care you put into tending to him, the unfamiliar warmth surging through him once more.

"All done!" You say happily, giving him a soft tap of your fingers to his wrist before moving to clean up the remains of his former dressing. "How's it feel?"

Zoro flexes his arm a bit, testing out the tightness of the bandage. It's snug, but not uncomfortably so. He glances down at the clean new wrapping then back up at you, the touch of your fingers against his wrist sending another jolt of electricity through his body.

He clears his throat, trying to hide the affect your touch had on him. "Feels... fine," he mutters gruffly. "Sturdy."

"Excellent," you reply with a bright smile, gathering your supplies with a practiced ease before rising to your feet.

Zoro finds himself oddly disappointed as you stand up, readying to leave. He wasn't expecting this moment to end so soon. He had become so wrapped up in your presence, in the quiet moments between you as you worked diligently on his injury.

He watches you gather your things, a silent, unexplainable longing for your company coursing through him. But he keeps his mouth stubbornly shut, his usual impassive exterior firmly in place.

But you ask him something he doesn't expect then, something he didn't know he'd be chomping at the bit to want.

"It's killer out here," you say, fanning yourself with your free hand, the light breeze teasing your hair as you glance at him with a bright smile. "I'm going to grab some water—Sanji's keeping some cold for everyone. Want a glass?" The way your expression sparkles makes his heart skip a beat, and he finds himself eager for any excuse to prolong your time together.

Zoro's eyes widen ever so slightly at your question. A part of him wants to decline, to maintain his usual aloof demeanor. But another part, a more impulsive part, leaps at the opportunity to prolong your time together. He clears his throat again, his voice gruff as he replies. "Yeah. Sure," he mutters. "A glass would be nice."

You nod, promising to be right back with some after disposing of his old dressings below deck—and though it seems like ages for you to return, you do with that same smile with an ice cold glass of water in each hand.

"Mind if I join you? It's nice being out here in the quiet."

As you return, glasses of water in hand, Zoro can't help but feel a flutter of anticipation in his chest. Though he outwardly remains stoic, he's inwardly glad for the chance to linger in your company.

He glances at the empty spot beside him on the deck floor. "I don't mind," he mutters, scooting over slightly to make room for you. "Quiet's nice every now and then."

As Zoro and you sit side by side, sipping on the cool, refreshing water, he finds himself surprisingly at ease. The silence between you is comfortable and soothing, a welcome change from his usual readiness for action.

As the minutes roll by, he can't help but notice the way you hum a soft, soothing tune under your breath, the sound blending seamlessly with the gentle lapping of waves against the ship. He turns his head to glance at you, a small, uncharacteristic smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Perhaps this is something he could get used to.

[cowpokefuckingdied]

Also saw it mentioned the DNA of the body inside didn’t match his kids according to the army. Either it’s altogether bad information, he was cucked, or he’s still alive and out there

Tom Elliott on X: "Before he arrived at Trump Hotel with a bullet in his head in a Tesla rigged with explosives, Michael Liveisberger was apparently trying to call attention to China’s role in the New Jersey drones situation" / X

Expand the memo above and read it.

[evilminji]

My ONGOING "SI-OC Ponderings that my Muse is haunting me with but I may never get around to write" Series!

Because, fuck it, might as well. Maybe it will inspire somebody?

Jedi Youngling! Staring down that double barrel Order 66! FUCK.

Now, see, they don't blame the Clones. They don't even blame the Jedi. Whole lot of "victims of circumstance and our Wrong Place Wrong Time environment" going on. But? Are they gonna lay down and take it? Fffffuck no!

They JUST got this body!

Also?

THESE ARE BABIES.

They, An ADULT, have a god damned MORAL OBLIGATION to save as many of this itty bitty alien babies as they can. They warn the adults, obviously. But they FULLY expect? And are unsurprised? When they DON'T LISTEN.

There is a Force Damned PRECEDENT for that. (May you finally rest in peace now, Master Sifo-Dyas.)

The younglings though? THEY didn't get to make a choice. THEY are innocents. And as the only ADULT with knowledge of what's to come? It's HER moral, ethical, and Force given obligation to PROTECT them until they can do so themselves.

As a Jedi... she has to PICK.

Try to save the adults? Those who willfully chose ignorance AND have the ability to defend themselves? To fight and flee under their own power? Or... save the younglings, the infants and babies. Those whose ignorance is that of the young and still learning? Who CAN NOT fight. Can Not run?

It's no choice at all. And if they truely understood? She can only hope they would command her to do EXACTLY as she is doing. Would demand no less. Consider it UNTHINKABLE to ever choose them.

She searches out the hidden passages. Practices lifting things instead of sword stances. She will need to carry so much. Move so quickly. She KNOWS where the attack will come from... Force willing, if she plans well? The Creches will be EMPTY by the time the soilders arrive.

But for that? She must steal. Redirect. Take things from where they should be. It is easier then it should be. First because no expects true mischief from a child, then? Because a war has begun.

Restriction Bolts of the Temple droids and a simple explanation is enough to gain their assistance. It's illogical not to have a plan, even if you never use it. And through them? "Liberated" data jewels. Already plumbed for all the information they're good for. High end, too.

Perfect.

She wipes them all. Fashion's a belt that, one day, Force willing she might wear as a necklace. Then sets to work coping EVERYTHING about the Jedi. When the temple is lost? Their history should not be.

So long as this string of jewels alone survives.

The Jedi are remembered. Luke with not have to start over from half memories and hearsay. They can learn from the past AND still have it. She puts diaries, prophecies, books the jedi wrote for fun. Various Force sects both past and still alive. Teaching methods. Anything. Everything.

A time capsule.

It HAS to be enough.

She fears it's not. Sneaks into the hall of retired Sabers. Sits. And opens her mind to them all. Please. Please! She knows. She's so, SO sorry. You were done. You EARNED your rest. She would not ask this if youngling were not on the line. If Illum might not become to dangerous to travel too.

....if she did not fear what would become of you, should you stay.

The Sith is coming. He WILL take the temple.

Will you come with me now?

Some do, some promise to die, and die VICIOUS. Swear to blow to deadly shrapnel in the hands of any who dare come for them. Others leave their casings. Willing to come, but not as they were. She apologizes for the indignity, as she stuffs them all in the hidden paths.

Honestly? They muse. They've seen worse. Remember that-? WE DO NOT SPEAK OF THAT. HE WAS TRYING HIS BEST, OKAY?!

And all throughout? One must wonder. What do the other younglings think? That OC is strange? Mad? To be ostracized? No, of course not. She is nice. Listens when they're upset. Does not judge or make every emotion a test. Hugs come readily and her mind FEELS older. Like the Creche Master.

And? If Master YODA can be short? Why not OC? She just lives with them. The other Knights and Master's don't listen to her because she Sees things. It scares them. They SAY they do. But children know the difference, don't they? Between what you promise you'll do... and what you'll ACTUALLY do?

But see, the Creche Master's? Increasingly distracted. Preparing the eldest of their charges for WAR ZONES. It's stressful. The fact that the youngers are quiet? SHOULD raise alarm bells. They KNOW better. But they are distracted.

The ones who DO notice? Are the orphan Padawan. The older initiates. People assigned to "help out".

There aren't enough mind healers. Not enough hands to help around the Creche. It was considered a good idea. Young children are full of uncomplicated Light! Yes, Yoda. They are. But as with Obi-Wan, so too with the Crechelings? Children are NOT here to mend the hurts of their elders. That is NOT their purpose.

They are exposing the youngers to Fear and Grief. Broken bonds and the echos of war. This is NOT good for young force sensitives.

Yet... are THEY not young Force Sensitives? Children too? OC knows they are. And it is a bitterness on her tounge. She does what she can. Because SHE is and adult. They notice too. How can they not? The other children turn to her, she guides them through their day. She gives "projects" and listens to concerns. Walks everyone through meditation.

......runs everyone through the Evacuation Plan? WHAT Evacuation Plan?

Oh.

It... it helps. Having something they are PART of. Doing TOGETHER. Something to combat the growing, creeping, darkness that is not violence and death. This? This is planning. Preparation. It... it feels like have some sense of control again, after everything has become senseless and OUT of control. Yet? It is not DARK. Not seeking to force control on others.

It is just... quietly stepping back.

One foot, then another. Calmly and with grief. Letting go, knowing you have tried, as you leave those who have made their choices to the fates they chose. Silently slipping out the door before the building begins to burn. Just as you warned them. Just as they refused to hear.

It's okay to grieve.

Even those who are still alive.

Of course, Shadows ARE supposed to notice unusual movements. Spies and Falling are a concern. Heeey, little youngling! How's things? Just swinging byyyy~☆ soft interrogation tactics~! Gonna admit to any of the Blatant Theft?

Yes, actually. Good you are here. Saves OC the trouble of trying to figure out who is and isn't a Shadow. Kinda convenient, Master Vos, that it's you. What's the fastest set of ships you could stash at the exit to this and THIS hidden path? By this date?

He's sorry, what?

You heard her.

Tiny youngling, unflinching, staring him down and asking for ships like that's a thing she has any right to do? Why? Well... that depends. Are you actually going to listen, Master Vos, or do you want an answer that will comfort you?

Excuse me.

Do you remember? Master Vos, the suffering of Sifo-Dyas? A temple full of Jedi, a seat upon it's council, yet not a single soul would hear him. Would truely listen. How many Knights? How many Masters? Tell me, Master Vos, exactly how many have DIED for willful ignorance and attachment to peaceful days?

There could not POSSIBLY be Sith. So we will not train or prepare. There can not POSSIBLY be a war, Sifo-Dyas, so be consumed by your fear alone. Die, alone. Let Padawan and peacekeepers be Generals. Because what the Force has shown you? It is happening today.

So we refuse to see it. Cling to the present, Master Vos.

Isn't it so COMFORTING here?

You don't have to know what might be. Don't have to ACT. Can be blind and choose ignorance.

A vision then? He surely concludes. For he is no fool. And the Youngling just looks tired. Eats their meal. Answer the question, Master Vos. Do you remember? Was Master Kenobi's suffering also ignored? How well did that work out. Will you LISTEN or have you already come to your conclusions, and now simply seek information to support them?

....he wants to. He does. But you're like, four.

OC nods. Fair. She can see the genuine conflict on his face. He HEARD her. But can not let go of what his eyes tell him. The Force is too muddled here. She too, would have a hard time trusting a small child with something so serious. But.... she can not change her path. And neither can he.

May the Force Be With You, Master Vos.

Plan Besh it is.

She is a small adorable child. The Coruscant gaurd are overworked and filled with spite. Who wants caff and bribery~? Do they clock her immediately? Yes. Is this hilarious. Also yes. Who did you kill, small child? We promise not to be mad.

No one, yet. Could change. She would prefere it not. But who knows. Anyway~☆! Do any of YOU caff loving (here have a refill) gentleman happen to know of any asshole Goverment Officals with REALLY fast ships that run primarily of droid piloting? With potentially easily disabled trackers? Not that she, a small child, would be DOING anything with this information!

It's just neat information to know! *innocent blinking of innocence*

Uh huh. And they were decanted yesterday.

That SAID.... they have a list. Oh noooo! They dropped the list! So much effort to pick it up. Hey, kid, could pick that up and definitely not steal it for us? Good baby Jedi. Thanks for the Caff. Tell Vos to stop haunting the lower levels. It's OUR job to hunt criminals for sport, not his.

Yes, sir o7

Of she goes? To the Senatorial Garage. It's mostly droids. Of LOOK! I have this handy little tool! Pop. Pop, pop, pop~! Hey? Wanna fuck over the asshole who doesn't appreciate you, steal this ship, AND save the lives of small children?

BOY WOULD THEY! Says local every droid in the Ship pool.

Great! Just figure out where the trackers are, how to turn them off, and when it's time? Meet a one of these locations for pick up. We're gonna NEED you. Like... actually NEED. Not "I'm throwing my money around on the latest and greatest then not USING THEM FOR ANYTHING" supposedly need. You'll have SO MUCH WORK.

(They're gonna cry in Binary. Omg? Fuckin FINALLY???)

And so... inevitably. The clock ticks down. The drama of adults ramps up. They smuggle a few clone troopers through surgery. Try to warn the others. Know it won't be enough. The momentum is too great. The gears of War will grind over everything.

Like a forest fire... the old has to burn away for new growth.

But like hell is she letting that come at the cost of tiny bodies. Clones trapped in their minds forced to fire upon children. There will be enough horrors this day. This can be on less. They WILL be ready. And... they are.

She sees the council running out. Knows what it means. And she does NOT hesitate. Her signal goes out. Her Padawan helpers dropping everything to BOLT for the Creche and the go bags stored there. They are followed by friends. Who do not understand, but trust them. Who's Master's do not understand, but assume this is some plan they were not told off.

It certainly seems so, when in the distance? They hear the temple gaurds fighting to hold the line. Hear blasterfire. They race down the hidden paths. Are met with droids, loading up food and medicine, leave as soon as each ship has the assigned numbers. Again and again. Senatorial chips mean instant pass into space. Important business, you understand.

The droids will follow, with everything. Including what was nailed down. Probably the nails too.

Might steal the hammers while they're at it.

Next stop? Wild Space.

Explorcorps newest finds. FRESHLY deleted. All points warning already being sent. A Fuck You Very MUCH, Sith-y Pants. You'll not be getting ANY of the Corps workers if THEY can help it. And hey... the Masters and a few knights were a pleasant suprise. Them and their squad of rescue troopers? Almost make enough adults to take care of everybody!

Now all they have to do? Is hide, rebuild, and regrow.

Return when Luke has down his Luke thing.

Who knows... not her. She made a plan and she DID it. Some one else can decide for a while. She's just a kid. Tell her when they get there, okay?

[altcvnningham]

needy

adler x f!bell

summary: adler gets up for a morning cigarette. or tries to. read on ao3

tags/cw: established adlerbell, f!bell, she/her pronouns, bell is russian, fluff, light angst, no plot, drabble, smoking mention, kind of domestic i guess, bo6 adler so he's a little soft, pre-bo6 but post-panama, cw references galore, dog imagery as is synonymous w adlerbell atp, author has adhd and goes on prosaic rambles in lieu of an actual plot. this fic could have been an email?? sorry wc: 3.1k

a/n: bwuhhh this was just an excuse to write self indulgent soft morning adlerbell at the rook while i work on my actual pre-bo6 adlerbell rook fic when i have the energy . no plot, lots of rambling, once again kind of just a thinkpiece on their relationship now adler's an old fossil. idk she was doing nothing being left in my notes app ajdkhjkasjk

He reckons she’s needier these days, more than she ever used to be back in Berlin.

Sometimes he wonders if it’s just his age that makes him feel that way; that perhaps she hasn’t changed at all, and instead it’s the dust settling on his bones, rusted shrapnel over the years snagged in the joints and sinews, that makes him feel sluggish in comparison. It’s the first time in his life since Livingstone brought up the CIA’s desire for more sprightly recruits that he wonders- is he struggling to keep up?

Their reunion after all these years was a messy one: a scrap in an indistinct bar, bloodied knuckles split and bruises welted dark blue, the white of his eye burst red, the curve of her jaw swollen for a good week. Fresh after Panama. As soon as she caught wind of what happened she’d picked up his trail barely a week after he arrived in Bulgaria. Had she come to kill him? He doesn’t know. It isn’t as if she’d confess to it even if she had, and maybe he had it coming anyway. It stopped mattering at all the second the fight had descended into the alleyway, wrestled onto their backs against the cobblestone, where hands had found throats and then jaw, waist, hip, and everything else. Punches had calmed to caresses, curses to kisses, and somehow he’d found himself patching her up back at the Rook, his stray dog come home to him, like old times.

She’d eased herself back into his life easily enough then. Simple and unspoken. Or, rather, wedged her foot back in the door well enough that he couldn’t shut her out again, even if he’d wanted to (as if he hadn’t always kept it ajar all these years just to let her in, never closed, never closed). Never a word for what they are, what they have, the routine they’ve slipped almost effortlessly back into again- that hasn’t changed since the old days- and yet he doesn’t find that it robs it of meaning whatsoever.

If anything, it makes it something rare, special, his diamond in the rough, glinting sea glass washed a perfectly chiselled bead upon the shore. Just as she’d crashed along with the tide as time brought her back to him, he picked her up, tucked her gently back into that place she belonged, in between the rib and vertebrae, nestled inside him all to steady the beat of his restless heart. Her alone enough to settle the frantic, ceaseless palpitations he’s suffered nightly, since… Solovetsky? He thinks? The dull gnawing in the back of his mind all those years in between, that wasn’t sure if he was more frightened for her inevitable return or her disappearing forever, slipping through his fingers back to sea again.

He supposes it doesn’t matter anymore. That was then, and now seemed to fare much nicer.

Now, she rolls sweet and placid onto her back against the mattress, limp as a daisy in rain, soft body bowing to his careful manhandling; he’s itching for a smoke, aching for his vice the second he awoke, hours too early for his alarm. He lifts her off him delicately, almost methodical as he starts with her arm, the heavy loll of her head, her shoulder. Like defusing a bomb, he’d joked once, a comparison she’d only proven right by her explosive reaction to it.

It’s an odd feeling, though, the calm where there had once been nothing but war between them, the quiet, the warmth upon his chest now fading where she’d laid her head after he came back last night- back home, back to her- and it’s in moments like these, just mere glimpses of normalcy, that makes him wonder what could have been his life, theirs, had things not happened the way they did. MK Ultra, Berlin, Solovetsky. Perseus. Then again, he supposes, if she hadn’t been shot in Trabzon that night, if she hadn’t been there at all, then he wouldn’t have known she’d even existed. This mundane moment lost to time like everything else.

She murmurs in her sleep, spurred to wakefulness when the mattress lifts and groans at his absence, her eyes squinting through the sliver of morning light bleeding through the gap in the curtains; even when she’s completely out of it, she doesn’t miss a thing. He’s never exactly been the paragon of stealth when he excels at everything else, but even if every factor in the world had worked in his favour- if the beaten mattress wasn’t so rusted, if the ancient floorboards didn’t squeal underfoot when he stood up, if there wasn’t a constant draft on his side of the room that hit her as soon as he moved- nothing would have stopped her from registering his absence, clawing to fight off sleep just so she had an excuse to grouse at him. Ever his stubborn girl.

“Mm… where y’going…?”

Adler smiles to himself, flat but genuine, stifled by the lethargy that hangs over his head heavy as an anvil. Her accent so thick in the early hours it hardly sounds like English at all. He’s half tempted to reply in Russian, just to see if her cottonmouth tongue latches quicker to that instead.

But he doesn’t, just lingers in the doorway leading out to the hall, feeling only a little guilty for letting in the cold. It rather satisfies him instead to see her shiver and pull the blankets further over herself, keeping her right where he wants her. Right where he needs her, so he knows she’ll still be there when he comes back.

“Smoke,” is all he says, rattling the crumpled pack for her to hear.

She’s half coherent when she grumbles, English sandwiched between Russian endearments. Cussing him out.

“Y’can smoke in here… m’don’t mind. Come back to bed.”

Something tugs at his heart, almost foreign, vague. Something he only feels when she digs her claws in him just like that, even if only to graze. It’s the same certainty as when he wraps his finger around a trigger, pulls a pin, wrenches his hand around the hilt of a knife- unspoken, inevitable. The drop of a guillotine, inexorably quick. A certainty that verges on frightening, a promise, which he’s never been good at keeping, but knows she means wholeheartedly, down to her marrow. Possessiveness, he thinks- (is it irony, now, how often he finds her fist wrapped around the leash he doesn’t even notice he’s wearing?)- people not in their line of work, those with nice houses and desk jobs and white picket fences, he’s heard, call that feeling belonging. To be beckoned like that. Home.

It’s her demand that he stays. Hardly a question. And Bell doesn’t beg.

He’s sure that in her spitefulness, if he’d had a trigger phrase just like hers, she’d spit it at him ‘til he turned heel and crawled back on over to her, slid under the sheets like an apology scrawled onto a note and tucked under the door. It’s a near enough thing- the way her bleary eyes fix on him vengefully through matted lashes, searing her betrayal into him. Every morning he gets up before her, it seems to say: you left me. A petulant notion, only half serious, but one cold enough that it almost works. Frigid. Familiar. Arctic air.

It works a little at least- getting soft in your old age- because he lugs himself back over to the bed and just stands by it, refusing to give her the satisfaction of quiet victory if he climbs back inside. She stretches a languid arm flat across the mattress, rolling catlike onto her stomach, splaying her fingers in the hopes that she might somehow pull him back in to her. She manages a knuckle grazing his knee, before she gives up, pulled under by sleep once more. Head slumped against the pillow, she muffles her disdain.

But Adler is nothing if not at least a little amenable. If he’s sweet on anyone, it’s his Bell. His baby. Hard to let a thing like that go, when she was quite literally made for him. Made by him, in his image. Scraped marrow from rib like Adam, caulking the hole Arash shot through her chest and bestowed life upon her once more. He’s happy to have a piece of himself broken off and left inside her, a tithe tossed to the slab of her altar. The fracture of his soul a discarded lamb in sacrifice, sustaining the sick hunger that starves her.

It keeps them inseparable, he thinks. He’d read something somewhere, pretentious shlock about strings of fate and those bound to it- romantic crap shmucks use to justify ugly marriages and affairs, the suffering of co-dependency given some transcendent meaning, a purpose greater than the mundane. The notion that two people, by whatever higher power, are bound to one another no matter what they do to separate themselves of it, tethered from their first breath and suffering an endless togetherness until their last. He’d rolled his eyes the first time he’d heard of it- there wasn’t a world where he’d be enough of a sap to actually buy into that shit. Maybe his ex-wife might’ve been fond of it, maybe it was something she wrote into one of the letters he kept under his bunk back in ‘Nam. He doesn’t know.

But Bell made him understand it. He’d dug a grave in her when he denied her her own on that airstrip in Turkey, and he buried himself in it, over and over again. His memories, his life, his voice ringing like God’s. His favourite things, treasured, secret. His fears and doubts and worries, every little thing that made up the culmination of his being. It was never just Vietnam he put there. It was everything. She’s half himself, a faded mirror image. It only makes sense that they’d find each other again, eventually. She’d walk the earth, stalking like a bloodhound trailing his dried scent until she found him. She’d roam the endless nights, a ghost shivering their old haunts until he meanders his way back to her again, pulled along by a gnawing ache inside himself- a missing piece he’d seek the rest of his life to fill. She could track him blind. And he would feel her coming, like blood in the water. He did. He did.

It’s that tether that makes it impossible not to relent to her, when he kneels down next to the bed, knee joint cracking under his weight, the mottled floorboard doing nothing to steady him. It’s her, when she has enough leverage now to close the distance between her fingers and the collar of his shirt, curled inside the bleached cotton, fist wrenched tight. The seam digs into the back of his neck but he doesn’t let her pull him to her; he waits, making her work for it. The satisfaction that tends to follow when she does is usually worth her ingratiation.

She drags herself across the mattress, using his body as an anchor. Heavy and boneless, she lays right at the edge of the bed where he kneels, her nose nudging at his jaw as she turns, belly up like prey. Too easy a kill, he knows that. She’s gloating. The fact he’d come back at all means she’s got him right where she wants.

“C’mere,” she murmurs gently, saccharine, cloying. He’s surprised it doesn’t make her gag- the pretend domesticity of it all. Dragging her dried lips, smiling, against the underside of his jaw, her fingers sliding idle up the back of his neck, arm slung around his shoulder like she’s expecting to be carried out.

He humours her with a smirk, his blues nearly grey in the dim dark of the room as she mouths at him, vying for his attention. It’s as much a demand as her words had been, sharp as her tone as she nips at his jaw. Adler sighs, as though turning his face to gaze down at her were something laborious, and not the blessing he counts on every finger, every day, seemingly numbered since Panama. He tuts, and it says, what am I going to do with you?

But if his condescension was an attempt to dissuade her advances, it doesn’t work, because she sees right through his playful façade, and the wry smile that unfurls sleepy on her lips betrays her excitement, the sifting of her legs under the sheets audible as she squeezes them together. Needy. She knows he notices.

“Not gonna work, Bell,” he hums dryly. Yet he steals this moment of her surrender, his eyes flitting to every feature of her face. He doesn’t need to commit her to memory, she’s dug in there like a tick. But God, if he doesn’t like to look at her. He brings a rough hand down against her temple, smoothing the baby hairs back, eliciting a satisfied sigh from her as her eyes slip shut. Her head falls back against the pillow, anticipating a kiss he doesn’t give her.

“C’mon. Back to sleep. I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Five.”

“Bell.”

“Five minutes.”

Adler sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut.

“C’mon,” she croons, “five minutes… n’then…”

He thinks she’s fallen back asleep, the way her sentence carries off like that into silence. But when he opens his eyes she’s blinking prettily up at him, looking far too satisfied. Just as he opens his mouth to ask why, he feels the warm press of her hand against his knee, sliding up his thigh, fingertips tugged impishly at the sweatpants he’d haphazardly thrown on. He’s lightning quick to catch her, fingers circling her wrist; where the darting action might scare a weaker person it makes Bell’s eyes light up like stars, enamoured with his roughness. Excited. The way only she could be, eager pup biting at his ankles for a reaction.

“Behave,” he scolds, giving her knuckle a cursory smack before releasing her. That must finally be enough to spoil her fun, because she huffs, growling low in her throat, and rolls back over, burrowing herself deeper into the blanket than she’d begun.

It’s always a game to her, one she doesn’t much like losing. He can’t blame her for it. It’s always been that way. Back in Berlin, he’d taught her to play poker the proper way, the American way- whatever that meant- her downfall eternally being the fact she couldn’t bluff for shit around him. And it was just him- she’d caught on quick to the play, and had triumphed a couple times against Sims and Lazar; Park had refused to indulge the game, and Woods wiped the floor with the lot of them, even Adler. But with him, Bell just couldn’t lie. He was carved from marble, impassable- what he’d been trained to do. And she was a piece chipped off his softest part, malleable- of course he’d catch every minute twitch and wince, the flitting of wet lashes, the purse of an uncertain lip. She always told him the truth even with her eyes, her heart bore on her sleeve. It almost always felt like cheating. After all, it was what she was made for, wasn’t it?

And this felt much the same way. Not as strict as the luck of dealt hands and stifled poker faces but she’s never said or done anything to him she doesn’t mean. After he missed the shot in Solovetsky, all cards were strewn on the table. There was no mystery anymore. No joy taken in a good old fashioned backstab when the real damage was done, much too late to rectify. Maybe that’s why she makes it her personal goal to poke and prod and tease him now, chasing her fun in her own way, a decade late. Suppose it’s why she hates when he doesn’t just drop the cool attitude and give in.

He rises from the floor, that same knee joint clicking again. Where she might have mumbled a curt jibe about it, she’s silent, sulking into the pillow.

But just as he goes to leave, Adler stops at the door, a foot out into the hallway, the rest of him still stuck here, stuck on her. He sees a similar image in the back of his mind, of her laid upon the gurney in Die Landebahn, halfway into the back room with a syringe in hand when for one single moment of sobriety it dawned on him, what he’d been doing to her. Nothing like guilt, but it came close. Tinged with the regret of something so shameful as affection, Cupid’s arrow dipped in kerosene, shot straight through his heart; to come out the other side, to let him survive, to let him have this, here, her, now. And it’s a torture to have lived it, to know he doesn’t deserve a lick of it. The soft rise and fall of her breath beneath the blanket. Her hair splayed upon his pillow. She buries her nose deep in the old goose feather to try and keep him where he’s left her. Hold him close even when he’s gone.

The decade’s done much to him. He’d put on a couple pounds, had to start plucking the errant greys flecking his hairline, begun to wake most mornings with a tell-tale crick in his neck. He’s learned to relax that hard line in his brow, drawn too deep to reverse the evidence of age; let himself laugh a little easier, surprised people with his newfound ability to actually smile. He’s lost a lot, gained half as much. He’d been through hell and back, worse maybe than what he did to her- his karma, he supposes. And he supposes the decade’s made him soft, sentimentality creeping in to nestle somewhere he can’t reach, hidden inside himself with all the other things he doesn’t talk about. And he supposes of everything he’s lost, he has Bell again, and all things considered- it’s a fair trade.

He sucks in a breath, a sigh made audible for her to hear. Even as she feigns sleep, he knows she catches it, a flinch of her shoulder- where the shot he missed had landed in lieu of her head. In Solovetsky.

Then, Adler sighs, followed by a promise that feels to her like a confession.

“Five minutes.”

And when the door clicks shut, Bell steals herself a little victory smile.

[dekulakization]

Not to be a nerd on main but I've got some shit to say about Curly mouthwashing.

Initial injuries:

How did Curly end up a tetralateral amputee. Why were the amputations PERFORMED for that matter. His injuries apparently reached all four limbs in equal spots. The right eye being covered implies either that the blast was stronger on the right side (AKA that he was turned so that the blast faced the right side of his body) or that he received additional injuries (perhaps shrapnel or an injury as he was thrown backwards by the force of the blast). IF he was turned to the blast with his right side of the body, wouldn't the injuries be more severe there? More damaged tissue, more unsalvageable tissue. If this was the case I feel like his amputations would be up to the hip/shoulder. I've heard the idea that he was perhaps stuck in foam but that doesn't clear anything up for me. Were his arms and legs both equally inside of the foam so that when the blast struck his joints (elbows/knees) were all injured beyond repair?

Even if that's the case, they didn't have the supplies for an amputation (let alone 4) by ANY means. There was no trained medical personnel on board (Anya only finished the company course) and amputation is a dangerous procedure just as any other surgery is. I feel like attempting to perform a botched amputation would be far more dangerous than leaving the tissue be. Though that poses the risk of necrosis. More on necrosis later.

Infection, cardiovascular concerns, blood loss and thermoregulation:

How did the crew stop the initial bleeding? How did they remove whatever they used to stop the initial bleeding? Blood loss had to be severe, and I feel like the crew would get to him far too late to stop him bleeding out completely. And for my second statement, things stick. Tissue paper sticks, cloth sticks, it sticks to tissue. Anything would cause further damage of the tissue.

Is ALL of his skin gone? All of it burned off? Is there still patches of it in tact? Either way, he lost ANY methods of thermoregulation since most of it (that being, the skin) is gone and the crew don't even bother to try and maybe, I don't know, stop him from going hypothermic. Give him a blanket. None of that. He's in a gown and some bandages. How did he not die of hypothermia?

Directly tied to the lack of thermoregulation, the bleeding and the pain, how did his heart not give out from the initial shock and later on psychophysical strain? I genuinely find it so hard to believe that after all of that his heart would still be holding out. It's a muscle that can overstrain itself just like any other.

Why and how in the world did he NOT get anything infected??? Jesus Christ? As far as we're aware he hasn't changed that gown nor those bandages in months. There is no disinfectant on the ship and even if there was using it on him would damage tissue further. Your skin protects the tissue underneath from infection and that's why it's easy for wounds to get infected, because they're breaks in the skin. It should be necrotic. What the hell. Also how's he not blind how didn't his eye dry out he can't blink

The purpose of keeping him alive: torturers tending to injuries

It's clear that the crew can recognise when a mercy killing is necessary (such as shown on the example of Daisuke). So why in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD is Curly left alive? Is it punishment because they think he crashed the ship? Why give him painkillers then? Why are you easing his pain? To stop his heart from giving out, to keep him alive longer?

IIRC Anya DID want to kill Curly but Jimmy was against it. This would not only completely out Jimmy as a sadist but it makes me wonder why is his word valued above the word of someone who has more medical experience than him, even if it was just a company course. Was she scared of what he'd do if she didn't listen to him?? Also why is this not a matter the entire crew is supposed to discuss??? And this leads into my NEXT point:

Why is nobody attempting to establish some sort of communication method with Curly? Hello?? He's clearly conscious and present within the moment, able to see and process the things around him. He literally cannot do anything. The least you could do, if you truly want to ease pain, is to try to stimulate him intellectually. To talk to him like a man to a man. His humanity was stripped from him by his surroundings rather than the crash itself. Letting him stare at a white ceiling with his only stimulation being pills forced down his throat is genuinely inhumane. Nobody is asking him whether HE wants to live or to die. Nobody is taking into consideration that he still has thoughts.

Perhaps I'm taking the entirety of his character too literally. Don't get me wrong, I love this game. I haven't played it myself, I could only bring myself to watch analysis videos, so some of the things I say might be straight up wrong, and I'm willing to take any criticism and discussion that starts. This was just me nerding out about medicine

[chuunai]

hey, congrats 100 followers !! i would love to join your celebration♡ may i request beastzai (or js adazai) with the scenario married life (1) & all in all, it was a typical tuesday (8) as the prompt ?

congrats on 100 again !!!! it’s a big number and a big achievement !!

I think Dazai is really hot too.

✧˚ · . vroom vroom, than a table for two - dazai osamu

he certainly couldn’t complain.

summary ⋆ ★ comfort, fluff, established relationship (marriage with reader), SFW → icky PDA, cutesy nicknames, minor mention of sex (it’s like barely there though) and overall puppy husband dazai. also obvious mentions of suicide its DAZAI

It was Tuesday.

And also another hardworking day at the Agency. So, so tiring, according to your husband—not that he ever worked—to the point where he simply needed a break with his lovely spouse. That’s how you found yourself hand-in-hand with him during your lunch break, walking down the sidewalks of Yokohama while he excitedly spoke about a new suicide method he had heard of.

Yesterday was a homemade shrapnel bomb, today was a wrecking ball.

“Basically, you hide out in a building that’s scheduled to be demolished and eventually it collapses on you! Pretty sweet, isn’t it?”

Quirking an eyebrow, he turned to you expectantly, a cheery smile on his face. It was quick, painless enough method of suicide. Beautiful in a way, too. Sunlight would be warming his skin, the air fresh and crisp and then tons of concrete and plaster would crush his entire body in one fell swoop. No pain, just gain of access to the afterlife.

Looking back at him, you sheepishly shrugged, replying back to amuse both him and yourself. 50% of the time, his attempts were idiotic and funny, the other 50% was genuinely worrying and mildly terrifying. Today seemed to be the former, though. Thankfully.

Plus, it wasn’t like the method would even work due to some random info you found out about on the internet.

“Yeah, but I’m like, ninety-nine percent sure they check the buildings for people before they demolish them. So you’d get found out.”

Your tone was as equally playful and light as his. He wouldn’t really kill himself. You weren’t ready for a double suicide yet, sadly. His lips curled into a frown when you mentioned how it wouldn’t work, his fingers squeezing yours as he exaggerated his sigh.

“And here I was, certain of my demise! Guess that means I’ll be with you a bit longer, darling.”

Not that he really minded.

Sure, he constantly went off about suicide and how beautiful the whole concept was, but at the end of the day, he wouldn’t want to die without you at his side. He’s firmly one of those people who’d kill himself after his beloved died. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself after you died. Sure, he made Odasaku a promise, but he made you a vow.

Until death do them part.

When you died, so would he.

But no one was dying today. Just a happy day for a happy couple.

Dazai’s hand slipped out of yours, curling around your hips instead as he pulled you closer to his side. He wanted to show off his pretty partner to anyone who happened to look over at you two. Show off the person who owns his heart and soul and is his perfect reason to live for just a little bit longer. No one else deserved his gorgeous belladonna.

Just him and him only.

Only Dazai could kiss your lips at any given moment—publicly or privately—, and only he could watch you dress up for dates, brushing out your hair while he mumbled compliments into the spot where your collarbone met your neck. Only Dazai could spend hours with you at night, hearing his name from your lips while his fingers intertwined with yours at the intimate moments.

No one else could hope to do the same with you.

That’s why he soon was leading you into a bakery, the smell of pastries and bread flooding the air as he looked over the treats in the display cases. Black sesame roll cakes, all squishy looking and yummy. The cookies ranging from chocolate chip to matcha and plain vanilla. They all looked so good, but the prices weren’t quite the same.

God, when it came to money, Dazai wished he was still in the Mafia. At least he had tons of it back then.

Now, he had to be a bit more frugal with his income from the Agency. Sure, you guys weren’t dirt poor or unable to afford food and other necessities, but you couldn’t always get special snacks like this. Maybe once every week or two, if you could do so.

Nudging your shoulder, he tapped the glass, looking at you expectantly. He always did this—letting you choose what the two of you would eat. Dazai didn’t mind either. You had good taste unlike his diet of canned crab and alcohol.

“I trust my lovely spouse’s taste and that you’ll pick something good like always.”

He was such a puppy. Only for you, he thought.

“Uhmm…dunno. Pick a number, one or two.”

Dazai placed a finger on his lips, pretending to be in thought like it was the most important decision in his twenty-two years of life so far. Brows furrowed in concentration, eyes darting between you and the sweet treats while he hummed quietly. One or two? Eh. He’d go with two. There was the two of you here, after all.

“Two.”

He watched as you pointed at a slice of strawberry cheesecake, your eyes looking at him for approval. Honestly, Dazai never understood why you wanted his approval for everything. You were his equal—his life partner, nonetheless—so there was really no need for this behavior. But he couldn’t blame you. Even now, he had a bit of a commanding aura.

“Oooooh, that looks good! Knew you’d pick something tasty.”

Dazai pecked your cheek affectionately while he held your hand walking to the counter, ordering two slices of strawberry cheesecake, taking out Kunikida’s credit card that he had ‘borrowed’ from the blondie earlier at work. Compared to the thievery he had committed in his younger years, it was practically begging to be used with how his wallet was smack dab in the middle of his desk.

Carefully holding the two plates of the cheesecake slices, he led you over to a table in the corner, giving you a fork as he sat down across from you. He didn’t eat until you dug into your piece first, making sounds of contentment as sweetness coated both your taste buds. Geez, it was good. Worth the price for sure. The corner of your lips were stained with the white frosting, and so he swiped his thumb over the mess, cooing at you like a parent.

“Ah ah, ‘donna. You’re getting messy.”

Dazai liked the flush of your face. How flustered you were as you insisted you could clean yourself and that you weren’t a baby and a fully capable grown adult.

“I’m not a baby, ‘samu! I can take care of myself, ‘kay?”

Of course, of course.

“Uh-huh. And you’re not a baby. You’re my baby. My clumsy little baby who can’t eat without making a mess.”

Chewing on the rest of his slice, minutes passed, filled with conversations between the two of you about work, how Atsushi was doing—probably still traumatized and fucked over, is what you both agreed about—, plans for dinner. You tastefully ignored his comment about what he wanted for dessert. At least there weren’t any kids in the bakery.

Thankfully for everyone else in the establishment, your ‘lunch’ was finished. Walking out of the cafe, he clasped onto your hand firmly, feeling his wedding ring rub against your skin. The sounds of honking and birds chirping filled the air, but all Dazai could hear were your gentle breaths coupled with the sound of your footsteps.

Nothing really mattered besides you, in his eyes.

His everything—his reason to live.

Eternally.

Tags: @twst-om-lover, @sinfulthoughtsposts

[najia-cooks]

[ID: Sweet potatoes with black, charred skin on a decorative plate. One has been opened to show bright orange flesh, sprinkled with sugar. End ID]

بطاطا حلوة مشوية / Batata hiluwa mashwiyya (Roasted sweet potatoes)

Sweet potatoes are considered a traditional and nostalgic food in Palestine—a gift from the land, a seasonal delicacy, a potentially profitable crop, "red gold." Every fall and winter, as they are grilled in taboon ovens throughout Gaza, their smell fills the air.

This recipe uses a method of preparation common in rural Palestine, which applies direct heat to char the potatoes; the black, crackly skin is then peeled off, leaving tender, steaming, sweet flesh with a roasted aroma. The peeled sweet potato is eaten on its own, or sprinkled with sugar.

The recent history of sweet potatoes in Gaza is a microcosm of Israel's economic control of the region during that time. Though they grow well in Gaza's soil, they are a risky commitment for its farmers, as the seeds or seedlings must be imported from Israel at considerable expense (about 40 shekels, or $10, per plantlet), and they need to be weeded every day and irrigated every other day. Water for irrigation is scarce in Gaza, as Israel drains and contaminates much of the supply.

Nevertheless, the crop would be a profitable one if Gazan farmers were allowed to export it. In the shmita year of 2014, for the first time since the Israeli military's deadly 51-day invasion two months prior, restrictions briefly eased to allow Gazans to export some agricultural products to Europe; the first shipment contained 30 tons of sweet potatoes. However, an estimated 90% of the sweet potato crop was at that time unsuitable for export, having been damaged by Israeli shrapnel. The Gazan Ministry of Agriculture estimated that damages of this kind cost the agricultural sector about 550 million USD during this year.

Gazan economist Maher al-Taba’a holds that Israel temporarily allowing export of a token amount of sweet potatoes “is nothing more than media propaganda which is meant to confuse international audiences" by giving the impression that the siege on Gaza was looser than it had been before the 2014 ceasefire agreement; meanwhile, the number of allowed exports had actually decreased since before the invasion occurred. Gazan farmers, in fact, were not even allowed to export produce to Palestinians in the West Bank until 2017.

The next shmita year (an agricultural sabbath during which ultra-Orthodox Jews allow their fields to lie fallow) began in September of 2021, around the same time as the beginning of the sweet potato harvest. In anticipation of the shmita year, and in keeping with the trickle of Gazan exports that had been allowed into Israel in the intervening years, many farmers had planted more than they otherwise would have. But Israel delayed accepting the imports, leading many farmers to throw away rotting produce, or to sell their produce in the local market for far lower prices than they had been expecting.

Israel's habit of closing off Gaza's exports arbitrarily and without notice recurred during the harvest season of 2022. When Israeli former MK Yaakov Litzman called on Minister of Agriculture and Rural Development Oded Forer to import sweet potatoes from Gaza due to a shortage of the produce in Israel, Forer refused, citing Israeli soldiers whom Palestinian resistance fighters had taken hostage as rationale for his decision. Other officials were surprised at the linking of an agricultural matter to a political one.

Farmers had no choice but to enter the harvest season hoping that the decision would be reversed and that their time, labor, money, and scarce water resources would not go to waste. With these last-minute decisions that cause Gazan farmers to be unable to fulfill their contracts, Israel damages the future viability of Gazan exports to European markets.

Support Palestinian resistance by calling Elbit System’s (Israel’s primary weapons manufacturer) landlord and donating to Palestine Action’s bail fund.

Equipment:

A fire, wood-burning oven, gas stove, or broiler

A baking sheet

Ingredients:

Sweet potatoes. Choose a variety with red or orange skin and orange flesh, such as garnet or jewel.

Sugar, cinnamon, date syrup, or tahina, to serve.

Instructions:

1. Wash sweet potatoes. Place them at the bottom of a taboon oven, or on a baking sheet or griddle laid over a cooking fire or gas burner. You may also place them on a baking sheet or cast-iron pan inside an oven with a broiler setting.

2. Turn the gas burner on medium-high, or the broiler on low. Heat the sweet potatoes, occasionally rotating them, until their skin is blistered and blackened in multiple places and they are tender all the way through.

3. Remove potatoes and allow them to cool slightly. Slice each potato open lengthwise, or peel away its skin, and eat the interior.

Roasted sweet potatoes may be eaten on their own, or sprinkled with sugar or cinnamon-sugar, or drizzled with date syrup, tahina, chocolate sauce, etc.

[mamawasatesttube]

15 FOR THA WRAPPED FICLETS YAAAA

15. Topeka - Ludo

There's something meditative about working in the garage.

Tim stares up at the undercarriage of the Batmobile—his Batmobile, via a little more Batarang budget manipulation—and drums his fingers against his socket wrench. The penetrating oil has had a good few minutes to soak into the bolts, so he's just about good to go.

The bzzzzzz-click! bzzzz-click! of his socket wrench as he rotates it is a soothing balm to his ears, right at home with the sounds of the boombox he set up against the wall. He can hear Cassie idly tapping her foot to the beat as he works, but he doesn't say anything, and she doesn't either. He just methodically unbolts the rear end of the damaged catalytic converter first, then moves to the front ones.

Once he gets it unbolted, he sets it aside; his leg brushes the oxygen sensor he put down earlier, and he scoots his creeper a little to the left so as not to accidentally kick it.

In a way, he's grateful for the shrapnel that damaged the converter. It's kind of nice to have some concrete repair work he can do with his hands, something to take his mind off the jagged, bleeding edges of the gaping hole where his heart used to be. If he focuses hard enough on the placements of the new gaskets, on the springs and the bolts to hold them in place, he can't think about any gold statues or pre-recorded funeral videos.

Cassie's voice jerks him out of his reverie. "Hey, Tim?"

Tim grunts. "Hm?"

She's quiet for a moment. He sees her scuffed red sneakers shift on the smooth concrete floor. "I'm—it feels horrible to say it, but—do you ever... There's this part of me that's just so angry at him for dying. Both of them."

Tim drops his wrench on his face.

"Shit—" He claps a hand to his stinging forehead and squeezes his eyes shut as the wrench clatters to the floor next to him. Stars sparkle in his closed eyelids.

Cassie sucks in a breath. "Sorry," she mutters.

"Just. Don't." Tim reaches for the wrench again. He could try to comfort her, but—he can't, not when there's nothing in him left. He came here to escape his grief, and she dragged it in like a cat with a mutilated rodent's corpse. "Don't. Okay?"

"Okay," Cassie says shortly. He doesn't watch her sneakers recede from view as she leaves.

[choco-cherry-chunk]

It is time!

Modern BBC Ghosts AU a la Cherry (i.e., with mpreg bullshit) - Part 6 (Final Part)

Part 6

“I beg your pardon?”

James had pondered an endless series of possibilities related to how he’d been feeling of late. After his minor heart issue, one would think he’d be more vigilant about his health. But denial could be addictive and it was only when Anthony had ordered him to visit a physician that he actually began to reflect. He wasn’t one for frantic symptom-googling, but he did wonder. His father had passed from stomach cancer; could it run in the family? What if he had some strange parasite from consuming the products of Mary and Annie’s gardening, a remnant of God knew what method of compost? Maybe it was just stress, as he’s been insisting to his husband it was, and he was just reaching a point in his life where he couldn’t operate as the well-oiled machine he so frequently saw himself as? Every option was equally anxiety-inducing.

He’d insisted to Havers that he could handle the appointment on his own. After all, it was one of the few days off the man had, and James didn’t want him to spend it in a doctor’s office. He had only agreed when James insisted he needed to carry out a few errands for his most immediate bridal clients, and that it would be easier to complete said tasks on his own. As he departed that morning, Havers held him at the door and pressed a kiss to his lips. When he pulled back, James’ gaze remained on the scar tissue about his left eye, the lightning bolt remains of shrapnel that nearly took him away. He did love those marks, those signals of his Major’s survival.

“Keep me informed. Call if you need me.”

Good Lord, did he need him now. James’ mind had chugged along all day, all the while he was confirming appropriate bouquet designs with his florist, visiting a barn venue to check on lighting repair progress, driving through traffic, sitting in a waiting room, completing endless forms, having his blood drawn, getting poked and prodded by someone who seemed barely old enough to attend university – let alone have graduated—

But now… now, his mind was at a screeching halt, the machine that ran his life hitting the brakes so hard that the wheels were off the track, flying over itself, hitting the ground hard enough to set the coal alight. Because what the devil did she mean—

“You’re pregnant. Congratulations!” She – her tag read Dr. Judy Egan, which seemed a name far older than she was – repeated the news with the same tone of delight, as if she’d given James a present she wanted him to open. “Now, we can see about getting a more concrete idea of how far along you are, if you can provide us with some more information.”

It felt as though he was hearing everything from underwater, and James had to resist the urge to go at his ears. He answered his questions as best he could, desperate to get his mind back on track. No, he did not have any children, nor had he been pregnant before. He’d been hospitalized the decade before for a minor heart attack, and was taking medication as a result. Yes, he did smoke – mainly pipe tobacco – and was inclined to the occasional glass of bourbon at the end of the day. No, there was nothing in his familial history to look for in this context. As for the other side of the family—

The other side. Because there was another side, another person to consider in all this. The gears of his brain began to spin faster and faster, kicking up dirt and rocks while still so off track. Havers. He had to tell Havers. This wasn’t just some intensive, enormous corkscrew in James’ life, but one that would impact—

He didn’t remember leaving the office. One moment, he was uncomfortably aware of the tissue paper beneath him crinkling and folding in a terribly distracting way. The next, he was sitting in his and Havers’ car, white-knuckling the steering wheel and refusing to look at the mess of papers dropped in the passenger seat. Scripts for vitamins, reminders of appointments, documents to be completed with his husbands, regardless of desired outcome.

He and Havers had never actually discussed children. It was never something that came up. Perhaps it was a result of their upbringings, the belief that men such as themselves were never to become fathers being what pushed them from considering such a possibility. Maybe it was their own experiences in the Service, the memories of what they’d learned and seen that kept them from wanting to raise something innocent in a world that allowed such atrocities. Or were those just James’ reasons? Yes, Havers never broached the subject with him, but what if that was just another example of the man’s kindness? In their early years, Anthony never forced him to come out, to outright admit to his feelings. Even when James had been ready to force himself to do so, Anthony had been kind enough to assure him it wasn’t necessary, to kiss away the panic trembling his lips, to so gently guide him through the ways he could physically show his love where words were difficult. And that had essentially been their way for years. Their love defined in paperwork, private intimacy, disguised efforts. Love was rarely stated outright, but always always implied.

“I will miss you, Havers.”

“Now, you know I’m more inclined to the likes of Cole Porter, but I did manage to find tickets to Carmen for July. I know you have been looking for a chance to see it performed live.”

“Do let me know when you’ve arrived. I worry when you aren’t here.”

“I still don’t understand how you could prefer Patrick’s methods to mine. If you must have your tea such a way, I will make it, but don’t hesitate to ask how to properly brew a pot when you’ve learned the error of your ways.”

“Anthony, I’m not sure what I would do without you.”

But what if that wasn’t enough? What if, after all these years, Havers had wanted things different, had only allowed things to be as they were, let things pass by undiscussed because that was the way James was? What if this… this thing was what drove the final nail into the proverbial coffin of their marriage—

The sound that drew him from his thoughts was somewhere between a crunch and a shatter. Scrambling to park, James got out and moved to the front of the car, sighing over what he found. One of Fanny’s massive flower pots was shattered beneath part of his bumper. He really had been too preoccupied; it was a miracle he’d made it back to Button House in one piece. Or was it considered two pieces?

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Instead, he carefully collected what he could and hid the evidence behind the rose bushes. He could toss the evidence away when it was dark and he had proper gardening equipment. Once the task was complete, James’ eyes scanned the front of the house, confirming that no one had been a witness to his act. Eventually, his gaze remained on the familiar blue curtains, ones Havers had purchased when they moved in, feeling it appropriate to have something more easy to open and close above their kitchen sink. The fabric didn’t even twitch.

Button House was dead quiet when James entered. No arguments between Julian and Fanny in the library, no singing from Kitty’s flat, no sounds of Mary or Annie’s cooking progress in the kitchen. James stilled in the entrance, listening hard for any indication of other tenants. Nothing. He should have expected as much; it was the middle of the week and early afternoon. Then again, perhaps some part of him was seeking such a distraction. A reason to not go home and face this inevitability. His stomach sank all the more. When had he ever not wanted to return to his home?

Each door that led into each flat did much to hint towards who could be found behind it. Alison and Mike’s often featured some kind of seasonal décor, and items they (or Mia) had dropped usually dotted their path. Pat had hung a decorative “Gone Campin’” sign he’d procured from a charity shop, and the wall showed evidence of different hiking trips, if the dirt stains were anything to go by. The apartment shared by James and Anthony was spic and span, down to the freshly repainted wood grain and straightened entrance mat that read a simple “welcome” – no novelty décor, thank you very much. However, James hated how unwelcome he felt in that moment.

Their flat was just as it had been when he left hours ago, when nothing had been different. Evidence of their previous evening was gone. Havers had insisted they settle in for a quiet night, lounging on their sofa and watching The Pirates of Penzance (James should have known Anthony was worried by his willingness to watch that again). The throw blankets were folded away, the coffee table clear. The room smelled of freshly washed linen and in the kitchen, quiet music and water running could be heard.

Steps needed to be followed. If one thing could be kept steady, it was routine. James willed himself to follow it. Remove shoes, place on rack. Place wallet on side table, hang keys on key hook, hang jacket on coat rack. Take step, take step, don’t narrate each individual step in your mind—

Anthony didn’t immediately turn around when James entered. Not that the man minded. Perhaps it was the romantic in him, but James did like looking over his husband at all angles. The slender slope from his neck to his shoulders. The toned nature of his arms. The spot where his hair was just starting to thin – not that he would ever tell him, mind. Just that he liked to brush his thumb over it when they—

“You’d better hope Fanny doesn’t see what you’ve done to her geraniums.”

James instinctively stiffened when Havers turned, pausing to dry his hands on a tea towel. The water was off and the music continued to drift from his phone. That soft, easy smile Anthony was so often inclined to was already in place when he looked to James, but it quickly dropped away when he noted his appearance. “What did Dr. Boone say?”

Always so to the point. Yet another thing James loved about Havers. “He wasn’t in.” Perhaps that had been one triumph of the day. His usual physician had been out on holiday, so he didn’t have to be given this news by the man who was still inclined to calling Havers his “companion” whenever the subject arose. “I was met with Dr. Egan. Girl seemed barely older than your niece.” He stepped further into the kitchen, hands raised in an effort to force the tension from his body.

Anthony moved closer, accepting the invitation and resting his hands on James’ upper arms. “I hope you were patient with her.”

“I’m always patient.”

No comment was made, but both of them knew what it would have been if it was. After a brief squeeze, Havers moved toward the oven and turned a dial. “I assume you haven’t eaten. I’ve kept a plate warm for you.”

“Anthony—”

“I know your stomach’s been upset, but you need to try. Tell me everything the doctor said, but I doubt fasting was brought up.” Slipping on some oven mitts, he carefully removed a tray housing two plates from the oven and rested them on the stove. “It’s nothing heavy, just chicken, rice, and carrots. I didn’t even spice anything.”

James opened his mouth, prepared to insist that it wasn’t necessary, that perhaps they wait to talk about his visit until he wasn’t sure when, only for the scent of the chicken to cross the kitchen and very well sock him in the stomach. Gagging, he walked hurriedly down the hall to their bedroom and managed to fall in front of their toilet before he heaved. The strain on his stomach was only matched by the shock of pain in his knee where he hit the tile, though the shame of getting sick so abruptly was a close second. Good Lord, wasn’t the point of having a child to be to ensure it got enough nutrients while it was inside the body!?

Havers’ hand came to rest between his shoulders, James didn’t have it in him to resist his touch, to tell him to leave as he had in the past. He hated being in such a state, let alone being seen in it. Only when he felt his stomach had been truly emptied did he pull away, sitting back against the bath to catch his breath. Silently, Anthony flushed the toilet, still poised across from him. He didn’t speak, but his eyes… James knew he wasn’t simply pleaded, wishing to know the truth. He was worried, scared. He feared what was happening and James was the reason he was frightened. He’d done this to him before and now he was repeating that affair.

“Dr. Egan seems convinced that…” James swallowed, pressing his fingers to his temple as he struggled to explain, “That it’s not a disease. Or virus.”

“So she knows what it isn’t,” Havers offered cautiously, “Does she know what it is?”

“A… a baby, apparently.”

The bathroom was silent, save for the distant creaking of pipes that was commonly heard in the space. James slowly let his hand drop to his mouth, resting over his mustache and lips, afraid he would once more be sick just from saying the words. He felt something touch his knee and looked up. Anthony had moved closer, one hand holding his knee – mindfully his uninjured one – the other reaching to him.

“Oh, James…”

The pair embraced one another. James tucked his face to Havers’ neck and inhaled deeply; he was shocked that his aftershave didn’t turn his stomach, when so little was needed to set him off. Perhaps It knew something he didn’t… When they pulled apart, both were thankful not to see any wetness in each other’s eyes.

“How do you feel?”

“Still a bit nauseous, if—”

A hint of a chuckle escaped Anthony and he shook his head. “Not physically. How do you feel about being pregnant?”

There was that beloved pragmatism again. James sighed, sliding from his hold but still making a point to ensure their hands were intertwined.

“I don’t know.” He wanted an answer, wanted more than anything to have a solid inclination of what he did or didn’t want. But so much of his view of this was tied to Anthony. Before, it had been the military. If he’d been given this news when he was enlisted, he knew exactly what he’d have felt. But now, he couldn’t see himself moving toward any outcome if he was to do so alone.

“Alright. I don’t imagine you must make a choice right away,” He assured, eyes falling to James’ torso – was there something there to see already? “We can consider how things would—”

“How do you feel?”

He knew Anthony disliked being interrupted, but James couldn’t help himself. He had to know. Such decisions typically fell to the pregnant individual’s shoulders, he was aware, but he wasn’t inclined to have the final say without his husband’s input. “I want to know what you think.”

“Well, it’s—”

“I know it would be my choice, one way or the other. But I don’t believe we’ve so much as changed the oil in the car without a discussion.” James swallowed, trying not to grimace at the acid in his throat, “And you know I tend to value your opinion above anyone’s, perhaps even my own.”

“James—”

“And I won’t have you trying to tell me it’s all up to me. Because I’m not a father and have never seen myself as one, but I am certain I could be if you were too. But this is not something I would ever seek on my own and if you were against it—”

Lips silenced him. James instinctively closed his mouth, not wishing for Havers to smell the bile. When he pulled away, Anthony lifted a hand to James’ face, brushing his thumb along his cheek.

“I believe you would be a wonderful father.”

He was not even allowed an opportunity to argue.

“You’re passionate. Protective. You care so deeply and never want people to be unhappy. Yes, you’re stern and authoritative, often in times you shouldn’t be, but you’ve come far in your patience. I see how you are with Mia and no matter how you spin it, you’re essentially a father to Kitty. I don’t want any of your concerns about this to be tied to your abilities. Because you are more than qualified, darling.”

James pursed his lips, efforts to maintain a “stiff upper lip” beginning to crack. “I’m sure you’re aware that you are too.” Because if anyone was, it was Havers. Attentive, loving, kind. He did so much to reel James in, keep him from alienating others with his intensity while also never making him feel ashamed. He was so accommodating, cool in the face of uncertainty where James would so often fluster about. He was the kind of person who smiled at the children who stared at his scars, who happily baby-talked to Mia, who listened to endless stories from Alison or Mike about their child’s ability to stand-but-not-really. Was it so wrong to believe that the main reason James had the ability to be a father was because Havers was who he was?

“I am.” Anthony’s smile widened a touch. He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know what he was capable of.

“So we’re not concerned with qualifications.”

“No.”

James stared at his knee, where their hands were still interlocked. He could feel Havers’ gold band, pressed against his finger. They’d both been inclined to wear their rings on their left hands, ever sticklers for whatever they deemed traditional. He remembered proposing to the man, how scared he’d been even after more than a decade. They were both out of the service, both preparing to enter the civilian life they’d been apart from for years. Anthony had secured employment out in the country, doing the books for a history of war museum and archive. James… had no plan. He’d been taking orders for so long that facing a future in which he was not constantly at attention seemed inconceivable. But moving into a world he was unfamiliar with didn’t frighten James so much as the possibility of doing so without Anthony by his side. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe what they’d had was just some torrid fling, but some part of him knew steps needed to be taken, commitments made. So James showed up unannounced one evening at Havers’ door, ring box in hand, and with the same words on his lips that he found himself thinking on their bathroom floor:

“I want this life with you.”

Havers’ smile grew wider still, the act contagious as James allowed his own, hesitant grin. Laughter bubbled up between them, the sound seeming to echo in the enclosed room, and before either could consider the schematics, they were holding one another close as they kissed. Relief, joy, panic, excitement, worry, love – so, so, so much love, all of it threatened to flood their flat before they pulled apart and Anthony took James’ hands properly to help him up.

“You need to see about brushing your teeth. I’ll make you something else, but you’re definitely going to eat something. And you’re going to tell me how the appointment went.” Once they were both upright and Havers had squeezed James’ hands once more, he stepped out to let his husband ready himself.

Smiling after him, James absently let his hands drop, one to his side and the other just over his middle. A plan of action. He could certainly handle that.

[girlactionfigure]

🔴 Sun afternoon  - ISRAEL REALTIME - Connecting to Israel in Realtime

⭕ HAMAS ROCKET BARRAGE - CENTRAL ISRAEL

Kfar Saba, Neveh Yamin, Nir Eliyahu, Tzofit, Sdei Hemed, Even Yehuda, Udim, Beit Yehoshua, Harutzim, Yakum, Kfar Netter, Tel Itzhak, Ra'anana, Bnei Zion, Batzra, Hod HaSharon, Herzeliya - Center and Glil Yam, Herzliya - West, Kfar Shmaryahu, Ramat HaSharon, Cinema City Glilot, Gelilot - Pi Compound, Tel Aviv - Across the Yarkon, Herzeliya - Center and Glil Yam, Petach Tikva, Arsuf, Rishpon

Rocket fire FROM South GAZA.

Injury by shrapnel in Herzliya, conflicting reports of child or young man.

Reports of hit on a car (parked) and a field in Kfar Saba.

▪️ATTACK ANALYSIS.. Amit Segal: It is worth paying attention to Hamas's method: its purpose is to make us think that the IDF's action does not help in preventing rockets and therefore there is no point in it. In practice - the number of rockets and launchers dropped dramatically, and most of them were from areas where the IDF did not operate.

Doron Kadosh: the IDF is advancing in Rafah - and towards areas where there are long-range rocket launch areas that Hamas has so far not used. As the IDF advances Hamas uses these rockets to not have them captured unused. This barrage to the center does not surprise anyone in the IDF.

��️KAPLAN PROTESTORS SAY.. the protest is expected to be successful because international bodies, including the Hague Tribunal, are helping the struggle.  Protest HQ disavows the Facebook text, saying: “The message that was distributed has nothing to do with either Kaplan or the protest headquarters. No briefing like this or in a similar spirit came out of the headquarters of the struggle. We will continue to act in order to replace the government.”

▪️IDF “THINS OUT” RAFAH OPERATION - ROCKETS FIRED SHORTLY THEREAFTER.. The IDF thins out forces in the "limited" operation east of Rafah: the Givati ​​Brigade left early in the morning to return to Israel at the end of two weeks of activity. IDF says: for the purpose of refreshing and returning to fitness. The background: reports on the reopening of the Rafah crossing and the withdrawal of the IDF from it. 

Major long range rocket fire on central Israel a few hours later.

▪️MORE ON THE NON-CAPTURE OF SOLDIERS.. Analysis of the video they published saying they had captured soldiers: the body in uniform - details show it is NOT an IDF uniform. Photos show captured weapons - the weapon shown is a CZ Scorpion Evo, which is not an IDF weapon.

▪️ECONOMY - FOOD PRICE INCREASES.. Leiman Schlissel, importer of Luaker, Mentos, Topifi and more, joins Osem, Tnuva, Strauss, Diplomat and other food companies - and raises prices next month.

▪️BEN GURION AIRPORT - EQUIPMENT FAILURE.. Radar problem with spatial aeriel imaging, leading to delays in landings, and therefore holding up take-offs as well.

⭕ Hezbollah ROCKETS at: Avivim, Yir'on, Betzet, Hanita, Rosh HaNikra, Shlomi - 3 rounds, 15+ launches in one of the rounds.

⭕ Hezbollah SUICIDE DRONES at: Idmit, Eilon, Goren, Gornot HaGalil, Hanita, Ya'ara, Arab al-Aramshe 

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Mayhem: Final Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.3k

Summary: Quickly following the events after the car explosion, you and Hotch are affected in more ways than one.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

Hotch peels onto the road and follows the directions all the way to the ER. You look behind you at the man, and he tries his best to keep Kate alive. There is something about him that strikes you as odd, and it comes to you the second he locks eyes with you.

“He’s the second bomber,” you whisper, but no one hears you.

Hotch makes it to the ER, but he gets stopped by some men that are posted outside of it.

“What's this?”

“Secret Service. We're directing all emergencies over to Lenox Hill.”

“I'm SSA Hotchner. I have SSA Joyner on board. She was injured in the bomb blast at Federal Plaza.”

“Credentials?”

“They're in my jacket at Federal Plaza,” Hotch sighs.

“Here, Hotch,” you say and hand over your badge.

After the Secret Service looks at it, he hands it back to you.

“I appreciate that, Agent, but this hospital is on a strict bypass.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the hospital is closed. We're redirecting all emergencies to Lenox Hill.”

“She's not gonna make it to Lenox Hill!”

“I'm losing her! She's crashing!” the man in the back yells.

The Secret Service man can see Kate isn’t going to make it, so he allows you to pass through. He talks to the other servicemen inside the hospital so they know you need immediate ER help. The stranger is on top of Kate giving her CPR as you and Hotch wheel both of them into the ER entrance.

“What do you have?” the doctor on call says as he and a bunch of nurses come over.

“BP is 50 over 30, and she's bradycardic with severe spinal injury.”

He, Kate, and the other doctors disappear further into the hospital as they work on saving her, and you and Hotch stand in the middle of the ER wondering what to do next. Your vision is more blurry than before, and Hotch seems to have a hard time focusing on his surroundings as well.

The adrenaline that you two had is drained, and now you’re feeling the effect of the blast. Hotch collapses onto the ground, and four nurses help you and Hotch to separate beds to get you checked out.

After seeing the gashing wound on the back of your head, the neurosurgeon on call comes down to get you a head CT that generates immediate results.

“CT came back clean. You have no visible bleeders. Can you follow my finger, please?”

She moves her finger from left to right, and you follow it easily despite it being a bit blurry. She takes out her flashlight and looks into your eyes to make sure there are no effects on your eyes.

“Besides the wound, you look okay. One of our surgical interns is going to clean that wound and give you some stitches. Take it easy and get lots of rest. You’re very lucky.”

“Thank you,” you mutter.

An intern replaces her, and he gets you cleaned up so he can see the wound clearly. He pins your hair back and begins the process of closing your wound. Just then, Derek comes barreling into the hospital after arguing with the Secret Service men outside.

“Doc, how’s Aaron Hotchner and Y/N?” Derek asks, showing his badge to him.

“He’s got acute acoustic trauma in his right ear, and I pulled shrapnel from his leg. Y/N has a head laceration, but her CT came back clean.”

“Derek?” You move the curtain to the side and see your beloved coworker as the intern continues with your stitches. “Where is Spencer? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Everyone else is fine.”

Hotch is right next to you, and he shoves the curtain aside when he hears Derek’s voice.

“Morgan, where’s Kate?”

“She’s in surgery.”

“Where are my clothes?”

“Both of your go bags are on their way.”

“What happened to Sam?” you ask him.

“He's dead.”

“Morgan, the profile is all wrong. Everything they’ve done so far has appeared to be something it’s not.”

“They want us to think it’s over with the seemingly random acts of murder, the attempt to hack into our security surveillance systems, and the suicide by cop,” you say. “Don't forget the death card telling us they know we're watching. All of these were distractions. They are tests to record police response times. They’re all setups to make us fear there is a bomber. It’s like they were a sideshow, and the main act will just seem like another bombing when really, it’s been their target all along.”

Just then, the entire team comes rushing in with your and Hotch’s go bags. Spencer pushes to the front and immediately heads to you, and you smile at him. The intern finishes and cleans up his station before leaving.

“I was so worried about you,” he says and brings you into a hug.

“I’m okay, baby. We’re okay.”

Hotch closes the curtain to give himself privacy to change, and Spencer does the same thing for you. You open your go bag and grab the first outfit you see, but pause when you feel yourself swaying.

“Spencer? I need help,” you say in a small voice. Spencer opens the curtain enough for him to pass through it. “I’m too dizzy.”

Spencer helps you out of your hospital gown and into the clothes you chose from your go bag. You steady yourself on his shoulders as he slides your pants on, and you sit down on the hospital bed so he can put your socks and shoes on.

“I was so worried about you,” he sighs.

“I needed to be with Hotch. I couldn't explain it. I’m okay, though. My head CT came back clear. Just a couple of stitches.”

“Still. When I heard…”

“I’m okay. I promise.” He buttons your pants and smoothes out your shirt. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he smiles and kisses you.

Once you and Hotch are dressed, it’s time to get down to business.

“Are you okay?” Emily asks you and Hotch.

“Yeah. I just want to understand why we’re still alive.”

“I think the idea was to maim, not to kill.”

“Did you identify Sam?” you ask Spencer.

“Garcia put Sam and the other dead unsub into every known database. Nothing.”

“We know how terror cells evolve. They learn from one campaign to the next, and how to stay off the radar like the London bombers,” Rossi states.

“Yeah, but they hit at 8:50 in the morning with a series of coordinated blasts aimed at London's transportation system. This cell targeted a lone SUV where the only people on the street are three federal agents.”

“Garcia said the device was placed under Kate’s SUV.”

“Yeah, I saw it right before the bomb went off.” 

“It was likely made using oxidizing agents, including chromates, peroxides, perchlorates, chlorates, and red mercury, all jammed into a device no larger than a cell phone,” Spencer speculates.

“Imagine what a bomb the size of an oil drum could do.”

“Yeah, but to make something that big, you'd need a chemical engineer.”

“Like the recently deceased Dr. Azahari Husin, Asia's most-wanted bomb-maker? Authorities dubbed him the demolition man. He treated each bomb like a work of art. One wrong move, and he becomes a victim of his own creation. He'll be more revered than all of the people who died as a result of his devices.”

The team brought a laptop with them so that they can go over the bombing footage from Kate’s SUV. Emily plays the footage, and you see Sam place the bomb on the underside of the car before you, Hotch, and Kate walked over it. In the video, you yell at Hotch and tackle him to the ground, but the blast has already blown back everyone.

“Did you ever find Sam's cell phone? Did he call 911?” Hotch asks.

“No. He dialed one number six times every few minutes. It was a disposable cell. Garcia tracked the number, but it went dead minutes after Sam died. Whoever had it destroyed it.”

Something clicks in your head about this whole mess.

“All of the other bombings were sideshows. This hospital is the main show. They wanted to test police response times, and they wanted to shut this whole city down because whoever they were targeting is in a hospital that’s supposed to be closed. The Secret Service has someone in this hospital they are targeting, and an ambulance with its sirens on will go through every barricade. The bomb is here somewhere, but how will they get one in?”

“Through the ambulance,” Spencer says.

“Sam was calling the ambulance driver.”

“Who are the Secret Service protecting?” Derek asks.

“I don’t know, but let’s go.”

“God, I knew something was wrong,” you groan and hold your head. “I should have known.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Spencer says to you.

He says it, but you feel like it is. If you had known, then maybe Kate wouldn’t be so injured that she’d need surgery. Regardless, you’re here, and you have to find the bomb before it goes off.

“Who do you have in here?” Derek asks the man in charge.

“Why is that information important to you?”

“Where is the ambulance I drove?” Hotch asks.

“In the basement. Why?”

“There's a bomb in it and it's rigged. It's rigged to assassinate whoever it is you're protecting. You need to get them and everyone else out of here right now.”

“We can't do that. He's undergoing surgery as we speak.”

“Do you have eyes on the paramedic I came in with?” Hotch asks the head of security. The man searches the cameras for the man and sees him heading down to the basement. “Is that a cell phone in his hands?”

“Garcia, can you remotely access the cell phone grid I’m in and jam all the frequencies?” Rossi asks her once he got her on the line. “There's a bomb in the basement of this building.”

Derek can’t sit here and wait for this guy to blow up the building, so he jumps straight into action. He runs away from the team and to the staircase so he can find the bomb and get it out of here. Along with the driver, you can see Derek rushing down the stairs to find him.

“Where the hell is he going?” Emily asks.

“He went to find the bomb.”

“Alone? Let’s head down.

While your team searches the basement, the secret service men are going to canvas the hospital for the ambulance driver. To prevent the driver from knowing where you are, you’re going to take the stairs instead of the elevators.

Once in the basement, you walk alongside your team with your gun out in front of you. This man isn’t going to get away with this. You pass by the elevators and gasp when you see that all of the Secret Service men are dead inside. They took the elevators, and the driver saw this. He waited for them to reach this floor and killed them all.

You push down your feelings and continue on since there is nothing you can do for these men. Derek had gotten here before you, and he got inside the ambulance and raced out of there since there is nothing preventing the driver from setting it off. Penelope can jam the signals but only for so long.

You hope and pray that he will make it to whenever he is going in time because you will not lose someone on your team. The ambulance driver sits on the ground in defeat, checking his phone to see when he can make that call.

As soon as the signal is back online, he makes the call, and you close your eyes hoping that Derek is okay. He drops the phone and looks up at your team with an evil smirk. He has a knife to his throat, and no matter how much you try to convince him to drop it, he is a dead man either way.

“Put it down. It’s over,” Hotch demands.

The man grins and slices his neck. He’d rather be dead than face whatever charges he will get because of it. The cell didn’t get to kill whoever it is they were trying to, so the man was airlifted as soon as he was out of surgery. It sucks but the cell will follow wherever he’s going.

According to Penelope, Derek managed to get the ambulance to Central Park where it exploded. There were no casualties, Sam and the driver died for their cause, the cell will probably stay hidden for a while, and Kate succumbed to her injuries. You tried so hard to keep her alive, but she died soon after you got her medical help.

This entire case was nothing you’ve ever faced before, but now you’ll be better prepared if something like this ever happens again. The doctors refuse to let you and Hotch fly, so you’ll have to drive back down to Quantico. Derek decided to stay behind to drive Hotch, and Spencer stayed behind to drive you. You could take one car, but it’d be nice to have some alone time with him.

“How is your head?” Spencer asks as you two reach the car.

“Fine,” you sigh.

“What’s wrong?”

“There was a reason why I needed to be with Hotch and Kate. I felt like I needed to protect them, and I couldn't even do that.”

“You also got hurt in the process,” he says.

“Hotch and Kate may have died in the explosion if I wasn’t there. It doesn’t matter anyway, Kate’s dead. I should have seen it coming. I did see it coming. I saw Sam put the bomb there, but I was too late.”

“That is not your fault.” He cups your jaw and lifts your head to look into your eyes. “You can’t predict everything.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“Let me take care of you now. Just take it easy until you’re better.”

He leans down and kisses you before helping you into the car. It will be a short physical recovery, but not a short one mentally.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[hxneyfarm]

swallowing hand grenades

wc: 601 | cw: mention of passive self harm, description of internalized meltdowns, references to parental violence | autistic eddie munson, inspired by the meltdown i had at work today

All his life, Eddie has been swallowing hand grenades.

At least, that’s what it feels like when everything around him is too bright, too loud, too hot, too cold, too itchy, and the tapping of his fingers against the table or the bouncing of his leg beneath the table isn’t enough to stop the explosion that’s building behind his eyes. When he was little, his mother taught him to internalize his explosions so he doesn’t turn out like his dad with his violent angry outbursts that left fist shaped holes in the drywall. 

The flooding of his overwhelmed senses always feels like he’s holding a hand grenade without a pin, and if he throws it the shrapnel will go everywhere and cause destruction in its wake, so... He swallows it, keeps the shrapnel inside where it won’t hurt anybody but himself. And most times it doesn’t even hurt him, not really. It leaves behind an ache that he doesn’t have a name for, a bone deep exhaustion that'll knock him out and let him finally get some of that blessed, blessed sleep that escapes him, more nights than not.

His mom used to say he was full of nervous energy, like a chihuahua or a Jack Russell terrier, but the older Eddie gets the less he believes that. It’s not really that he’s nervous. Sometimes, sure, that's what it is. But usually it’s the buzzing of the too-bright fluorescents overhead and the murmured conversations happening around him that sound like bugs. It’s the itch of the tag at the back of his tee shirt and the fact that one of his shoes is tied just a little more tightly than the other. It’s the furnace that kicks on in the middle of class and blows thick, hot air down on his scalp and makes his hairline sweat.

It’s the panic that rises like bile when he realizes he forgot the homework again, third time this week, and the teacher is looking at him with an arched brow and that lip curled in a sneer.

He can’t sit still, but he can’t rock side to side the way he wants or everybody’s gonna fucking look at him funny again. He can’t chew on the inside of his cheek because there’s barely anything left of the skin in there. He can’t bite his thumbnail anymore because he bit it down to the quick earlier and made it bleed. He can’t pick at his eyebrows anymore because if he goes home again with half an eyebrow missing Wayne is gonna have that look in his eye, that worried look he gets when he starts suggesting things like maybe a counselor…

So Eddie excuses himself to the bathroom and locks himself in a stall and he swallows the hand grenade, lets it pop in his tummy as he takes his rings off and shakes his hands out, flaps them a little bit so that he can start to feel human again. He presses a palm to each temple and squeezes, imagines the top of his head splitting to let all the gunk out, a pimple that’ll scab over later, one he won’t be able to resist picking at again until it bleeds.

In a few years, when he finally lets Wayne talk him into counseling, Eddie will have the language for this. He’ll know that these aren’t anxiety attacks, they’re meltdowns. He’ll know that they happen when he’s overstimulated and has nowhere to put that building feeling behind his eyes. He’ll have methods to cope with them.

Until then, Eddie will keep swallowing hand grenades.

[raindrop-on-a-spiderweb]

A Message To My Readers

I don't tend to use this tumblr as a personal blog, but I feel obliged to be honest to my readers this time.

On August 11, I shot myself in the head with a .22 caliber revolver.

The bullet entered through my right cheek, fracturing my orbital and mandibular, and exited through the side of my nostril, embedding shrapnel inside my face. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt very much. All I felt was a burning pressure tunneling through my face, and warm blood fountaining onto the collar of my dress. The rest of that night I do not remember–save that in the ambulance, blood clots the size of caterpillars were dropping out of my nose.

I spent the next few days in the hospital, the side of my face swelling up so much I couldn't see out of my right eye. I was in the hospital under observation for three days. Nurse aids--new hires I was supposing– kept looking at me with that faint gaze of horror and slight fascination, at the bloody mess on my face swelling up into a bloodier mess, like rubbernecking at a car accident. Otherwise my stay was uneventful–I watched the Discovery Channel and reread The Master and Margarita several times while we waited for the swelling to go down and for my flesh to knit itself together enough so I could be discharged.. My left nostril leaked so much blood it covered the pillow. Scabs formed to close the bullet wounds on both sides of my face.

I was then transferred to a psychiatric ward. The experiences I had there and the people I met I will remember for a lifetime. It was a fascinating cross-section of humanity. There was an 18-year-old redneck father-of-two (!) who, during a group therapy session where we were asked to find coping methods to deal with depression, yelled out "GO TO A SHOOTIN' RANGE!". The head nurse on the ward constantly quoted One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. There was a woman who believed she was "powerful reincarnation of an ancient druidess". Another man had been a highly successful local restauranteur before meth addiction and mental illness took away his life. A slight, blonde former nurse who after a failed relationship, stabbed herself in the liver and trachea.

The library was meager, but I read John Muir's First Summer in the Sierra and lost myself in snowy mountain peaks and the spray of waterfalls. I made myself popular by giving out palm readings in the day room and was correct approximately 80% of the time. I described one man's temperament as "fiery", which he correctly understood to mean he was an asshole. The ancient druidess asked for a reading but spent most of the time telling me about her myriad other reincarnations (respectively, killed in the Holocaust, killed in the Victorian era, killed in the medieval era). An old former nurse–not the blonde lady– came for a reading and it was so accurate she got teary-eyed; we soon became fast friends. She was elderly but sharp as a tack and had worked her whole life in the profession; through the 70s and 80s. She had never married, although she wished she'd had children. She had been a sci-fi writer as well and had a wealth of advice for me, one being that you should never become a nurse. Nursing had ruined her body and left her wheelchair bound.

My roommate was a quiet woman who barely said two words to me the first day and spent most of her time staring at the wall and sleeping. The therapists could not crack her in the least. By the second day we fell into a card game with each other, and little by little she lit up and started smiling. When she laughed it was infectious. She, I and the elderly nurse spent long hours in the day room, playing cards and watching television and laughing with each other. The night before we were discharged, we were up late, and she confessed her terrible circumstances, her life in foster care, her husband who had molested her children, her trafficking, and her upcoming court hearing so she could claw back custody of her children. A flash of contemplation passed her face, and she said to us, "I have talked more with you than I ever have with any of my therapists." I still have her and the nurse's numbers.

The therapy I was given and the connections I made were overall wonderful and affecting experiences. I left the ward looking forward to meeting the world headon, but when I got out, things grew worse. My mother withheld my medications and electronics and blamed me for everything; wanted me to go to a halfway house (thankfully my father let me stay with him permanently). I was on the verge of filing a police report before she gave them back. And then I realized I was being kicked out of the house. To walk into your room and realize it is not your own anymore, to see your belongings packed up and ready to be stored away or sent back with you, is a jarring experience; to have your eyes go to a familiar place and have it be so alien.

Then she said those words that made my heart drop to my stomach: That I was writing awful, dark things for an audience and that she was completely ashamed of me, and that she thought that it contributed to my decision to end my life. (and also that I was "posting sarcastic comments online for ego strokes"--wtf?) She had gone through everything private of mine, everything I strived to keep separate from my real life identity for this very reason, and told God knows how many people. All for nothing now.

Few things can compare to the horror of having a loved one finding out the deepest, rawest, most honest parts of yourself and reacting with disgust. To have them point a finger at your most delicate personal works and say, "This is responsible for your attempted suicide," when writing had brought me nothing but delight, happiness and friends at some of the darkest times of my life. Part of the reason I love writing was the lack of restraint and escapism, and the idea of being someone else. How could I possibly return to writing knowing that someone was constantly judging me and looking over my shoulder? How could I write honestly, without constantly second-guessing myself?

Anyway, my mother wanted nothing to do with me and threw me out with my father once I got my belongings. The last thing I said to her was "Next time, I won't miss." C'est la vie and that's the end. I'm officially disowned now and cutting off contact. No clue where I stand will-wise, but I don't care anymore.

We got in the car and went home. As my mood sank, I was tempted to do the unthinkable and I gave some serious thought to deleting my account and works. The thought of my mother (and potentially other family members too) reading these stories of mine in all their graphicness was a crippling prospect. It also occurred to me that she had started packing my room up when I was still in the hospital, and that finally made me cry. I wondered whether she was the same person who loved me and hugged me and protected me as a child, or she was the same person all along and I just never noticed.

When we got home to my dad's farm I was shaky and unfocused and my mind was in a dark fugue. But it was a bright and sunny August day. As soon as I got out of the car my cats poured out of the fields and out of the barn to surround me, meowing and excited after a week of not seeing me, Spot and Zorro and Aldous and Erik and Gidget. We're glad you're back. We're glad you're here. Beings that didn't judge me, that I didn't have to explain anything to or justify myself to, that just were happy that I existed.

As I felt the sunlight on my shoulders I started to cry again, but they were tears of relief. How could I have tried to kill myself when a moment so beautiful existed? Things will look up. They always do.

I love writing and I will never, and can never, stop.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓃮 Even the Sun Influences the Tide: Chapter Seventeen

Even the Sun Influences the Tide: After the death of your foster brother, King T’Challa, you had spent much of your year of mourning in isolation. When your mother gathers you and your sister to end your mourning period, you encounter the newest threat to Wakanda: Namor. You don’t know what to think of Namor, but you do know one thing: he probably shouldn’t be making trips to see you at your beach hut.

Warnings: Gore, Injury, Arguments.

To Note: Namor/K’uk’ulkan x Fem!Reader, I Tried To Make The Yucatec Maya & Xhosa Translations/Traditions As Accurate As I Can Get.

Word Count: ~2.2k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

You were gasping for oxygen that your lungs were not processing. They couldn’t because the shrapnel in your abdomen had sliced its way through your right lung and buried itself into your left. Looking back on this injury you could say you were very lucky it had missed your heart, for that surely would have been fatal… but at the moment? You were in agony and desperately trying not to claw at your already blistering chest.

Blood pooled on your chest, your fingers were slick with it, as K’uk’ulkan cradled your body in the sand. Shuri was crouched down next to you, Griot reading out the host of medical issues you were facing. Ramonda was racing towards you, the Dora Milaje on her heels. Sputtering and coughing, blood dribbled from the corner of your mouth, staining your skin.

““S-top… fi-fighting,” You choked out, fighting for each breath of oxygen. K’uk’ulkan wiped the blood from your lips.

“Sa'asik in,  In k'iino’,” (Forgive me) He whispered, holding onto your body and desperately searching for a way to stop the blood seeping from your body. “Save your energy, amado.”

“Griot, stop listing what’s wrong and tell me what to do!” Shuri shouted at the AI, tears burning at the edges of her eyes. K’uk’ulkan eyes flashed up to Shuri’s.

“Can you save her!?” He harshly questioned, grinding his teeth together.

“No— Yes… Maybe!?” Shuri hissed back as Ramonda knelt in the sand next to you and brushed her hand over your damp hair.

“Intombi,” (Daughter) She spoke, a tremble in her voice and quiver in her hand. “Why did you come here?”

“You—“ Your breath was momentarily stolen once more and you gasped for a few moments. “You c-can’t fi-fight over me.” You stumbled out with another rasp. “Hurts. Lost so many.” Your last words whispered as tears ran down the side of your temple. Ramonda turned to Shuri.

“Griot!”

“I’m calculating, my queen!” The AI responded. “What the princess needs is a hospital, not a beach! There is a chance that Princess Shuri might be able to adapt the heart shape herb to save Princess Y/N.”

“But it will kill any who consume it and do not have the blood of the first king!” Ramonda snapped back.

“What choice do we have mother!” Shuri cried. “Lungs do not grow in the ground or on trees!” Shuri’s eyes snapped to K’uk’ulkan’s. “I need to bring her to my lab, it is the only way I can save her and I need to do it now.”

K’uk’ulkan disliked the idea of you being away from his side, from a Talokanil’s side. He had to stay and mitigate this mess for the sake of his queen, no matter how much he wished to be by your side.

“Attuma!” He called to his loyal general, lifting you up from the sand. “Láak'intik Shuri,” (Accompany Shuri) K’uk’ulkan commanded. “Protege le reina,”  (protect the Queen) The massive Talokanil lumbered over and bowed.

“Je’el, K’uk’ulkan,” Attuma replied, taking K’uk’ulkan’s precious cargo. You moaned and coughed at the transport. K’uk’ulkan felt like he was dying on the inside as a Wakandan transport flew over at rapid speed to pick up, Shuri, Attuma, and you. All those on the beach watched in silence as you disappeared on the horizon.

It was a tense flight on board the Wakandan air craft, certainly with the giant Taloknail warrior standing guard over you after he had placed you on the gurney. But Shuri was far too busy with Griot, calculating methods to saving you, to care. Rearranging the DNA balls once more, Shuri stepped back.

“Griot, confidence level.” She ordered. The AI reported the bleak number instantly.

“17.28%, princess.” Griot reported. Shuri wanted to tear at the insides of the aircraft. Shred the walls with her vibranium claws. Do something to get the building agony and worry out. But she couldn’t, you were relying on her. “Griot, ask Attuma about the blue herb, it saved his people and gave them their abilities did it not?”

“One moment, Princess,” Griot relaid the message to the Talokanil. Attuma’s rumbling reply barely registered in Shuri’s ears. “He tells a story of the blue herb healing his ancestors of their small pox and enlightening them with their gifts. Perhaps we should consider the Talokanil herb?”

“Ask him if he has access to this blue herb.” Shuri said, her eyes flickering across the white balls of genetic code. Griot once again referred to the Talokanil, who pointed to your wrist where a jade bracelet was wrapped. The same one you had been wearing weeks ago that you refused to explain where it had come from.

 “The princess wears a bracelet made from jade and string derived from the blue herb planet. This is the closest we have to the blue herb.” Shuri adjusted the white balls some more.

“That will have to do, what is the confidence?”

“23.94%.” Shuri gnashed her teeth together. The plant better have answers otherwise she was going to lose you. Shuri glanced at the gurney where you lay, watching as your chest struggled to rise. It was a scary sight, seeing her only living sibling so pale and gray, blood staining the dress you wore. The only sign of hope was your heartbeat displayed on the screen beside you.

“Get the lab ready, Griot, and get my assistants. We cannot lose another family member!” Shuri ordered.

It was a wary sight, Attuma standing within Shuri’s lab overseeing the flurry of activity that surrounded you. He wouldn’t leave your side, taking his job and order to protect you. At the very least with Griot, Shuri could communicate with the Talokanil rather than guess what he was saying.

After having snipped a little strand of string from the bracelet around your wrist, Shuri had the contents analyzed and compared to the DNA structure of the heart shaped herb. For anyone but those containing the blood and DNA of the first king, death would occur if the heart shape herb was consumed. Shuri was trying to find a way around that. Or maybe replace enough of the DNA within the herb to make it not lethal to you.

“Griot?”

“We are at 33.10% Might I suggest switching out a few of the RNA sequences?” Shuri did so, glaring at the mass of read in front of her. There was so little green.

“We are running out of time.” Shuri stressed, glancing at you as one of the best doctors in Wakanda worked to stabilize you. It was a losing battle. Shuri knew that much. Your lungs had been shredded, barely able to support the oxygenation of your blood. The only reason why you were still alive was because your heart had been spared… but at this rate you were at risk of becoming a vegetable or bleeding out. Either outcome was undesirable and would result in them loosing you. She then glanced at Attuma.

“You do not need to stand at attention. She is not going anywhere.” Shuri told him. Attuma’s head tilted to the side and he studied her.

“Ma' dejaré in reina,” Attuma rumbled at Shuri. Griot didn’t immediately interpret and Shuri had to prompt the AI.

“Griot, what did he say?” The AI was conflicted on translating all of what the Talokanil had spoken, as you had given it specific instructions to keep your personal and private life, private. Even from your family. “Griot.”

“I will not leave.” Griot answered, translating the first part. Shuri narrowed her eyes, picking up on the hesitation of her AI.

“Griot are you telling me the entire translation?” The AI was quiet for a moment, internally comparing the conflicting orders of Shuri and you.

“Princess Y/N once ordered me to keep all her personal and private life and information, private, princess.” Griot replied. “I am unsure how to proceed with conflicting commands.”

“Override Y/N’s command, this is a life threatening event and any and all information is pertinent.”

“I will not leave my queen.” Griot repeated, this time translating the whole sentence. Shuri blinked and titled her head to the side.

“Did you just say…”

“It appears that the Talokanil views Princess Y/N as his Queen therefore I can deduce that while Y/N was within Namor’s domain, she appears to have married him.” It took Shuri a solid thirty seconds to process that information.

“Okay… we can address that later, let’s just focus on stopping her from dying or becoming a vegetable.”

“Yes princess, may I suggest another variation?”

“Give it to me.” Shuri commanded, her hands diving for the white orbs once more. She was determined to figure it out this time, figure it out before she lost you like she had lost T’Challa.

Namor and Ramonda stood across from each other, their people returning to their sides once more after you had been airlifted away for medical attention. Ramonda’s eyes were hard and cold. Namor’s were just as cold, calculated and deadly. But even with both of their emotional fronts strong, they were both cracked from what had happened on the beach. Cracked from the blood that stained the sand only feet away.

They both could find common ground with you, surely. But who would break first was the great question.

“You kidnapped my daughter.” Ramonda bit out.

“Is it kidnapping if she wasn’t resistant to the idea of staying?” Namor countered. Ramonda’s scowl deepened. “And our transgressions go back several months before I ever thought to take her, we are not strangers to each other. You can be assured that my actions were not out of malice.” Ramonda’s eyes blazed at his blatant mention of repeatedly breaking Wakandan borders to see you.

“How dare you speak to me about such actions when I have repeatedly warned you about the repercussions of breaking our borders. And to still go after my daughter!?” Namor tilted his head to the side, lazy smile on his lips.

“I wouldn’t consider it ‘going after’,” Namor explained, making finger quotes. “I simply wished to know more about her. She certainly didn’t make it easy for me. A trait, I assume, she got from you.”

“Of course not,” Ramonda spoke, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Namor was quiet for a moment, thinking of how he was going to approach the highly defensive queen.

“Tell me, Queen Ramonda,” he asked, thinking about you and the first time you had genuinely smiled in his presence. “When was the last time you saw her smile?” Ramonda was taken aback, not expecting that question. “You know, the one where you can swear that the sun brightens a little, the rays shine upon your skin just a little warmer?” Namor motioned to his cheek. “She get’s a little— ah, what do you call it… impression? Right here, that’s how you know it’s genuine.”

How did Namor know such detail about your smile? How had even witnessed one, when not even Ramonda had seen one of your blindingly beautiful smiles in well over a year? Namor chuckled wryly.

“It is a treasured gift to see her smile, and yet,” Namor’s smile faded, his face turning serious once more. “If you look close enough. You can see her pain lingering within her eyes. It is heartbreaking.” Ramonda clasped her hands in front of her, knuckles white.

“What do you want, Namor,” She asked wearily, fearing what he would demand.

“Nothing but that which has been alined.” Namor answered with a shrug. “Your daughter has already done the hard work, let’s not waste that and hurt her further. Yes?”

“What did she promise?” Ramonda questioned, worried that you might have said yes to something that was not feasible. Promised something that she could not give. 

“Herself,” It was a simple answer and one that made Ramonda’s heart drop in her chest. Namor smiled once more. “She is smarter than you give her credit and chose one of the oldest forms of peace.” Eyes narrowing, Ramonda eyed Namor. “You can rest assured, Queen Ramonda, your daughter will never have to fear violence from my people, as they are not interested in hurting or losing their queen.”

Closing her eyes, Ramonda took several deep breaths, collecting herself at this news. You, her precious ward and adopted daughter, had sacrificed yourself for Wakanda all for the sake of peace. It should have been Ramonda doing the protecting, rather than you. Was that not what parents did? Protect their children? But you were stubborn and this was not something that could easily be undone.

“You do not need to worry, it was not a decision I let her make lightly.” Namor spoke. “She made that decision with a clear conscious and by herself.” This was a very large pill for the queen of Wakanda to swallow. For one of her daughters was now an equal in her own right… and Wakanda was now tied with Talokan.

“I do not wish for her to be tangled up in war,” Ramonda declared, subtly issuing her reluctant acceptance of what you had done. “It has taken enough from her, and I expect you to protect her from that tragedy.”

“Being her husband is not something I take lightly, you have my word that I will do my best to shield her from that pain.” She narrowed her eyes at Namor’s promise, but did not detect any lie within his words.

“Very well, she is in your hands, good luck.” Ramonda said crisply, knowing that while you had handed yourself over for peace, the Talokanil were going to find out that you didn’t take too kindly to being told what to do, even if it was for your protection. “Since Wakanda is now your reluctant ally, how shall we remedy this issue with the Americans?”

Date Published: 6/25/23

Last Edit: 4/5/23

Previous | Masterlist | Next

[mesetacadre]

I want to take the opportunity to give you an idea of what we do on leave. In midday of the 25th of December, the state of emergency ended and the command of the Edgar André Batallion gave us permission to go to the city... after notifying us that the fascists had been repelled in the entire front. This proved to us, once again, the Spanish's capacity to execute the greatest feats with discipline and heroism... Pat, Harry, and I took a couple of pictures in Gran Vía and then went to the Capitol [Hotel] to buy tickets for a good movie. The session started at 5 pm, so we went to one of the many cafés... Suddenly a great racket was heard. It seemed like planes. We went outside to see how we could help. 20 yards away we saw a destroyed building... We rushed to rescue whatever we could among that dust cloud. We saw human bodies torn apart and brave men carrying the wounded to ambulances. This was Franco's Christmas gift to Madrid's people... But this was only the beginning. We only had to clear rubble to begin prioritizing our safety. The artillery fire can be calculated with precision. While we were waiting to cross, we saw a family nearby. The father was consoling his daughter, trembling from fear. We counted, waited 2 minutes, and boom! I fell to the ground, but I was okay. I went back to where we started. I only saw dust and confusion. The Spanish family had disappeared... And here started the incident that I will never forget. The civilians rushed to enter the shelters, especially the Metro. The militiamen helped valiantly in first aid and the ambulances came and went, as did the fire engines. Everything was done with such calm and organization that one could think it was rehearsed. Harry thought the bombing was aiming for the Telefónica tower, but the main goal of the fascists was to sow terror in the population. This is why they fired at 15:30, when most people were strolling outside. The discharges continued. I separated from Harry and went to the Metro, but when I descended the stairs, I was ashamed due to my uniform. I went back to the street, but I could only look in desperation as the incendiary bombs continued to land on roofs and streets... The crowd looked for security with discipline, methodically, even in the way they lunged to the ground. At 17:30 the bombing ceased and the streets took on their normal appearance... This is the peace and happiness Franco wants to bring the Spanish people... With German bombs, as the shrapnel testified!...

Letter by a German brigadier named Arnold, written to his comrades

[therollingstonys]

20.... on a scar. For the ship of your choice!

Hey!! Thank you for the ask! I’ll go ahead and do stony since it’s been a minute since I’ve written them. Let’s consider this part of my Steve x Toni verse (canon au where Tony is female in case anyone isn’t familiar!).

Steve’s fingers trail over the scars on Toni’s belly, tracing each of the marks left behind from the shrapnel that had nearly ended her life in Afghanistan.

Of course, the biggest of these scars lies not on her belly but between her breasts where the arc reactor is nestled, glowing softly in the darkness.

Brushing his lips over one of the scars, he hears it when Toni exhales unevenly, her fingers tightening in his hair. Tension fills her body and Steve kisses another, gentle and soft while his fingers spread out soothingly over her belly.

“I used to think they were ugly,” she whispers softly and Steve makes a soft negative sound, kissing over them again, sighing when her nails scrape gently against his scalp.

“Not anymore?” he asks, thumbing at the sharp jut of her hipbone.

“Rhodey gave me a vase, not long after, that had been shattered and then put back together using the Japanese kintsugi method. He told me that just because something had been broken didn’t mean it wasn’t beautiful anymore.”

Steve hums and kisses her scars again before rotating his head to look over at where the vase rests on their bedside table. “You are,” he says, tilting his head to look up at her, “beautiful,” he clarifies, warmth spreading through him at the way she smiles at him, her painted nails caressing his cheek softly.

“Since you looked at them like they were precious, I find it easier to believe,” she says quietly and Steve leans up on an elbow to kiss her, contentment filling him when she pulls him closer and tugs the sheets over their heads.