#so approximately 17 hours from now

[askadelcatty]

@cosmi-cat submitted: Perhaps twig as a skitty? Love ur art btw. Verrry fluffy <3 (I may or may not be planning a reboot at @twigtails )

ask and you shall recieve! took some liberties with some of the markings this time around.... (AND OOOH GOOD TO KNOW!!! very excited to see what you'll do with a reboot!!!) Want your oc turned into an almian skitty or delcatty? The 1 year anniversary celebration is still going!

[fingertipsmp3]

I love “smart” technology. I love how my watch thinks I’ve been asleep about an hour longer than I have. Do sleeping people check their blood pressure figure? Do sleeping people walk around? Do sleeping people accidentally play a dog video through the speaker of their watch and startle themselves??

[simp4konig]

"You drive me crazy."

Obsessed! Nikto x Reader

Word count: 2472

Nikto's POV! Sporadic uses of "Y/N" — otherwise, reader is referred as "You".

To say that Nikto is obsessed with you would be an understatement 😵‍💫...

Nikto's psychological state gradually deteriorates as you read!

Google Translate Russian lmao 💀,, please forgive any errors! 😟

Edit: Realising that this fic is darker than my usual works. Warning my readers for darker content!

Edit 2: Added the appropriate "dark content" tags. <3

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I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

I've lost my mind long ago. We're losing it as we speak. I've lost myself long ago and I have not known what to do with ourselves.

Of course, not all was lost. I was cleared for service. I can approach situations without hesitation or uncertainty — but most importantly, kill methodically.

All I need are targets. Just give me targets. Nothing else matters. Nobody.

But I found you. I found you. And you found us. Although there was nothing to find, you found us.

How? It's a mystery. An enigma. An unsolvable puzzle.

My name is Igor. Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich.

Игорь. Igor. I—gor. Two syllables. Four letters, in English. A not so common name in Russia, according to the statistics: in 1991 — the year of my birth — approximately 37 baby boys born were named as such. In 2021, only 17 baby boys born were named Igor. I would assume the number declines each year — maybe less than a dozen Igors were christened this year. Or a single digit. Nine. Eight. Seven. Or even less than five.

October 13, 1991 was my exact date of birth. I was born in Novgorod, when Russia was still the Soviet Union. I had parents. A sister…

…Yet that means nothing to me.

Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich? That is foreign. That is not anyone that I know of. I am Nikto. I am no one. Nobody to know, yet somebody that I know of. Not this… Igor. I am nobody. Никто.

When the voices are quiet, that's when I can silently mourn the man that I once was.

Though, can you mourn someone whom you don't know? Can you mourn the faceless person in the casket, whose face is unrecognisable? Can you mourn at a funeral that no one attended, and hadn't taken process?

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to repeat it, yes?

I knew it. We knew it. Everyone else knew it.

But you didn't. You. You.

You… remind me of someone.

They're dead now.

They were just a target. Too bad I can't remember who they were.

But you're not. You're more than a target.

You treated me with kindness when everyone avoided me like the bubonic plague. A Black Death following the death of the former Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich and the black, black blackness lingering — a reminder. But not anything that allows us to remember, or reminds us of who we once were.

I don't remember anything. I don't remember anyone. Photographs of my family before the torture are irrelevant. Documents stamping my existence could just as easily make us inexistent. Nobody exists any more aside from Nikto.

A cacophony of voices has infiltrated my brain. Our brain. We will never be me anymore. We are who we are now.

I am a broken man. I hear the voices of many men, who won't let me sleep, won't leave me be, won't give me peace. I was one of those men. Maybe all of the men are me?

But if all of them are me, and I am all of them, then who are we? What are we?

Then again… who I am is nothing. What I are is everything. What we are — crazy.

The pieces of the puzzle aren't fully there. Surely you must have been aware, my treasure?

You were doing your due diligence to arrange the puzzle pieces, so meticulously and with dedication, devoting hours of your time and wishing for the finished product to be cohesive, but you won't find that within us. How unfortunate.

Some of the pieces are missing. Some of them don't even fit. What you're left with is an incomplete picture — one which will never be completed.

No matter. You can be the missing puzzle piece, yes?

My fellow operatives named me Никто — “Nikto”, meaning “Nobody” or “No-one” in Russian — for… what did they say? My “uncanny ability to replicate other people and hide [my] true identity”? Ironic — seeing as replicating an identity is not the same as claiming your own, and being an individual. Having an actual identity, as opposed to being forced to think that being nobody can suffice.

Funny. I was apparently religious before all of this.

Have you heard of Orthodox Christianity? It's a branch of Christianity most often practised in Eastern Europe, in case you weren't aware. Orthodox Christians believe that Jesus redeemed humanity by sacrificing himself through crucifixion — unlike Catholics, who believe that Jesus sacrificing himself through crucifixion was all in an effort to redeem humanity.

Perhaps I was an altar boy in my childhood. Or wore a cross around my neck. Maybe I was devoted, and prayed in the morning, before a meal for grace, in the night, before a mission for mercy, during a mission out of desperation, and after a mission as gratitude.

Such bullshit.

Obviously, God doesn't exist — not in the ethereal, omniscient sense.

Oh no.

The God is You. You are my God.

Just like with Orthodox Christianity, and the salvation of humanity after the sacrifice of Jesus, your presence, your mere existence, was salvation. You brought redemption unto us.

Of course, following my torture, God became an abstract concept. How could the Holy Father abandon me? How could my prayers after the tortue be so wilfully ignored? Why would he actively play a passive role in my damnation, as I'm burned, as I'm beaten, as I'm bruised, abused, cut, and mutilated?

No one was born a sinner. Not even me, this nobody. So what kind of retribution was this — a disfigured face, ruined body, and voices which infiltrated my psyche, words equivalent to the evil of the Antichrist?

But You? You made it worthwhile. Your kindness. Compassion. Charity. It was all worthwhile. Even to gaze at You from afar.

Well.

For the most part.

We have repented for our sins: stealing Your dirty laundry, Your hairbrush, Your t-shirts, and other trinkets which we deem Holy Relics; using Your lip balm without permission, You none the wiser; committing sinful acts in the comfort of your own bedroom, only for You to return, oblivious. We apologise for that nagging paranoia, demanding You to turn around, to catch a glimpse of the eyes staring at You, but You not noticing us when we were camouflaged in the shadows. For stalking You and learning Your schedule. For hacking into all of Your devices and acquiring every little piece of information available from Your digital footprints.

But, You forgive us, yes?

Don't look so horrified, dushka. We left no trace, yes? No evidence. You said You have forgiven all of our transgressions. Think of this as a confession, nothing more. Besides, we never tampered with You belongings. They're all still with us. Just like you will.

You are our oxygen. Without You, we can't breathe. Our lungs suffocate without Your natural scent to fill them, to keep us alive. Our eyes go blind with time without the sight of Your face, Your body. We can't hear anything other than Your voice — our ears tune out any frequencies and wavelengths that don't leave those pretty little lips, yet wage civil war amongst ourselves, spitting curses that cut like knives and pierce like bullets. And Your lips. And Your eyes. And Your eyebrows, hair, hands, neck, God — everything.

You won't abandon us, yes? You wouldn't abandon us, would you, мое сокровище? You are our treasure. I treasure you — all of us do: your pretty little lips, that speak in the softest of tones to us; those eyes that stare in slight fright, yet crinkle in as genuine of a smile as you can manage; those eyebrows that furrow over your bright eyes in the subtlest of frowns, in sorrow or frustration, maybe vexation — and that's just your face. What about your hair? Your hands? Your neck? Your body? What is there not to treasure?

Боже мой, Bozhe moy, my God. Oh God, it's as if an angel has descended and granted us salvation, a merciful deity absolving us of our sins and cleansing our soul. And both the angel and deity are You — working in perfect sync, so benevolent and forgiving, taking pity on a creature so pitiful, so ruined, so unfixable.

We can't remember what some of those was.

Those puzzle pieces, of course.

Zakhaev’s torture stole some of the pieces to the jigsaw, and the puzzle won't ever be solved. We ourselves interrogate, torture, eliminate, kill. Sometimes we dissociate. Other times I am completely in control. Yet all the time, we are committing sins, sins, sins.

And You forgive them. Forgive us.

Every prayer is us praying for you, to you, about you. And each one concludes with your sacred name, whispered in hushed tones as the syllables are too precious to utter out loud.

Poor, poor thing. You probably didn't even know what you were signing up for, did you? You probably intended to be charitable. Sympathetic. And you were, sweet one.

But you were naive to have assumed that we wouldn't become possessive of you like an unwanted stay mutt of its only bone. So innocent — perhaps stupid — but we like to think that you were misguided in your intentions, yet guided by some God.

An ignorant God? If You're the God to worship, then are You an ignorant one? An innocent, naive, and unconditionally loving one? Yet, one that, despite Their obliviousness, can knowingly soothe with a simple string of words? With a caress?

What an oxymoron. It suits You. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Aw. Are those tears, dushka? Let's wipe them, hmm? Kiss it better, yes? You will like our lips on you.

Don't scream. Don't hurt those vocal cords. We like the sound of your voice. We want you to talk.

There there, little one. You look beautiful when you cry, but you look most beautiful when you're smiling. Smile, hm? Do it for us. Your Nikto.

You don't have to be afraid, you know. Don't be afraid, krasotka. We love you.

Here, put your hand on our chest. Feel how our heart is beating? It beats only for you.

Our abdomen, our stomach. You feel how toned that is, yes? You feel the muscle?

What about our biceps? The strength in our forearms? They're all for you. We're all yours, yours yours yours.

Our blood looks good on you, dushka. The blood really accentuates your nails. But please, stop. Stop.

You don't have to scratch us, or scream. You know that none of that will change anything. You know that we will love you, even if you tell us you hate us. It's too late.

Get used to touching us, yes? What's left of us, anyways. Yes, our body won't be the most appealing, or the handsomest, but it's all for you. Every inch. All for you — just like how you are all ours.

You're ours, just as much as we belong to you. You could stab us with a knife and we'd smile. You could shoot us with a gun point-blank in the head and we'd thank you. What an honour it would be to live with you by your side, or die by your side. We're a dead man either way. Your dead man. Your Nikto.

You underestimated my capacity for violence. Or were perhaps too naive to understand it.

That's okay. Put your hand on my face. Just like that. See? Nothing to fear. It's just us. Your Nikto.

I can feel it shaking. Why do you shake so much, hm? Don't be afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of. You should know there's nothing to be afraid of. After all, you were fearless when it came to speaking to me, and weren't afraid to reach out to us. Surely you don't want to abandon us now?

That's too bad. You won't abandon us. We won't let you.

I'm crazy: I don't think I need to repeat it, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy.

I am already crazy yes but it is You who drives me to insanity do You know that? Why do You deny? Do not deny us this yes? Yes You do know that it is You who makes me mad beyond return of course You do You've always known it and You know it now little one You're just pretending feigning ignorance with surprise in Your eyes. Why pretend that it was all a pretense? Your kindness? Your sympathy? Your company? It was not pretense to us no it was everything. Everything we could have hoped for prayed for and lived for.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy, baby.

Craaazyyy. Crazy crazy crazy!

You have made us the craziest we have ever been from the moment we met Your eyes and will be forever driven crazier with Your around from the day You die. And that won't be anytime now, my treasure. We will treasure You, take care of You, keep You safe. You will want for nothing, we can assure You — nothing, nobody, no one. Only Nikto. Nobody will ever look at You, as their eyeballs will be gouged out for having the audacity to spare a glance at the pinnacle of perfection. And nobody will ever want You, nobody will taint that precious skin with unworthy fingers, as anyone who tries will have them broken have their bones crushed to dust their skin muscles and tendons ripped to ribbons until there is no body left.

Nobody will ever look at You. Only Nikto. Us. Forever, and ever, and ever and ever and ever we will have our eyes on You until our retinas dissolve and our pupils can no longer absorb light and we become blind and crippled, crying, crying crying crying for You, crying only for You. You crying out for us until Your voice is hoarse from moaning, until our name becomes a prayer just as much as Yours is to us.

We love You. Think of nobody. Only Nikto. Only of Nikto. Only for and against Nikto. We will live for You. We do already, do you understand? We're yours. Yours. Yours yours yours yours yours yours to have yours to hit yours to scratch with those nails yours to scream at yours yours yours yours yours. Yours. Yours! Yours!

Yours!

Y/N.

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it. You should have known it.

And if you didn't know it, then You will know it.

Because You drive me crazy.

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A/Ns

Really really really Really REALLY had doubts about posting this and thought that no one would like it. I felt inspired and happy and proud of myself when I was almost finished but it took me days to conclude the work since I was second-guessing whether or not I should post this after all. Kind of embarrassed, in all honesty, but I decided to post it in the end since I quite like it. :'>

I just wanted to highlight your, @//connorsui, lovely, lovely words when you reblogged my last Nikto post 😭😭😭💘💘💘. To receive not only some compliments, but your thoughts on my headcanons AND analysis *AND* your evaluation of my post was so, SO heartwarming to wake up to in the morning 🥹🥹🥹💓💓💓, especially when it was so long!!! Like, what?!! 😢😢😢😢😢😿😿😿😿😿😭😭😭😭😭💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💖💖💖💖💖✨✨✨✨✨

Thank you so so so SO much for your positive feedback !!! I've read it over four times by now. O really appreciated and still appreciate it. ☺️💞🫶💖✨✨💕💕

(I also want to kiss Nikto's scarred face ☹️☹️☹️ just wordless acts of intimacy where words aren't necessary and just to show the man some affection, regardless of how he looks 😟💝 need that ugly traumatised Russian man SO BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭)

Inspiration for this gained from:

thisvvv song!!! and Chapter 7 in Metro 2035 lol,, when Artyom was drunk and disorientated I thought it was written really REALLY well and I wanted to incorporate his meaningless drivel into this.

Nikto's voicelines and his various voices/sporadic changes in character

the Fandom Wiki

my own headcanons lol 😋

From fluff this whatever the fuck this is!!!!!!!!!! Hope you enjoyed 💗💗

[coeluvr]

New Chapter Released!

Hello, everyone! 💗

Chapter 3 brings you approximately 55k words in total.

LINK

So, in this update:

You are now an adult, you survived everything life has thrown your way so far. Twenty years old now... so much time has passed since that unforgettable night.

Did you burn the previous Consort's room? Did you not burn the room? How have your decisions shaped the present in front of you?

Two years ago, Helios and Hunter embarked on a journey to Vesphire, while you were confined to your palace. In a matter of hours, they will be back. However, they won't be the only ones returning; the Imperial Army, dispatched two years prior to assist Norazaan in their war, will also be arriving with the royals of that land to express their gratitude.

A hunt has been organized to greet the guests from Norazaan upon their arrival. Whether you choose to participate or not, life will continue as usual. I trust you're ready for whatever may accompany the event.

A few additional changes have been made so...

You will have to restart from the beginning due to rewritten content and stats.

Thank you all for your patience and support, I hope you enjoy this new chapter. 💗

For those that are unfamiliar with the game :

Crown of Ashes and Flames is a fantasy interactive fiction game, free to play from start to finish, on pc and mobile. You play as the only remaining member of the royal family of Vesphire; living in the home of the man who took away everything from you.

The game is safe for those 17 and older and there are many content warnings. Make sure to read them before playing it.

Like the premise so far? Check out the pinned post and give it a try!

If you enjoyed the game, please reblog! One of the things that makes me happy is seeing others enjoy what I have created. Let me know your thoughts and rate the game as well. 💗

[solarmorrigan]

It's Lovely Weather for a Hayride Together with You

For the @steddie-spooktober day 17 prompt: Hayride Rated: G | Words: 690 | CW: None | Tags: established relationship, Steve Harrington has bad parents, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, experiencing vicarious childlike wonder Divider credit: @saradika

Everywhere Steve looks, there’s something to do. Pick-your-own-pumpkins in one direction, corn maze in another, pop-up carnival games with cheap stuffed prizes tucked in here and there, and everywhere little stalls selling pie, popcorn, candied pecans, cookies, cider, roast pumpkin seeds – the list goes on.

But the thing that keeps catching Steve’s eye is the hayride.

It’s mostly for kids, he knows. He and Eddie had come to the pumpkin patch to check out the haunted corn maze, maybe pick a few pumpkins to carve, and almost definitely gorge on snacks; they hadn’t come to sit in a straw-filled trailer hitched to a tractor pulling them at approximately 0.5 miles per hour. And yet–

Steve can’t help but remember second grade, when his class had taken a trip out to one of the local pumpkin patches. It had been a lot smaller than this one, but they’d still boasted a hayride which all the kids had clamored to get on. It had seemed to Steve at the time like the most exciting part of the day, feeling the breeze on his face and the coarse straw beneath his hands, waving at the people who were wading through the pumpkins as they drove by; he’d been enchanted.

He'd told his mom all about it when he’d come home from school that day, and she’d indulged his excited, childish chatter, but had closed off when Steve had asked if they could go back: the three of them, together.

She’d given him a faint, noncommittal answer and changed the subject. Messy things like pumpkin patches and hayrides weren’t really her thing, and Steve’s dad – well, he didn’t have time for silly things like that (things like Steve).

Now, as much as Steve feels the pull of that excited seven-year-old, still buried somewhere inside him, he dismisses it. Hayrides are for little kids.

Except Eddie, who seems to know what Steve wants sometimes before even Steve himself does, follows Steve’s wandering gaze, and asks, “Do you want to go?”

Steve immediately withdraws, shaking his head. “No, I’m good,” he says quickly, turning instead towards the corn maze.

“Well, I do,” Eddie declares, grabbing Steve by the arm and tugging him back towards the ride. “C’mon.”

They must make quite a pair—two grown men, Steve in his sweater and his still-new glasses, and Eddie with his rock-and-roll ready hair and leather jacket, standing in line with a handful of waist-high kids and their parents—but no one comments. They all pile into the trailer when it comes back around, claiming seats wherever they can find them on top of the bales of hay, and the tractor takes off again.

It's crowded enough that Eddie and Steve can justify sitting close, pressed together from hip to knee, all in the name of giving other people some room. Eddie’s thigh against Steve’s own is a warm counterpoint to the cool breeze as they sail past the pumpkin patch and the mostly harvested fields of corn.

It really isn’t as exciting as Steve remembers it being, but he can tell that for the kids sitting around them, maybe experiencing the ride for the first time, it’s magic. They tug on the sleeves of their parents’ jackets and point at things in the distance, and their parents pretend to marvel. One kid is busily spouting every fact he knows about tractors while his mother listens and nods along. They all wave at the people in the fields as they go by, and the people wave back.

It's not what Steve remembers, but it’s good.

“Having a good time?” Eddie asks, leaning in to speak in Steve’s ear so he can be heard over the rumble of the tractor.

“The best,” Steve deadpans, but Eddie only grins.

“Good,” he says, leaning back on his hands.

From where he has one hand braced on the haybale behind Steve’s back, it’s almost like he’s got his arm around Steve, keeping him warm in the October chill, creating a little bubble just for them as they pass the fall scenery at a sedate pace.

It’s not what Steve remembers, but it’s good.

[ayedafuq]

Hamzah imagine I’m sorry god

POV: You got invited up to Toronto by your friend (Y/F) who hangs in the same circle as the Slushy Noobz crew, u n Hamzah meet at a party, get a little too tipsy, and you flirt just a taaaad .

——

(Y/F) : bitch come out the room and DRINK

Currently hiding away in her room (where I’ve been a freeloader for the past 2 days), I see Y/F’s text to come and join the pregame she’s having in her living room. She moved from our hometown to Toronto, a place I haven’t been before this, and I’m visiting her for the week. I came up on Wednesday and after our playful time catching up together for the past two days, she decided it’d be a good idea to go out with some of the friends she made. She currently has about 8 people in her living room playing drinking games, and I’m sitting on the floor staring into her full body mirror, ready to go to the bar, nervous as FUCK about meeting her friends.

After ignoring her text for approximately 30 seconds, she comes into the room. “OOOO GURRRRL YOU LOOKIN GOOOOOD” she says. I know she knows I’m nervous.

“Wait close the door” I say to her, and she does. “Dude, what if they don’t like me.” My anxiety is clearly getting the best of me.

“Fuck do you mean what if they don’t like you? You’re quite literally my twin. If they don’t like you then I’ll KNOW they secretly don’t like me. And they love me, so chill the fuck out. Get up” she picks me up out off the ground and pulls me out into her living room.

“Guess who’s heeeerrrree” she says to the group, and they all start to cheer. “There she is!” One of the girls says. A guy chimes in, “The visitor has arrived!”

Y/f drags me around the party to share names, my nerves subsiding. Everyone here is really nice. Why was I even worried?

“Hey, I’m Mandy. I work at the animal shelter with y/f. I’ve heard so much about you!” The girl says. I reply telling her I’ve heard about her too. “Y/f says the only reason she goes there is to pet animals and hang out with you” I tell her. “Yea sounds about right, I do the same thing.”

Me, Mandy and Y/f chat for a couple minutes sharing some laughs and stories, until the guy who chanted earlier and his friend come up. “Y/n, this is my boyfriend Martin. And this is Hamzah, avoid him.”

I give my hellos and introduce myself to Martin. We banter for a quick second before I turn to Hamzah. “Hellooo, I’m Y/n.” I give him a quick smile he returns. “Hey Y/n, how do you like Toronto so far?”

Before I can even answer, Y/f interrupts. “I’m gonna need you guys to shut up and grab a drink. We’re leaving for the bar in 30, and me and Y/n still need to demolish half the party in flip cup. Grab two seltzers from the fridge” she tells me. “You better lock in, I told everyone you never miss a flip.”

—

Two hours later and we’re at the bar, and it’s safe to say I’m feeling preeeetty nice. Her friends are so sweet, and I can’t help but feel so happy that she found these people.

Mandy, y/f, Hamzah and I are standing by a high top table, and I take the liberty in sharing some stories of me and y/f from parties in high school.

“When I tell you I turned my head for 3 seconds and y/f was gone, I mean it. I’m running through the party like a chicken without a fucking head, looking like a maniac asking everyone where she is. Mind you, I’m like 17 and hammered, so I was probably acting like the hulk.”

“Jesus Christ y/n don’t..” she says.

“After 10 minutes where do I find this bitch? Asleep in this random bitch’s closet with her head, quite literally, in a bucket.”

Hamzah and Mandy are cracking up. “You didn’t even know who threw the party?” Hamzah asks between laughs.

“Not a fucking clue. Y/f felt right at home though” I say, giggling myself.

“Girl I hate you, but yea I did. That bucket was my crib. Need to go to the bathroom?” Y/f asks me.

I tell her I’m alright for now, and Mandy tells her she needs to go so they scurry off together.

“Wow, so you guys have been friends for a while huh?” Hamzah says, still smiling from the story.

“Yea, we’ve been through a lot together. She’ll never get rid of me I fear” I say back.

“Damn, that’s awesome. Y/f is super cool, I’m happy she moved up here. When’s it your turn?” He says, his smile becoming more of a smirk. It hasn’t gone over my head that this kid is fucking adorable, but hes been acting pretty shy all night. The sly comment took me by surprise.

“Man I wish I could. It’s been on my mind a lot since she moved here” I reply.

“What’s stopping you?” He asks.

“I guess I’m just scared. It’s a big move, and she’s got the balls to do it. I’m not sure I do.”

“I felt the same way too, I pretty much hauled ass across the country of Canada at 18. I lived out of my car for a bit actually, it was a nightmare. I’d do it all again though, it was the best decision I’ve made. If I could do it, a pretty girl like you could too.”

Pretty girl?

“Pretty girl?” I say back, a little smug. The drinks are getting to me I fear.

“I’m sorry, was that weird?” He gets a little shy again. I giggle to let him know it wasn’t.

“Not at all. Thank you, pretty boy” I playfully shove his arm. I cringe in my head. I gotta be fucking kidding.

“Pretty boyyy I see I see” he says with a smile. “You think I’m a pretty boy?”

“Only a little bit. Like, this much” I pinch my fingers together the closest I can without having them touch.

“Well, thiiiis pretty boy” he mimics my fingers, “thinks you should move to Toronto thiiiis much” he separates them a little more. “Because he’d like to see you more thiiiiis badly” he separates them as far as he can. Damn, he has nice hands.

“Wow that’s pretty badly” I respond. Thank god I have makeup on because this cheesy shit might be making me blush.

“Yea, it’s alarming. Think about it, pretty girl” he tilts his head towards me playfully as he says pretty girl, getting a little close and then backing his head away swiftly. His smirk is fully activated and the eye contact we’re making is pretty hot. I smile back at him with my tongue touching my canine (do yk what I’m talking about like that lil sexy smile), tilting my head slightly to the side as if to say oh, ur flirting with me, noted. and just as I’m about to respond, y/f and Mandy return from the bathroom.

“Stop harassing her Hamzah she’s never gonna want to come back” Mandy says. “Come on, we’re gonna go back to y/f’s and play drinking games. This bar is boring.”

Hamzah follows after Mandy, glancing back at me quickly with a cheeky smile before turning his head. Y/f gets in my ear.

“Hamzah likes you. Mandy can tell. She told me in the bathroom.”

—-

Okay guys hi this is like so bullshit but I was feeling playful idk I hope you enjoyed if you made it this far

-ayev

[honeys-hotties]

I Don't Deserve You-Julien Baker x Reader

my first julien baker fic, because the jb brainrot is SO REAL i love her with my whole heart

jb x fem!reader

angst but happy ending (have i ever written anything without angst??) anyways! as always, this is all made up!! jb is a little mean in this one, and in real life i am so sure she would never act like this

word cout: 2222 &lt;3

After a horrifically unproductive day at the studio, all Julien wants to do when she gets back to her house is sleep for approximately 17 hours. The clock on the wall reads 6:13 when she drops her jacket on the couch, completely forgetting about the dirty breakfast dishes she had promised you she would clean up that morning. You had an obnoxiously early start that morning, but wanting to see you before you left for work, Julien had woken up and you two had made breakfast together.

“I’m so sorry I don’t have time to clean everything up,” you had whispered apologetically, perched atop the counter while Julien stood between your legs. “If you could put everything away before you go to the studio for me please baby? And I can make us dinner tonight? I shouldn’t be too late? I think they were saying 7:00 wrap tonight? So I’ll be home by 7:45 at the latest.” Julien had agreed, if mostly to quiet her excited girlfriend so she could get a few kisses in before you left, but had gone back upstairs and fallen asleep after you were gone. She had slept through her alarm, and in her panic to get to the studio on time had forgotten to clean the kitchen.

Julien walked up the stairs, pushing the door to their bedroom open and falling face-first onto the large, unmade bed, and immediately passing out. She sleeps peacefully for about an hour and a half, until the slamming of the front door startles her awake. Rubbing her eyes irritatedly, Julien sits up in the darkened bedroom, a headache growing behind her eyes. 

“Babe?” She hears you call from downstairs. “Where are you?” Grumbling to herself, Julien sits up and stretches, her back popping from the movements. You pad up the stairs, and poke your head into the bedroom, smiling at the sight of your tired girlfriend. “Good nap?” you ask softly, walking towards the bed and sitting down next to Julien, who wraps her arms around her girlfriend’s waist, resting her head in your lap.

“Yeah, baby.” Julien hums. “Really good nap.”

You laugh softly, stroking Julien’s hair in your lap. “I’m glad, babe. You’ve been working yourself to death recently. How was the studio today?”

Julien rolls her eyes, sitting up abruptly. “I really don’t want to talk about work right now.” She says, irritated. Your eyes widen slightly, shocked by your girlfriend’s sharp tone, but ultimately chalking it up to her exhaustion. “Oh, okay. I’m sorry, Jules. I can go start dinner, if you want to nap a little longer?”

Julien looks at you guiltily. “I’m sorry, princess.” She pulls you into her lap, kissing your forehead repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I love you.” You laugh quietly, relishing in the comfort of Julien’s arms, the kisses being pressed to your face. 

“It’s okay baby. I get it. Want to come start on dinner with me?” 

Julien nods, and follows like a puppy after you, down the stairs and into the kitchen. Julien is so lost in thought that when you stop abruptly in front of her at the sight of the kitchen, Julien smacks directly into you, knocking you forward a couple of steps. 

“Whoa princess, what’re you doin’?” She asks, reaching out to steady you. You swat her hands away, turning to face Julien with an unamused expression on your face. “Hey,” Julien takes a step back. “I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean to bump into you, I swear, I just wasn’t expecting you to stop there…” she trails off at the look on your face. “What?”

“The kitchen, JB.” You say, gesturing to the dirty dishes behind you. “You promised you would clean up this morning, remember? I specifically asked if you could take care of it this morning so it wouldn’t be a problem tonight, and you told me not to worry, that you would clean up before you left.”

Julien rolls her eyes, her girlfriend’s irritation only adding to her bad mood. “Seriously, babe? You barely see me all day, and now you’re getting mad because I didn’t do the dishes? So I wanted to get some extra sleep this morning? Don’t you think I fuckin’ deserve it? I work so damn hard, I deserve a break, and having you flipping out on me isn’t helpful, baby.” Her tone is biting, her words harsh, and she barely notices the tears glazing over her girlfriend’s eyes. 

“I work hard too, Julien!” You grit out. “Just because I’m not some incredible singer doesn’t mean I don’t work hard, doesn’t mean I’m not exhausted when I get home. You told me you would clean up and you didn’t, I don’t understand why you’re getting so defensive-”

“Exactly!” Julien yells. “You don’t understand. You have no idea what it’s like to have this pressure on your shoulders every goddamn second, the eyes of so many people, waiting for you to fuck up. But guess fucking what, princess? The world doesn’t revolve around you.” She stalks closer to you, her voice loud. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with, how exhausted I am constantly, how hard I’m working. So I forgot to do the dishes once? So what? Look at everything I do for you, everything I bring to the table, versus you, and then try to tell me off again, princess.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, Julien wishes she could take them back. You look like you’ve been slapped across the face, and the unshed tears in your eyes finally begin to fall. You let out a choked sob, backing away from Julien who, in her anger, had cornered you against the table. 

“Wait, baby…I didn’t…” but it’s too late. The damage is done. 

“You’re right, Julien,” You manage. “I don’t know what it’s like. Maybe you should find someone who understands you, because obviously I never could.”

“No, princess, please-” Julien starts, before you cut her off.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” You snap. “I’m not your ‘princess’, I’m not your ‘baby’, I’m not your ‘doll’, I’m not anything to you, apparently.”

“No, please. You’re everything to me, I swear, I was just being mean because I’m tired, please, I didn’t mean it” Julien’s eyes fill with tears. You turn away from her. “I think you should leave, Julien. Before you say something else you ‘don’t mean’”. 

“No, please, you know I can’t leave when we’re fighting, we have to fix things, please let me fix things.”

You turn to her, tears streaming down your face. “I don’t know if you can fix this, Julien. I’ve put up with a lot of your shit, when you snap at me because you’ve had long days at the studio and I let it slide, when you chainsmoke because you’re stressed and I hold my tongue because I don’t want to make you more upset, when you make my problems feel small because I’m not part of some huge band. I don’t know if I can do this anymore. It’s not fair to me.”

Julien drops to her knees in front of you, reaching gently for your hands. “Please let me fix this” she cries softly. “Please, my love. I will do anything to make it up to you. Anything.” You pull your hands from Julien’s grasp. 

“I’m going to bed” you say, brokenly. “Just, wash the dishes, please.” 

“I love you” Julien calls out after you, watching you retreat up the stairs. “Baby, I-I love you.” You say nothing, and as soon as you disappear up the stairs, Julien breaks down in tears. She sits on the kitchen floor and cries, cries because she thinks she might have just ruined the best thing in her life. Julien cries for what feels like either ten minutes or ten hours, until she has no tears left and her sobs turn into pathetic sniffles. Eventually, she stands up and finds her phone, calling the only two people she trusts to help her fix her relationship. Phoebe and Lucy both pick up almost immediately, and listen dutifully as Julien fills them in on the fight while she tries to tidy up the kitchen. 

“Wow” Phoebe manages when Julien finishes the story. “Julien, fuck, I don’t know what to say.”

“I do,” Lucy chimes in. “You fucked up. Big time. Like, I don’t even know how you fucked up this badly.”

“That’s really helpful, Luce.” Julien retorts. “Now, how do I fix things? She’s the best thing in my life, and I can’t do this without her.”

“I think you and her need to have a really serious conversation about your relationship and what she expects of you” Phoebe says seriously. “It sounds like you’ve been neglecting her, however unintentionally, taking her for granted. She’s put up with it for long enough, JB, and honestly, she deserves better. I love you and I’m here for you no matter what, but you’re in the wrong here, babe.”

“You guys will work it out, but just try to understand where she’s coming from. You’ve got a pretty short fuse when you’re stressed,” Lucy adds. “I know you both and I know how much love you have for each other. Just, talk things through with her, see it from her point of view.”

“Okay. I’ll try. And you’re right, she deserves better. I’ll do my best to try harder for her, to be more attentive and more patient for her. I love her so much.”

“We know,” Lucy says. “We love you both so much, and I know you two will work it out. It’s hard right now, but you’re going to come out on the other side of this so much stronger as a couple.”

“Tell her we say hi, and call us tomorrow with updates, okay JB. We love you.” Phoebe says, bringing a small smile to Julien’s face.

“I will. Thank you guys, I love you both so much.” Julien disconnects the call and wipes down the counter, before turning off the kitchen lights and heading upstairs. Her footsteps grow soft as she reaches the door to your shared bedroom, and she pushes the door open softly, her heart breaking at the sight of you curled up on the bed, eyes red and puffy. 

“I don’t want to talk right now, Julien.” You say quietly, your voice raspy. 

“Will you listen then, baby? Just, I have a few things I want to say to you, to apologize for, and then you can kick me out, okay?” Julien asks hopefully, walking slowly towards the bed. You sit up wordlessly, gesturing for Julien to go ahead.

“Um, okay. Here goes. Baby, I’m so, so fucking sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been so tired and stressed lately. And I know that’s not an excuse. I just want to tell you where I’m coming from. That gives me zero right to take it out on you, though. And I’m so sorry because through everything, you’ve been here for me. You’ve stuck with me, through good and bad, no matter what. And I’ve been taking you for granted, which is so unfair to you, and you deserve so much better than me. You deserve someone who listens to you and values your opinions, someone who loves you so much they can’t stand the thought of life without you. Someone who knows how hard you work, someone who is always there for you, someone who is patient and protective and treats you like a queen. I want to be that person for you, if you’ll let me. I want to show you how incredible you are and tell you every day for the rest of our lives how much I adore you. I can’t imagine my life without you. I don’t want to imagine my life without you. I know I don’t deserve you, but please, give me another chance. You make my life worth living, you make everything better. I love you more than I can ever say, but if you want me, I will spend the rest of our lives proving how much I love you.” By the end of her speech, you're sobbing. 

“Oh, fuck, baby, doll, I’m so sorry, I-”

“Shut up and kiss me” You cut her off, and Julien’s eyes widen at your statement. “I, what?”

“You heard me,” you laughed, your throat still choked with tears. “Kiss me, Julien.” Without hesitating, Julien surges forward and connects your lips in a searing kiss. She can taste the salt of your tears mixing with her own, and when she finally breaks away, she rests her forehead against yours, gently wiping your tears away.  “I love you” she whispers. “And I don’t deserve you. But I love you so much. And I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” you say. “But I don’t want to talk about that right now. I’m tired. Let’s go to sleep, we can talk more in the morning.”

Julien presses her lips to yours once more. “You’re the boss, princess. I’ll start making it up to you first thing tomorrow.”

“You better.” You say, letting out a watery chuckle, cuddling into her. “And I have a few ideas for how you can start.”

honey's notes: to anyone reading this right now, i love you you're amazing, all the forehead kisses in the world for you! this fic was so fun to write, lmk if i should write more for jb or the boys!

love always, honey

[yaseraphine]

astro observations 3 - appearance and vibes / leo risings focus

WHY IS EVERYONE LEO RISING ???

(REMINDER : I am NOT a professional astrologer. Everything I say are my personal opinions and not facts.)

Hi guys !

First of all, I wanted to say sorry for not posting in 1 month. My 2 weeks and a half trip was not the most relaxing to say the least. But I still had fun overall!

Now, let's get down to the nitty gritty of things : Today's post will be about Leo risings, and like I said in the last post about Virgo risings (you can check it if you want here), this post will not be a description of their physical characteristics and vibes but instead be an open conversation to answer one of my biggest astrological questions : Are Leo risings the most common rising sign ? (Libra and Virgo risings will also be part of the conversation but not at the center of it, obviously)

This question has been bothering me for a while now. It feels like whenever i meet a group of people, i click on a few random profiles on astro seek , I, more often than not, encounter a bunch of Leo risings.

Even on instagram when some random people reveal their big three in their stories, or on their bios it feels like 4 times out of 10 it's a leo rising ?

I don't know if i am tripping but i feel like , after studying and learning about astrology for a little more than two years and doing, seeing and dissecting so many birth charts, i recently came to the conclusion that Leo risings might the most common rising sign.

Actually, this conversation seems to not be reserved to Leo risings only since Virgo and Libra risings appear to be also REALLY common rising signs.

-> EXEMPLE :

To give a real life exemple , last year i knew the rising signs of 20 people in my grade. To show you clearly how common some signs seem to be, i am going to make a list of each student next to their rising signs, calling each 20 of them student 1, student 2, ....

-> MY RELATIONSHIPS WITH THOSE STUDENTS :

Within those 20 students, most of them were good acquaintances and a minority were my friends. I did not have really profound relationships with most of them.

/!\ i am aware that only 20 people is FAR from being enough evidence to prove my point but i am just trying to show WHY i have been questionning the possibility of leo risings, alongside with libra and virgo, being the most common rising signs, and not prove that they are the most common because i clearly do not know and i need your help lol /!\

Student 1 : Gemini rising

Student 2 : Virgo rising

Student 3 : Scorpio rising

Student 4 : Virgo rising

Student 5 : Leo rising

Student 6 : Libra rising

Student 7 : Cancer rising

Student 8 : Capricorn rising

Student 9 : Libra rising

Student 10 : Virgo rising

Student 11 : Virgo rising

Student 12 : Cancer rising

Student 13 : Aquarius rising

Student 14 : Taurus rising

Student 15 : Leo rising

Student 16 : Leo rising

Student 17 : Aries rising

Student 18 : Leo rising

Student 19 : Sagittarius rising

Student 20 : Cancer rising

*A few of them , i am not sure if they're 100% accurate since they gave me an approximative time of birth.

-> RESULTS :

You can CLEARLY see that Leo, Virgo and Libra risings are the most common. (cancer risings seem also really common here)

Out of the 20 students , 10 are Leo, Virgo or Libra risings. They make up almost a majority of the risings, which is crazy regarding the fact that they are 12 possible rising signs, and only 3 out of the 12 make up half of that list.

The funny coincidence here is that , in the zodiac wheel, they are all one after another :

Leo-> Virgo -> Libra

Now , I remember seeing a while ago a youtube short explaining that the rarest rising signs are allegedly Aries , Pisces and Aquarius risings. I'll put the link if you want to watch it but to summerize she says that basically : Every single day for two hours (approx.), each one zodiac sign constellation rises on the Eastern Horizon. If a baby is born during the 2 hour chunk when Gemini is rising, that baby will have a gemini rising. The particularity that makes Aries, Pisces and Aquarius so rare is that those constellations only rise for one hour (approx.) each day. Since most of the signs rise for a longer amont of time (2 hours), you have a higher chance of having those signs on your ascendant and logically, a lower chance of having Aquarius, Pisces and Aries on your ascendant.

At the beginning, I said that I studied astrology for a little more than two years HOWEVER I haven't really studied (if not at all) the more "technical side of astrology", what the discipline and knowledge requires to be practiced correctly and accurately and to make the best interpretations possible.

That is one of the reasons why I am coming here : to seek help from professional astrologers who can not only clarify if what the girl in the youtube shorts is saying is true or not and why it is true, but also to tell me if my theory makes any sense, if there's some truth in it - > basically, to give us answers.

Now, even if you're not a certified astrologer you are still obviously welcomed to partake in this conversation ! I will be more than happy to answer to all of you guys and to get your intake on this conversation <33

Let's use our brains together and come up collectively with an answer !

Remember guys : STAY BLESSED 💅🏼✨ ! (period ha! 👅💋)

[scotianostra]

On March 3rd 1883 three hundred inhabitants of the remote Shetland island of Foula were on the point of starvation as the first supply boat of the year reached the stormbound community.

Foula, often described as the "Edge Of The World" is our most remote inhabited island. It is situated in the Atlantic Ocean approximately 20 miles to the west of the Shetland mainland. It is an island of crofting townships, breath-taking sheer cliff drops, and a wealth of wild flowers and wildlife.

Over a century ago, in 1881, Foula had a population of 267, mostly employed in fishing...at the last census in 2001 that figure had dropped to just 38.

On March 3rd 1883 the Shetland Times published this;

The Weather and Mails – Foula

Nine weeks have now expired since our last mail was landed, and all our resources are almost exhausted. Sugar and tobacco have been all done for more than a fortnight, and tea, coffee, etc, are now done also. Those who had a little meal to spare have helped those who had none, a thing often done in Foula, but if the weather does not moderate we will soon be all alike. The boat has been in readiness now for some time to go to Walls for supplies, and as the weather has become a little more moderate today they are going to make a start, so we hope that they may get safe through, and a chance to return again soon. But we doubt if the mail boat will be able to cross today yet, as the wind still inclines to the westward.

There isn’t much more than this about their plight, but it seems that same day they breathed a sigh of relief as a boat must have made it to Mainland and back successfully.

Today crofting as well as fishing are the main activities, half the population living at Hametoun in the south east and the remainder to be found at Ham near Ham Voe on the east coast. The island is not connected to any mainland electricity grid system. In 1987 a community electricity scheme was constructed, comprising a 3.3kV island grid which linked diesel generators, a wind turbine and a hydroelectricity scheme to the island’s properties. This scheme gradually fell into disrepair and has undergone a major refurbishment, funded primarily through grants.

Before refurbishment, the entire island's power was supplied by one of the two diesel generators which operated between approximately 7.20am and 00.30am. That’s not to say they were without power for the, just under 7 hours the generator is off, a battery/inverter system was installed between 2006 and January 2007, a solar charging array helps top up the batteries as well . The system was fully commissioned at the beginning of March 2007 and already the islanders not only have continuous power ( instead of the previous 17 hours per day) but are noticing considerable savings in diesel fuel use. Since diesel has to be shipped in by ferry (and often the weather is too bad for the ferry to run for up to 3 weeks on end) this of huge value.

An interesting feature of the island's people is that they still observe the old Julian calendar, replaced in 1752 in Britain by the present Gregorian system which deleted 11 days from the year. Remote areas of the country kept to the old calendar, adding an extra day in 1800, which was a leap year, and some parts of Shetland continued to observe festivals 12 days after the dates in the new calendar. The most remote areas kept to the old calendar longest, and the people of Foula still celebrate Christmas on 6 January and New Year's Day on 13 January

Travel to the island is by sea or air and is completely dependent on suitable weather conditions.

A wee bit more, and a short video can be found at the link below.

[tfemflightinstructor]

what does "bust a bravo" mean

smile

ok gang! lets learn about The National Airspace System! (referenced with AIM chapter 3 and PHAK chapter 17)

We'll start off easy with Uncontrolled Airspace! Class G or Golf airspace is Completely uncontrolled. Theres nobody there watching to maintain spacing or really anything, however you still have to maintain the minimum weather requirements for Visual Flight Rules.

Those rules are as follows, For Daytime flying less than 1200 feet Above Ground Level (hereby condensed to AGL), you must maintain 1 statute mile of visibility (think fog obscuring how far you can see) and remain clear of clouds. For Daytime Flying above 1200 AGL its 3 Statute miles of visibility, 1000 feet above clouds, 500 ft below, and 2000 feet horizontal. if its Night time flying below 1200ft AGL, its 3 statute miles, 1000ft above, 500ft below, and 2000ft horizontal around clouds. These numbers are very Very common, and will be condensed into the "3-152" Rule. Night time above 1200ft AGL is also the 4-152 rule.

NOW! Where IS class Golf airspace? Well, it starts from the surface all the way up to 1200 feet AGL. Sometimes its to 700ft AGL but we'll explain why that is when we get into Controlled Airspace.

so basically it looks like Such:

Next up: controlled Airspaces!

first one is class E or Echo, which stands for EVERYWHERE. Where is Echo? EVERYWHERE but uncontrolled, or other Defined airpspaces. Class Echo starts at 1201ft AGL, and goes alll the way up to 17,999ft MEAN SEA LEVEL. Mean sea level (or MSL) is the height above where the ocean Approximately is. So if you're 0ft MSL, you're basically swimming. All (most.) aircraft Altimeters (the instruments that tell you how high you are) are calibrated to what the air pressure outside is at mean sea level and indicate how high they are compared to where MSL is.

Back to Class E airspace. E goes up to 17,999ft MSL, because at 18,000ft it changes to a different airspace, which we will get to in a moment. So, Class E is Controlled airspace, but that doesnt mean you have to be talking to people to fly in it. in fact, most people flying in class E arent actually talking to air traffic control! most of the time they're flying around Visually, under Visual Flight Rules, which means "i can see outside and where im going, and i can navigate this way."

so how do you fly in E under Visual flight rules? well, by flying in it. but they do have to have weather minima above the 3-152 Rule. Except over 10,000 ft, which is when it changes to 5-111. 5 Statute Miles visibility, 1000 feet above, 1000 feet below, 1 mile horizontal.

Class E also has Speed regulations! anywhere under 10,000ft is limited to 250 Knots (nautical mile per hour) and above 10,000 its just. mach 1. you cant break the speed of sound. FUN!

in some specific areas, (most of the time over airports) the Class E airspace is Lowered, to allow the controlled airspace to be closer to an uncontrolled airport. This is visualized on a VFR sectional chart as a shaded magenta area, kinda looking like a circle. This lowering is done for Instrument Flight Rules purposes, but im not an Instrument flight instructor so i cant teach on that yet. sorry.

so basically, E looks like This:

Next up is the Fun ones!

Class Delta airspace is usually surrounding a 5 statute mile radius around a Towered airport, from the Surface to 2500ft AGL. Some airports don't have towers, which places them in Uncontrolled airpspace, aka Class Golf! you can just take off and land however you want! on towered fields however, you have to maintain two way radio communication with the controlling agency of the field. you're flying around, 10 miles out you go "Gateway Tower, Skyhawk N123AV, 10 miles to the south, full stop" and they reply "Skyhawk 3AV, enter left base runway 9." once you hear your callsign "skyhawk 3AV" you know you're allowed into the airspace, unless given specific instruction otherwise.

Class Delta has the same 3-152 rule for VFR. and is depicted on a sectional chart as a dotted blue circle around an airport.

it looks as Such:

Next up, is class Charlie, or C.

Charlie is a lot bigger, think your local international airport. Nashville, Tucson, Oklahoma city, Little Rock. These are Big airports, but not like. HUGE. not like atlanta or JFK or LA. those are their own catagory which we will get to.

Class C is defined as a 5 mile radius from surface up to 4000 ft AGL! a lot taller! But, theres a catch~ theres an outer circle, with a 10 mile radius, from 1200ft agl to 4000ft agl. think an upside down wedding cake with tiers. they can change around to have more than just 2 different sections but most class C's look like this.

VFR is 3-152, and you must have 2 way communication to enter their airspace. however, because this airspace is so much bigger, they usually have an Approach controller, who you contact before getting close to the tower. they have different controllers to contact for different directions you're coming from. Fun! you also need to have a Mode C transponder. this is a device that sends information to ATC's Radar, giving Altitude information and a dot of where you are on their little map.

They're Depicted on a sectional chart as solid magenta lines, as opposed to shaded magenta lines

Class Charlies:

Finally. we get to answer Anon's BURNING QUESTION: what is "busting a bravo?"

well, we must talk about Bravo airspace. B, stands for BIG. not really, but like, these airspaces are extremely complex, absolutely massive, and are routed specifically for the airport and its arrivals, departures, and approaches. they're highly customizable and very fun to deal with! (lie)

these are your Pheonix sky harbors, your JFK's, your LA's, your San Diegos, your Atlantas. Massive Airports with EXTREMELY high traffic, and airports very close by.

For class bravos, you only have to be 1 statute mile of visibility, and clear of clouds, day or night, to operate VFR. but what are the chances you're operating vfr in a bravo anyways? not very high. still need to know that for a checkride, though. theres also a 30nm ring surrounding them, which requires a Mode C transponder inside of that "mode C veil"

Class bravos are signifigantly more strict on whos allowed to fly into them. before, in D or C, you just needed to hear your callsign and be able to enter, otherwise you'd be busting through their airspace. However, with class Bravo? you have to be Cleared into the bravo. they have to say "Skyhawk N123AV, you are Cleared into the class bravo airspace" before you're allowed in. otherwise, they WILL call your ass over the radio and go "skyhawk N123AV, were you cleared into my airspace?" "skyhawk n123av, no." "alright, skyhawk N123AV, i have a number for you to call when youre on the ground, advice ready to copy" which indicates you are FUCKED. you have to call and explain why you were in that airspace when you were not supposed to be. this is a very very bad thing and Not something you want on your record.

But!!!! if you're busting that airspace as a student, your CFI is at fault, because they're the one supposed to be seeing and avoiding, and preventing you from breaking airspace you shouldn't be.

anyways, Bravos are depicted as solid blue lines on a sectional chart, and "look like this":

woof! thats a lot! and every airspace we gotta think about!

hm? whats that? i forgot one?

oh right! above 17,999ft! thats right! well, thats Class Alpha airspace! its the most controlled and restricted airspace, because you CANNOT operate under visual flight rules in there. at all! you must be under Instrument Flight Rules to fly in class Alpha airspace. once you pass 17,999, you enter the "Flight Levels" which are indicated as FL180, and go all the way up to FL600, or 60,000 ft. thats, really high up. Nobody goes up there, except the SR-71 blackbird. You really dont ahve to think about class A until you get to your Instrument rating, which im not qualified to teach, so. scram.

if you have ANY questions or think i missed something, feel free to correct me, i dont know everything. once again i referenced AIM chapter 3 and PHAK chapter 17 for all of this information.

[m00nsbaby]

Why'd you only call me when you are high?

Marc Spector x F! Reader.

Tags & warnings. Angst, unrequired love, mentions of addiction. (Alcohol.) A story made of tiny little pieces of other stories.

Word count. 3.3k

Summary. It became an exhausting routine, something physically draining yet mentally suffocating. It came to a point when you wondered how you were able to deal with this without collapsing every time things got worse.

You met on one of his missions, or perhaps one of yours; that point was never clarified.

You could barely exchange a few words until, for security reasons, both of you had to stay locked in a hotel room for two days, or maybe it was three, you weren't keeping track.

"Do you think about your brother a lot?" You questioned, looking up at the ceiling. You were on the bed with your feet towards the pillows, and Marc's legs were already numb from sitting on the floor, back against the edge of the bed.

You pulled a sigh from him.

Before the confinement, you probably would have thought it was an insensitive question to ask, but it turns out that after 12 hours, both seemed to have descended into madness enough to vomit your life stories to each other.

It almost seemed like a competition to see which story was worse.

"Yes." His gaze was fixed on the floor. "A lot."

"Do you feel like he's with you? Do you believe in those things?" The ceiling had started to form shapes in front of your eyes. Or maybe it was just your tired vision that had already memorized every mark on it.

"I don't believe in those things." It was so strange to hear his voice out of combat, it was sweet and velvety without losing that raspy undertone. "And if I did, I think RoRo would be mad at me."

"He wouldn't be, Marc." You preferred to close your eyes rather than continue forming false figures on the ceiling. "It wasn't your fault."

"I know." It was the last thing he said, not believing his own words.

"Would it be too risky to order room service?"

Marc looked at you, he was pressing his lips together to suppress laughter, and you had pushed yourself far enough onto the bed that your head hung off the edge of the bed. He could feel your hair brushing against him.

In his eyes, you were quite a character.

"Are you hungry?"

"Why do you ask like that?" You turned to look at him. He seemed upside down from your angle.

"We could've died like three times since we got to the country, and who knows how many more times once we get out of here."

"And what does that have to do with my hunger?"

"Aren't you scared?"

"Are you?"

"No." He was. Marc was always scared, but he never showed it, especially now that you were supposed to be a team. He wouldn't drag you into his anxiety when you seemed so carefree.

"Then neither am I."

He gave up, still looking at you.

"What do you want?" He broke contact with you only seconds later, as he got up to retrieve the room phone.

You understood much later that in those 72 hours together Marc talked to you about things he never shared with anyone else, and neither he nor you understood where that sudden trust between you two came from.

Perhaps it was just one of those times when two people click effortlessly, chemistry just happened, and both accepted it.

"Do you have a place to stay?" Both of you were a mess. Marc's curls, for the first time since you had known him (approximately 14 days), were a mess, although it suited him, making him look more carefree than usual.

You, on the other hand, had applied lip balm about 17 times in the last few hours, and every time you saw your reflection on any surface, you complained about the noticeable dark circles. At least the wound on your cheek was healing.

"Of course, I don't live on the streets." You got a laugh out of Marc, who responded as if it were very obvious.

"Are you sure? Because it looks like it."

He nudged you with his shoulder, and this time you laughed.

"I hate flying." The sound of his suitcase on the floor and the number of people walking back and forth around you were testing Marc's already limited patience.

"Is there anything you don't hate?"

"Doubtful."

"Hey, look." With your free hand, you pointed to the airport's food area. It turned out you had been walking for about 40 minutes trying to find something to eat. Marc was about to murder someone just to get a donut, or at least that's what he had said.

After seeing how the mission ended, you didn't doubt his words.

"Maybe it was worth it." He had an impressive ability to joke with a serious expression on his face and the most monotone voice you'd ever heard. "You know, the mission."

"For a donut?"

"For two donuts. Choose whatever you want, I'll pay."

"Are you going to spend two dollars on me? Marc, please, I can't allow that."

You talked little as you ate your donuts at your uncomfortable two-person table. As the time to leave approached, you began to feel weirder.

On one hand, there was the feeling of being at home, the relief of having survived one more mission, and knowing that today you would finally sleep in your own bed. On the other hand, you weren't a person with many friends; saying goodbye to Marc was going to hurt.

And you couldn't stop thinking that this would be the last time you saw him. He also didn't seem like the type to keep in touch after these things.

"So, are you going home?" The airport exit was getting closer, and you couldn't help but feel nauseous.

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"I don't know, I don't think so." He checked the time on his wristwatch. "I'll call my wife to see if she can pick me up."

Oh.

Oh.

"Ah." You tried your best not to seem surprised by the casual mention of his partner. You smiled forcibly and mentally wondered why the nausea had increased. "Well, good luck then, Marc."

You let go of your suitcase and didn't give him time to step back when you hugged him tightly. You were complete opposites, the girl who wasn't afraid to express her feelings and the guy who suppressed what he felt as much as he could.

Still, he hugged you back. His arms tightened around your waist, and you clung to his neck for a few extra seconds.

"Good luck." He whispered back, the tiny window of time where he could close his eyes and enjoy your scent one last time.

When you let go of him, both of you were abruptly back in reality, trying to put on your best faces for each other.

"I'll call a taxi, so I'd better hurry." Your hand returned to your suitcase as you took a step back, still looking at him.

You couldn't even fully turn around when he called you.

"Wait." He fumbled in his pockets until he found his worn-out phone, the one he used only for missions or to talk to Layla when the line where he was wasn't secure. "Do you have a personal phone number?"

You always wondered if Marc had intentionally avoided that part of his life, if he also felt strange being with you and that's why he preferred you to think he was single.

Turns out, contrary to what you thought, keeping your friendship afloat actually turned out to be quite easy. You didn't take long to exchange messages and calls.

It was a bit more complicated, as it turned out you lived in completely different ends of the city, and both of you were busy more often than you'd like. But you also managed to visit each other.

He came to your apartment first, looking like a little kid touching all your stuff and entering as if it were his own home.

"You drove here?"

He waved the crumpled bus ticket he still had in his pocket.

"So, are you staying here?"

"Or I'd have to leave in an hour to get there at a decent time."

"Touché." You smiled, his presence didn't bother you at all. In fact, knowing how difficult it would be to meet up, you preferred him to stay there for as long as he could. "I have a guest room."

That night you hardly slept. You seemed like little kids at a sleepover. You watched movies, ate junk food, and talked.

You talked until their throats hurt.

You talked, talked, talked about everything and everyone. You discovered that was what you liked doing most with Marc, talking.

At 5 in the morning, you both went to sleep, and just a few hours later, you were saying goodbye to him again.

It always seemed strange to you that he didn't live with his wife, although you swallowed the urge to ask. You didn't complain; it would have actually been quite awkward to stay in the same house as her.

The next time was your turn to go there, and the formula repeated with two small exceptions.

He took you to his favorite café before you both got comfortable in his apartment. He ordered for you, in fact, insisting that his recommendation would be better than anything you could choose.

Marc had only one bed in his small apartment. You refused to let him sleep on the couch, so you ended up sharing the bed, each on a different side. You knew you would think about that night more often than you'd like to admit.

You heard his phone ring a million times, and he didn't even glance at it. You weren't afraid to admit that if he was ignoring his wife for you, maybe you didn't have a problem with it.

A routine formed for you both. You saw each other at least once a week, both spending an exorbitant amount on travel back and forth, but your lives sometimes became so heavy that you both convinced yourselves you deserved a break.

Oh, and you had a label now. Apparently, for the past two months, you had been best friends, and things were going perfectly, with one small exception.

You didn't want him as a best friend, and your feelings seemed to grow stronger as time went on.

Strangely, things between you two got more complicated when he and Layla started having problems. You always thought it would be the opposite, that maybe if there was a bit more space between them, you'd get more attention from Marc.

Were your desires wrong? Yes, worse than wrong, in fact, but when you were with him, seeing him smile, you couldn't help but wish for their relationship to finally end.

"She hates you," Marc had said over the call, and you laughed, almost cynically.

"It's obvious she hates me, Marc. We spend a lot of time together."

"I think she has a point, you know?" You heard him take a sip of something.

Ouch.

"I know." You cleared your throat. "Maybe you're not giving her her place."

That was the first of many, and so began the agonizing task of having to act as Marc's emotional support. Since he wasn't willing to fully separate from you, he simply lived with the idea that his wife would be on top of him all the time.

"And what did she say afterward?" It was your script all along, lying on your back on your bed.

Your ceiling didn't have cracks or imperfect figures like the one at the hotel in Cairo.

"That I'm not giving her her place, again." Uhm, who would've thought. Just as you suspected. "She doesn't like that I can talk to you and with her it's just… No."

Your heart raced, and you could only cover your emotion by clearing your throat.

"Why not, Marc?"

"I don't know, it's… It's weird. With you, everything is so easy."

If only he could stop being so sweet for just 5 minutes, it would be easier not to be in love with him if he just chose to be a jerk.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I guess that's how having friends works." He chuckled, but it gave you a pang in your chest.

"Oh, yeah." You cleared your throat again. "I suppose so."

"What should I do?"

'Leave her.' You thought.

"Maybe talk to her. Tell her that we're not romantically interested in each other, right?"

"I've tried that before, she doesn't listen to me."

"Divorce?"

He laughed as if you had told him one of your best jokes.

"Don't be silly, that's never going to happen."

Marc wasn't foolish; he knew perfectly well about your feelings for him. However, he preferred to keep pretending that he simply didn't know rather than lose his best friend. He didn't even know what he would do if one day you weren't in his life.

The truth was, he had never formed such a strong and profound bond with anyone else, not even with Layla.

You learned to know a side of him that you didn't like. He had always been honest with you about his problem with alcohol, and the situation was that you had spent so much time with him while he was 'clean' that you started to believe his alcoholism was now under control, or whatever that might be called.

"She's going to leave me." You heard him sob on the other end of the line, and your stomach churned just hearing the fear reflected in his voice as he uttered those words.

You wondered if anyone would ever feel that fear of losing you too.

"You're drunk, Marc." It was all you could say. "She's not going to leave you; everything seems more dramatic when you're like this."

"I promised her I'd stay away from you." He confessed in the midst of a sip of whiskey.

Was he even aware of how much he was hurting you? Probably not, and you wouldn't be the one to remind him of it the next day.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and closed your eyes for a few seconds, forcing yourself to regain composure.

"Is that why you're not coming home anymore, Marc?" Your voice cracked, but he didn't seem to care.

"I can't keep hurting her." You bit the inside of your cheek; otherwise, you were sure you'd yell at him.

"Marc? I have to go to sleep."

"Of course, I… I'm sorry, really."

Your skin grew thicker from that night onward, as you accepted that there could never be anything between you and Marc. You had to forcefully digest the fact that his heart belonged to someone else, even though that truth had always been right in front of you.

You couldn't remember the last time Marc had called you just to hang out like you used to do in the beginning.

It was fun. A lot of fun. You would hear him doing things around his apartment, sometimes the creak of his bed as he dropped onto it to speak more comfortably, occasionally you'd watch movies together and discuss them, and once or twice, you fell asleep on the call.

Now, you dealt with the same thing every week – the same daggers stabbing into your heart because, as you saw it, it would be more painful not to have him in your life at all than to have just a part of him.

Besides, of course, your love came coated in a thick layer of concern; it was impossible not to, especially when you saw your best friend slowly deteriorating due to a relationship that seemed to be going downhill. At this point, you didn't even know if it was your fault or if it was simply happening because they weren't compatible.

You couldn't leave him alone, even if you wanted to.

"Are you drinking again?"

"Just a little."

You sighed heavily – that's all he heard from your end.

"I'd prefer if you insulted me." His voice was soft, for a moment, you swore you were hearing the Marc who adored you not too long ago. "Your sounds of disappointment hurt me more."

"I'm not disappointed."

"You are."

"I'm worried."

Another long silence from both ends.

"Would you rather I call you tomorrow?" Oh, Marc, running away from your feelings again.

"That would be fine."

"Okay. I love you."

You didn't respond and simply hung up the call. A horrible migraine had been killing you for the past two hours, since Marc started his speech of the day about why Layla deserved someone better than him but he refused to let her go because he was selfish, and blah blah blah.

Someday you had to explode, right? No one can bottle up their feelings for so long.

It happened while Marc was spewing another story about Layla and how everything was different when they first met. You wondered if it was a pattern for him.

"Marc?" You whispered, and he finally fell silent.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I have to tell you something."

A prolonged silence. Longer than you would have liked until he spoke again.

"No."

"Huh?"

"Don't say it. Please."

"Marc, I have to…"

"I beg you, I don't want to hear…"

"I love you, Marc." You broke when the words managed to escape your throat. He understood that even though you told each other that all the time, this was different for both of you.

"No, don't do this, please." He sounded almost as desperate as you.

"I love you so much, and believe me, I've tried not to." You spoke quickly before he could interrupt you or hang up the call. "But I can't, Marc, I don't know why."

"Y-You know I'm with Layla, you know I love her." Why did it sound like a reproach?

"I know! You remind me of it every night while I'm breaking into pieces." You sobbed, and his chest tightened. "I can't do this anymore, Marc, I can't."

Your sobs and laments were the only things that could be heard on the call for a few minutes as he tried to figure out the smartest thing to say.

The truth was, he was blank. Did you want him to lie?

"I don't… I…" He cleared his throat and tried to stay calm even though he was on the verge of losing it.

"I know you don't feel the same."

Thank God he didn't have to say it out loud.

"I-I don't need you to reciprocate." Were your hands trembling over this nonsense? You felt like a heartbroken teenager. You wanted to hit something to check if that would bring you back to sanity. "I need you to understand that I can't keep doing this."

More silence.

More damn silence.

"Okay." It was all he said.

You wished with all your heart that he would beg not to lose you as he begged every night for Layla not to go.

"Okay." You repeated afterward as you sniffled.

It was all so unfair. You were sure you heard your phone's screen crack when you hung up the call.

Though, you felt so shattered that the stupid glass in your hand was the least important thing to you at that moment.

Anyone would think that would be the end, but it turns out Marc Spector didn't give up easily.

And you understood he had not an ounce of fear of losing you. Marc feared not having someone to talk to at night, he feared not having someone to support him and tell him he was right, he feared loneliness.

So you, with your heart completely broken and your spirits shattered exactly a week later, answered his call.

You told him that Layla was worth it and that he needed to get his life in order if he didn't want to lose her. And you repeated that in the following weeks.

Or was it months? Who knows, you had stopped counting a long time ago.

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno May Prompts Squad; in which there are many Holmeses and parenting is a contact sport]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) 20: do-over (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

It's a new week, and John declares on Monday he's certain it's going to be easier than the last one.

What an idiot.

---

By the time they reach Wednesday, they've not been back from hospital twenty-four hours when Sherlock's dear mama orders them onto a train. 

'Mother,' Sherlock hisses into his mobile, glancing across the room to where John is firmly planted on the sofa with his daughter tight in his arms, watching Peppa Pig. 'Rosamund just got out of A&E. We don't want to go down the street, let alone out to a place so far from an adequate hospital that--' 

'Oh, poppycock' 

'I'm sorry?' 

'Now, don't be angry at me, darling. I know you must be frightened to bits for your little girl--' 

Sherlock turns away from the sofa again, chest clenching for the approximately thousandth time in the past two days. 'She's not my little girl,' he says between his teeth, trying to keep his voice steady and quiet.

'--but I'm only trying to help.'

Sherlock knows it's one of those times John would be a much better fit for the task at hand. Unfortunately, she's stuck with her son instead. 'Mummy. Clearly, that would not help.'

'You're not planning on feeding her peanuts again, are you?'

Sherlock closes his eyes. 'I won't dignify that with an answer.'

'Then pack an epipen and come see your mother. I want to kiss that baby.'

---

John is doing his best, Sherlock observes once they're gathered round his parents' kitchen table, but he's clearly still feeling scads of parental guilt. He refuses to let Rosamund out of his sight, and his jaw keeps doing that jumpy bit that means he's repressing something. Several somethings, obviously, because he is John Watson.

And Sherlock almost abhors how much he cares for John Watson.

---

His mother, naturally, can't hold back for long. 

'Oh, John, I do hate to see you like this.'

John freezes like the proverbial deer in headlights, then carefully puts down his fork, stiff upper lip firmly in place. 'Thanks, Mrs Holmes, but I'm all right.' 

Sherlock, who knows better, shares a Look with Rosamund, who blurps his name(ish) then happily stuffs more pickle into her mouth. John's face softens momentarily, and she notices. 'Want some, Daddy?'

It's not a question; John is immediately handed a chubby fistful of globby green.

'She not a fan of spoons, then?' Sherlock's father says with a chuckle.

'Only as a weapon,' Sherlock replies without thinking, but luckily it's the correct audience, because beyond an eye roll, the reaction is mostly laughter.

Except for John, Sherlock notices immediately. Oh, dear.

His mother notices, too, and her lips purse. 'John, I know we're all very English, but I'm old enough that I can speak plainly.'

'As if you hadn't already,' Sherlock mutters.

She ignores him, instead reaching out to touch John's right hand where it rests on the table. 'You mustn't punish yourself. You've done nothing wrong.'

John's extreme discomfort would be crystal clear to anyone in a ten mile radius. 'Mrs Holmes…'

'I mean it.'

He puts down his fork, and Sherlock sees him inhale purposefully. 'All due respect, ma'am, but my daughter nearly died. She nearly died because I insisted she eat something she clearly and repeatedly did not want to eat.'

'And?'

John's mouth opens, then shuts, before he speaks again. 'Are you joking?'

'Everyone makes mistakes with their children, dear.'

'Not that sort of mistake.'

She makes a noise close to a ladylike snort, if such a thing existed. 'We almost drowned Sherlock when he was her age.'

Sherlock's front chair legs drop back to the floor with a thunk. 'Beg pardon?'

'Yes, you came frightfully close to dying, it was very unpleasant.'

John's facade breaks enough to give Sherlock a slight smirk. 'And you didn't recognise my facetiousness on that train?'

'Yes, yes, thank you, now what is this about me drowning, Mother?'

'We left you with another child, a girl of maybe twelve.' She shakes her head. 'That poor girl. She's never forgiven herself.'

'But I didn't die!'

'Sherlock,' his mother chides. 'Don't be unkind.'

'Wait. Why didn't I die?'

A curious silence falls over the group. 

Sherlock's chin drops, and he sighs. 'Mycroft.'

His mother nods. 'He was in the deeper end, and you were in the shallow end. Where you were meant to stay.'

John huffs a laugh. 'Right, good luck with that.'

She tuts. 'He's lucky his brother was watching.'

'You don't remember any of it?' John asks, clearly curious.

Sherlock thinks. 'I remember a pool, several pools, from childhood. Various ponds. I remember-- Yes, I think the first time I ventured into the deep end, I blinked and I was at the ladder.'

'Indeed,' his mother says.

'Right,' John says, bemused. 'So you've always hated pools, even before we nearly got blown up in one.'

His mother blinks. 'Beg pardon?'

'Oh don't fret, Mummy.' Sherlock waves a hand. 'It was ages ago.'

And worse things have happened since then, no one needs say.

Except his mother says it, sort of. 'She's going to have such unusual stories to tell,' she says, turning to Rosamund and touching her tiny nose briefly. 'Aren't you, darling?'

'Any hope of a normal childhood was gone long ago, I'm afraid,' John says, his voice only a little strained.

Sherlock's father, unexpectedly, speaks up. 'Perhaps, but what she's got is better.'

'I agree,' his mother says. 'John's normal enough for the three of you, anyway.'

Sherlock smirks privately. Yes, absolutely normal, building-jumping, gun-toting, life-saving John Watson.

As if he'd ever fall in love with "normal."

That's the end of the discussion, apparently, because his mother turns back to Rosamund with a smile. 'Now, precious girl, let's see if you can say "grandmama" yet.' 

---

John, still feeling slightly sour, pulls out his phone once he's put Rosie down. 'Mycroft.' His tone borders on Captainy, but he's too bloody tired to be polite. 'What are you playing at?'

'Couldn't possibly have any idea what you mean, Dr Watson.'

'First my daughter is calling you her uncle, and now your mum is teaching her "grandmama"?'

'I fail to see the problem. She's very intelligent.'

John pinches the bridge of his nose. He can't shout, because Rosie is asleep in her cot next to him, and though Sherlock is outside smoking, Sherlock's parents are somewhere on the other side of the guest room door.

'Your brother,' he finally says lowly, 'cares for Rosie a great deal, but has most definitely not voiced an interest in being her father, nor should he feel obligated to.'

'With all due respect, John, I must disagree.'

'How.' It's not a question.

Mycroft's voice isn't hard, but he enunciates every word very, very clearly. 'She is my niece. If you can't see it, then God help you... Although I am aware my brother has inherited more than his fair share of the Holmes reticence. But,' he concludes, implacable, 'lest you forget: He said it himself. You are family. And therein lies the obligation.' 

John's heart does a little twitch in his chest. 'Yeah, but--'

'No.'

'But--'

'Not to sound too much like my dear brother, but John?'

John exhales. 'Can't wait to hear this.'

'Don't be an idiot.'

'Oi--'

But the call is already over. Of course it is. Because Mycroft Holmes is a bastard.

He might also, maybe, just this once… be right.

[ <3 ]

[pool story lifted from my childhood: I literally remember nothing bad about nearly drowning; my five-years-elder brother saved me and I have loved swimming ever since]

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

I Cherish You, Halcyon Days: iii.

“You’re gonna die, kid. In the worst way possible.”

tags: afab!reader (she/her), angst, slow burn

pairing: gojou x reader + onesided!getou x reader

summary: You’re 15 years old when you’re told you’re going to die. You’re 17 years old when you realize who your killer will be. And you’re 17 years old when you make peace with the fact you wouldn’t want it any other way.

index | previous chapter | next chapter

If you thought that on December 8th you would get a break from Gojou Satoru in your life, you were very much so wrong.

At this hour, there isn't even an opportunity to even try meeting up with your friends. They're all in school, one without the luxury of giving students the day off when a birthday or two comes around. You really do have to hope and pray for an opportunity to hang out to fall into your lap. It was one of your few promises to yourself when you entered the world of fighting against curses rather than passively living with them.

Even if you were living out an otaku's dream of fighting evil, you wouldn't forget the normalcy you were leaving behind.

It's just a lot easier said than done now that you're no longer in it ー not that you truly ever were as someone born to see curses.

At the very least, though, if things had been a bit different, you could have at least spent the hours leading up to your birthday with your actual friends instead of the class menace. I don't even know why he's here, you grumble as you skulk forward through the crowd. There are so many things Gojou could be doing besides being in your vicinity.

He could have gone to an arcade.

He could have stayed in his room playing video games. No, instead he's here with you smack dab in the middle of town because it would have been too boring on his own otherwise. Can't he be bored somewhere else? You again wallow over the fact your friends are in school at this present moment before deciding that is likely a good thing. Gojou does not need to meet your personal circle of friends.

"I'm bored," Gojou whines, lazily trailing behind you. "What's the point of doing this if we already know they're throwing us a party?"

My thoughts exactly, you huff. You pointedly ignore the fact that you've been completely fine with the arrangement prior to it being your turn. Birthday party set up is a different ordeal. There's usually plenty to keep you both separated from one another. "Take it up with, Fujioka-sensei and Yaga-sensei," you sigh, as you try to find something that can make time go faster. Your stomach growls and you bite your bottom lip in irritation. I shouldn't have skipped breakfast. But in their haste to boot you and Gojou out of the dorms, you forgot to grab something.

Gojou you could understand. But why you?

He's the one who shakes boxes of presents even if they're his.

You're as a mild-mannered as they come.

"Screw walking around, we might as well just find somewhere to eat," you look over your shoulder at the boy and he shrugs back, fine with the change of plans. "I'm pretty sure there's a Johnny's somewhere close by." Even a hole-in-the-wall restaurant will do.

"What about over there?" Gojou nods his chin far at the first building that catches his eye.

"There?" You raise an incredulous brow, resting your hands on your hips. It's no Johnny's, it seems a bit more cutesy than that with its quaint brick walls and frosted windows. The Christmas decorations leave little to be desired. "I don't want to deal with Santa in my ear the whole time."

Gojou points over to the establishment again and you trail after his finger until he stops at a bright, cherry-red sign, "but there's a discount."

Discount?

Christmas Lovey-Dovey Special: Couple's Receive 50% Off!

You share a look for approximately three seconds before your hands are clasping one another with much enthusiasm as you practically skip to the restaurant in question. "You know, darling, you really do come up with the best ideas, sometimes," you beam, eyes practically sparkling. If there is one thing people love universally whether rich or poor, it's a damn discount. And if holding hands and acting lovey dovey with Gojou means getting half off on a random discount for breakfast, you'll fold faster than Mr. Darcy in Pride & Prejudice.

"Only sometimes?" Gojou croons and you're sure he's fluttering his eyelashes. "I'm pretty sure you mean all the time, cupcake."

Don't push it, your eyes narrow.

You get a shit-eating grin in return. "Table for two please," Gojou holds up two fingers with his free hand as you approach the doors, just as a hostess passes by. "We're just celebrating our birthdays!"

"He's December 7th," you point over to Gojou with a dreamy sigh.

"She's December 9th," Gojou nudges you lightly with a grin. "We're soulmates, it's pretty much a sign we were born for each other. Celebrating on the 8th is a happy medium, right, honey?"

"Satoru, please," your grip on his hand tightens in warning as you chuckle sheepishly. You're being too extra, dumbass. Gojou grins despite that, squeezing back just as hard but twice as obnoxious. "You're embarrassing me. She doesn't want to hear all of that sappy stuff. Don't indulge him, he's just in a good mood because we're partying with our friends later."

The hostess, bless her heart, takes Gojou's excessiveness in stride. She definitely doesn't get paid enough to deal with your antics. "What a sweet coincidence," she smiles politely. "Follow me right this way," she says before leading you to a table not too far away by a window. She's tired of dealing with couples, you hold back a look of pity. May her shift almost be over.

Within seconds of looking at the menu, you already know what you want to order. "I'm getting the drunken udon," you tell Gojou unnecessarily. "And the grapefruit juice. It's got grapefruit chunks in it."

Gojou doesn't even attempt to hide his disgust. When it came to fruit, grapefruit is the only he hates the most. You weren't fond of grapefruit when you were younger, but in the past 6 months you developed a taste for it when you realized it was the one drink in the dorm fridge Gojou doesn't touch. It's not that bad once you get used to. "Right, I forgot you and Utahime hate sweets," Gojou clicks his tongue, unimpressed. "You have boring taste buds. At least look at the special menu before getting something this place serves all the time." He points at a sickeningly pink strawberry soda too large for one person and two heart-shaped straws. "We should get this one instead. And the waffles."

"I like sweets, I just don't wanna taste the diabetes when I consume it," you argue back. You even love strawberries. You just know that the amount of sugar in that drink is likely enough to put a caveman in a coma. There's sweet and then there's the unnatural abominations that Gojou eats on a regular. What's scarier is that his justification is that it helps fuel his brain power or something dumb like that. You're pretty sure he ripped the idea straight out of a manga and is hoping no one notices. "You drink most of it then if we get it. Talk shit about my udon all you want, I'm still ordering it."

"We're getting it," Gojou replies promptly, no room left for argument. Whatever, there's grapefruit juice back in the dorms.

I'm grabbing a water just in case then.

The water is a godsend five minutes later when you are able to confirm that the Lovers' Strawberry Cloud does, in fact, have enough sugar to put a caveman in a coma. One sip and you regretted all of your life choices that led you to this very moment. "You finish it," you mutter after gulping half of your icy water down.

He's so happy about it, you're sure this was planned from the start.

Thankfully, your food arrives not too long afterward. The only real hiccup about the customer service is the waiter giving you the wrong plates. "Here you go," his lips curled upwards gently as he placed Gojou's waffles by your hands. It's only when he tries to give your udon to Gojou that the birthday boy in question stopped the motion with a lazy hand.

"The waffles are mine, actually," Gojou deadpans, passing your plate in your direction with one hand. With a clumsy sputter, the issue is resolved in seconds and your respective meals are placed in front of the right person.

You grimace, holding back a gag of frustration when Gojou wastes no time is shoving his food down his throat. Ravenously as he eats, somehow his cheeks stay clear of sticky mess coating them. Of course, Gojou even eats pretty. You're a hater, but you can give credit where credit is due. Gojou Satoru is, objectively speaking, very pretty. To be honest, all of your classmates are hot. It's almost unfunny how there isn't one average person in their ranks, yourself included of course. Gojou is just the only classmate that's this annoying about it. It's such an insult that someone with such a shitty attitude is this pretty. Where's Utahime to rant and groan with when you need her?

When your stomach growls again, you shake your head. Eat first, hate later.

You relish the taste with an enthusiastic moan. Drunken udon is the absolute best.

"Give me a bite?"

You blink once,

twice.

"No," you look at the white-haired sorcerer like he's grown a second head. "Gojou, drunken udon has chili in it." And yet in spite of your explanation, the prodigal son of the Gojou Clan still leans over enthusiastically, mouth wide open expectantly. "Yeah, I'm not letting you eat this," you snort before taking another bite of your meal. The texture of the noodles and the bell paper, the blend of the chili and garlic. It really is heaven in every bite.

"Some girlfriend you are, you don't even care that I'm starving," apparently the lovey dovey waffle platter on the table means nothing to him. There's a pause and he must have glanced down at his plate because a moment later he added, "this means nothing."

You roll your eyes, "hey genius, a true girlfriend that cares about you won't let you eat something she knows you don't like."

"But [First]," he groans.

"Why do you even want this this, you can't even handle curry that's barely above mild!"

"You're making it look good!"

"Because it is," you reply like it's obvious. For anyone who likes spice, drunken udon is delicious. "Gojou, no," you barely stifle your snickers as you remember the day you were reminded that Gojou and spice weren't compatible in the slightest. All it took was one bite into a hot cheetoh he stole from a box of snacks your parents mailed to you for a small taste of home to send him into a coughing fit so bad you almost felt bad for the guy. "You can't handle the hot cheetohs my parents send. I really don't know what to tell you other than you are not built like that, please stop."

"First of all, I don't know what you're talking about," you shake your head with a sigh as the argument continues. How someone could be this persistent to eat something their stomach can't handle, you don't know. "And second, since then I've become a man." That was literally two weeks ago.

You shrug with a sigh, "if you really want it then." You did your part in warning him, the rest is on Gojou. With a whispered 'yes!' that was far too smug, Gojou opened his mouth expectantly once more and you finally relented in feeding him.

One second.

Two seconds-

That's all it takes before Gojou's face contorts in pain and displeasure.

"Geez, how you can eat this kind of stuff, you can't even taste it over the spice!" Wordlessly, you set down your chopsticks to pass over a napkin and watch as he spits the noodley mush into it. The amusement from watching Gojou fan his tongue and lips like they're on fire is indescribable. "Why would you let me eat this?!" If you were worried about sharing the much-too-sugary couple's drink beforehand, you don't anymore as your classmate makes quick work of ingesting it.

"You said your tastebuds had gotten stronger since the last time."

"And you trusted me?!" Gojou's sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose to show wide blue eyes in disbelief.

"I didn't," there are a few giggles from the table to your right and you have to purse your lips together to stop yourself from joining them. Your 'boyfriend' just looks at you in utter disbelief and betrayal, rambling on and on about his woes. "Oh stop being a baby, you spat it out so you'll be fine now. Here," you reach over to grab his fork, lifting a piece of whipped cream covered waffle with a thin slice of strawberry to boot. "Heal with the power of sugar." Grumbling all the while, your boyfriend of the hour clamped his mouth down on the goods. "Better?"

When you get another mumble but no complaints, you decide that's a 'yes' and go back to your own food. "Just try not to overdo it with the sweets. We still have cake and ice cream later." You love whipped cream on waffles as much as the next person, but the amount on Gojou's plate is unholy.

"This is better than the hellfire you call food anyway," your eyes roll but your mood is surprisingly at a high. Not even Gojou and his dramatics can spoil a meal, it seems. You also can't deny that knowing he won't be touching your udon the rest of your time there also lifts your spirits. "This is the perfect amount of sweet. The perfect amount of anything," your eyes dart between the whipped cream and your classmate, deadpan disbelief all over your face. "I'm serious. The strawberries aren't sweet so it all works out." When the disbelief doesn't leave your face, Gojou points his fork in your direction. "Try it."

Reluctant, you lean over to take a tentative bite. Oh.

You blink and make a noise of pleasant surprise. The tartness of the strawberries really balanced out the sweetness of the whipped cream. "Not bad," you lick the leftover whipped cream on your lips as Gojou continues gorging himself. From the corner of your eye, you see the people a table away giggling and whispering at your exchange.

You must be selling the couple's bit quite well.

"People in this country really make a big deal of indirect kisses," you say quietly enough for the two of you, returning to your own spicy goodness. "I didn't even know what they were when I moved here. I shared food and drinks like this all the time back home." Cousins, friends and other neighborhood kids that dance across your memories over the seasons from soda to ice cream to fruit. That came to a crashing halt when, during an after school heist at a burger joint, you nearly died drinking lychee soda and angled the straw for your friend Hide to try. Then everyone kept on making jokes about us being a thing and it started getting too awkward to hang around each other because he thought I had a crush on him. Food sharing politics were different from country to country, what a twist. "I guess that's a piece of culture shock no one ever really tells you about when you move to a new country."

Gojou shrugs at your nonchalant observations, "it's not a big deal for me. I just eat what I want."

"That's because you're a food thief."

Another shrug, a lack of denial. Details, details. A comfortable silence falls over the two of you as you continue eating.

This isn't so bad actually, you look out the window, watching as passersby make their own ways to their destinations. Living out their lives while you're some random extra eating drunken udon in a window.

To them, you're not [Full Name], you're just a random face they won't remember if they'll even see you in the first place. It's feelings like that fills you melancholy and fascination. No curses, no sorcerers and no Jujutsu Jesus. You wonder briefly if Gojou ever has such thoughts. To one part of the world he's the one who changed its very balance. To another part, he's just some guy. Just some random guy who happens to have a penchant for wearing sunglasses indoors. If it ever looms over his mind, you can't tell nor are you close enough you think he'd tell you. Maybe he tells Suguru or something. You see a flash of white and red in your peripheral vision and when you look, there's another mouthful of waffle in your face. This is such a weird combination of food, yet you take another bite anyway. You raise a few noodles of your own and mumble over a mouthful, "want another bite of mine?"

"Yeah no, I'm good," the white-haired sorcerer replies without missing any beats and you snicker. You wonder how much time will pass before he decides to test his luck with spice all over again. You have no doubt it won't take long.

A temporary truce between Gojou and the We Hate Gojou Alliance and on your birthday of all days. Well, almost your birthday. The small day set between you both to encapsulate both. Apparently, when his obnoxious levels and extreme lack of respect is dialed down to a 2, Gojou is a lot more tolerable than usual. Talk about a birthday surprise.

The rest of your lunch is eaten in relative silence but it isn't uncomfortable, you decide as you stuff yourself with a mixture of savory and sweet. Gojou tops off the last of the waffles with a satisfied with stretch of his arms before you split the bill. Good gods, I love a discount, you sigh in satisfaction as you finally make your way to leave. "We should probably start heading back to the school right?" It shouldn't take that long to set up a party. There's only one cake. "We probably have a few hours until they're done with the cake and setting up decorations."

"Might as well walk off all the calories so there's room for later," he shrugs and he's about to put his hands in his pocket before opting to grab your hand. "Let's go pet Hachiko or something."

Off to Shibuya you go then.

The grand finale of your pretending to be a couple is nothing special. You simply walk out the door, matching smiles on your faces as you pass by the staff.

When you finally exit the building, you shudder at the cold autumn wind that hit your face. Your hand tightens around Gojou's, clutching for warmth instinctively. Of course his hands are permanently warm. "What are you, a furnace?" Gojou grins smugly when you lift your intertwined hands, scrutinizing his with a squint somewhere between envy and curiosity. He has nice hands, you note. They're soft, but not so unbelievably soft you would think he was some civilian. His palms are a touch coarse, but nothing uncomfortable to hold, with no scars or blemishes to be seen. Must be the perk of utilizing Limitless at his leisure. "Why do you get to be blessed with warm hands?"

"Maybe the universe just likes me more," he replies with ease.

Considering his future is the one that's boring and yours is the one marked with death, that must truly be the case.

"Must be."

Happy Birthday to us.

index | previous chapter | next chapter

Extra

If you're wondering what you got for your birthday: Shoko and Utahime both tipped in to get you a Yamashita Tatsuro CD. Mei Mei just tossed over a gift card and called it a day. Suguru thoughtfully got you a book next in the line of a series you're fond of. And Gojou? Well, you got to be in his presence and it was actually tolerable. Congratulations?

[heygirltimeformorning]

Title: Satellite

Summary: Buck gets a building dropped on him and the world shatters into a million pieces.

Notes: idk man, I like hurt/comfort Buck and Eddie Diaz slowly losing his shit and being inappropriate in a hospital room (not like that, you filthy animal) and happy endings, so, that's what I'm working on. There are other things in the works, but this is my debut chaptered fic (which is terrifying, okay, my greatest fear fr).

Important content notes: there's medical stuff, so if that bothers you, please move along.

*

“Firefighter Buckley, do not –” Bobby’s voice is firm over the radio, but there’s an undercurrent of – something. Worry. Buck is sprinting towards the building, towards the woman hanging out of the fourth story (or maybe fifth story) window, screaming, and there’s no time for a ladder, for another rescue attempt, and Buck just plunges, headfirst, into a building that is actively coming down.

And, look, usually it’s fine. Eddie holds his breath, because what will probably happen – what has to happen – is that it’ll be a close call, but Buck will get the woman and get both of them out, and Bobby will be pissed but also kind of proud, and –

The building creaks, and a row of windows on the third floor shatters.

“Buck!” Bobby’s voice has a note of panic in it. “Get out of there. That’s an order, if you ever want to work as a firefighter again –” Bobby cuts off as the building groans, sways, and then, way, way too fast, collapses in a heap of smoking rubble.

Someone is yelling about evac, but Eddie can’t focus, because his best friend has just been buried by –

“Maybe he was up high enough,” Hen is saying, running right next to him – all of them running, full tilt, towards the rubble, towards the approximate place Buck would be, and Eddie knows that positivity is Hen’s thing, that she’s probably just saying that for her own benefit, but Eddie feels like he’s going to be sick, even as he clings to Hen’s words. Buck survived having a fire engine dropped on him. Buck was struck by lightning and died for 3 minutes and 17 seconds and he still came back to Eddie. Buck won’t leave him. Not like this.

It takes an hour to get through the rubble to find him, Chimney finally shoving something aside and finding one of his boots, and the 118 swarms on the scene as Hen and Chimney run to get the backboard and the gurney, leaving the rest of them to dig Buck out.

Buck is still and pale under the ash and debris. His eyes are closed, but Hen presses her fingers just under his jaw and nods. “I have a pulse,” she confirms, and Eddie feels something release in his chest, because he’s alive, and they can handle anything else that happens.

“Chim,” Hen says, nodding to the cervical collar, which Chimney straps into position, and then they’ve got him up and on the gurney, sprinting towards the ambulance. This isn’t as bad, Eddie thinks, as the lightning, because he’d been dead when they got him down from the ladder after the lightning, and he wasn’t dead – he was alive. He had a pulse, and Hen had an oxygen mask on him, but that meant he was breathing. Buck twitches, and Eddie feels a swoop of relief, only for it to plummet into absolute dread when Buck’s body stiffens, his arms coming up to clutch against his chest, fingers curled, legs going stiff and his back arching off the stretcher. “Decorticate posturing,” Hen says grimly. “We need to go. Now. Cap, radio ahead and tell them to have the neurosurgeon ready,” she says, and Eddie feels the ground tilt.

There are, he knows, things worse than death.

*

Coming soon to an AO3 near you :D

[deadpresidents]

Burial At Sea: The Odyssey of JFK's Original Casket

It was approximately 1:00 PM when a man called Vernon B. O'Neal of O'Neal's Funeral Home and asked for the best casket that O'Neal had available.  The man on the phone, simultaneously calm and tense, needed the coffin quickly and O'Neal had a slight problem.  Of the 18 people who worked at O'Neal's Funeral Home, 17 of them were out to lunch.  After all, it was a beautiful Friday day for November in Texas.

O'Neal picked out a solid-bronze coffin with white satin lining tagged at a sales price of $3,995 from his storeroom and waited for three more of his employees to return from lunch.  The bulky Handley Brittania casket from the Elgin Casket Company weighed over 400 pounds when it was empty and O'Neal certainly couldn't lift it into his Cadillac hearse by himself.  Once he had it loaded, he rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital on the most important delivery of his career.

The man who had ordered the casket, Clint Hill, was a Secret Service agent and less than an hour earlier he had climbed on to the back of a moving limousine to try to get to the subject he was charged to protect.  He was unsuccessful.  The casket was for the President of the United States, John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

When the casket arrived at Parkland Hospital, O'Neal was met by agents from the Secret Service and some of President Kennedy's aides.  They helped O'Neal push the coffin into the hospital and down a corridor towards Trauma Room One where the President had been officially pronounced dead just minutes earlier.  One of the President's aides and the doctor who had just worked on Kennedy tried to distract the President's grieving wife so that she wasn't anguished further by the sight of the coffin that her now-dead husband was about to be placed in.  

Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy refused to turn away and begged to be let into the Trauma Room to see her husband once more.  The doctor didn't want her to see anything else, but Jackie insisted, telling the doctor "How can I see anything worse than what I've seen?" and pointing out that "His blood is all over me!"  The doctor let her in the Trauma Room as O'Neal wheeled the casket inside and she placed her wedding ring on JFK's finger before retreating back to the outer hallway once again.

Vernon O'Neal was horrified when he saw the condition of the President's body.  Blood was everywhere and a gaping wound exposed brain matter which was seeping out of John F. Kennedy's head.  Not wanting to damage the beautiful and expensive casket that he had picked out for the President, O'Neal and several emergency room nurses went to work.  The bottom of the inside of the coffin was lined with a plastic mattress covering and the President's body was wrapped in a bed sheet.  The nurses went even further and spent 20 minutes carefully wrapping President Kennedy's head in numerous white bed sheets so that blood didn't seep through and stain the lining of the casket.

After Kennedy's body was placed in the coffin, preparations were made to leave Parkland Hospital and take the President back to Air Force One at Dallas's Love Field so that they could transport him back to Washington, D.C.  As the Secret Service and the President's aides (many of whom were longtime, close friends of JFK) wheeled his casket towards the exit, they were stopped by Dr. Earl Rose, the medical examiner for Dallas County, Texas.  In 1963, it was not a federal crime to kill the President of the United States.  Because of this, there was no federal jurisdiction for John F. Kennedy's murder -- only local.  Despite tsxxxshe scale of the crime to the nation, it was technically just another murder in Dallas, Texas on November 22, 1963 (because of the laws at the time, on a purely legal basis, the murder of Dallas police offer J.D. Tippit about 45 minutes after Kennedy's shooting was a far more serious crime than the President's assassination).   Because of this, Dr. Rose informed the men escorting the President's body that they needed to leave it in Dallas.  Rose noted that he needed to autopsy the body before they took it anywhere.  To Dr. Rose, a homicide victim was a homicide victim and he had a job to do.

The Secret Service was incredulous and President Kennedy's loyal aides were even angrier.  In the corridor of Parkland Memorial Hospital, things got tense.  Rose found himself in a shouting match with the Secret Service and some of Kennedy's aides.  Even the doctors at Parkland sided with the Secret Service and pleaded with Rose to release the body so that they could take the President back to Washington.  A justice of the peace arrived, with the power to overrule the medical examiner.  But he didn't.  The justice of the peace said that Kennedy would have to be autopsied in Dallas and ensured the Secret Service that it wouldn't take any more than three hours.

Again, tempers flared and the men in the hallway at Parkland were close to fisticuffs as the medical examiner, Dr. Rose, literally blocked the casket's path with his body in order to keep it inside the hospital.  When the President's close aide, Kenny O'Donnell, appealed to the medical examiner and the justice of the peace for compassion for Jackie Kennedy and an exception for this case so that they could return the dead President to Washington and get Jackie out of Texas as quickly as possible, the justice of the peace, Theron Ward, refused.

"It's just another homicide as far as I'm concerned," said the justice of the peace.  

O'Donnell lost his temper, "Go fuck yourself!  We're leaving.  Get the hell out of the way."

With that, the Secret Service and all the President's men pushed forward.  The medical examiner, the justice of the peace, and several Dallas policemen were forcibly shoved out of the way by Secret Service agents who were ready to draw their guns, if necessary.  Jackie Kennedy was close by, her hand softly guiding the President's bronze casket as it was removed from the hospital and placed in the hearse which raced en route to Love Field and Air Force One.

When the entourage arrived at Air Force One, they found a plane completely encircled by heavily armed Secret Service agents.  The plane’s powerful engines were running, ready to lift off at any moment and push Dallas and everything that happened there behind them as quickly as possible.  Fearing the unknown and suspecting a possible conspiracy to decapitate the entire government, the shades were drawn down over the windows throughout the aircraft in order to protect against any further possible attacks.  On the plane was Lyndon Johnson, soon-to-be sworn in as the 36th President of the United States, and awaiting the arrival of Jackie and the body of the deceased President.  The Secret Service and the President's aides struggled with the extraordinarily heavy casket as they maneuvered it up the steps to Air Foce One and into a holding area in the back of the plane cleared out by removing two rows of seats.

Jackie remained with President Kennedy's casket from almost the entire time she boarded Air Force One until it landed at Andrews Air Force Base near Washington.  The only exception was prior to the plane taking off from Dallas when she stood -- still wearing her blood-stained pink Chanel dress -- on one side of Lyndon Johnson as he took the oath of office as the new President, his hand resting on JFK's book of Catholic missals, which had been found in JFK's private cabin by aides rummaging for a Bible for the oath-taking ceremony.

For four hours, Air Force One flew in a dark cloud of sadness towards the nation's capital.  New President Johnson made numerous phone calls, including calls to the slain President's mother, Rose, and brother, the Attorney General Bobby Kennedy.  In flight, LBJ also hastily made preparations for meetings upon landing in Washington.  In the back of the plane, a silent vigil was held around John F. Kennedy's casket by Jackie and the President's aides, who were so close to Kennedy that they were often referred to as the "Irish Mafia".

President Kennedy's personal physician, Admiral George Burkley, suggested to Jackie that JFK's body be taken to Bethesda Naval Hospital upon arrival in Washington for the autopsy.  Jackie showed great compassion herself on that terrible flight.  She insisted that Bill Greer drive the vehicle carrying the President's casket to Bethesda.  Greer was grief-stricken and apologetic during the flight because he had been driving JFK's limousine in Dallas and made no attempt to speed up or take evasive maneuvers when shots were first fired.  Greer felt partly responsible for President Kennedy's death and Jackie wanted to show her confidence and appreciation in his service to her late husband.

When Air Force One arrived at Andrews Air Force Base after dark on November 22, 1963, Bobby Kennedy rushed on to the plane and directly to Jackie to comfort his sister-in-law, blowing past President Johnson and snubbing LBJ as the new President attempted to offer his condolences to JFK’s devastated brother.  The dead President's aides and Secret Service detail rebuffed a military casket team who arrived to remove the President's coffin from the plane.  Instead they formed a personal honor guard and handled Kennedy’s casket themselves, awkwardly placing it on to a catering lift and lowering it to the ground so that they could place it in a waiting Navy ambulance from Bethesda.  Jackie, with her husband's blood still clearly visible on her bare legs, and Bobby climbed into the back of the ambulance with JFK's casket and drove straight to Bethesda as President Johnson made a statement for the millions of Americans watching the arrival ceremony on live television.

The motorcade transporting the body of President John F. Kennedy from Andrews Air Force Base to Bethesda Naval Hospital for his autopsy arrived right around the same time that President Lyndon Johnson's helicopter landed on the South Lawn of the White House from Andrews so that the new President could take the reins of the government of a nation in shock.  As trusted members of his "Irish Mafia" helped to remove Kennedy's casket from the Navy ambulance, Jackie Kennedy and RFK headed upstairs at Bethesda where private suites were set aside for their comfort and friends and family were waiting to help with the comforting.

Across town, the new President prepared to charge into his new duties.  During the flight home from Dallas, Lyndon Johnson had summoned Cabinet members, diplomats, Members of Congress, current White House aides, former White House aides, and anybody else who had any inkling of what powered the Executive Branch, to meet him at the White House upon his arrival for consultation, directions, and mutual support.  Upon arriving at the White House, Johnson briefly spent a moment by himself in the Oval Office before leaving and walking with aides to the neighboring Old Executive Office Building.  LBJ didn't feel right with immediately setting up shop in the Oval Office just hours after President Kennedy's death.  Instead, Johnson decided to use his Vice Presidential office in the OEOB for the meetings he planned on holding that night.

Before those meetings began, however, President Johnson took a moment for a brief pause in his frenetic assumption of the Presidency.  Requesting a few minutes of privacy, LBJ sat down at his desk in the OEOB and wrote two short letters which became the first pieces of correspondence of the Johnson Administration -- letters which the young recipients couldn't even read yet:

"Dear John--It will be many years before you understand fully what a great man your father was.  His loss is a deep personal tragedy for all of us, but I wanted you particularly to know that I share your grief--You can always be proud of him.  Affectionately, Lyndon Johnson" "Dearest Caroline--Your father's death has been a great tragedy for the Nation, as well as for you at this time.  He was a wise and devoted man.  You can always be proud of what he did for his country.  Affectionately, Lyndon Johnson"

The casket containing the father of those two young children had been wheeled into the hallways leading to Bethesda Naval Hospital's morgue.  Despite the fact that this was being done in a completely secure, private, inner sanctum of the famed military hospital, the casket was that of a man who had started the day as Commander-in-Chief of the United States Military.  Out of respect and duty, an honor guard lifted the coffin from a gurney and carried it through the halls and into the brightly-lit, antiseptic autopsy room where doctors prepared to examine the lifeless body of the 35th President of the United States.

When President Kennedy's casket was opened, it became readily apparent that the hard work of Vernon O'Neal and the nurses at Parkland Hospital in Dallas to protect the inside of the expensive coffin was unsuccessful.  The makeshift bandage which had been carefully wrapped around Kennedy's head did not prevent seepage after all.  Blood soaked through the sheets which made up the "bandage" and the inner lining of Kennedy's ornate casket was obviously damaged.  It was a surreal, eerie sight in the autopsy room as John F. Kennedy was removed from his coffin and placed on the stainless steel autopsy table at Bethesda.  The 35th President was naked and seemed to be in remarkably good physical condition for a 46-year-old man who was known to suffer from serious health problems.  Most shocking for those in the room during the autopsy, however, was the fact that this seemingly young and vital President who had inspired a new generation was now very much dead with a massive gunshot wound to the head that exposed the part of his brain still contained within it and left the top of his skull jaggedly disfigured with missing pieces of bone and flesh.  Kennedy's eyes were fixed open, staring vacantly into space with dilated pupils that could no longer envision ambitious goals for his nation.  The mouth which formed his famous words, framed his most inspirational messages, and spoke that unmistakable Boston accent now hung open, forever silenced and permanently paralyzed in a final expression which seemed to mirror the mood of the entire country:  a combination of shock, pain, horror, and perplexity. 

The pathologists who performed John F. Kennedy’s autopsy finished their work shortly after midnight on November 23, 1963.  Photographs and drawings were taken of Kennedy’s body during the autopsy, and when the autopsy was finished, morticians from one of the capital’s finest funeral parlors arrived on the scene.  A team from Gawler’s Funeral Home entered the autopsy room at Bethesda Naval Hospital to embalm the President and attempt to make him presentable.  The casket that brought JFK back to Washington from Dallas would not work.  While the casket from O’Neal’s was a beauty from the exterior, the interior was a mess.  All of the safeguards attempted by O’Neal and the Parkland nurses in Dallas were not quite enough to protect the inside of the Handley Brittania from the gruesome wound that had killed the President.

The question many might have is why would there be such a need to make John F. Kennedy’s remains presentable when JFK was obviously in no condition to be viewed?  Why couldn’t they simply close that beautiful Handley Brittania casket that was purchased in Dallas and bury Kennedy in the container which carried him back to Washington?  

At the orders of Jackie Kennedy, aides went to the Library of Congress in the hours after President Kennedy’s body returned to Washington, D.C. and researched the historic, iconic, epic state funeral of Abraham Lincoln – the first American President to be assassinated, almost exactly a century earlier.  Kennedy’s funeral preparations would be steeped in tradition and either perfectly replicate or closely mirror the funerals of other fallen American Presidents including Lincoln, James Garfield, William McKinley, Warren G. Harding, and Franklin D. Roosevelt.  As information about these past Presidential funerals (along with the funerals of famous Congressional and military leaders throughout United States history) was brought forward, one constant was apparent:  in almost every case, the fallen leader was viewed by a grieving public in an open casket display.  For many Americans, streaming past the open casket of a former President or American military hero was an opportunity to pay tribute, look upon the face of a fallen hero, and find closure in another storied chapter of American History.

Yet, as much as Jackie wished to replicate Lincoln’s funeral, she was dismayed at the thought of an open casket for John F. Kennedy.  Jackie had seen what the assassin’s bullet had done to her husband.  As Kennedy’s motorcade raced to Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas minutes after the shooting, Jackie wouldn’t allow doctors and Secret Service agents to remove President Kennedy’s body from the limousine until an agent covered Kennedy’s head with his suit jacket, shielded the President from the view of others, and preserved some of the dignity that was so important to the Kennedy image.  As the morticians from Gawler’s worked on JFK, Jackie once again expressed her wish that her husband’s coffin would be closed.  Bobby Kennedy, however, didn’t think that the decision was up to the family.  RFK felt strongly that JFK belonged to the people, too, and that the American people would want their opportunity to say goodbye.

Following his assassination in 1865, Abraham Lincoln’s remains embarked on an epic, 20-day-long train trip that retraced the route he took to Washington in 1861 prior to his Inauguration.  In major cities throughout the Northeast and Upper Midwest, hundreds of thousands of Americans turned out to pay their respects to their “martyred” President.  Embalming was a relatively newly-mastered American art at the time of Lincoln’s death – a technique which had been much-improved upon and much-practiced during the Civil War when young men frequently died far from home and families looked to preserve their fallen loved ones so that they could have one last look at them before they were laid to rest.  

However, even today, embalming can’t guarantee perfect preservation for an extended amount of time.  In 1865, there were definitely some worries about Lincoln’s extended, national funeral.  After all, the warm weather of spring had started throughout the United States and Lincoln would be honored with open casket viewings by Americans in well over a dozen cities between Washington, D.C. and Springfield, Illinois in the twenty days after his death.  Some people worried whether it was appropriate to view Lincoln’s corpse at all considering the fact that he had died from a gunshot wound to the head.  Lincoln’s wound was far less devastating visually than Kennedy’s.  The bullet that killed Lincoln had entered his brain, but did not exit Lincoln’s skull.  The only damage visible was a black eye from bruising of the facial bones close to where John Wilkes Booth’s bullet had lodged in Lincoln’s brain.  Undertakers accompanied Lincoln’s body on the funeral train back to Springfield and as time passed, they certainly became necessary.  Lincoln’s face blackened considerably by the time his remains reached Springfield – partly from the facial bruising, partly from the dirt and dust of twenty days exposure to the elements, but also partly due to the beginning stages of decomposition.  At some cities, the undertakers who accompanied Lincoln home would brush his face with chalk to make him more presentable to the citizens who came to pay their respects.  In a few cities, it also became necessary to surround Lincoln’s casket with fragrant flowers and spray the area with heavy perfumes for reasons that I’m sure aren’t too difficult to surmise.

John F. Kennedy was not going to be viewed by the public for twenty days in over a dozen cities throughout the country and the funeral industry had made even larger strides in the century since Lincoln’s death.  However, JFK was severely disfigured by the bullet that killed him.  Unlike in Lincoln’s case, the bullet that tore through Kennedy’s skull and brain also exited his head, causing major damage that would be difficult for even the most-skilled mortician to disguise.  The team from Gawler’s were perhaps the best in the business, but it wasn’t simply a matter of brushing some chalk or cosmetic makeup on Kennedy’s face to cover up some bruising or minor discoloration.  Entire pieces of JFK’s skull were missing and parts of the President’s head needed to be synthetically reconstructed.  The morticians also had to pack his skull with cotton and Plaster of Paris in the place of his brain -- parts of which were removed during the autopsy and other parts of which were in countless places including (but not limited to) the fabric of his wife’s Pink Chanel dress, the windshields of the motorcycle cops escorting his motorcade in Dallas, the backseat and trunk of his limousine, and all over Dealey Plaza in Dallas.

The mortuary team from Gawler’s took over three hours to work on President Kennedy, clean him up, dress him (in a bluish-gray pinstriped suit with a white shirt, black shoes, and blue tie with dots), place him in a brand-new casket and put a rosary in the hands of the nation’s only Catholic President.  A little after 4:00 AM, President Kennedy, his widow and Bobby Kennedy arrived at the White House after a solemn motorcade through the darkened streets of Washington.  In the first nod to Lincoln’s funeral, JFK’s flag-draped casket was carried by an honor guard into the East Room of the White House and placed on a replica of the black catafalque that Lincoln’s coffin once rested on.  After Kennedy’s casket was situated in the East Room, Jackie Kennedy and Bobby Kennedy entered the room and asked that the lid be opened.  Both Jackie and Bobby were exhausted and emotionally drained, and Jackie was still wearing the Pink Chanel dress that she had cradled her dying husband’s head in.  The front of her dress was smeared with the dried blood and brain matter of the President.  As ghastly as the sight was, Jackie continually refused to change, noting that she wanted everyone to see what “they” did to her husband.  As the casket lid was opened, Jackie snipped a lock of her husband’s hair with scissors and turned to Bobby, saying, “It isn’t Jack” – once again alluding to her wish that the casket remain closed.

Jackie left the East Room and headed upstairs to the White House Residence to finally change her clothes and attempt to sleep.  In the East Room, Bobby remained near his brother’s coffin with a couple of friends, close aides, and Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara.  The stoic RFK – always much tougher than his older brother – was a wreck by this point, after attempting to stay strong and supportive throughout the night for his stunned sister-in-law.  Bobby had not yet looked at JFK’s remains.  To finally make the decision about whether or not JFK would have an open casket, RFK took a look at his brother’s face.  When he saw Jack in the coffin, RFK immediately agreed with Jackie’s feelings, “She’s right.  Close it.”  While the team from Gawler’s had done an admirable job of repairing the massive trauma to the President’s head, JFK was virtually unrecognizable as the man he once was.  To those who saw his body as the casket was briefly open in the East Room early that morning, it was apparent that the American people wouldn’t want to remember their fallen President in that way – as if he were a wax museum knock-off of the real John F. Kennedy.  The funeral ceremonies over the next few days would all be closed casket and the nation would remember JFK as the young, lively, inspirational President that he had been for so many Americans.

••• Since the assassination of John F. Kennedy in 1963, there have been so many unanswered questions and theories and allegations.  Many are the result of sloppy work on behalf of the government in the hours following the shooting, during the autopsy, after the autopsy, and in the failure to protect the suspected assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, as he was being transferred to a new facility to face charges of murdering President Kennedy and Dallas Police Office J.D. Tippit.  Evidence has been lost or misplaced, and some records remain sealed until 2017 – 54 years after the assassination and 100 years after JFK’s birth.

There is one aspect of this story that received some closure, however, and that is what happened to JFK’s original casket – the expensive Handley Brittania coffin that Clint Hill ordered from Vernon O’Neal’s Funeral Home in Dallas in the hectic minutes after President Kennedy was pronounced dead.

After JFK’s autopsy at Bethesda Naval Hospital and the hard work by the mortuary team from Gawler’s Funeral Home to make him presentable, President Kennedy couldn’t be placed back in the beautiful but bloodstained bronze coffin that had carried him home from Texas.  Gawler’s had brought with them to Bethesda another elegant casket fit for a President – a $3,160 Marsellus 710 coffin that was crafted from “hand-rubbed, five-hundred-year-old African mahogany”.  It was that flag-draped casket from Gawler’s that John F. Kennedy, Jr. saluted and Americans saw being laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery.

The history of Vernon O’Neal’s casket did not end that night at Bethesda when President Kennedy was transferred to a different coffin.  Gawler’s Funeral Home took possession of JFK’s original casket after they placed him in the undamaged casket that their mortuary team had brought to Bethesda Naval Hospital following Kennedy’s autopsy.  Whether it was as a morbid souvenir or simply due to confusion about what to do with it, Gawler’s stored JFK’s original coffin in a warehouse in Washington, D.C.  In January 1964, less than two months after JFK’s burial, Vernon O’Neal submitted a bill to the federal government for $3,995 for the casket that Secret Service Agent Clint Hill ordered in Dallas and JFK was transported to Washington in.                 

The government felt that O’Neal’s bill was “excessive”, particularly since he had merely delivered the casket to Parkland Hospital in Dallas and had not performed any other funeral services such as embalming, chapel services or transportation of mourners.  O’Neal lowered the price by $500, but the government still had an issue with the $3,495 price tag.  What Vernon O’Neal actually wanted was the casket itself.  O’Neal had received offers of $100,000 by parties interested in collecting and displaying the casket as a unique relic of the slain President.  For the Kennedy Family – still reeling from the assassination and its aftermath – the last thing they wanted was a spectacle surrounding a bloodstained coffin that JFK had spent just a few hours in.  At the family’s urging, the federal government paid O’Neal (he received $3,160 for his services on November 22, 1963) and the General Services Administration took possession of the object in 1965.

In September 1965, the House of Representatives passed a bill which required the government to preserve any objects related to the Kennedy Assassination which might contain evidentiary value.  Several days later, Representative Earle Cabell from Texas sent a letter to Attorney General Nicholas Katzenbach (who had replaced Bobby Kennedy at the Justice Department a year earlier).  In his letter, Congressman Cabell suggested that the casket had no value for anyone other than “the morbidly curious”.  Since the Kennedy Family “did not see fit to use this particular casket in the ultimate interment of the body”, Cabell felt that it was “surplus” material owned and controlled by the federal government.  To shut down those who might be “morbidly curious”, Cabell recommended that the casket “be declared the proper property of the USA and, as such and in keeping with the best interest of the country, be destroyed.”

The Kennedy Family agreed with Congressman Cabell’s sentiments and Attorney General Katzenbach ensured everyone that the casket had no evidentiary value, no good reason for display or storage, and that it was the property that the government had the right to dispose of in whichever way it sought fit.  On February 18, 1966, several members of the Air Force picked the casket up from a secure building at the National Archives just a few blocks from the White House.  The casket was placed in an Air Force truck and transported to Andrews Air Force Base – the very place that the casket had originally landed in Washington with President Kennedy inside of it less than three years earlier.  At Andrews, the Air Force team from the 93rd Air Terminal Squadron loaded the coffin on to a C130 transport plane.

To dispose of the casket, the Air Force had decided to take it to a place that JFK had once considered being buried:  the Atlantic Ocean.  Kennedy loved the sea and was said to have considered being buried at sea when he died.  Of course, we know that Kennedy was buried at Arlington National Cemetery instead, but for many reasons, the Atlantic Ocean was the perfect place for the disposal of the casket that had brought him back to Washington following his assassination.

The Air Force wanted to ensure the integrity of the casket and not allow it to become a souvenir by someone who happened to come across it floating in the ocean or washing up on the shore.  The C130 flew about 100 miles east of Washington, D.C. and descended to about 500 feet above the water.  Before taking off, the Air Force had drilled over 40 holes into the casket and filled it with three 80-pound sandbags.  It was also secured inside of a wooden crate and sealed shut in a manner so that it wouldn’t break apart upon hitting the water.  

At approximately 10:00 AM, the C130’s tail hatch was opened and the casket was pushed out of the aircraft.  Parachutes softened its fall and the coffin began to sink instantly.  The airplane circled the drop zone for about 20 minutes to make sure that the coffin didn’t resurface, but they had no reason to worry.  The Air Force had chosen an area of the Atlantic that saw very little air or sea traffic, and the casket settled in about 9,000 feet of water.  The Kennedy Family was relieved that they no longer had to worry about a bloody casket going on display somewhere for the “morbidly curious”.

[verosvault]

🚨 SPOILER FOR EPISODE 8 OF BURROW'S END!!!🚨

‼️POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR WHEEZING SOUNDS, FLESH TEAR SOUNDS, SCREAMING/CHITTERING SOUNDS AMONG OTHER UNGRATEFUL NOISES‼️

Dimension20 "Burrow's End"

Episode 8

Timestamp: 1:30:19

Video Length: 3min. & 47sec.

THE TAPESSSS!!! OMGGG!!! WHO WAS THE FIRST TO ATTACK!!! IT SEEMS LIKE THE STOATS WERE FIRST TO ATTACK?!!! THIS IS SO COOL BECAUSE THESE STOATS ARE NOW REALIZING THAT THEY'VE BEEN ON THE BAD GUYS TEAM THIS WHOLE ENTIRE TIME!!! AHHH!!! 😱😱😭😭✋✋

I can't believe Brennan just WALKED OUT AFTER THAT! I THOUGHT SOMETHING HAPPENED TO TULA AFTER THAT! BUT NOPE! IT WAS JUST BRENNAN BEING SHOOK AFTER AABRIA'S DISPLAY AND FEELING BEATEN BY HER AND HER AMAZING PRODUCTION!!! 😂😂🤣🤣💀💀✋✋ THIS IS TRUE FEAR FR!!! EVEN BRENNAN HIMSELF CALLED THIS SCARY!!! 😭😭✋✋ OOF! "NEVERAFTER" WAS A WALK-IN-THE-PARK COMPARED TO THIS SEASON FR! 😭✋ THE TRUE HORROR SEASON LITERALLY!! 😭😭✋✋

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1st Tape: [Wenabocker] "I've actually never used one of these before. How does it- just gotta- Hello, my name is Robert Wenabocker. I'm the lead engineer here at Warren Peace Memorial Nuclear Power Plant. Hey guys, give me five minutes. I just got to log it. The time is currently 18:48, and at approximately 5:17 today, this facility registered a Loss of Coolant Accident in Reactor Charlie. At 11:20, all plant personnel were notified via intercom, and of course- (tape clicks)

2nd Tape: [Wenabocker] Hello, this is Dr. Wenabocker. It is 4/21/62 at 8:11. (repeating alarm sounding) The LOC logged on the 18th has proven difficult. Our structural engineers have noted significant integrity loss surrounding Reactor Charlie. Now, this integrity loss may result in repeated incidents of increased severity if left untreated. We are not doing that. We are handling things now with the repair materials on hand, and we should have this remedied within the we-. (tape clicks)

3rd Tape: [Wenabocker] (alarm continues, even louder) I don't care, I want two teams down there right now! Following on the official urgent materials request submitted. All signs, all signs are pointing to sabotage. This is a matter of national security! If we can't fix this- (tape clicks)

4th tape: [Wenabocker] It is 2:22, two hours post order of a full evacuation of Peace Plant by Director Simms. I stayed behind, since I'd already been um...I stayed in hopes we'd get a call from the outside with some idea on how to avoid a full core meltdown. But the cables on our comms are destroyed. Chewed through. You know, earlier this week, my team joked that evil spirits were behind all of this. As a man of science, you know, I...Hello? (creatures chittering) The facility has been evacuated. You need to- (tape clicks)

5th tape: [Wenabocker] (Wenabocker hyperventilating) (creatures chittering) There are five weasels. I don't know how they're doing it. I don't know what's happening. (glass breaking) No! No! (creatures chittering) (flesh tearing) (Wenabocker wheezing) (Wenabocker gasping for air) They're all so sneaky...

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THIS IS CRAZY INSANE AND I CAN'T BELIEVE ALL THE WORK THAT WAS PUT INTO THIS AMAZING SEASON! CARLOS LUNA DID SUCH A GREAT JOB! AABRIA SLAYS! THIS IS CRAZY AND FANTASTIC!!! DIMENSION20 HAS SUCH A PHENOMENAL CAST AND CREW!!! THEY CAN DO ANYTHING!!! THE SKY'S THE LIMIT HERE FR!!! ✋✋🫶🫶❤️❤️