#yeah i TRIED to trim it down but its still a lot

[noblehcart]

Do not read unless; you're a mega nerd interested in Bulgaria in the 14th century or @malka-lisitsa

Bulgaria under Ottoman rule (1396–1878)

The fall of the last tsardom; the Tsardom of Vidin marked the end of what’s historically known as the Second Bulgarian Empire. By this, the Ottomans had subjugated and occupied Bulgaria. Even though a Polish-Hungarian army commanded by Władysław III of Poland set out to free Bulgaria and the Balkans in 1444, they were defeated in the battle of Varna from the Ottomans.

The new authorities dismantled Bulgarian institutions and merged the separate Bulgarian Church into the Ecumenical Patriarchate in Constantinople (although a small, autocephalous Bulgarian archbishopric of Ohrid survived until January 1767). Turkish authorities destroyed most of the medieval Bulgarian fortresses to prevent rebellions. Large towns and the areas where Ottoman power predominated remained severely depopulated until the 19th century.

Even though conversion to Islam was not forced on the Bulgarian people, several cases of forced Islamization were recorded such as the Pomaks who got to keep their Bulgarian language, dress and some customs that were compatible with Islam.

In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries Bulgaria became a thriving cultural centre. The flowering of the Turnovo school of art was related to the construction of palaces and churches, to literary activity in the royal court and the monasteries, and to the development of handicrafts.

In the fourteenth century many new monasteries were built under the patronage of Ivan Alexander on the northern slopes of Stara Planina, especially in a area near the capital Tarnovo which became known as "Sveta Gora" (Holy Forest)—a name also used to refer to Mount Athos. The numerous monasteries across the Empire were the very centre of the cultural, educational and spiritual life of the Bulgarian society. After the mid fourteenth centuries, many monasteries began to build fortifications under the thread of Turk invasions, such as the famous Tower of Rely in the Rila monastery.

In the 14th century, the Ottoman Turks were a rising power in the region. In 1393 they captured Turnovo. All Bulgarian resistance to the Turks ended in 1396. Bulgaria was under Turkish rule for nearly 500 years.

The Bulgarians had to pay taxes to the Turks. They also had to surrender their sons. At intervals, the Turks would take the cream of Bulgarian boys aged 7 to 14. They were taken from their families and brought up as Muslims. They were also trained to be soldiers called Janissaries.

The Bulgarian People Under the Rule of the Ottoman Empire (15th-18th C.)

The fall of the medieval Bulgarian states under the Ottoman rule interrupted the Bulgarian people’s natural development within the framework of the European civilization. To the Bulgarians that was not just a temporary loss of their state independence as it was in the case of other European peoples which had had this bitter experience at different stages of their history.

In the course of centuries the Bulgarians were forced to live under a state and political system that was substantially different from and distinctly alien to the European civilization which had evolved on the basis of Christianity and the Christian economic, social and cultural patterns.

The intrusive nature of Islamism and its intolerance to anything that was not part of it, resulted in the continued confrontation between the Ottoman empire and Christian Europe in the l5th-l8th centuries. That fact drew an iron curtain between the Bulgarian people on the one side, and Europe and the free Slav countries on the other.

In other words, Bulgaria was separated from the progressive trends of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment as well as from the nascent modern bourgeois world.

The Bulgarians were pushed into a direction of development which had nothing in common with their seven-century history until then, history deeply connected with the natural course of the European political, economic and cultural development.

The Turkish conquerors ruthlessly destroyed all Bulgarian state and religious structures. The natural political leaders of the people in the Middle Ages, i.e. the boyars and the higher clergy, vanished from sight. That deprived the Bulgarians of both the possibility for self-organization and any chance of having foreign political allies for centuries on end.

The place allotted to the Bulgarian people in the Ottoman feudal political system entitled it to no legal, religious, national, even biological rights as Bulgarian Christians. They had all been reduced to the category of the so called rayah (meaning ‘a flock’, attributed to the non-Muslim subjects of the empire).

The peasants who represented the better half of the Bulgarian population were dispossessed of their land.

According to the Ottoman feudal system which remained effective until 1834, all of it belonged to the central power in the person of the Turkish sultan.

The Bulgarians were allowed to cultivate only some plots. Groups of rural Christian families, varying in number, were put under an obligation to give part of their income to representatives of the Muslim military, administrative and religious upper crust, as well as to fulfil various state duties.

The number of the families liable to that payment was determined according to their position in the Ottoman state, military and religious hierarchy. The establishment of that kind of intercourse in agriculture – the fundamental pillar of the economy at that time, clearly led to the total loss of motivation for any real farming or and production improvements both among the peasants and the feof-holders.

The complex and incredibly burdensome tax system forced the farmers to produce as much as needed for their families’ subsistence, while the feudals preferred to earn a lot more from looting and from the incessantly successful wars waged by the Ottoman empire in all directions until the end of the 17th century.

The Ottoman Turkish state was founded on and propped up by the dogmas of the Koran. At the beginning of the 15th century when the empire prostrated from India to Gibraltar and from the mouth of the Volga to Vienna, it proclaimed itself the supreme leader of Islam – Prophet Mohammed’s standard and sword, and a leader of the Koran-prescribed perpetual jihad (holy war) against the world of Christianity.

It went without saying that under this conception the Bulgarian Christians could not hope for any. access to even the lowest levels of statecraft. The enormous imperial bureaucratic machinery recruited its staff only from among Muslims.

The Bulgarian people was subjected to national and religious discrimination unheard of in the annals of all European history. During court proceedings, for example, a single Muslim’s testimony was more than enough to confute the evidence of dozens of Christian witnesses. The Bulgarians were not entitled to building churches, setting up their offices or even to wearing bright colors.

Of the numerous taxes (about 80 in number) the so called ‘fresh blood tax’ (a levy of Christian youths) was particularly heavy and humiliating. At regular intervals, the authorities had the healthiest male- children taken away from their parents, sent to the capital, converted into Islam and then trained in combat skills.

Raised and trained in the spirit of Islamic fanaticism, the young men were conscripted in the so called janissary corps, the imperial army of utmost belligerence known to have caused so much trouble and suffering to both the Bulgarians and Christian Europe.

The Turkish authorities exerted unabating pressure on parts of the Bulgarian people to make them convert their faith and become Muslims. That policy was meant to limit the Bulgarian ethnos parameters and to increase the Turkish population numbers. For, according to the medieval standards in that part of Europe, the affiliation of a given people was determined by the religion it followed. With a view to facilitating the assimilation process, the Turkish authorities took the Christian names of those who had converted into Islam and gave them Arab names instead.

A variety of ways and means was used in the assimilation of the Bulgarian people. Some of these were the aforementioned ‘blood tax, and the regular kidnaping of children, pretty women, girls and young men to Turkish families.

Quite frequently, whole areas were encircled by troops and their inhabitants forced to adopt Islam and new Arab names, while the objectors were ‘edifyingly’ slain. In those cases, however, the ‘new Muslims’ were allowed to go on living in the compact Bulgarian environment, i.e. as a community which retained both its language and its Bulgarian national consciousness.

The present-day Bulgarian Muslims representing about five percent of modern Bulgaria’s population, are descendants of those Mohammedanized Bulgarians, whom the Bulgarian Christians used to call pomaks (from the Bulgarian root-words macha or maka, meaning harassed or caused to suffer). And yet the thousands of Bulgarians whom Bulgaria lost once and for all were those who had been subjected to individual conversion to Islam. For, it is only natural that having fallen into a community of strangers, speaking a different language and practicing different customs and faith, they had easily and quickly been assimilated.

The genocide carried out by the Ottoman Turks during hostilities in the Bulgarian lands, at the time of uprising or riot suppression, during the frequent spells of feudal anarchy, or even of Ottoman troops move-ups from garrison stations to the battle-field, had struck heavy blows on the Bulgarian nation. The Bulgarian Christian population was treated as infidel and hostile and it was outlawed even at the time of peace. Individual and mass emigration of Bulgarians to foreign lands was another cause for no lesser losses to the Bulgarian nation. There were times when whole regions became depopulated. 

During the l5th-l7th centuries the Bulgarian nation had suffered a gradual but grave biological collapse which predetermined, to a large extent, its demographic, economic, political and cultural place in the European civilization. According to some Bulgarian historians’ estimations, the beginning of the Turkish oppression in the 15th century found Bulgaria with a population of about 1.3 million. Those were the then demographic parameters of any of the large European nations, for example, the population in the present-day territories of England, France or Germany.

One hundred years later, the Bulgarians were already down to 260 000 people and remained as many in the course of two more centuries. The demographic growth was suppressed through genocide, Mohammedanization and emigration. The biological collapse of the l5th-l7th centuries had repercussions which are still being keenly felt. The Bulgarian nation, nowadays, amounts to some ten million people while its European equals in number, back in the 15th century, are now sixty to eighty million-strong.

The unbearable conditions during the Ottoman yoke could not deaden the Bulgarians’ anxiety for resistance. Deprived of social and political organizations of their own, they were unable to undertake any sizeable liberation initiatives. Thus, during the first centuries of the oppression, armed resistance was only of local and sporadic nature. The so-called haidouk movement was its most frequent manifestation. The haidouks were brave Bulgarians who took refuge in the high-mountain woods, organizing there small armed detachments and bringing them down for merciless struggle against the provincial administrators.

This guerrila-type struggle continued for centuries on end (one group destroyed was instantaneously replaced by another) and succeeded in sustaining the morale of the Bulgarians by preserving, to some extent, their properties and their honor. In some places, it even had the authorities maintain more humane relationships with the Bulgarian Christians. The haidouk movement indirectly encouraged and safeguarded other forms of resistance such as maintaining the style of life, the language, the traditions and the religion, or incompliance with forced obligations and refusal to pay heavy unjustifed tax.

Liberation uprisings were the supreme form of struggle against the oppressors. The first one broke out still in 1408. Significant uprisings, proclaiming the independence of Bulgaria, took place in 1598, 1686, 1688 and 1689. They were connected with the anti- Ottoman wars waged by the West European Catholic states with which some Bulgarian representatives, mainly merchants and both Orthodox and Catholic clergymen, had established joint venture contacts.

All insurrections were quelled and accompanied with inhuman atrocities.

The Bulgarian people were living through one of the most difficult periods in its centuries long existence.

It had been deprived of its state, its church, its intelligently and its legitimate rights. Furthermore, its survival as an ethnos had also been put at stake. Linder the heel of that powerful, ruthless and uncivilized Asiatic despotism, it lasted out but remained without any substantial material and spiritual resources needed for its further development. Thus, the Bulgarians, along with all the other European peoples which had been engulfed by the Ottoman empire, were to lag some centuries behind the attainments of present-day Europe.

The Ottoman Empire was founded in the early fourteenth century by Osman I, a prince of Asia Minor who began pushing the eastern border of the Byzantine Empire westward toward Constantinople. Present-day European Turkey and the Balkans, among the first territories conquered, were used as bases for expansion far to the West during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

The capture of Constantinople in 1453 completed Ottoman subjugation of major Bulgarian political and cultural institutions.

Nevertheless, certain Bulgarian groups prospered in the highly ordered Ottoman system, and Bulgarian national traditions continued in rural areas. When the decline of the Ottoman Empire began about 1600, the order of local institutions gave way to arbitrary repression, which eventually generated armed opposition. Western ideas that penetrated Bulgaria during the 1700s stimulated a renewed concept of Bulgarian nationalism that eventually combined with decay in the empire to loosen Ottoman control in the nineteenth century.

Introduction of the Ottoman System

Ottoman forces captured the commercial center of Sofia in 1385. Serbia, then the strongest Christian power in the Balkans, was decisively defeated by the Ottomans at the Battle of Kosovo Polje in 1389, leaving Bulgaria divided and exposed. Within ten years, the last independent Bulgarian outpost was captured. Bulgarian resistance continued until 1453, when the capture of Constantinople gave the Ottomans a base from which to crush local uprisings. In consolidating its Balkan territories, the new Ottoman political order eliminated the entire Bulgarian state apparatus. The Ottomans also crushed the nobility as a landholding class and potential center of resistance.

The new rulers reorganized the Bulgarian church, which had existed as a separate patriarchate since 1235, making it a diocese under complete control of the Byzantine Patriarchate at Constantinople. The sultan, in turn, totally controlled the patriarchate.

The Ottomans ruled with a centralized system much different from the scattered local power centers of the Second Bulgarian Empire. The single goal of Ottoman policy in Bulgarian territory was to make all local resources available to extend the empire westward toward Vienna and across northern Africa. Landed estates were given in fiefdom to knights bound to serve the sultan. Peasants paid multiple taxes to both their masters and the government.

Territorial control also meant cultural and religious assimilation of the populace into the empire. Ottoman authorities forcibly converted the most promising Christian youths to Islam and trained them for government service. Called pomaks, such converts often received special privileges and rose to high administrative and military positions.

The Ottoman system also recognized the value of Bulgarian artisans, who were organized and given limited autonomy as a separate class. Some prosperous Bulgarian peasants and merchants became intermediaries between local Turkish authorities and the peasants.

In this capacity, these chorbadzhi (squires) were able to moderate Ottoman policy. On the negative side, the Ottoman assimilation policy also included resettlement of Balkan Slavs in Asia Minor and immigration of Turkish peasants to farm Bulgarian land. Slavs also were the victims of mass enslavement and forcible mass conversion to Islam in certain areas.

Traditional Bulgarian culture survived only in the smaller villages during the centuries of Ottoman rule. Because the administrative apparatus of the Ottoman Empire included officials of many nationalities, commerce in the polyglot empire introduced Jews, Armenians, Dalmatians, and Greeks into the chief population centers. Bulgarians in such centers were forcibly resettled as part of a policy to scatter the potentially troublesome educated classes.

The villages, however, were often ignored by the centralized Ottoman authorities, whose control over the Turkish landholders often exerted a modifying influence that worked to the advantage of the indigenous population. Village church life also felt relatively little impact from the centralized authority of the Greek Orthodox Church. Therefore, between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, the villages became isolated repositories of Bulgarian folk culture, religion, social institutions, and language.

[shybluebirdninja]

Beard Wars

Summary: Logan’s been growing out his beard, and you’re starting to suspect it might be a little too attached to his face. Now it’s become a silent standoff between you, his beard, and the world’s dullest scissors.

Pairing            : Logan Howlett x Wife!Reader

Genre              : Fluff

You’d seen Logan do a lot of wild stuff in your time together. The man fought in wars, took bullets like mosquito bites, and still had the nerve to complain about your cooking. But nothing—nothing—had prepared you for the unholy battle brewing in your bathroom.

It had been growing… and growing. Logan’s beard, that is. The thing had practically taken on a life of its own. And sure, when it first started, it was rugged. Hot, even. You loved the whole “wild lumberjack with claws” look. But after a couple months, the beard went from sexy to Sasquatch. Now it was long enough to braid… if you dared.

You stood there, glaring at Logan as he sat on the couch, legs kicked up, flipping through channels like he didn’t have a forest attached to his chin. You crossed your arms. “Logan.”

“Hmm?”

“We gotta talk about it.”

He didn’t even look at you. “Talk about what?”

“The beard.”

He glanced up over the remote, raising one bushy eyebrow. “What about it?”

“Babe.” You gestured to his face. “It’s gotten out of control. It’s like… you’re turning into Chewbacca.”

Logan shrugged, clearly not giving a single shit. “What? It’s fine.”

“Fine? Logan, it’s a beard. Not a security blanket.” You shook your head. “I swear, it’s like you’re afraid of trimming it.”

He smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Afraid? Nah. Just like the way it looks.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Babe, it’s started curling up at the ends. It looks like a goddamn villain’s mustache from a silent film. I’m half-expecting you to tie me to train tracks next.”

Logan huffed and stretched his legs. “What do you want me to do? Cut it?”

“Yes! Just… trim it. Before it starts forming opinions and voting in elections.”

“Good one,” he muttered, still flipping through the channels. “But nah. I like it.”

You knew this was going to be harder than you thought. This wasn’t a normal beard. This was Logan’s pride. His stupid, stubborn pride wrapped around his jaw like a fuzzy security blanket. You didn’t have claws or mutant powers, but damn it, you had scissors. And a dream.

Later that evening, you were standing in front of the bathroom mirror, practicing your technique. You held up the scissors and snipped the air a few times. Yeah, you had this. Stealth, precision, quick reflexes—you’d get him in his sleep.

You glanced down at the pair of dull scissors in your hand, suddenly wondering if maybe this wasn’t the smartest plan. Those things couldn’t cut through paper, let alone Logan’s adamantium-grade beard.

“Whatcha doin’ in there?” Logan’s voice echoed from the living room, suspicious.

“Uh, nothing!” You quickly shoved the scissors into the drawer and tried to look innocent. “Just, uh, brushing my teeth.”

“Mmhmm.” He didn’t believe you for a second.

That night, you waited. Logan fell asleep on the couch, a beer bottle balanced on his chest. You crept up, scissors in hand, moving like a ninja. The beard was right there—so close. One good snip, and you could at least tame that beast.

But the moment the scissors touched one hair, Logan’s hand shot out, catching your wrist. His eyes opened lazily. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’, darlin’?”

You froze, caught red-handed. “Um… grooming?”

Logan sat up, still holding your wrist with that annoyingly strong grip. “We talkin’ dog grooming or attempted murder?”

You sighed, defeated. “Logan, c’mon. It’s gotta go.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying the hell out of this. “You really think you can take this thing down with those weak-ass scissors? Good luck, babe.”

You pouted, yanking your wrist free. “You can’t live like this forever. You look like a damn mountain man.”

“That’s the point.”

“What, you gonna move to the woods and start living off the land?”

Logan chuckled, getting up from the couch. “Might not be such a bad idea. Get away from all this.” He waved a hand around like civilization was an inconvenience he had to endure.

“Okay, Thoreau,” you muttered, “but can we at least compromise? A little trim? Just a bit so you don’t look like a cryptid?”

Logan thought about it for a second, rubbing his chin. “Alright. You get one inch. One. Any more, and you’re losin’ a hand.”

You blinked. “That’s not exactly what I meant by compromise, but I’ll take it.”

The next morning, Logan sat in the kitchen, grudgingly handing you a pair of sharper scissors. “Make it quick.”

You grinned like you’d won the lottery. “I promise it’ll be painless.”

“You better hope so.”

You gingerly reached for the beard, Logan’s eyes watching you like a hawk. The tension was thick—one wrong move, and you knew it’d be war.

Snip. You took off just enough to make a difference, but not enough to piss him off. He grunted but didn’t complain. Snip, snip. A couple more careful cuts, and you stepped back, admiring your handiwork.

Logan rubbed his chin, inspecting it in the mirror. “Not bad.”

“See? Didn’t kill you.”

“Yet.”

You laughed, putting the scissors down. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Logan stood up, stretching. “Maybe. But at least now I won’t get mistaken for Bigfoot at the grocery store.”

You smirked. “Who knew the Wolverine could be such a drama queen about a beard?”

He growled, but this time, you could see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t push it, babe. Next time you come near me with those scissors, you might lose an eye.”

“Noted.” You gave him a playful wink. “But seriously, thanks for not letting it grow legs and walk off on its own.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket. “Now let’s get outta here before you try to cut somethin’ else.”

As he headed for the door, you couldn’t resist one last comment. “Don’t worry, the hair on your head is next.”

Logan shot you a look over his shoulder. “Don’t. Even. Think about it.”

[awriternamedart]

a collection of my middle aged man yaoi sampard headcanons -

Sampo has poliosis, a condition that can cause premature greying in areas on the scalp.

Gepard has lots of facial and body hair but it grows slowly because of their cold enviroment. His beard is a stopwatch for how long hes been on the frontlines that time around as he only gets to shave when hes at his home/stationed in the city.

Sampo has a few beauty marks n moles ! mostly on his back and shoulders.

Gepard has freckles! All the Landaus do!

Once Gepard scared the ever living shit out of Sampo because the Landaus have reflective eyes. So Sampo just saw two blue dots in his bedroom once and nearly fell out the window he climbed in through.

Gepard has piercings! Two simple lobe piercings, he only wears them when hes on break. (so like, never.) Serval pierced them for him when they were teenagers so its a little botched but he does his best to take care of them because their a fond memory of his sister. (He also owns a pair of studs for each of his sisters - a snowflake set for Lynx, and a music note set for Serval. Otherwise, simple black studs.)

Sampo has sideburns!! He tends to keep them trimmed well , since his appearence is a huge part of the show. Hes incredibly meticulous down to the last detail in order to sell it, and can spend up to two hours every morning making sure hes ready for the stage .

Gepard is an amputee. I need to update my arm lore doc but basic gist - his gauntlet is a prosthetic used to trap Fragmentum in his arm nub and uses that Fragmentum as a powersource for the Geomarrow to bounce off of and create the ice and mist he uses in battle. He still deals with phantom pain but most of the time it is soothed with his prosthetic - though it can still flare up horribly when overused.

Sampos really weak to being kissed on the nape of his neck, right where his hair is. Hes not quite sure why.

Gepards easy to blush but inCREDIBLY hard to fluster. Hes so used to keeping himself in check and in control that to catch him in any form of stupor is rare.

Related - Gepard struggles immensely when hes out of control of a situation and someone he is unfamiliar with or doesnt trust holds power over it. Hes so used to being in charge and being looked to and only having those he trusts as peers or over him in the power system that being thrown into that situation crawls under his skin in a /neg way. Physical vulnerabilty is also not easy and very stressful.

Quite the opposite for Sampo - emotional vulnerabilty ties this guy in KNOTS. Hes pretty open to touch (once your on his trust list and ONLY if your on the trust list) but youll have to drag him kicking and screaming if you want a glimpse at his actual thoughts.

also Sampo has a wheezy hyena laugh.

Gepard only has only one or two potted plants he tried to use as motivation to go home more often- it was a suggestion from Pela. But uh, yeah it didnt work. Hes a great cook though!

On the other hand- do not let Sampo within 5 meters of a kitchen. For your sake and his. (hes not that bad and can make enough to get by- but it really .. does not taste great ...)

Sampos not entirely sure how old he is, but Natasha figured he was somewhere in his late twenties early thirties when he arrived on Jarilo and hes kinda been rolling with that ever since.

Gepard overheats really easily when he gets off planet eventually. Like it is bad how easily he gets heatstroke.

Sampo uses his blades to pick at his teeth sometimes. Both Natasha and Gepard hate this .

Gepard has a nasty resting bitch face. Hes learned to be able to nullify it a little bit but when hes tired it drops back to usual and makes it look likes constantly about to murder someone.

On the plus side, this control over his expression means he plays a nasty game of poker! (or whatever the Jarilo 6 counterpart of poker is)

Sampo has on more then one occassion forgot that he has the ability to neutralize most of Belobogs cold and has wandered outside without his jacket. Many people looked at him like he was insane.

Gepard always cuts the sleeve right above his gauntlet implant and sews a new hem to keep it from getting caught in machinery.

Hook called Sampo Gramps once. He never recovered.

Gepards hair is slowly turning brown instead of greying! Sampo is infact, salty about this.

Gepard has three majorly noticable scars. He has frostburn on his flesh hand that wind up his arm, he has Fragmentum cracks that wind up his opposite shoulder (amputated arm)(inactive so it looks like scar tissue or a lightning scar rather then black or gold) , and an impact scar/explosion scar across his lower back. Other minor scars are shrapnel cuts and his knuckles being scarred from being a fistfighter. Also his nose is slightly crooked.

Sampo has done a damn good job at making sure he looks the part of the shifty businessman but he has a few marks of his own. Being an Emanator means he heals quickly- and can mask any scars and injuries he gets with relative ease - but he prefers to not rely on this aspect. His biggest scar is an ugly blade cut into his right shoulderblade, and its only so prominant because it struggled to heal properly.

Sampo is shorter the Natasha! Natasha is just tall !! She is shorter then Gepard who is the tallest among the Belobog cast but shes second.

In order of tallest to shortest of Belobog adults its - Gepard, Natasha, Sampo, Serval, Luka, Bronya, Seele. Sorry Seele.

The Landau eye color and color crest is so recognizable in Belobog that that shade of blue is called Landau Blue.

When Sampo has a difficult time sleeping, he wordlessly buries his face into Gepards neck, who simply begins to hum if hes also awake.

Gepard is a light sleeper- he wakes up very easily. Sampo is not. Gepard has had to fight an extremely sleepy Sampo to get up in the morning more times then he can count.

Gepard actually does have a good singing voice, its just that he has poor discipline and tries to match Servals octave. Which is. Way to high. He also has good rhythm!

This does not mean he is a good dancer.

He can get through on dancing, it being part of his upbringing and studies growing up, but he can only do what steps he knows. Any improv and he falters.

Sampo has in fact trust falled on Gepard multiple times. Once at Bronya and Seeles wedding. He basically forced Gepard to dip him.

Gepard is actually incredibly sassy. Its just that hes awful at inflection and everything comes across as matter-of-fact or dry as fuck. That, and he only dares to sass Serval most of the time- theres not many other people hes comfortable enough with to let loose that much.

When it comes to fishing out back alley deals, few are more knowledgable than Sampo. Even before the Trailblazers, Sampo and Gepard had an under the table deal where if Gepard was unable to crack a case alone, he could get information off Sampo in exchange for supplies and shield. He was not happy about this deal but he deemed it a necessity- for the sake of Belobogs safety.

Sampo would and still does anonymously tip the Guards off on major crimes that could severely impact Belobogs already fragile economy. Hes no saint , but he has his personal morals and he sticks to them.

Gepard had many sharp teef , lil fangies even ! but theyve been worn down over time.

Sampo also has lil sharp teef ! his are more snake fang like tho, thinner.

[cartooncartoonpanic]

#004 On the brink

(CW: Medical trauma, mentions of child test subjects and amputations)

You ask Blossom if she's still a superhero, and this, at least, she seems excited to talk about.

"Well...crime's kind of slowed down in the past few years. Obviously we haven't been fighting you. Mojo got taken to a facility outside of the city I think. Him got kind of bored since we aren't as scared anymore-"

"Yeah, too bored to be a parent" You interrupt, understandably bitter that the man who brought you back to life never checked up on you in the past few years.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't... You don't have to apologize for what HE did. Keep going. "

"Well...I think Sedusa got a modelling contract or something? Someone in the Gangreen gang joined a popular band I think and they all went for a tour, Fuzzy invested in some ear plugs and doesn't really care about what goes on in Townsville, and the Ameboa boys...well they're still at it I guess. So yeah...we don't really go out as a team anymore like that" That last part did sound a bit sad.

"That's really all the big criminals in Townsville?" You could have sworn there was another one who he had met before

"Oh right, Princess...that's an entire situation" She whispered and tried to hint with her eyes at someone else in the room.

"She's not a criminal anymore but...she's still sort of our enemy. Or at least making Bubbles' life harder..." Sure enough a girl in a suit with gold trim and a crown hair clip was looking at both of you. Was that Princess? Did she know you were talking about her?

"Do you do any fighting?" You change the subject back, agreeing that it's probably for the best not to get into any drama.

"To be honest...I'm kind of a soloist these days. I don't know if thats the term...but Bubbles has her veterenarian internship and Buttercup has a pretty intense training schedule so usually I'm the one who takes on any new villains who pop up. Aside from this mech robot guy though, most of them don't come back. The process is a bit different though. Since its just me most of the time, I wear a costume and use a cool nickname. It's a secret though" She seemed to be having a lot of fun.

You wonder briefly, if you were a hero with a secret identity, and did all of the things that the girls did, would people praise you? Give you the benefit of the doubt? Stop treating you like a dangerous criminal? Was it possible for you, of all people, to be good? But you don't vocalize these thoughts. Especially not to her. And definitely not now of all times.

You ask Blossom if she knows anybody else here, aside from the obvious she and her siblings, you and your siblings, and princess.

"Hmmm...I think so. Some of them I only know from tv but if you mean personally...The guy with the striped shirt is one of Buttercups workout partners...I remember his name also starts with a B but I don't know what it is. And then that guy with the white hair is Edd.

Apparently his two best friends are named that too. I know, confusing... They seem exhausting to be around when they're all together but Edd's pretty nice when it's just us. We were in chess club together. The girl with the ballet shoes the really tall blonde one, her name is Deedee, and she was a big fan of my sisters and I when she was younger so we got asked to come to her birthday party as special guests and our parents got along enough that we went over to their house pretty often. And then there's her brother~" She dreamily sighed before covering her mouth, embarassed.

So she had a crush. For some reason the thought bothered you a lot. Maybe it was because you wished she spoke about you that way. Maybe it's because the fact that she's able to be comfortable enough with someone to fall in love is more proof that she got to live a happy normal life, while you didn't. Is there anything that's fair?

"I wonder why all of these people are here though. Do you know any of them?"

You look around. Aside from the obvious of the powerpuff girls, your own brothers, and princess, nobody seems like someone you've seen before. Except...there's a guy with black hair in what seems to be goggles and a cape. Even among villains people would think this guy is trying to hard and this is coming from the kid of a monkey who wore a turban. You could have sworn you recognized that face. you don't remember where you saw him, but just looking at him makes you tense.

Wait. He recognizes you too.

And he's coming towards you.

A flood of memories come back to you and leave you paralyzed at the same time. The sterile white walls. The injections. The blood samples. The sedatives.

The invasive examinations. The terrifying people in lab coats. The repeated talk about how this is all you would be good for.

The amputation.

YOU'RE CERTAIN THIS IS THE MAN WHO RUINED YOUR LIFE

Your panic becomes rage as everything around you tunes out. There is no hotel dining room. There are no other people. It's you and the evil scientist. He's speaking but you can barely hear him over everything racing through your head. Even now he doesn't have a sense of boundaries. He seems to be trying to pull your jacket off of your body, saying something about not believing they went through with it. At first you dont know what he's doing until he grabs your arm. Or rather...your metal prosthetic arm.

[kozykricket]

Lets talk mob votes

Now, there are a lot of things in minecraft that I hear people complain about, and I think theres some fair critiques of the game to be made! There's even fair critique to be made about the mob votes, too! But... I'm here to give a clearer perspective on what mob votes really are, as most people seem to misunderstand their context and the actual premise of them... which is somewhat mojangs fault, I'll admit. I stand by critique being welcome as long as you are making informed critique. I'd argue being informed is more important than being constructive / offering alternatives! So lets get to the informing. You might be thinking that its obvious what the mob votes are. Mojang takes like, 3 cool mob concepts that they have, and make us pick only one. They make us vote, and only add the winner. That's a surface level understanding. The simplest part to debunk is a notion that I see often: that Mojang has these mobs entirely designed and planned out. I said concepts but most people don't seem to understand that these are just concepts, they aren't fully fleshed out. They want to know which ones the players like, so that they aren't spending time developing a mob that people don't care much for. They prefer to add what will make people happy! But... what about cases like the allay? It was designed far more deeply than the other mobs in the vote, which I will say was quite unfair. Well, okay, lets just... pretend they did a vote between 3 well-designed mobs. "Why not just add all 3?" people might say. They still... I... I don't think people understand that Mojang operates on a schedule, and tries to balance what they work on - minecraft is a game with a lot of different elements, and none should take the center stage above any other one. It isn't just their job to add mobs. If it was their job to add mobs and they only added like, 1 or 2 mobs a year, then yeah, it'd be really stupid. Though, I suppose my real point is that... if a mob works out good enough to be in their plans, it won't be in a vote. They won't just have a vote where they'll add all 3 because all 3 aren't necessary and they aren't reasonable. Lets take 1.20 for example. They spent time adding new mechanics for detecting where you click on a block for chiseled bookshelves, they gave both the camel and the sniffer fancy animations using the new keyframe system, and armor trims have a very fancy customizable system that makes adding more very easy! They changed up some things in the lighting engine, they're always doing under the hood changes. It's never a choice of "do performance fixes" or "add new content" because they... do both all the time! It's just that it usually yields a net zero. But that's a tangent Point is, yes they can indeed add all 3, but that would take away from the time they have to spend on the update. Mojang is a company that generally tries to avoid crunch, and has summer holidays. I am a supporter of healthy development environments, so I don't mind this. It means that things may take longer, but like. Do we really need all the mobs? Again, if they consider the mob important enough, it won't be in a vote. The vote is just like (Well, d'ya ever take time to think about what its like being at mojang? I bet ideas like the glare or copper golem are thrown around all the time, ideas echoing through the hallways... we only get to see just a few of them. So y'know, you can take that logic and say. well. they probably have WAAAY more than just 3 mobs that a few devs want to add, but they can't feasibly add all those mobs. So they of course just pick a few. 3 or 4. They develop those mobs in a basic level beyond initial concepts, and let the players pick between their little fun ideas. I'd bet that their best ideas are probably not put up into votes. They probably keep those ones locked down and prepare them for further design.) I bet they just... well. continue'd in self-reblog. Char limit-

[groupiewhoreee]

Hey! Do you think you could write either some nsfw headcanon for gene or a nsfw alphabet? Maybe something with a height difference? He’s 6’2 (6’8 in the platforms) and ya girl is 4’9 😂 anyways thanks babs luv ya! 😗✨❤️

omg hii again! yess, i'd love to, i love gene hes so cool 😭 i'll include the height diff into the nsfw alphabet. holy shit never actually realized that uh okay damn. i'm like 5'..1? idk something i don't remember !! luv ya too! 💕🤧

NSFW ALPHABET

(GENE SIMMONS!)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

I don't think he's much or too much of an romantic type, but he tries his best. He always is trying to get you things you'd like, and stuff like that. During aftercare, he'll kiss your forehead, and help clean you up. Bring you to bed(if you didn't do it on the bed), sleep with you, and in the morning he'll stay with you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

I think Gene likes the way he towers over you in the boots and just the way he is. When he looks down at you, and you have to look up at him. How you sometimes have to get a step-stool like thing to get there and kiss him. He still has to bend over a little. Or he'll say he likes ur lips, because of the way they taste and how you kiss him. He likes his hands though, because he is able to play guitar and trail his hands up and down ur body.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Gene likes to let his load out upon anywhere on you, but not all the time. He'll cum on ur ass or stomach, but if that isn't what u want, it'll be in ur mouth. He'll force you to swallow it.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Personally, Gene has nothing to keep from you. He is an open book, and is totally willing to talk to you about anything. He loves you, and doesn't want you to think he's hiding anything, but he'll like to share you with Paul.. I KNOW, but he isn't gonna keep it from you..

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Guys. Rockstar, Groupie? Make sense? Of course he has experience on him, he's very experienced, and he obviously knows what he's doing. He has pounded many groupies beforehand, it probably explains why he isn't as romantic after sex because he's used to groupies.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He is an open book, so any position is good with him, but he prefers doggy style as much as anything. Although he does like reverse cowgirl or any way you two land up. But if u'd like to try a new position thats fine with him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He's a goofy one during sex, giggling and laughing when you fall off the bed or make a weird noise, but gets very serious during sex, the eye contact is amazing, but he can't help but smile at you because ur smiling at him. He says ur smile is very beautiful.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Same color as the hair on his head, and of course you can see it. He doesn't have to be asked to trim it nor groom, because he'll do it anyway for you. He doesn't like them either dude. He has a lotta hair on him, when he gets sweaty its worse. You don't even ask him to shave anywhere and he does.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Like I said, Gene isn't very great with romantic shit, it just isn't him as much. He does try a lot for you if thats what you want, like candles, romantic music, and rose petals but not all the time. He tries his best to be somewhat intimate with you. Although he isn't like Tommy Lee. He isn't a hopeless romantic like him, although he can be if you want him too, he wants to try his best with you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He doesn't actually do it much. Sometimes, yeah when he's on tour, but usually phone sex happens. He wants to at-least hear your pretty little cries, but at times he just doesn't masturbate at all. He doesn't really touch his weenie much, it rarely happens unless he's really in the mood. Otherwise he doesn't do it.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Not much of a kink man, although dude is into ball gags and shit, bdsm maybe. When he roughs you up, he calls you slut, whore, all that stuff, but sometimes its just hair pulling or teasing you heavily.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He likes the bed because pillows, and its comfortable for him, because the feels. But he's willing to do it over tables, counters, in public. He tried doing it in a public bathroom or in one of those family restrooms and under a restaurant table. He doesn't mind public sex. Doesn't like the way people can see, but whatever is good w him, ig.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Seeing you in black lingerie. Totally gets him going. He'll pop one and thats the go too, you know it turns him on so thats why you wear it so much.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He wouldn't ever try and hurt you as much, spanking a few times is okay, but nothing to over the top. And definitely nothing with bodily fluids. (You know the ones), and nothing with Feet. Absolutely not. He'll call it off and probably just not have sex with you or leave you if thats what your really into because that's disgusting for him.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

As much as he adores receiving, he doesn't mind about giving. He loves to please you, especially if he's between your legs, kissing all around and then finally placing his hot mouth and sucking the living shit out of you and teasing you with his tongue just to see you beg and hear you whine and whimper for him. He loves blowies, so definitely give those to him first beforehand.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Eh, Gene is slow at first, but he gets fast longer it goes. He'll get sloppy too, but if you want fast and rough then there. He wants sex to be as sensual as it can be.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He's a busy rockstar so, quickies bound to happen at times. Its often, although he prefers actual sex and having his time with you, quickies is usually what you two have to do, because he doesn't get much time with you, sorry.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Hes down, but not too down. You have to explain to him what the risk is your going to take and then see if he'll agree to it.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can last a few rounds until he finally says he's too tired and he starts getting sloppy. He can last for a few minutes during sex until he actually lets his load out, but he can last about an hour pounding into you until its the next round for you two.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Y'know, I don't think he uses them on himself. He'll use them on you though, sure he owns them but they're mostly yours. He's willing to lend you cash for them, but its rare he does so, because you usually buy it yourself.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves to tease you, but he loves when you tease him. He'll groan and want you to just blow him already. He loves teasing you though, hearing ur cries, and being touch starved.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He isn't that loud. He grunts, lets out small groans and husky moans, sometimes squeaky moans, but usually he doesn't make much noise.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Sharing you with Paul, thats it. Maybe Ace? He doesn't know.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

I got no idea. Probably a.. 7.8, 8.2 inch? Idk he has a lotta hair down there like Slash. Its like a jungle dude. Could get a leopard in there man.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

On tour, its very high. And if he's without you on tour, its even higher. Its high when he comes back and he will want to have sex with you at home afterwards or even before if he is with you. He can't help it.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not as quick, although he'll fall asleep afterwards.

[vanibear]

rough wip of a fic where roxas and kairi have a conversation and learn a bit more abt each other (set post melody of memory) !!

i have a lot more stuff to add but I have other things i need to be doing today :(

"I had a feeling you'd be up here,"

Roxas jumped about a foot in the air; he'd been too engrossed in his writing to notice anyone that anyone else had climbed up to the tower.

"Careful! Don't fall!" Kairi yelped, surprised that he’d been so startled.

Roxas grabbed his pen right before it rolled off the edge of the tower and disobeyed Kairi's instructions.

"Don't worry. I've learned how to keep my balance up here, but it takes some practice," 

Their first conversation flashed through his mind. Admittedly, the clock tower was not the safest choice for a hangout spot.

"What brings you here?" he asked, offering his hand to help Kairi sit down. 

Hesitantly, she took it and settled down beside him on the ledge. Roxas noticed that her hands were clenched- nails digging into palm. The same way Xion does when she's nervous. 

"You okay?"

Kairi took a deep breath, avoiding his gaze.

"Yeah. Heights just.. aren't my thing. I'd rather have the ground under my feet, that's all,”

She paused.

“But, tomorrow, I leave to go train with Aqua, so I figured I ought to visit this place again before I go,"

“Y’know, you really shouldn’t force yourself up here if you’re scared of heights. This place isn’t that special,” 

Roxas knew that statement sounded wonderfully ironic, coming from his lips.

A cloud passed in front of the sun. Kairi shivered.

"It's- the height's not everything," her voice grew soft.

Roxas looked over, concerned. Her shoulders were trembling.

"The last time I was here... was with him."

Him.

Roxas remembered how she'd walked back without him that day. Deep down, a voice he tried to ignore asked why Sora didn't feel like saying goodbye to him.

"It's… been awhile since then," Roxas stared ahead.

Kairi murmured in agreement.

The two watched the clouds roll by.

"Roxas?"

"Hm?"

"What were you writing about, when I came up here?"

"Oh, that," 

Roxas reached out to grab the notebook he'd set aside- yellow on the front, with painted stars and a thalassa shell. Xion and Namine had worked together on it, all for him. He still didn't know how to thank them.

"I was just journaling. I come up here in the afternoons when everyone's doing other things. It's a nice place to write."

Kairi nodded, pulling something from her pocket. It was a small purple journal, with a bow on the front.

"I like to write, too. Mostly poems, though. I've tried to keep a diary before, but it never stuck. I feel like I just don't remember enough to write anything," She twisted the ribbon on the cover between her fingers.

"I've been there before.”

“Really?”

“I…  think you should keep trying. Trust me, it helps. And not just with memories,"

Kairi looked up.

"It helps you… see what you feel. Sometimes, I can't understand what I'm feeling until I write it down."

"I see. I think I'm the same way with my poems," 

She went back to messing with the journal’s ribbon.

"Though, I feel like I can't write anything at all, nowadays," she whispered.

She sighed. It sounded just like Namine's.

Roxas drummed his fingers on top of his notebook, then, taking a deep breath, slowly reached into his pocket. He pulled out a fountain pen- navy, with black and silver trim- and pointed it towards Kairi.

"Take this. For you to write with. It was my first one,"

"Your first... pen?"

"Yeah."

Roxas rubbed his thumb over the cap. The motion alone brought back countless memories. He didn't know why he held onto it. It had become a habit to carry around, even after its matching journal had long been filled. He didn't use it, though. Something in him couldn't. It was from a different time, a time long gone; secretly, he felt like if he used it, it might just have the power to bring those times back.

"Back when.. I first joined the Organization... Saix gave it to me, with a journal as well,"

"Saix did?" 

She sounded confused.

"Well, Isa now, I guess. He told me that I should keep a diary, to keep track of things that happened. I didn't know what to write at first, but... it eventually became like a lifeline to me. In the beginning, I... I don't know how to describe it, but I couldn't hold on to anything. Everything would swim around me, but I think- I think writing was one of the things that saved me from… losing who I was,"

"That was... very kind of Saix."

"Huh. I guess it was.”

Kairi stared down at the pen.

"Roxas,"

Kairi looked at the boy in front of her. His face was set in a determined, almost familiar way; his eyes shone so blue, so earnestly; she couldn't bear to meet their gaze.

"I can't take something so important from you. I-"

"No." There was a storminess in his eyes as he interrupted her.

"I don't even use it anymore. It's a gift. A… thank you."

"A thank you?"

"Yes. Do you remember the first time we talked?"

He watched as Kairi closed her eyes and searched for the memory. It made him sad, when people struggled to remember things; he knew too well the pain of forgetting. He felt worse that she knew it likely as well as he did.

"I- think so. It was when I was... trying to remember S-" Her voice faded off so that she wouldn't have to finish the name.

"Yeah. You ended up finding me instead."

[sychosid]

I've prayed enough, I rolled the dice.

"Hangman" Adam Page/Swerve Strickland

[Ao3 Link]

Swerve nearly runs over an unfamiliar face, and lands himself in an familiarly unfamiliar place.

Ancient Names, Pt. II.

The chain itself didn’t quite move. There was simply something about holding it that gave Swerve direction…at times. 

He couldn’t exactly hold it in his hands when handing his car back to the car rental company, but Swerve knew he had to change cars. He needed something older, with an analog radio receiver.

Somewhere right outside of Portland, Oregon was where he found it. A Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, from 1981. He barely even remembered getting to the dealership, although he was pretty sure he just took an Uber there.

None of that really mattered. There wasn’t a car at that dealership older than 1985.

“The ‘81. Good choice, and it’s a Trans Am. Reliable, fashionable. It’s really in style right now you know. Only a couple years old.” The dealers were a pair of brothers, Dale and Johnnie Redmayne. Johnnie was the one who was striking the deal. Dale had been quieter when they met, and said he’d take care of paperwork.

“There aren’t a lot of these. And you’re selling it for $9900. This rare-ass car.” There was an accusatory tone to his voice.

“What can I say?” Johnnie shrugs, “We got good deals. The Phantom Riders know how to ride.” 

Swerve scoffs at that, but reaches down to touch the car. Black, glossy finish. It was allegedly used, but looked brand new. Still, he saw there were a few thousand miles on it. It was the thing that called out to him. There were other rare cars on the lot. Old Bentleys, Rolls Royces’, Porsches, hell even Aston Martins. 

The Pontiac needed him, and he needed it. Yeah it wasn’t low-key. But it was Swerve Strickland, and that’s all the reason he needed.

“Yeah, I’ll take her.”

“Good man! Now, I’m sure Dale has the paperwork all sorted out, let’s get this thing going.”

Dale was a quiet man, much like Swerve expected. Thorough, surprisingly soft spoken for the way he looked (that was one nasty scar on his face, running from the left side of his mouth up to his scalp).

Johnnie was a weird guy, but he was nice enough. He drove Swerve to pull the cash from his bank, didn’t pull a damn thing. Chatted the whole way through, about things Swerve didn’t really tune into. Not that the younger man seemed to mind or care much; if he even noticed.

Hell he even drove him to the DMV and paid for the taxes and registration fee. It was weirdly nice, but Swerve found himself rolling with it.

Johnnie had some quirks to him. He smiled a lot, joked around, and charmed just about everyone. Guys like that were the most dangerous, but if he tried to pull anything Swerve was ready for it.

The shoe never dropped though. It didn’t matter, ultimately, he didn’t have time to question it and he didn’t feel a need to.

Soon enough, Swerve was on the road again.

The Pontiac drove like a dream. Heavy and smooth, the road felt like it was flying by underneath them. 

Suddenly the radio crackled, and Swerve watched the dial turn on its own. It certainly wasn’t the weirdest thing to happen to him, but strange nonetheless. He reached his hand over before his eyes flicked back up to the road. There was a man walking across, and it was dark. Suddenly, it was very dark. He couldn’t remember how bright it was before, but there was a man, with close cropped hair and a trimmed beard, and bright blue eyes, and Swerve hit the brakes while turning his steering wheel with a hard left. The tires screeched as this man stumbled back out of the car’s way. 

Knowing he was skidding pretty hard, Swerve kept the wheel going and slowly released it, easing up on the brakes as he did, not letting his foot completely lift off the pedal. The car finished spinning out, as Swerve put the car in park and killed the engine, taking the key out of the car’s ignition and pocketing it into his leather jacket. 

He stepped out, walking over to the side of the road where the man he nearly ran over. The man looked a bit dazed.

Swerve was nonplussed. He leaned over and offered his hand, which the other man took.

“You good?” Swerve asked, tilting his head back. The man looked fine to him, and somehow he knew he was too.

He took Swerve’s hand, and he pulled the man up to his feet. The man brushed the dirt off himself and looked at Swerve.

“Mind if I hitch a ride?” He asked.

Swerve raised his eyebrows. “I almost hit you.”

“Yeah. What does that do with me trying to get a ride?”

“...Yeah sure, least I can do.”

“I’m Mox.” The man introduced himself. “Or Jon. Prefer Mox though.” 

“Okay Mox. Get in.”

The man did just that, clumsily trying to get into the passenger side seat. He swept a leg over the seat, before pulling out. He tried it again, failing to duck enough and hitting his head, grunting as he pulled back and rubbed it. Finally, he ducked low enough to get into the car, torso first and adjusting awkwardly into the seat.

Swerve was impressed. That was the worst he’s seen anyone try to get into a car.

Much more smoothly, Swerve got into the driver’s seat. He put the keys into the ignitions, and corrected their course, heading whatever way he was heading. Swerve wasn’t sure if he actually knew. He only could feel the chain in his backseat, as if he knew where the next link was. The next part of the puzzle laid in front of him.

There was still the static of the radio trying to tune itself. 

“KRRRSH–a haunti-KSH-tune–KSSH–well tha–KSHHHRK–W. Justine wi–”

“The radio is still tweaking, just started doing that.” Swerve’s eyes flicked down towards the radio as he spoke. “Its why I nearly hit you.”

“Here, let me get that.” Mox reached over and touched the dial, his fingers holding onto the knob as his hand and wrist worked to turn it. It struck Swerve how intricate a structure the wrist was. Skin met muscle met tendons met bone. A connection of ball and socket, fine bones and soft tissue. It was pretty easy to dislocate or injure or break. His thoughts were broken up by the radio tuning into things that weren’t just static.

“–mic ash and blackend b–beam’s–show your fa–outta the grave–oth-dimensi-–”

“Damn thing. I think…here.” Mox mutters, mostly to himself as he turns the dial some more.

The radio crackled into a clear voice, with a deep southern accent.

“–ith Frozen Pines. A beautiful, haunting track isn’t it? Don’t you feel a chill down your spine every time you hear it? I know I do, folks. This is Tubbs Tarbell  at Whispering Pines Studios. Now I think it’s time for a commercial break…”

Swerve turned the volume down.

“Frozen Pines.” Swerve mused on the two worlds, rolling them around on his tongue like he was savoring the taste of them. A chill down his spine just from the words. Plenty of pines around this area. Plenty of pine trees they were driving through. Cold. He wore heavy jackets in the winter. 

It could snow plenty in the Pacific Northwest. Swerve didn’t hate the snow. Hell he enjoyed it at times, especially as a kid. A snow day always felt like a treat. It was rare in Seattle, but common surrounding it. They were driving south, so the snow would be dry and wispy, powdery and building. 

Like it was now. Whipping around them as they drove by. The snow had built up quite a bit, maybe too fast. How long had they even been driving?

The steering wheel was cold like the chain. It was the chain. He was leading it, where he needed it to take him.

“Hey–” Swerve turned his head to look at Mox, but the man wasn’t there. The chain was. It was freezing over, a thin white layer of frosty ice building over it, slowly. Cracking around where the links met.

He hits the brakes. The steering wheel was a normal steering wheel. The one that belonged to the Pontiac.

The volume on the radio increased. It was a different voice from before. Whoever it was talked similarly to Tubbs.. A facsimile of his voice, save for the accent and pitch. It wasn’t as heavy as a drawl, more of a tenor than a baritone.

“Alright folks, thanks for hanging on tight. Speaking of hanging, our guest has arrived! You may know him, or you may not. You may love him, or you may hate him! Here he is, “The Hangman” Adam Page!”

[firespirited]

in the middle of the night, I was feeling slightly numbed and not nauseated from movement so i was able to stretch and nerve glide some trapped nerves in the neck and shoulders and am able to use a computer screen today. yay.

woke up and had a long silent cry sesh, i've been doing a lot of writing on my phone notes to make sense of what happened and what my options are. I start trauma therapy on Wednesday with a brand-new batch of trauma and no emotional support network and there's nothing I could have done better to prevent it.

been repeating what the doctor said "[I am] not responsible for other people's choices" like a mantra but it still isn't quite hitting. I know how to handle myself and once I get back in the rhythm and stop trying to fix the unfixable, it'll come naturally. but yeah, I'm grieving and grief is a wild beast that deserves its space.

-----------------------

I got out the summer clothes, after only pulling out a few items last summer and mostly wearing underwear and spaghetti tops indoors, tried stuff on and thankfully most of the trousers can get draw-strings or tightened elastic. I'd done most of the t-shirts earlier this year, there were a few to say goodbye to and some were ready to be rags.

Several strapless ruched bust dresses had to go to charity, the weight loss hit the chest the hardest and you need some heftier ones with tighter elastic to wear that kinda dress in full confidence you won't accidentally fall out. I'll be making straps for the others.

On the other hand, I've been holding on to a lovely dark stretch denim dress from my twenties and it fits again, it's a great design and very solid, properly lined and all the seams really nice.

Also got three white based ladies shirts I found early this year in a bin: they had small coffee stains and just needed spot bleaching (wack that people don't know how to do that). One's got a blue flower trim down the buttons and collar, the other is a lovely pattern of dandelion seeds. I use a white shirt as mosquito and sun protection whenever I go out so it's nice to have pretty options.

[acaplaya-musings]

Voiceplay Visuals: My Mother Told Me

This video was released on the 24th of April, 2021, and currently sits at a very-impressive 6.7 million views! It features Jose Rosario Jr (in his first collabration with Voiceplay (on a full-length video at least)), who for a few years performed with Rockapella! (Rockapella is an acapella group who have been around for over 35 years, they were part of the OG Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego show, and they were a bit of an inspiration to Voiceplay (originally 4:2:Five) in their early days).

I wasn't actually sure whether or not this video would give me a lot of moments to point out/talk about (it's been a while since the last time I watched it), but it's obviously a big production (epic, even), and I will undoubtedly be talking about its "sister video", Valhalla Calling, when I eventually get around to it, so long story short, I'm doing this. Let's go!

Each vocalist got filmed separately for this one, each with their own backdrop (and then were all spliced together for "group shots" in the video), so each member gets their own picture when I'm talking about them in this post!

Jose is wearing some textured blanket-looking thing, plus a plain brown shirt/tunic, and he's got a pair of blueish lines on his face that almost look a little bit like scars. He's standing in front of a sort of desert plains landscape, maybe with some large red mountains/rock formations?

Oh yeah and also it's a little hard to see, but just at the neckline of Jose's shirt, underneath his beard, there's a cool viking(?) symbol on his neck that also shows up in Valhalla Calling (and on the merch for that video too)!

Eli appears to have a bit of dirt and grime on his skin (which would be intentional of course), as well as some cool-looking tattoos (even on his head!) (fake ones for the video of course), and some very heavy eye makeup. He's standing in front of some grass, rocky cliffs (possibly with water down below?), and sea mist

(Also Eli is credited with "virtual production" on this one, so I guess all these greenscreen backgrounds were his doing? Massive shoutout to Eli!)

J has the same symbol on his forehead that Jose had on his neck/chest, as well as some white powder-looking makeup stuff on his cheeks. No clue what kind of top/shirt that is, but I like the big fur coat, and cool arm cuff things as well! He's standing in front of a frozen (or partially-frozen) lake, with snow-covered mountains/rock formations behind it.

(Fun fact: Geoff re-used a few costume pieces from My Mother Told Me when filming the videos for his covers of Far Over The Misty Mountains Cold and I See Fire!

Layne has got a makeup design to Eli, with similiar tattoos on his face, and a bit of extra dirt/grime as well. He's got fur trimmings(?) on his shoulders like Eli, but it looks more like the fur that J is wearing. He's standing in front of wide open plains I guess? I'm not sure, I can't make out a ton of detail.

I think Layne's outfit might be my favourite one of this video; it seems the most complex, like it has the most going on with it, and I like the patterned cuff design thing on his right arm!

And I haven't forgotten Geoff, of course I haven't forgotten Geoff, and seriously oh my god

I'm honestly not sure if I could give a good description of Geoff's outfit even if I tried, but it works! (Also wait I literally only just realised that, once more, he's the only one in the video with exposed shoulders (well, one exposed shoulder, but still!))

This honestly might be one of Geoff's most terrifying looks of any Voiceplay video so far, if not the most terrifying. Vampire!Geoff in This Is Halloween was "scary" in the "yes please give me more of it" (i.e. hot) way. Oogie Boogie!Geoff in Oogie Boogie's Song was just theatrical and entertaining. Mr Hyde!Geoff in Kidnap The Sandy Claws was (to me at least) just a little bit strange and hard to wrap my head around. But Geoff here? This is "makes you want to move very quickly in the opposite direction" scary!

(So like well done to Rick Underwood on the makeup (but in regards to everyone else as well))

Jose, J, Eli, and Layne all got cool aesthetic landscapes as their backdrops. Geoff got darkness and STUFF ON FIRE (...yeah that checks out 😆)

Even the fingernails!!! Even the fingernails look like they've got grime on them! (Also, Geoff at his least-terrifying moment of the video)

Aaaand we're back to "time to run away very fast" mode!

(Also yes Geoff's tattoos and makeup are very cool as well)

Not that Geoff is the only one in this video that I wouldn't wanna pick a fight with!

Jose is credited with "additional acting direction" in the description, so I guess he maybe camw up with/directed some of these kind of moves?

Oh hey Geoff has that symbol on him as well! I wonder if Layne and Eli have got it somewhere on them too?

Wait hang on what is Eli holding?

A better shot of Layne's face tattoos and the cool sleeve thing!

Geoff doing a similar hand movement to the one he did in Bang! (which was my previous post actually), after he had just done a bit of an impressive bass-vocal-run (or something like that), except this time it's after holding a quite low note (a subharmonic I think?) for like 6 seconds.

Oh I think Eli was holding his cape?

Yes I can see the tattoo, thank you Jose! 😂

Also did Geoff do a bit of hair colouration for this video? Because yes he's got a bit of grey in his hair now, but not that much grey, and it's not always that noticeable (though personally I do love the grey streak he often has in his bangs, it's rather fetching if I do say so myself <3)

Run fast, and run far!

And that's the video! Man, can you believe these are the same dudes (well except Jose) that did the Aca Top 10 videos, being all silly and fooling around? Acting skills were freaking on point here! Everyone crushed it!

It's a great arrangement as well (shoutout to Layne!). The song is actually just one single verse, which here is sung like 5 or 6 times over, but you barely even notice it (if at all) because the whole production is just so mind-blowingly good!

I also wanted to do this video because I'll be skipping over You're My Best Friend and Man In The Mirror, so this'll be the last video I'm doing where J is actually a part of the group. It was of course very sad that he left Voiceplay, but he's come back as a guest artist in like 6 full-length videos now (not even counting the minis), and hopefully he might one day return to Voiceplay full-time, once he's done with his stint in the US Navy band!

[the-firebird69]

We need these guys out of here these stupid trump stirs or a bunch of **** they don't know how anything works they're **** just spewing **** everywhere. Everybody hates them there's some guys sharing dumb we have more lock for like two feet tall whoever much better act.* stirs up some memories and I remember my husband getting excited when he saw it and he couldn't get one so he was sad and eventually he got the firebird and was felt really good. There's a piece of junk it wasn't se There's a piece of junk it wasn't set up to drive and it was horrible and with this moron who did it we don't like him. Tries to kidnap him all the time and we're gonna crucify him. We do understand people want to know what it would do

Pontiac GTO 2003-7 usually 350hp speed 195 with the bradley kit top end exhaust shell etc 320mph due to being a lot lighte take out the two back seats and fbg and a cage. keep the dash and instrum.

Pontiac Grand am 1984-2006 and we suggest and spec it for 3 litre versions and yes the largest and it s not so big. original speed 155 mhs new speed trimmed down yes interior and new consoles for all years on this one 245mph and yes a miracle car due to it being a bg dog. and crap on the road.

and due to there being so many of them ini the eighties and nineties and they work and are in garages or tgo tow miles a day we want to make it inexphenisve at first. and works though and looks awesome runs fast as we said. only high perf not super. and use less exphensive aftermarket stuff as his brother did but nicer shaped erfect new hight tech features.

I want this car up and running it is his brothers and we wanna do it we know where it was made and who was making it. They don't seem to be available for anything at all they're not done no they are out and hit a tomb and because it was Dave and Carol helped and they were doing it in Massachusetts little and moved it to Illinois and the molds are out there so we have some to try for and I wanna start it and we have a project going includes it and yeah the front end will fit the motor and you put a different hood on and the hood needs to be changed but it can have some of the similar features which would be interesting. This is an awesome idea and the Porsche idea is awesome and the panels so without further ado we're going to rest and we're going to keep trying to get this going and talking about it so we have a modernized version it's for the VW but he says that's kind of a lot of work no open

This is a more expensive G6 came later. And he says we could keep the interior. And actually the window configuration is very similar to the Bradley GT2 you'd have to change the rear panels the front panels the hood and the cow and faring and rear bumper panels and bumpers and everything else you leave alone you don't touch the roof or interior you can pull the back seats out if you want and we can have a kit for putting in a small bench seat that's light the way difference will put on the package it's like 300 pounds it's still gonna be a front wheel drive it's a rear wheel drive but it's front engine eventually we would change that. this car is still pricy, no, it is not exphenisve its cheap now. fast enough but the kit would make it much faster. and sorta hidden as to what it is. nice idea to start doesnt ruin it and you can change it

Thor Freya i do ths one it is my panel and we see they are in the shop we shal be need to be there and the two big fellas are we move on it now

we do too

Olympus

my car next lol good he says

Hera

[shooter-nobunagun]

Haircut

A/N: I know, it's been a while since I've updated...truth be told, the last couple months have just been A Lot for me to deal with personally, so I honestly was not in the mood to really write (can't force it if I'm not feeling it) or I just didn't have the time/energy. BUT that means I take opportunities when I can, and want to, like now (I hope this keeps going 'cause boy I'm looking at all my chaptered fics and going yeah...I swear, they are definitely WIP...)

‘Damn…maybe it is too short?’ Adam grumbled to himself, turning this way and that in the mirror after he’d finished wiping away bits of loose hair. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, perhaps he had been a bit too zealous with the scissors the other day when he finally trimmed the sniper’s hair back to its usual length—or rather, the length it used to be before all that shit went down. The day had been breezy and warm, Adam finally clean-shaven himself as he’d taken a sheet and scissors, and cut off the extra inches she’d gained while in the midst of her fervent search for Kaoru Asao in the ruins of San Francisco. It turned out alright he’d thought; Sio’s hair had always been kept in a simple bob anyway so how hard could it be he reasoned—and for the most part the end result had looked the same…

‘Ah! Adam, did you have to cut my bangs so short?’ She’d turned around with a bit of a frown, Adam feeling a mite narked at both her comment and himself. So her bangs were slightly shorter than they used to be, was it that big a deal? The hair would grow back soon enough anyway. Besides, he was doing her a favor okay, would it kill her to show a little bit of gratitude? He’d said all this to her that day, much to the amusement of the rest of the Second Platoon who’d gathered around to see the results. And now it seemed he was 0 for 2, as his hands brushed against the bare skin along the back of his neck. At least his own bangs looked more-or-less the same, but as he once again felt the rough stubble of his newly-shaved undercut, Adam suddenly wondered if he’d taken off too much at once. For most of his life he’d kept his hair rather long and shaggy, only trimming it back until it just touched his shoulders and hid his ears; now, as he nervously glanced at his own reflection, it was just—gone. His neck felt exposed and vulnerable, and were his ears always so prominent? Scowling, Adam attempted to tug his remaining bangs around to the side more, in an effort to disperse the now-empty space framing his jawline.

“Bollocks…way to go, mate,” he sighed, and resigned to taking his own advice that Sio had given him so much flack for. At least the dye job had gone a lot smoother, the girl’s hair now back to her signature shade of brunette from the silver tresses that came about as a result of shock from Asao’s then-disappearance…

Hands stilled and his eyes grew melancholy, Adam still wrestling a bit with his internal feelings even though both of them were back safe and sound now. ‘Sio…please be alright now…’ Despite the chaotic battle, (where neither of them wore any sort of protective gear), Adam felt, for the first time, that he had faith in their relationship at last; that no matter what happened from here on out, they trusted each other fully. Though, he wished it hadn’t come at such a cost; that it didn’t take the crisis of Sio’s ‘runaway e-gene’ incident for them to finally be honest with each other, that it didn’t result in Asao-san’s terminal radiation poisoning.

Well, what’s done is done he thought, and laid down the towel after wiping his neck one more time. Perhaps he was overthinking all this, and it wasn’t really as bad as he feared; certainly Nightingale seemed to think so, the nurse clucking in sympathy as she tried to hide her amusement at his attempts to look fashionable. Besides, she consoled, Sio wasn’t the type of girl who judged people based on appearances, so what did it matter in the end? It wasn’t like he was trying to court her at this point, what with both of them having consummated their relationship at last. In any case, there was no point in sulking now; if he really hated it, well, it was as he told Sio—the hair would grow back in a couple of weeks.

Adam took a deep breath and opened the door, hoping the halls would be emptier than usual. The Ripper hated being at the center of attention as it was; he did not need to give people one more reason to turn and gawk.

“Oh wow! Adam, did you get a haircut too? Wait, don’t tell me you gave yourself a trim as well…?” Speak of the devil. The second Adam stepped into the galley, hoping to making a cup of hot chocolate to soothe his nerves, the sniper was already there, making some tea for herself.

“Ah, Sio—“

“—Whoa, it’s so, so…uh, short in the back…” Her eyes grew wide as she took in his new look in full, especially as she got to back, where a good chunk of it had simply been shaved off.

Adam blanched at her comment; he couldn’t tell if the pause was good or not. ‘Shit! I guess it really is too short…!’ Unconsciously his hand went to his neck, feeling a strange emptiness there now instead of the familiar comfort of his previously long locks.

“Y-Yeh, I uh, thought I might as well give myself something different…though, maybe it’s a little too different,” he muttered, cheeks turning faintly pink. “I guess it is pretty short, huh…”

Sio blinked. Adam’s new style was unexpected, but definitely not unpleasant. If anything, it freshened things up a bit, and gave her a better view of his neck and strong jawline. While she’d always joked about his uncanny resemblance to a wolf with his fluffy, shaggy hair, this new look gave him a cooler, almost edgy vibe. She was impressed he’d managed to give himself such a close shave without any help. ‘Then again, he is pretty dextrous with blades…’ His bangs were still layered as always, though she could tell they’d been neatly trimmed, and he’d even managed to give the rest of his hair some more layers to lighten it up. The stark contrast between his longer strands and the sharp line of buzzed undercut caused something to stir within her, and Sio felt her heart skip a couple of beats as she realized how attractive he looked.

‘Ohmygod…he looks so hot!’ The girl stood there in silence, mentally drooling a bit as she drunk in the sight of this new, edgier Adam. ‘The undercut look is totally in right now, and it really shows off his neck…!’ Adam seemed uncertain though, if the blush on his face was anything to go by. ‘Aww, is he embarrassed? He’s soo cute when he’s all shy and blushing like this…!’ Sio resisted the urge to squeal out loud. Though he’d mellowed out considerably after she got to know the ‘real’ Adam, it was unusual for him to lose his composure or act self-conscious like this. Especially now with the whole runaway e-gene incident finally behind them, he seemed to have taken on the self-appointed role of her personal guardian; even Jess and Mahesh had commented more than once how Adam was acting more overprotective than he used to. Her euphoria dropped a little as a thread of guilt wormed its way into her heart, Sio clutching the edge of her cape slightly. ‘Adam, you don’t have to worry so much about me anymore, you know…’ She knew he still felt guilty for hurting her like that, even if it was to save her life; ever since that incident she sensed he was trying to act stronger than he really felt, but sometimes she wished he didn’t have to try so hard for her sake.

Adam however, mistook her silence for shock and his expression dropped. “Yeh, it doesn’t look so good, does it; I guess you were right squirt, maybe I overdid it with the cutting—“

“—Nuh uh! That’s not true!” Adam jerked his head in surprise at the sniper’s excitement. “You, you look so cool! I think it really suits you!” Sio was positively jumping up and down with excitement, circling Adam every which way as she admired his new haircut from every angle. “I mean, I like your old hairstyle too, but this looks so...different! I-In a good way of course,” she added hastily, before Adam could take it the wrong way. “I think it’s a nice change of pace, since I’m so used to seeing you with longer hair…” She said earnestly, giving him one of her shy, genuine smiles.

“I-Is that so…” The sniper always found the most unexpected moments to take him by surprise, even now. Of all the possible scenarios, he had not expected Sio to react with such enthusiasm to his new look; the zeal with which she admired and complimented him was a tad overwhelming, but Adam welcomed it warmly. Besides, it was worth the initial embarrassment to be rewarded with one of her rare smiles, which made his whole body flush in a very pleasing manner. “W, Well if you like it, then I suppose it’s fine…” He rubbed the back of his now-bare neck sheepishly. “T’be honest, after I cut it, I realized I probably did overdo it when I cut your hair…apologies…”

The sniper touched her own bangs at his comment. “Eh…? Oh, it’s okay; I mean, you were right, after all; my hair does grow pretty quick, and I’ve gotten used to it now, so…I’m fine with it.” Sio twirled a strand of hair around her finger, now self-conscious of her own appearance. “And also, I was the one who asked you for the favor in the first place, so…I really appreciate it. It was nice to just do something simple like that again…together…” She whispered the last part, face now beet red as a myriad of emotions coursed through her.

Adam felt his own face grow warmer as well. “…Same here. Even though it sounds rather mundane, I…I enjoyed it. I didn’t mind at all, even if you were miffed. It was good to be able to spend time together with you again…”

“Ah, Adam…” Sio stilled, now caught off guard by Adam’s sincerity. A puff of heat went through her entire body and seemed to ‘poof’ through her the top of her head. ‘Wahh! So cute! It’s so rare for him to act like this in front of me…!’ Sio couldn’t help but squirm nervously, fidgeting as she attempted to control her emotions.

“Er, Sio? Are you alright?” Adam was bit perplexed at the sniper’s rapidly changing behavior.

“H-hai!! I-I mean yes, I’m…I’m okay. Sorry,” she smiled nervously, “it’s just, you look so good…this hairstyle makes you look really handsome, in my opinion…” The sniper’s gaze turned shy, her eyes now aimed at her shoes but Adam could see her smile still, along with a healthy pink across her cheeks. “You did a good job…otsukaresama…”

There was nervous chuckle from the man, before he returned her smile with one of his own. “Well, that’s a relief; at first I wasn’t sure what to make of this, but…” he ruffled his now-shorter locks slightly, “it is growing on me. I can’t recall the last time I had hair this short, but I suppose it is good to change things up every now and then.”

“It looks really good! Trust me!” Sio emphasized, and Adam laughed. “Though, I am curious; what made you decide to cut it like this in the first place? Especially since you said you normally keep your hair longer.”

“Ah er, well I—“ Now it was Adam’s turn to act all flustered, as the sniper looked on in amusement. “It’s nothing, really…but I figured, since we’re all back in action now, long hair might get in the way and it’s less work to keep clean, a-and—” Adam could hear Nightingale’s teasing him about how worried he was about looking ‘cool’ for her, and rolled his eyes slightly. “—it wasn’t just because I wanted to look good for you—“

By the time those words gained meaning it was too late; Adam gulped, while Nightingale laughed in his mind at his faux pas. “…I mean, um…”

“—You, you did that…for me?” Sio squeaked out, barely able to contain her excitement at this point. “Ah, er, um….y-you didn’t have to, but hearing you say that really makes me happy…!”

“…Of course love; maybe this isn’t something big, but if it makes you happy then—oomph!” Adam nearly fell over as Sio tackle-hugged him from behind. “O-Oy, careful there…”

“Mmnn…Adam, you’re so cool, and strong, and kind…you’re the best, you know?” The sniper muttered against the fabric of his jacket as she nuzzled his back. “It’s true that it doesn’t matter what your hair looks like, or how short my bangs are…but I definitely like seeing you look all cool and handsome like this…” She laced her small fingers within his much-larger hands, and Adam warmly closed the grip.

“Well, that makes me feel loads better. At first I seriously thought I messed this one up…but it seems things always have a way of working themselves out, yeh?” He could feel Sio nodding against his back, Adam greatly relishing the warmth of her arms around him. Well, it seemed like undercuts it was, then. At least for the next couple of haircuts.

“…Also, there is one other thing I like about this haircut.” Just as Adam was about to untangle their bodies, he felt Sio sidle up firmly against his back. “And that’s because, it allows me to do…this.” He only felt the warmth of her breath against his bare neck for a few seconds, before her soft lips pressed a kiss against the line where his hair was shorn. His whole body tingled and Adam was sure he let out some weird, animal noise, but none of that mattered when electricity was jolting through his veins and his heart pounded furiously in his chest. Vaguely he heard Sio giggling in the background, finally letting go as Adam attempted to regain his composure. “Wow, your ears are turning red! Did that always happen? I guess I just couldn’t see them until now…”

“S, Sio…! Seriously, can’t ever let my guard down for even a second, ‘ey….” Adam wheezed, trying to control his pulse. “Don’t just do that in public…!”

The sniper giggled, but look no less abashed. “You know, you’re just sooo cute when you get all flustered like this!” Her eyes took on a mischievous sparkle, and was it just him or did her voice drop in timbre? “Given how often you teased me back in the day…consider this payback.”

“Hah…karma, ‘ey?” The sniper took advantage of the moment and planted another kiss, this one along the side of his neck behind his ear. “Oy! Hanninmae!” Why did she have to smell so good, her lips so soft and supple as she gently nibbled his now-exposed earlobe, causing his whole body to shudder. “S-Sio please…!”

Adam stilled as Sio continued to breathe along his exposed skin. “Ho~? So you like this, don’t you…?” Her voice continued its teasing lilt, now followed by hands that were ever-so-slightly wandering in places they probably shouldn’t be. Like his belt. “Hmm…wanna take this somewhere more…private, then?” He felt her lips form another row of slow, sensual kisses down the side of his neck; no doubt she could feel his pulse thrumming, especially when she ran her tongue right along the vein.

That tone of voice; it was the same one she used when she was in the heat of battle as Nobunagun…and also when she was getting in the mood. Despite his apprehension, his own lips curled into a slow grin, revealing his slightly-pointy teeth. “Well well well…it appears our sniper is more than she seems, yeh? Just remember, you were the one who suggested it.” And without another word he lifted her onto his back, carrying her at a half run to the nearest quarters while Sio squealed in delight.

----------------

“Oh, Jack! Sporting a new style, I see?” He was greeted by Gandhi in the galley the next day, Adam having just finished brewing a cup of tea for himself. “Not bad, not bad at all! Did you cut it yourself?”

“Eh, yeh I figured since I cut Sio’s hair an’ all, might as well give myself a trim…” he responded nonchalantly. “Wasn’t sure if it was a good idea at first, but…I think it turned out alright.”

Gandhi nodded in agreement. “I’ll say! I never took you to be into the latest trends, but it suits you. And it seems like it’s got Sio-chan’s seal of approval as well?”

“H-Huh? What d’you mean…” Adam’s hand immediately went to the back of his head in alarm. “I mean yeh, the squirt said she liked it…”

The Indian had to conceal his grin behind his own cup of coffee. “Ah, well I mean you didn’t have to tell me that, ‘cause it’s rather obvious just from looking at, er…well, let’s just say she left some pretty clear ‘marks’ back there, yeah?” Gandhi watched in amusement as the Ripper flushed about ten shades of red in about as many seconds.

“What th—that’s, I—“ Damn it all to hell; he should have known she’d end up leaving a mark here and there. He never had to worry about love bites before, since his hair had always been long enough to cover up anything suspicious (unless she was feeling particularly frisky and left it somewhere lower) but now Adam realized he’d have to pay closer attention. “…Yeh, well there you go.”

Gandhi gave his friend a pat on the shoulder in sympathy. “Well, to be honest it’s not much of  a secret at this point, but…yeah.” Another glance at the hickeys that showed just behind the Ripper’s ear and neckline. “You wanna borrow some concealer from Newton or something?”

Adam scowled at that suggestion. “No, I’d rather not borrow anything from Newton; I’ll just…deal with it…”

Gandhi let a low whistle. “That’s pretty ballsy, but whatever you say, Jack.” Just as the two men were about exit, the sniper flew in; her cape flared out behind from the speed and her hat sat askew.

“A-Adam! There you are! Ah, and Gandhi-san…”

“Oh, good morning Sio! You’re in an awful rush—“

“—Th, this is…all your fault! Adam!” She screeched and huffed and pounded her fists against his chest, much to Adam’s bewilderment. “You didn’t have to go that far!”

“What?! What did I do now?” He grumbled, wondering what the sniper could possibly be mad about. Wasn’t she just fawning and cooing all over him yesterday as she complimented his new haircut? He should be the one complaining about all the love marks she left.

The sniper however, was unfazed. “Don’t play dumb! Y-You know what I’m taking about…”

Adam raised an eyebrow. “…Do I?”

Sio glared at him from underneath her visor, before she pulled it and her cape off. “Well, you should, mister…” And without caring that Gandhi was still in the room, she turned around and brushed her own hair aside, revealing a myriad of similar looking bruises. “Did you really have to be so, so…aggressive?”

“Oh my…well Jack, it seems you and Sio-chan might have some issues to work out.” Gandhi laughed nervously as he slowly made his way to the exit. “I’ll just put this out there one more time, but you’re always welcome to borrow concealer from Newton…” The Indian sprinted out of the room before either of the two could say anything else.

Adam stared at the marks he left, a mixture of guilt but also pride swirling inside his chest. I did a pretty bang up job he thought smugly. He knew for a fact there was bound to be one or two more hidden by her shirt, as he explicitly remembered trailing down her back, kissing between her shoulders as the sniper squirmed underneath him, pinned in place by his weight as they—Adam coughed and forced his mind to stop going there. As Gandhi said, their relationship wasn’t exactly a secret at this point, but if there were still any lingering doubts…

“Well, given the…enthusiasm you showed yesterday, can you really blame me? Like they say, revenge is a dish best served cold. Or I suppose, hot in this case,” he gave her a knowing smirk, and Sio blushed. “Also, you’re hardly one to talk,” he groused, before turning and revealing her handiwork. “Unlike you, I don’t even have a cape to cover it up, so I don’t see what you’re complaining about…”

“Th, that’s, I…” Sio sputtered for words, but she had to admit Adam had her beat. “…W, Well, I didn’t think it would actually leave a mark…”

“Tit-for-tat, squirt,” Adam remarked dryly. “I guess we’re both even. Look, if it bothers you that much, why don’t you go ask Newton for some makeup? I’m sure she’d be thrilled to lend you some.”

The sniper reacted in the same manner as Adam had earlier. “…N, No thanks. I’ll just…try to cover it up for now…”

“Hn. Suit yourself. Anyway,” he pulled her close and this time, it was the Ripper who breathed slowly against the sniper’s ear, “I suppose, maybe we should both consider leaving our hair long again?”

“…Adam, you’re such a perv.”

Adam could only laugh at that. “As are you, love. But that’s fine by me.”

//Image commissioned from @grapeeuphoria

[that-kid89]

03.26.2024

numb the pain. <- song of my day

but like a happy day for me? tbh definitely ended on more of high note, a spark of hope after being unemployed for a week now.

i feel like i could write 15 sentences at the same time right now.

madness, insanity, sickness, disturbed, panic.

ecstasy, highs, journeys, toys, wanderlust.

modest, numb, emotional, passive.

literally just writing random words that pop in my head. feels like gonzo clarity. check me if it's narcissism. too much pride.

daily average for screen time on my iphone is 3.5 hours for the 3 days this week.

read and skimmed all the back to my opener post. i initially felt bad, sad, and let down. reading my thoughts of love for heather, but more so my feelings towards my self. talking to myself in this blog, scolding him nearly. listing my needs and realizing where i sit that i made not one attempt at getting those things. were they really needs or just fantasies though.

kinda feelin like fuck all that shit. maybe its the beers and esteem boost from my first hearing back on one the applications i sent out in the last 7 days.

whats always wild to me, is how i can drift off into my dreams, when i'm awake. the rare night where i just daydream and not even sleep. its so crazy to me, and i dont recall talking about that seriously with someone. wish i did with heather. but also the stimulation i get from twist my hair into knots. sometimes it hurts so good. but i get mad when it's really knotted, and i gotta rip it apart, usually with hair being ripped out. insane.

talking about today now. woke up late, but earlier than i thought after falling asleep around 3am. tried not to drink but caved last night and had a few swigs of casamigos followed by a lovely beer. technically counts as today! well i suppose only the events beginning at 12:00am. fuck it, yeah so i woke up, and funny i keep checking my phone for all kinds of notifications. first thing i read was a message from christian on insta about the boat hitting the bridge in baltimore. this is recent to the mass shooting in russia, god damn dark news. still seeing a bunch of posts about necann. i'm glad i've been to events, but felt i had no place going this year. i don't think i've been when working in the industry, but definitely when i was younger. took a much needed shower today and trimmed up. then went to whole foods and petco. nearly bought the exact same things from each store, from i got yesterday. took the amg out though, and always get excited to drive that beast. let it warm up right, cold start was rowdy as always. deffs got some good pops and bangs. fuckin car is so quick too, and so exhilarating. however i did get this great beer as well called "termination". spent a lot of time looking at crafties to get, and ultimately chose this one although it being a triple ipa. 10% abv and damnnnn smooth. i'm on my second one tonight. sipping out the duvel big round chalice that i got from an xmas yankee swap one year. but anyway, getting a hit back on an application from only yesterday was an esteem boost. seems like a company tha could really use my help, and that they'll have a lot of work cut out for me. falling in love a bit quick as i do my homework on them. keeping in my mind that its only a teams meeting planned for next week but was still the first i've heard in a week. this last week has felt like freedom. but also emptiness. i do miss my last job, and still trying to get a good understanding of how it ended. but it feels a lot like the lat time heather and i broke up. i had reached my breaking points with them months ago, and never recovered. but they cite a recent mishandling of a heroin related customer incident at the store, which i can see how they perceive as mishandling, but damn it really felt good to get fired. i just walked out they of my term. instant relief, not much to finalize with them either. anyway

running out of steam with my writing. im glad i did. btw, song of the day came from nowhere. i somehow had the song stuck in the head, and i searched a rough idea of the lyrics with xxxtentacion and nailed it. i've had it on repeat all day since. had it on loop in the car, and had it on loop during this whole session. a classic way i've listened to my favorite x songs, a repetitive lyric design with just guitar chords or sample. feel like he's here with me, just sharing his emotions with me.

came to love his music after a distinct memory of mine, being when i shurgged off his death as i read him to be an abuser in his relationship. came to realize he had remorse in his actions, and was on a mission that i never would found out myself. this girl told me he was one of her favs, and that's when i got into him. his music still took time to grow on me, but ive now listened to most of his music, and i think all of his albums, all the way through, multiple times. 17, ?, skins, bad vibes forever, and some of his early stuff from mixtapes and singles. but yeah, quite a learning and growing experience. ending sentences on the 4 beat, or like a significant strum or beat, just feels so good.

rest in peace jahseh.

thank you for helping me open up my mind in so many ways.

here's to me, and the life i've lived and will continue to complete. excited to see where life takes me. for now, a nostalgic night of no responsibilities, weed and beer.

signing off.

[bi-ftm-on-main]

anxiety disorder? i hardly know her

Ok so I had bought this suction dildo ages ago but never really used it stuck to a surface, just for handheld stuff, cos theres not a lot of suctionable surfaces in my house and i have to wait for everyone to leave and its a whole thing. anyway.

I tried it out the other day in the shower at like hip height and just like folded over and leaned into it which worked better than any other position I've tried, effort and logistics wise, and was vibing like that for a while. my initial thoughts are as follows:

i had to use so much more lube than expected. like i knew dryness was a thing that happens when on T but i was quite surprised, i was adding (a tiny bit) more every couple of minutes id say

i really couldve gotten a bigger toy actually. its 7 inches atm but with my fat ass it kept falling out and it was kinda annoying

it was fine, pleasure wise. like not particularly mind blowing but still alright. like 7/10. definitely scratched an itch tho ya know

i really gotta be trimming my pubes more cos that shits not helping anyone

my boobs were in my face and i didnt appreciate it

and yeah i kept at it for a while just to see if i could cum from it alone, which i havent been able to do yet even when using it handheld. but like isn't that a thing, that most people cant cum from penetration alone? im fairly sure.

i have been trying to use the toy more tho cos one thing that im worried about for when i do eventually have sex is squirting.

on rare occasions i will squirt when i use showerhead to -- oh yeah thats another thing. i unironically refer to masturbating as 'beating my meat'. it started in high school and im sorry but it kinda seems like its here to stay. well up until the day i have to say it in conversation then ill dissolve and escape down a storm drain --

anyway, i was going at it and it was building but not really enough so i just was like ugh fine whatever and unstick it off the wall and started using it handheld + clit stuff -- t dick stuff? I personally dont have heaps of bottom dysphoria but i havent decided -- just so i could cum. it had been a while and my sex playlist was running out of hozier songs. yes im putting that information on the internet, sue me.

but like i was going at it two handed and it was working a treat and even after i came i kept going -- i was pushing myself because i wanted to see if i would squirt because i want to be prepared for this stuff -- and omg. bro omggggg.

measuring the time by songs id say that i came for, at minimum, three whole minutes.

like cos i was pushing myself so i just kept going with the two hand method and it just kept going and i kept going and it kept going and i had to change to one hand cos my fingers were tingling and it kept going. man.

i only stopped cos de selby part 2 was starting to wrap up -- no one look at me -- and i just layed there for a while longer just with my hands tingling and feeling light as air.

it made me think of that one twitter thread i think of that straight girl who got fucked by a lesbian and was all happy to go to work the next day even though she fucking hates her job. that was me bro.

i put my clothes back on and headed right back to the computer ive been sitting at for two days straight finishing assignments with a new lease on life. i was giddy mate. giddy. ugh

um yeah. moral of the story, i didnt squirt even after having my guts be pounded for like half an hour. thank you for cumming to my ted talk.

[lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks]

Grabbing Smoke

As much time as Sam spent with her best friends, sometimes she enjoyed a little bit of time alone.

Tucker was helping his mother bake cookies for some kind of fundraiser for the hospital, and Danny was busy visiting Pandora for fighting lessons. Apparently they were using swords today.

As fun as it sounded, Sam opted to stay behind, it had been a while since she'd been down to the park to feed the ducks. She didn't get quiet moments like that very often any more.

There was an uncharacteristic skip to her gait as she walked to the park, a canvas tote bag swinging from her arm.

Living in Amity Park, and especially hanging around with Danny, gave her an eerie sense to when something was amiss. Nothing quite like Danny's ghost sense, but she'd learned to detect a particular chill to the air, a prickling at the back of her neck. It could easily be mistaken for a chilly breeze, but Sam knew better. The crunch of gravel under Sam's boots was the only sound permeating the still air, not even the trees were rustling.

She continued her walk through the park, past the wishing fountain and through a trail where the trees grew slightly more dense.

The trail opened up to a large pond, it wasn't anything especially picturesque, the reeds were a little overgrown, the ground was muddy, but there were a few simple weather worn benches by the path that looped around the water.

Sam took a seat, pulling out a bag of frozen peas. She opened it, tipped a few into her hand and tossed them into the water.

The ducks immediately sped across the pond toward her, fighting for the peas that the turtles hadn't already gotten to.

Instead of grabbing another handful, she held the bag out to the empty seat to her left, waiting for a moment before shaking the bag impatiently.

A green hand slipped into the bag, pulling out a handful of peas before tossing them into the water.

"How'd you know I was here?" Kitty asked, now sitting visibly on the other end of the bench as Sam poured out more peas for both of them.

"I have my ways." Sam smirked. "What I want to know is why you've been following me all week."

"You knew for that long and you didn't say nothin'?" Kitty huffed. "Damn, I gotta up my game."

A duck waddled up and nibbled on her boot.

"Alright alright, ya hungry little doofus." Kitty lowered a hand full of peas and cooed as the duck happily ate from her palm. "Aww these guys aren't shy at all, do you come here a lot?"

"When I can." Sam tossed a few more peas into the water for the turtles. "So why are you following me?"

Kitty sat back and pressed her lips together, thinking.

"Look it's just... I don't remember much from when I was livin', you know? It's all sorta grey and fuzzy, I can't remember what anyone looked like, except Johnny." she tossed some peas to a smaller duck at the back of the group. "But as soon as I showed up here in town and I saw your face, I thought I felt... I dunno, somethin'. Like I'd seen you before, or maybe you just reminded me of someone, but I can't remember who, it's like grabbing smoke."

She lobbed a few peas a little harder than was necessary at the water. The turtles sucked them up greedily.

"So you've just been following me hoping you might remember something else?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Kitty sighed. "But it's not working."

Sam swung her foot idly between a pair of scuffling ducks, splitting them up before tossing out some more peas.

"Maybe I'm related to someone you knew. Where did you grow up?"

Kitty frowned down at the water.

"I... I don't know." she said, deflating somewhat. "I didn't even realise I forgot that."

Sam couldn't help but feel for her, Danny had told her that ghosts would often forget things from their past, especially once they'd been dead for longer than they'd been alive. Somehow she had never really considered how terrifying that must be.

"You know..." Sam started carefully. "I could show you some old family photos. Maybe you'll recognise someone?"

Kitty looked up, eyes shining brightly.

"Really? You'd do that for me?"

"Why not?" Sam shrugged. "If you were here to cause trouble you would have done it by now."

"Aw, I never thought you'd wanna do something like that for me." said Kitty, smiling brightly. "You always seemed like such a bitch."

Sam laughed.

"If you'd spent a week being someone that wasn't Paulina, I would probably have seemed like less of a bitch."

"So you guys are big rivals or somethin'?" Kitty asked, grabbing some more peas and giggling as three ducks tried to eat from her hand at once.

"It's more that we have... conflicting ideologies. She thinks that appearances and reputation are the most important things in life, just like my parents." Sam lobbed some more peas into the water, they both watched them disappear as the turtles quickly snapped them up. "It's shallow and stupid, and I don't get why they have to push that shit on everyone. I don't care what people think, I just want to be whoever the hell I wanna be without having to fight for it all the time."

Kitty's face turned contemplative as she tapped her nails on the back of the bench.

"I think... I was like that." she said, slowly. "I wanted to feel fun and exciting, but my parents..."

She trailed off, frowning.

"My parents... I didn't like them. They didn't like me bein' the way I was, I can't really remember why."

Sam emptied out the last of the peas and scattered them over the ground, she scrunched up the empty packet and shoved it back into her tote bag.

"You know, if we went to school together we would probably have gotten along." said Sam as she stood up, gesturing toward the path. "Let's go check out those photos."

Instead of floating invisibly behind, Kitty walked by Sam's side as they headed back to her house. She idly waved at people as they drove past, grinning when someone stared a little too long and almost ran a red light.

"You know, it's nice bein' able to walk around in the day." Kitty said, skipping a little. "Wish I could do it more often."

"What's stopping you?"

"What do you think?" Kitty's lip pulled up in disgust. "Any time I show up your dumb friend sucks me up in his stupid thermos. Only reason I can walk around right now is because I got you as my get out of jail free card."

"Danny doesn't care if you just want to walk around." Sam scoffed. "He lets ghosts wander around town all the time, he only gets involved when you start breaking things."

"Uggghhh but just walking around is so boring." Kitty pouted. "I mean yeah it's nice and I like it but it gets old real quick."

"Then you'll have to get used to getting tossed back in the ghost zone. Do not pass go, do not collect $200."

"Don't you ever get sick of his goody goody attitude?" Kitty asked. "I mean you and I aren't so different right? You're all about the rebel gig, don't you ever feel like keyin' some asshole's car, or takin' a baseball bat to some mail boxes?"

"Only if they deserve it." said Sam with a smirk. "But I feel like you aren't especially picky about whose stuff you're breaking."

They approached the door to the Manson mansion, Sam hopped up the steps and stuck the key in the lock. She touched the mezuzah on the doorpost without a second thought before opening the door and standing aside to invite Kitty in.

The ghost stared up at her warily.

"I can't get past it."

"Past what?" Sam asked.

"The mezuzah, it keeps me out."

"What?" Sam frowned. "It hasn't stopped other ghosts from getting in."

"Well it stops me." Kitty insisted. "I think it's got somethin' to do with what we believed in when we were alive. I haven't got a problem with churches but when Johnny tried to ride his bike through one he couldn't get in. His mom raised him Catholic, he says he doesn't believe in any of that stuff, but I think he still does, deep down."

"So does that mean you were Jewish?" Sam asked, smiling curiously.

"I AM Jewish." Kitty crossed her arms. "Bein' a ghost hasn't changed that, it just... means that we got a few things a little wrong."

Sam thought about that for a moment, before stepping aside and gesturing toward the door again.

"Well, if you've been invited and you're not going to cause any trouble, then I don't see why you shouldn't be able to come in."

Kitty climbed the steps slowly, fingers reaching out and cautiously brushing over the mezuzah, she didn't feel anything unusual, no zap or burn or pain. She took a step through the doorway and passed the threshold without issue, no invisible force or barrier like the last time she tried to follow Sam inside.

"Well, what do you know." she said, grinning.

Sam lead her into a large, open planned kitchen and dining area, the tiles were bright white save for the specks of mud Sam's boots tracked through the room. The decor was minimalist, the atmosphere bland and sterile, she could smell some kind of citrus surface cleaner.

The back wall was all windows, leading to a patio surrounded by perfectly trimmed grass. As they approached, Sam turned, heading towards a door to their right.

The next room felt a lot more friendly, it was full of bookshelves and red tones. The lounges looked soft and inviting, a fireplace sat cold and empty against the back wall, but Kitty didn't have to try hard to imagine it roaring to life, filling the room with its warm glow.

"This is basically my Grandma's part of the house." Sam informed her, voice low. "Her bedroom is just through there, she's usually napping around this time of day so try not to make too much noise."

Kitty slipped off her jacket and laid it over the back of the lounge, already feeling at home in the cosy little room. She looked over the books as Sam fussed around some kind of large ornate chest.

"Here it is." She hefted a large photo album from the chest, carefully closing and latching it again. "Let's see if you recognise anyone in here."

Kitty sat down beside Sam as she opened up the pristine book, the outer cover was beige with the name Manson inscribed in golden cursive on the front. The first page was full of old faded photos, in greyscale or sepia tones.

"Ugh, I'm not that old." said Kitty, flicking ahead a few pages.

The pictures were colourful now, but still grainy, there was a young blonde boy in seventies style jeans leaning casually against a Chevrolet.

"Wait hold up," Kitty pointed at the boy. "Him, I feel like I've seen him before."

"That's my dad." said Sam, surprised. "His name is Jeremy, did you know him?"

Kitty hummed a little, gently tracing a finger over the picture.

"Jeremy... Jeremy, I'm not sure," she frowned. "But he definitely looks familiar."

They continued through the book, when suddenly Kitty slapped her hand down roughly on a photo of a pair of young women.

"Her! I know her! She was a mega bitch!"

"Shhh keep it down." Sam hissed.

"Sorry," Kitty pointed to the blonde girl in the photo. "That one! I don't know how I knew her, but I definitely knew her. She was a total brat."

Sam slipped the photo out of its sleeve and read the neat cursive on the back.

"This is... my Aunt Caroline, in 1985. She's my dad's sister." Sam looked up at Kitty, amused. "I can't believe you had beef with my family."

"Your family are snobs." Kitty sniffed. "Carrie was such a ditz, she thought she was sooo bitchin' because her daddy bought her a Mercedes."

"Yeah, that sounds about right." Sam grimaced. "Did you guys go to school together or something?"

"Maybe..." Kitty took the photo from Sam's hand, staring intently. "I'm pretty sure I skipped school a lot, I hated it there. It was a private school, we had to wear uniforms, barf."

"I would never have guessed you were a private school kid." Sam shook her head. "But most people would say that about me so it's not like I can judge."

"You went to private school?" Kitty asked, "How'd you end up in that Casper High dump?"

"Got myself expelled." said Sam, voice thick with pride. "Elementary, middle and high school, got kicked out of all three."

"Damn, you're good."

Sam grinned, slipping the photo back in its sleeve and continuing to the next page.

Kitty pointed to a few other photos, remarking on their familiarity, but not quite able to grasp how she knew them, the memories only flickered in her periphery.

"Wait," Kitty whispered, fingers brushing over a polaroid containing three people. "This is..."

The picture looked as though it were taken at some kind of party, a man and a woman faced the camera, each with a glass of champagne raised in their hands. The woman's other hand rested on the shoulder of a teenage girl with auburn hair, pulled into a tidy braid. She stared glumly at the camera.

"That's Katherine." Sam said, pointing to the girl. "She was my dad's cousin, but she got hit by a car when she was-"

Sam paused, looking over at Kitty's wide eyes and then back to the photo.

"Noooo way." Sam pulled the photo out of the sleeve. "Is this you?"

Kitty took the photo in trembling hands.

"I... I forgot I used to look like that." she fiddled with a lock of her green, teased hair. "I remember this party, I didn't want to go but mom and dad threatened to take away all my records and cassettes if I didn't."

Sam stared at Kitty, mouth agape.

"You're Car Crash Katherine?! My dad talks about you all the time! He always told me about the shit you used to get up to, he'd tell me that any kind of 'rebellious behaviour' was a slippery slope to 'dying on the back of some delinquent's motorcycle'." Sam put a hand on Kitty's shoulder. "You were my bad influence role model."

Kitty's red eyes shone with tears, photo still in hand, she wrapped her arms around Sam.

"This is majorly wicked! My legacy lives on! Corrupting the youth from beyond the grave!" Kitty laughed. "My parents would go totally mental."

She stopped laughing, her face turning forlorn as she drew back from Sam and stared down at the picture.

"Are they still alive?" she asked, a tremble in her voice.

"Yeah..." said Sam. "They live in a retirement home in Florida. They don't come around very often."

Kitty traced a finger over their faces.

"I wonder if they miss me." she said quietly. "Or if they were glad to be rid of the family embarrassment."

Sam didn't answer, she had wondered the same thing herself, if her parents would even care if she died. They hadn't given her a lot of reason to think they would.

She rested a sympathetic hand on Kitty's arm.

"Oh, you have a friend over bubbeleh?" a croaky voice spoke from the bedroom doorway.

Sam and Kitty both turned to see Ida Manson shuffling into the room, cleaning her glasses with her sleeve.

"Sorry Grandma, we didn't mean to be too loud." Sam apologised. "This is my... um, friend, Kitty. Kitty this is my Grandma Ida-"

"Ida?!" Kitty shot to her feet, staring in shock at the old woman. "Aunt Ida?!"

Ida squinted at Kitty, before quickly setting her glasses back on her face.

"Well as I live and breath, is that you Kathy?"

"Oh my god this is getting super weird." Sam whispered.

Kitty leapt over the ottoman to wrap Ida up in a tight hug, the old woman was surprised for a moment, but held her warmly in return.

"It's me Aunt Ida! Not really living or breathing but it's me!" Kitty laughed breathlessly.

"Oh my goodness, when all the ghosts started showing up all over town I wondered if I would ever see someone I knew." She rubbed comforting circles on Kitty's back as the ghost choked on a few sobs. "It's good to see you again Kathy."

Ida pulled away and wiped a tear from Kitty's face.

"And I'm so glad you aren't stuck wearing what your parents buried you in."

Kitty couldn't help but laugh through her tears.

"Let me guess, it was that putrid blue dress, wasn't it?"

"The dress wasn't nearly as bad as what they did to your hair." Ida snickered, patting Kitty's hand. "It had little ribbons in it and everything."

"I almost forgot you." Kitty placed her palm gently against Ida's face. "You were the only one in the family who ever loved me for being me, and I almost forgot you. I'm so sorry, I should have come to find you sooner but I just-"

"Shhhh, it's okay bubbeleh." Ida grasped her hand tight. "I think being dead is a pretty good excuse for forgetting a few things."

Sam stood beside the lounge, watching the two in shock, she wasn't entirely certain whether or not to intrude. Whatever she had been expecting to discover with Kitty today, it certainly hadn't been this.

Though in hindsight, it did explain Kitty's familiarity with Sam, people always said she had taken after her Grandma.

Ida let go of Kitty and hobbled over to the photo album still sitting on the lounge.

"Oh you don't want to look at that album." she said, as she shoved it onto the coffee table. She wandered to the other side of the room and began rummaging around in a small cupboard. "You want this one."

She pulled out a book with well worn, peeling edges. Pieces of the plastic sleeves had cracked off and crumbled away. It was old, and weatherbeaten, it was obvious that Ida had looked through it many many times.

"Here we go." she sat down in the middle of the lounge, gesturing for the two girls to come sit beside her. "These are the forbidden photos."

She opened the pages, the photos inside were entirely different from the 'official' album, there were no perfectly poised, prim and proper photos of people in nice, presentable clothes. They were all candid shots, people in the middle of eating or laughing, some were stumbling around blind drunk, a few were smoking joints. There were pictures from parties and protest rallies, in backyards and drive ins.

There was a picture of Jeremy as a young boy, grinning with one of his front teeth missing and grass in his hair.

"Only in this family would losing your baby teeth make a photo 'unsavoury'." Ida grizzled as she continued through the album. "I saved so many pictures that my husband would have thrown out otherwise."

"Ugh, Uncle Peter was such a prude, he wouldn't even let me in the house if I didn't have my shoulders covered up." Kitty rolled her eyes.

"He used to be so much more relaxed when we were young." Ida sighed. "He changed when he inherited his father's business, he forgot how to have fun."

A few pages later Kitty squealed in excitement.

"Oh my god! That's Frankie! She was my best friend, we used to do everything together!"

The Kitty in the photo looked far more like the Kitty Sam knew. Her hair was teased up, and she was wearing a crop top and a miniskirt. The other girl, Frankie, had short curled hair and a leather jacket. They each had an arm around the others' shoulder and grinned wildly.

"I love this one." Ida smiled as she pulled the picture out of the sleeve. "That was the night I gave you a lift to that concert."

"Oh that show was sooo good! I got my nose pierced there! It got so infected, Mom grounded me for a month." Kitty laughed.

"Man, and I thought I was cool for skipping school to go see Circus Gothica." Sam grinned. "I'm gonna have to come home with a tattoo next time."

"I can't believe I forgot about Frankie, I can't believe I forgot about all of this." Kitty held the photo close to her chest, a few tears running down her face. "I'm so glad it's not gone for good."

She kept the photo in hand as they looked through the rest of the album. There were many pictures of Ida, all of them with other people of all walks of life.

"Oh this was when you took us to that pride parade!" Kitty smiled. "You made Frankie so happy, and you knew a lot of the drag queens there, like a LOT."

"Grandma took me to a drag show when I was 10," said Sam. "Even took me backstage to meet them all, my parents thought we went to the theatre to see Romeo and Juliet."

"Oh I have photos from that." Ida flipped through the pages, getting closer to the end of the album. "Here we are, oh Evelyn just LOVED you."

Sam looked at the picture of Evelyn, frowning slightly.

"Oh weird, she kinda looks like Mr Lancer's sister, he keeps her photo on his desk..." Sam paused as she processed what she just said. "That's not his sister is it?"

"You probably shouldn't bring it up." said Ida gently. "Teachers can get in trouble for associating with this sort of thing."

"That's so bogus!" Kitty cried. "I really thought this kinda stuff would be better in the future!"

"It is," Ida assured her. "But we're a long way from perfect."

Ida flipped back through the album, searching for more pictures of Kitty and Frankie. There were a good few of them, each one Ida pulled out and passed over for Kitty to look at and hold onto.

"Oh woah, is that Johnny?" Sam pointed to a picture of Kitty sitting on the back of a motorcycle with a blonde boy. "He looks exactly the same, just a little less pale."

"Oh, did Johnny come back as a ghost too?" Ida asked.

"Yeah! We've been together all this time, in sickness and in death." Kitty beamed. "Mom and dad blamed him for everything I did, even if he wasn't around when I did it. They said him and Frankie were 'corrupting' me."

She rolled her eyes.

"I bet they blamed him for my death too. They'd be so mad if they knew we were still together."

"Just goes to show they had no chance of keeping you two apart." Ida said. "Not even death could do that."

Kitty held the photo tight in both hands, her shoulders began to shake slightly.

"It was my fault you know." she said with a trembling little giggle. "Funny huh? My parents always blamed him for everything, but in the end it was my fault we got hit. We were havin' a fight over somethin' stupid and I distracted him-"

Ida wrapped an arm around Kitty, patting her head comfortingly as she laid it against the old woman's shoulder.

"I think you're being too hard on yourself bubbeleh." Ida whispered gently into her hair. "It was raining, the truck that hit you was running a red light, the driver was charged for both your deaths. Even if you did distract him, you weren't the only card at play that night."

She gave Kitty a light shake.

"And don't think I didn't see the way Johnny used to drive that thing, he was reckless. I have no doubt that he wasn't paying as much attention as he should have been." She placed a kiss on the girl's forehead and squeezed her tight. "It's not fair to hold all of that responsibility on yourself, even if you both did everything right, that truck still would have run that red light, it still would have been raining. It was just pure rotten luck."

Sam had never heard a ghost talk about their death before, even Danny didn't like talking about his accident, and asking about it was incredibly taboo. Sam had been pushing her luck earlier just by mentioning the car crash.

It said a lot about Kitty's love for Ida that she chose to open up about it. Sam couldn't say she was surprised, her Grandma had always been like that. Never anything but an endless well of love and support, and the occasional kick in the pants if you needed it.

"Johnny's always had rotten luck." Kitty sniffed. "Follows him like a shadow."

"Literally." Sam snorted.

After a few more moments, Ida pulled herself away from Kitty, she got up and began rooting through the cupboards, muttering to herself.

"Aha, here it is."

She brought over an empty photo album, it was roughly the size of a small pocketbook, containing only one photo sleeve per page.

"I meant to fill this with photos for Sam to keep." Ida admitted as she shuffled back over to the girls. "But I don't think she'll mind donating it to a good cause."

She winked at Sam, who nodded back.

"Here," Ida pressed the little album into Kitty's hands. "Memories are a fickle thing, but photos are forever."

"I can't take these!" Kitty insisted, pushing the album back. "They're your memories too!"

"Oh my god you're both so old." Sam laughed, "Dad has a printer/scanner. I can make copies."

As Sam took the polaroids to her dad's office, Ida and Kitty pored over the rest of the album, Kitty picking out more photos to copy. She chose a few of Ida and Sam, and even one of Carrie.

"She was a total loser and I hated her but I don't hate remembering her, you know? I want to remember everything, even the bad stuff."

She took a photo of her parents, just one.

When Sam came back with the last batch of photos, Ida finished slipping them into the little album.

"There's still a few sleeves left." Sam pointed out, holding up her phone with a smile. "We've got room for a couple of family reunion pics."

The two girls squished up against Ida as Sam snapped as many shots as she could. Ones where they smiled, ones where they laughed, ones where they laid haphazardly across the lounge together.

Then Sam took a few candids of just Kitty and Ida, as they looked through the new album they'd just made together. Capturing Kitty laughing at something as Ida looked at her with a soft, loving smile.

Kitty clutched the album to her chest as she gave Ida a long, drawn out hug.

"Thank you so much." she said, her voice thick with gratitude. "It's like I can see my life in colour again."

She left the house with the assurance that she would always be welcome back, at any time, and a promise that she would always be looking out for her 'new favourite cousin'.

Sam flicked through the photos she took on her phone, she would have to make sure to have copies printed by the time Kitty returned to visit.

She knew Kitty coming over regularly was going to make things complicated, her apparent newfound protectiveness over Sam could potentially backfire in many spectacular ways, she was petty and troublesome when in the right mood.

But then again, so was Ida, and so was Sam.

At least she had better things to do now than beat up strangers' mail boxes, Danny was certainly going to be glad to hear that.

[whirlybirbs]

          (   this chapter’s gif by @august-walker​ from this beautiful set !   )

✪   —   VACANT MIRRORS  ;  B.B.  |  4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy! 

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MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

                                        ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh. 

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

                                       ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”