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apomaro-mellow · 2 years ago

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(1) The Mall Car

Steve and Eddie take a lil ride on the Infinity Train, plus someone else. Author's note at the bottom.

With a groan, Steve sat up and opened his eyes. His mind immediately recognized his surroundings as a mall and for a moment he panicked and thought he was back at Starcourt. But no, this was different. There was a fountain, and the lights were bright, but the stores and their placement were a little different.

Steve rubbed his eyes but stopped when he saw the glowing of his hand as Eddie sat up nearby.

150

That was the number glowing on his hand right now. Steve tried shaking it off, rubbing it on his pants, even picking at it with his fingers. It was like a radioactive tattoo.

“What the fuck?”, Eddie breathed out as he took it all in. “Where did you take us?”

“Me? I have no goddamn idea what’s going on!”, Steve shouted.

Eddie stretched, which brought his own glowing palm to his attention. “Huh. Uhhh, what does 271 mean? Did I take a ticket from a deli?”

“Is that really your first idea?”

“We are in an empty mall, not a lot of choices”, Eddie said.

“Yeah but why are we in an empty mall? Weren’t we just…? We were just on the road.”

“Did you turn off to get something from the mall?”

Steve pushed off the ground and tried to survey the surroundings but yep, all he saw was mall interior. “That makes no sense. There’s no mall between here and the airport. Not after the fire.”

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

[Amelia] I’ve noticed a pattern, as I watch these tapes to understand the passengers Everyone who comes is always about to make a choice. Sometimes it’s a choice to leave. Sometimes they’re choosing to do nothing. Regardless, it is a choice that could change their lives. They’re at a crossroads, one might say.

Everybody had already seen them off at the school, including all of Eddie’s friends. Vecna had been defeated and in the months that followed, they’d all had some recovery. Eddie was able to walk away with some massive scarring and a GED. And now he was getting out of Hawkins to seek his fortune in New York.

With his van being demolished, he was getting a ride to the airport from Steve. It wasn’t the first favor Steve had provided, both of them spending months getting closer and closer. What started as sharing a room in the hospital, turned to frequent visits when Steve was discharged.

What began as debates on what constituted literature turned into sharing each other’s favorite books, and of course the same happened with music. Eddie still posited that Wham! had no cultural value but his secret cassette was in his suitcase.

Days spent with Steve’s house filled to the brim with high schoolers turned into nights with just the two of them, talking about things they never told anyone.

Eddie’s fantasies of one night stands with a handsome but familiar stranger turned into daydreams of what could be dates.

Steve’s dream of a wife and a picket fence slowly but surely turned into something more flexible.

But now Eddie was leaving. Going all the way to what was basically the other side of the world. And there he was sure to meet much more interesting people. Guys who understood what he was talking about all the time. Who looked much more at home during a metal performance and not like they’d peaked in high school.

“You’re really doin’ it man. You’re getting out of this town”, Steve said as he drove down the street.

“I can’t believe it either. Next time you hear from me, I’ll be in the city that never sleeps!”, Eddie exclaimed. He rolled his window down as they got to the welcoming sign of the town. “Fuck you Hawkins!! Good riddance and goodbye!”

“Hey, don’t piss off the environment. The rest of us still have to live here”, Steve said. “What’s that thing Argyle talks about? Karma?”

“You guys have a whole squad of monster hunters”, Eddie grinned at him. “Whatever karma is, I bet you could beat it into submission.” He let out a breath as he sunk back into the seat. “I’ll finally be free of this shit hole. No looking back.”

“Yeah…”, Steve said softly. His mouth opened to say something else but he closed it. They came to a railroad crossing just as the barriers were going down and Steve stopped.

The train got closer and closer until the cars began passing by them in a blur. Eddie’s eyes narrowed. Normally trains slowed a little when they were crossing a road. But then this train did slow. To a complete stop. The doors opened on the car in front of them but it showed no interior, just a strange portal of light.

Eddie sat up. “Uhh.”

“Stay in the car”, Steve said as he put it in park and got out to investigate. He got closer to it and looked around. It was like the train went on forever. Steve reached out towards the portal when Eddie slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch it!”

“I thought I told you to stay in the car!”

“The last time you went soloing you nearly got eaten to death!”, Eddie shrieked.

“That was over a year ago”, Steve rolled his eyes.

“And the time before that, you go stuck in an elevator”, Lucas added. “Erica still takes the stairs to the dentist.”

“Does my word mean nothing? I said to stay in the car!”, Steve shouted.

No other words were said as the light engulfed them all.

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

“Lucas was with us!!”, Eddie exclaimed.

“Shit!”, Steve pulled at his hair. “I was taking him to a sports camp, that’s right. Lucas!”, he started to shout. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Lucas!!”

“Um, Steve? St-teve?”, Eddie started smacking him lightly in the arm when some sort of creature crested from the top of the escalator.

Steve turned and saw…not a demodog but close in size to it. But whereas creatures of the Upside Down were slimy and fleshy, this thing looked more like an oversized cockroach. But it was just as faceless.

“Run”, Steve said before taking off in the other direction.

He could hear Eddie’s stuttering steps behind him and then an inhumane chittering that must be from the creature. There had to be somewhere they could go. Somewhere they could hide. Steve just kept running until ahead of them was an odd red door. It didn’t look like the entrance to a store by any door could be an exit? Right?

Before getting to it though, Steve heard Eddie’s cry and a fall. He turned and to his horror saw that Eddie was struggling under the monster. Thinking quick, Steve looked around for a weapon. He went to the closest store and tore a leg off one of the mannequins. Eddie groaned as the creature’s feelers felt over him and it began sucking the energy from him.

“Fuck off!”, Steve shouted as he swung. He didn’t wait to see if the one hit did it. He just pulled Eddie to his feet and dragged him to the door. It opened oddly but once it did, they went through and shut it just as the monster lunged at them.

Both of them slid down, panting against the door and trying to make any sense out of what was happening. Then Steve started looking Eddie over.

“Hey? Are you okay? What did it do to you?”

“I’m okay man”, Eddie said, taking Steve’s hands. “That was a close one though. Thought you might leave me there.”

Steve’s brow pinched. “I wouldn’t just leave you”, he said with a shake of his head.

“Yeah…yeah, I know”, Eddie smiled. Then the numbers on Eddie’s palm began to change. From 271 to 265. “Well would you look at that? Any idea what that means?”

“None whatsoever”, Steve said. Then he actually looked at where they were. The wind whipped their hair as the train passed by a desolate, red wasteland.

“Iiiis this the Upside Down?”, Eddie asked, voice small.

Steve shook his head. He’d never seen anything like this. Not in Will’s drawings or Max’s.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph! Did we die and go to hell?! Did we get hit by the train?!”

Steve looked across from them. There was a bridge connecting the cars. Which were incredibly humongous now. A fall from this height would kill them, nevermind the current speed of the car.

“Eddie…I think this is the train.”

“Steve, I really don’t think my brain can take more of this. We were just in a mall! What kind of train has an ENTIRE mall?”

“The same kind that puts random numbers on your hand?”

Eddie began pacing in a circle and pulling at his hair. Steve was freaking too but even if they didn’t know where they were or what was going on, what they should do next was easy.

“Let’s keep it simple. Find Lucas. Find a way off this train. That’s only two steps.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. “Well, if it’s only two!”

“Let’s go”, Steve said, walking towards the bridge.

“How do you know Lucas isn’t back that way?”, Eddie pointed towards the door they just went through.

“Do you wanna go back and deal with that thing?”

“After you, Your Highness”, Eddie bowed and swept his arm in the direction of the bridge.

They went across, coming to a door just like the one before. They opened it, and this time they came to rolling hills, covered with flowers as far as the eye could see. If there was a door to the other side of the car, it wasn’t visible where they were standing.

“We’re in for a long walk”, Eddie said.

Steve rolled his shoulders. “Let’s get moving then.”

Steve’s number: 150

Eddie’s number: 265

Next Episode: The Studio Car

A/N: If you've never seen Infinity Train, give it a watch, it's great! If you only care for info that's immediately relevant, watch Book 4 as this takes place right after. If you're curious but don't feel like watching the show, ask me all the questions you'd like! :D I'd be happy to answer them <3

#apo writes #stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #infinity train #steve harrington #eddie munson

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almightycoopercollegephotoblog · 2 months ago

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BLOG PROMPT - Art Event Assignment

Back in February, I attended the Dual Lives: Chinese Opera in New York City, Photographs by Alan Govenar showcase. This gallery was held in the lobby of the Arts, Technology, and Emerging Communications (ATEC) building at UTD.

Walking through the display and observing the photos, I picked up on the strong contrast seen between each pair of photos, which greatly represented the "Dual Lives" aspect of the piece. On one side, the performers are in regular clothing with tinges of blue being present throughout their attire. On the other side, you have the exact same performer covered head-to-toe in vibrant orange and red dressing paired with makeup and a striking headpiece. This contrast is interesting as blue and orange are opposite colors on the color wheel, meaning they contrast well with each other. I'm curious if that compatibility is why each performer in their regular attire has an element of blue present on their outfits, whether it's a splotch on their shirt or the color of their tie. This significant contrast caught my attention and greatly enhanced my analysis of the photos.

Another element of these photos that caught my eye was the performer's expression. While their gaze was focused and intense, there was an element of humanity that shined brightly through the gaze, which I believed was enhanced through the lighting and editing done for each photo. Each subject was shot on a pure black background, ensuring that there was no "background noise" to take away from the detail of the performers. They are the focal point of the piece, and the lighting further adds to the piece's deep contrasts. Judging by the shadows and highlights, the light source appears to be meticulously directed from above and to the side. This placement emphasizes the shimmer of the costume and the contours of the face while evoking the reverence typically reserved for sacred rituals and performances, where every detail is illuminated with purpose and grace.

When looking at these photos, I felt a sense of both admiration and stillness. The moment felt personal and private, and I was gifted a window view into that moment. I believe Govenar wanted to accentuate this feeling of quiet awe, where we acknowledge the spectacle of the performance but also understand its solitude. That feeling deeply resonated with me, and I ended up getting a lot more out of this gallery than I was ever expecting. I'm thankful for the experience.

Photos were taken using an iPhone SE 3rd Gen under natural and artificial lighting conditions (showcase display lights and sunlight through windows).

#photography #composition #art #showcase #lighting #creating

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advancetotraining · 3 months ago

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MS Office Legal and Corporate - That’s How You Know…

Scenario: We are given a rather large document filled with Defined Terms (“NYSE”) as an example. As you know, Defined Terms establish a “short cut” so that after using the full term such as in our example “New York Stock Exchange” after the first full mention, we define it and for the remainder of the document, we can refer to that entity in its shortened form thus the use of (“NYSE”). The document was submitted with heavy edits to be done.

During the course of editing, the operator came across the request to please change all the Defined Terms to Bold Italic instead of the current Bold Font. There was numerous instances and the operator started looking for them one by one and making the requested change.

Another operator asked whether the Defined Terms were done with Character Styles or with Direct Formatting. “How would I know” responded the person doing the edits.

We can quickly ascertain the answer in a few ways. One way, is to load your “Style Box” on your “Quick Access Tool Bar” Go to File, Options, Customize Quick Access Tool Bar, change Popular Commands over to “All Commands” and look for the word “Style” by itself with no icon to the left of the word style. Add it to the right side panel of your Customize Quick Access Toolbar Window, and it will now appear on your Quick Access Toolbar.

The other way is to bring up your Apply Style Toolbar “Control Shift S”. This will give you a style box at the top window as well. Yes, you can see what style your right side panel jumps to as well.

Here is how you know whether character styles were used:

If you place your cursor within a paragraph that contains a Defined Term using an attribute such as bold, your style box will show the name of your Paragraph Style initially when placing the cursor on non Defined Term material.

If you then click on one of your Defined Terms the style name should now switch to the “Character Style” being used to bold the term. If there was no Character Style used on the Bolded Defined Term meaning “Direct Formatting” was used, then the style box will continue to show the Paragraph Style only.

If a Character Style was used to Bold all of the Defined Terms then we would simply modify the style and in our case, change it from Bold to Bold Italic and all instances throughout the document would change right away. You would also want to update the name of the style to show the added attribute to the modified style such as Bold-Italic Defined Term.

Note: Yes, you can do a global to take care of this but you have to be comfortable with wild cards. I did cover this in my wild card book MS Word Legal - Search, Replace and Wildcards which can be found on Amazon under my name. Either way, you should be familiar with the concepts that were covered in this article and it is a good thing to have the style box on your Quick Access Toolbar to serve as an easy way to always know the style your cursor is resting within.

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This is your opportunity to attain another large piece of knowledge that you can put to use right away. We will cover everything from Caption Boxes to Table of Authorities. This high value class is $175.00 and includes narrative material as well as homework, so you can practice your new found skills. Note: We also do a great Corporate Document Styles and Formatting Class as well!

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agentroz · 2 years ago

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Meditations on a Painting by Edward Hopper | Oneshot

VACATION’S ALL I EVER WANTED: Write a oneshot about your character going on vacation! (800 words)

Date: Sometime in 1973 Featuring: Rosalind Peterson, Richard Peterson Warnings: A brief reference to falling from a tall building, but only hypothetically

Rosalind Peterson, age thirteen, receives a cultural education.

The Petersons did not take vacations. Saving the world was more than a full-time job, and their daughter saw plenty of it anyway. There was no time and it would be a frivolous use of the Society’s money to book a trip to the beach or the mountains— and the Petersons knew they could hardly forget about their duties long enough for a vacation to be worth it. But they did travel. And quite often, their daughter traveled with them. And on this specific occasion, while his wife discussed top secret assignments not even he was privy to, Richard Peterson decided it necessary that said daughter receive a bit of a cultural education while the family briefly stopped in New York for a meeting with HQ.

At thirteen, Rosalind did not yet know about the Society. She only knew that her parents had very important international jobs that she should not ask questions about. So she didn’t. She watched the skyscrapers roll by the window of the taxi cab with her wide, bespeckled eyes and tried to imagine all of the people who worked in them, likely doing equally important, equally mysterious international jobs.

She didn’t ask where they were going. By now, she had learned to deduce rather than ask, to find the puzzle pieces herself and fit them together. The cab was moving west, past lively neighborhoods with children playing in the streets over a bridge into a bustling, industrious downtown. And now it was headed north, the skyscrapers beginning to thin and the steel-gray office buildings fading into ivory apartment buildings that reminded Rosalind of London.

The building they stopped in front of couldn’t have been an apartment complex, though. It looked like a palace.

Rosalind stopped in her tracks on the steps into the museum, eyes wide as saucers, mouth hanging slightly open. It was difficult to impress a stoic, serious girl like Rosalind, but the Metropolitan Museum of Art had succeeded, and she hadn’t even walked in yet.

“Come along, there’s not much time,” Richard urged. Rosalind followed dutifully.

She inspected each painting, each statue carefully, with the serious nature of an estate agent appraising a property for value. She said nothing. Richard said nothing. Each stared at the art work in question, and then, as though on cue, moved onto the next after an appropriate period of time had passed.

Rosalind did not believe she had a cold relationship with her father, but they had never quite been the type to dance on tiptoes or exchange warm words of affection. She felt closest with him in moments like this: both of them standing side-by-side, doing very grown-up and very sophisticated things together, like they were old colleagues instead of a middle-aged man and his teenage daughter. They didn’t speak, save for the occasional thoughtful hum from Richard that made Rosalind pay extra attention.

“What do you think of this one?” Richard asked suddenly, as the pair stopped in front of a painting in the modern section of the museum

The young girl stared at the painting. Office in a Small City, by Edward Hopper. No, Rosalind didn’t like it at all.

Rosalind wanted to choose her words carefully, though. Her father was inviting her to a very grown-up conversation between two culturally-educated people. “This one is very boring,” she finally said after much consideration. Her eyebrows furrowed critically, her hands clasped behind her back. “And a bit unrealistic. It looks as though those windows don’t have any glass in them. And he’s got nobody else there. It’s got to be the middle of the morning, based on the placement of the shadows— are we supposed to believe he’s come into the office on a weekend? In that case, he must have quite a lot of important work to do, and yet his desk seems entirely empty.”

Richard just hummed maddeningly, inscrutably thoughtfully.

“Perhaps he has come into the office on the weekend. But can you be so sure? Remember what we say about jumping to conclusions, Lindy.”

Rosalind’s cheeks heated slightly. “We shouldn’t do it.”

“Yes, exactly. But those are some interesting observations.” He spoke slowly, carefully, and Rosalind hung on every word. “Perhaps Mr. Hopper intended that the windows not appear to have glass in them— do you see how the subject almost seems more connected to the world outside his window than the work in front of him? And perhaps it is intentional that he appear so solitary… Mr. Hopper’s work is often believed to be about deep, abject loneliness.”

Rosalind blinked, and she finally could put her finger on why she didn’t like the painting. It had awakened some strange, bewildering feeling in her that she couldn’t identify. There was too much space, too much light. The man was far too isolated, like he might fall out through one of the glassless windows into the vast city below and hardly anyone would notice. Perhaps it was a painting about loneliness.

Perhaps, Rosalind thought, she understood loneliness.

That didn’t mean she liked to be confronted with it.

“Well, that is very sad for him,” she said finally, swallowing down a strange urge to cry despite being a whole thirteen years old and far, far too mature for that.

“Yes, it is.”

And with that, they moved onto the next painting, and the next, and the next, and afterward there was afternoon tea, and a trip to the top of the Empire State Building.

“I still don’t understand why there wasn’t any glass,” Rosalind said suddenly, looking out over the cityscape through her binoculars.

“What’s that, Lindy?”

“In the painting. By Mr. Hopper. You said it was a painting about loneliness, but you also said perhaps Mr. Hopper wanted him to be more connected to the world outside his window than the work in front of him. That doesn’t make sense.”

Either Rosalind was seeing things, or an amused smile had crept up onto her father’s features.

“Very astute,” he said, looking out onto the clusters of buildings that lay before them, all the tiny people moving in streams like minnows in a pond. “I didn’t realize you were still thinking about that. I suppose artists can be contradictory sometimes. Or perhaps Mr. Hopper had thought of a specific kind of loneliness. Like the feeling of being alone in a room full of people.”

“But there were no other people in that picture.”

“No other people that we could see. But there was a whole world in those buildings beyond, wasn’t there?”

Rosalind didn’t know what to make of that, so she just nodded and picked up her binoculars again. But it stuck in her mind the rest of the day. And the rest of that trip to New York. And for a very long time after that, peering out the window of her very small office in a small school in a very, very small city where she has come to spend the rest of her days.

#swyntask #the tldr: you ever look at an edward hopper painting and feel some type of way #yeah #self para

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melancholysway · 3 years ago

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Serendipity (2007!Raphael x Fem Reader) 1

CHAPTER I: GENESIS

Chapter key:

--- = a flashback is happening or ending

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ or ====

= perspective change

~ = small time skip

Ah, Physics.

The best part of class, which is the last part of the class, to be exact. Sure, the break in between classes was a close second, and we were able to walk freely around Roosevelt University, which was a perfect photo op in your opinion; being in the heart of Manhattan in New York City. Your desk, closest to the window and air vent, a win-win situation made a good view for both the instructor and events happening outside. You could glance outside and watch athletes run the track, or you could glance to the middle and watch the empty football field be chalked for the foul lines, the crease for lacrosse, or the goal line for soccer. You could also watch the large jumbo Tron present the weather, time, and school mascot (which was a Tiger) all at once that was rimmed with the red and white colors of the school. If you were bored enough, looking to the right would show the boundary dividing campus and the city life. You could watch people call taxis, run frantically to their jobs to clock in on time, and, if you were lucky, watch a crime get busted by the police. The opportunities to get distracted in Physics were infinite. Quite possibly, your seat placement was the leading cause of your grade being in the low 90s and not the highs like it is for every other class, except Calculus, which was in the mid-80s.

To you, physics was a breeze. To most, it was hell, and whoever created the course and made it a required class should jump in the Atlantic Ocean. However, when it came to the exams and pop quizzes, you maybe once or twice glanced at your desk neighbor and good friend Teddy, only to "compare" answers.

You listened absentmindedly to the best Physics professor to exist in your opinion, Mrs. Scott. You felt bad for students who were less fortunate and did not have Scott, and had Mr. White or Mr. Lesser- Lord knows those two can't teach if their life depended on it. If only Scott taught Calculus, then you'd be set for life.

"Now the million dollar question...." Mrs. Scott erased the lesson learned today on the whiteboard- she was old school, and technology wasn't exactly her best friend, so the Smart Board Screen was forever a blank black abyss that reflected the students in the front row desks like a mirror. You finally gave your full attention to the words being written on the board, and for a moment glanced at the clock.

'In T minus 4 minutes, I'll be free!' you cheered, feeling a sudden wave of energy to answer the last question of the day, and of the week before the next one on Monday. You looked down at your Physics textbook, and your sky blue spiral notebook knowing what was to come. Usually, before the class ended on Fridays, Mrs. Scott would write a question pertaining to the week's lesson that you had to answer, and whoever could explain it in full detail got extra credit. This was a perfect opportunity to change that low 90 into possibly a mid 90.

"Why do boomerangs come back?"

Score! An easy question if you paid close attention during the partner lab on Wednesday. You structured your answer in your head and raised your hand in anticipation and restlessness.

"And no Google!" Numerous groans and sighs filled the room, as many kids put their phones and laptops away, already quitting.

Mrs. Scott looked around the room, only for her eyes to land on yours.

"(Name)?" Considering nobody else knew why a boomerang came back, your pride was soaring.

"Boomerangs work on the same principles of aerodynamics as any other flying object; the key to how a boomerang works is the airfoil. An airfoil is flat on one side but curved on the other with one edge thicker than the other - this subjects the boomerang to lift, keeping it in the air. The lift is generated because the air flowing up over the curve of the wing has further to travel than the air flowing past the flat side. The air moving over the curve travels faster to reach the other side of the wing, creating lift. A boomerang has two airfoils, each facing in a different direction. This makes the aerodynamic forces acting on a thrown boomerang uneven. The section of the boomerang moving in the same direction as the direction of forwarding motion moves faster than the section moving in the opposite direction. Just like tank tracks moving at different speeds, this causes the boomerang to turn in the air and return to the thrower." Once you finished, the hour and 30 minutes of physics were complete, and the day was done. In just a matter of seconds, all students were out the door.

"Nerd alert." Teddy snickered as he got up from his seat. You noticed he possessed his signature wine red football jersey that had the colleges “Roosevelt” logo on the upper chest area, with the bone white “#54” on the front, back and sleeve, his last name owning the same pure white color on the back. Whenever Teddy or any player wore their jersey, it meant there was a game tonight.

Teddy Wilds. While almost all jocks were assholes, Teddy was an exception. Shaggy chocolate brown hair, army green eyes, pale skin and a structured face, he was every girl's teenage dream. Except yours. The first time you both met was last semester in chemistry, and the trend of having Teddy in your science classes continued into the next one. When he isn't being harassed by girls in physics, he's talking to you or placing bids on Ebay for the newest piece of tech or even a signed football.

"Oh whatever!" you replied, lightly pushing him away as he placed his hand on the back of his neck.

"Home or away tonight?" You asked out of curiosity, it wasn't like you were going to go, but it was nice to know; and hey, maybe you'd change your mind.

"Home at 7, though, it'd feel more like home if you came." Teddy replied flirtatiously. His voice was a bit deep, but it still reminded you of someone going through puberty even though Teddy was already 20, as he still had little voice cracks here and there.

Teddy was a total weirdo, but he never failed to make you laugh at least once a day.

"Where'd you find that one on the internet?" You ask while putting your bag on your desk, firstly putting the heavy textbook in, then the other items. Once done, you slung your backpack on your back. It is a bit miraculous how you have no back problems due to all the weight you put on your back.

"Like I would reveal," The brown haired boy scoffed. "But you should come, s'not like you have assignments due today."

“I'll ask Jade if she wants to go. See ya 'round, Teddy. If I’m a no-show, text me how it went." You saluted as you finally walked out the lab room, hearing a “Gotcha!” From Teddy.

Now, you are ready to start your weekend. In all honesty, you didn't really participate or show "school spirit" per say; hell, you didn't even know the Boys Basketball Team won sections last weekend against another rival college until yesterday.

Once you went from the fourth floor to the school entrance, you immediately felt the chilly November winds hit your face. You were more than lucky you decided to throw on some sweats than your blue skinny jeans, as they warm your legs up a bit. Your eyes scanned the scene in front of you: the many conversations occurring, the laughs of some and the arguments among others, groups of friends leaving together in one direction, and others in the opposite. Some cars fly out of the parking lot in a rush to get home, and other students get on the bus to take them home. Finally, off of campus grounds, you sighed in relief. The weekend officially started, and you had nothing but time to waste. Now on the streets of New York City, you put your earbuds in to block out the noise and fish your phone out of your pocket to pick a song.

You passed through Central Park, then past the many shops and stores after leaving, knowing the exact way to your tiny apartment. You strolled and glanced at the many people who passed you by, only seeing their faces for less than a second, only to never see them again. It seems every hour is rush hour in NYC, but at 3pm in particular, it seemed the most crowded and busy, which always delayed traffic and a longer time to get home for you.

You thought to yourself as you continued to walk home if you should go to the game or not, and texted your friend Jade to hear her thoughts on it.

3:20: (Name)

Wanna go to the FB game today? I'm indifferent tbh :(

3:22: Jade

Hmm, idk 0-0, I'm not doing anything, but seeing our school lose(when do we not, we're only good at lacrosse- and basketball) is gonna hurt the small school spirit I have left :(

3:22: Jade

What do you say about coming over later? You can’t say no to a sleepover! *O* let's rage gurl!

3:23: (Name)

I'll bring the fun stuff :) and we’re pretty decent at football when we wanna be.

3:24: Jade

That sounds highly illegal.

You’re not wrong, but exactly! ‘When we wanna be’ tisk. tisk.

Bring Stella!

3:26: (Name)

You know what I mean, dummy. And you know Stella won’t leave her bed if I didn’t bribe her with food.

3:27: (Name)

Coming by around 7! (don't forget like last time -_-)

3:27: Jade

It was one time!

Well, you were definitely getting an earful of Teddy next class on Monday, but hey, you can't compare a college event to best friend bonding. You then thought of what to put in your overnight bag later, and made a note to bring a few movies and CD's to play at Jade's place.

Jade Santos. Lacrosse player, and a true artist. One of your closest friends.

When your parents found a Uni that only accepted a few, and you were lucky enough to get accepted. You were craving city life, and a different atmosphere. The only thing that came with this move was there was no way your parents were quitting their jobs to work in the city, so with the help of your weekend and summer job and your parents, they're able to pay rent for your tiny apartment that you were happy enough to call your own. Jade was the third person you befriended after she asked you to take a photo of her on your camera for her to keep- and any photo opportunity you were there for the taking. Not long after, she returned the favor by painting you a beautiful landscape on a canvas that screamed 'Bob Ross.' Once you got to know her, you loved being around her. Ever since, you've been conjoined to the hip, and good friends.

Sleepovers with Jade were definitely nights to remember; as they consisted of snacks, pizza, dancing like idiots on her bed to whatever song that played on the radio or CD, talking about the latest gossip going around campus, new music, and taking photos on one of your disposable cameras that you developed in the nearby Walgreens the next morning. After doing so, it was Y/n and Jade Sleepover Tradition that you would go to James’ Diner- which was the one you waited tables at for a job- a few blocks away to eat breakfast together.

After half an hour of walking home from class, you finally made it into your apartment complex. It was a bit more secluded, yet it was still a bit dangerous. A notorious gang called the Purple Dragons resided in your area sometimes- (they often moved around)- and caused nothing but mischief, only to be stopped by the police or- if they're having an unlucky day- the Nightwatcher.

The first time you heard of the infamous Nightwatcher was on the news, then he- it was newly known as a male rather than a female--shown up in newspapers. For the most part, it seems most of the crime activity stopped by him happens around your area, quite possibly because of the Purple Dragons, and even some good for nothing criminals. You didn't think much of it, though you did a bit of research here and there, only to realize nothing but conspiracies and old news articles came up in the search results.

Taking your ear buds out from your ears, the music stopped, and the city's sounds were your new tunes. Before you walked into the entrance to your apartment building, you felt someone push by you harshly- nearly knocking you over.

"Watch it." A gruff voice said angrily. Turning around, you saw a pale slim guy with a black short sleeved sweater that showed his slightly muscular arms. He looked a bit sketchy, but your typical New York jerk at a glance.

You flipped him off and replied with a simple "Screw you, don't be rude, dude!" the man looked down at you, his tattooed face and gloomy burnt umber eyes staring you down in anger. With the hoodie shielding his identity from you, you had no idea what his face looked like. Rolling your eyes, you walked up the steps to the apartment building entrance and slammed the door shut, watching him fume with anger and hear his muffled voice as he banged on the door, yelling how ‘he’d remember this’ and 'he'll see you soon,’ until stomping off to a nearby alleyway, never to be seen again like most of the people in New York. You figured he was all talk and no action.

If only you would've seen the tattoo on the back of his neck, it possibly could've saved you from being in any type of danger tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once you got to the 8th floor and unlocked your apartment door, you let out yet another sigh of relief -in pure bliss- as you were finally home, and you could relax for a few before you were off to Jades. You locked the door and made way to your bedroom, sensing your cat following behind you.

"I see you Stella, even though I'm not looking at you, I still see you." You stated not turning your head- and got nothing back, but you could still feel her eyes not leaving your body as you slumped your bag on the bed and she hopped on it in suite- curling up into a small ball of shedding fur. You grabbed your camera from your bag and placed it on the corner shelf with your other ones.

You quickly took a shower- sad that you couldn’t take a long, relaxing steamy one like you usually do- and put on a pair of black leggings, black and white Vans, a plain T-shirt- which would be your pajamas for the night. You brushed out your hair, taking out all the knots as you went- and soon deciding to leave your hair out since you didn’t feel like fighting with it to get a hairstyle you desired. After, you opened your closet and took your overnight bag out and placed it on your bed, careful not to startle the Balinese. You went into the bathroom and took your comb and brush, the travel bottle of shampoo, conditioner and unopened box of bar soap to place inside your bag. Then, you looked around your room for any other things you should take until your eyes laid on your Polaroid.

---

Call Y/n obsessed, but that vintage polaroid was her favorite.

She had gotten it as a “Good luck out there gift” from both her parents the day she finally moved in- without her knowledge, her mom placed it on her new bed, as it blended in with the rest of the clutter she had yet to unpack. Later on in the day, she received a text from her dad to “take pretty photos of NYC” knowing she loved to go sightseeing. New York City was the best place to do it! Aside from going to Roosevelt, it was also her reasoning for picking the beautiful state to finish high school. So, that she did. She took photos of whatever she could, even if it was a pigeon on a park bench- she took it. Then, Y/n had gotten more vintage cameras from a nearby Goodwill at a great price, starting her camera collection. This white Poloroid with a rainbow stripe running down the middle however, would always be her favorite.

---

After a little reminiscing about the camera your parents gave you, you also put it in your bag to take. You went back into your closet and took your work attire out for tomorrow to also put in it. You retreated back to the living room and turned on the television. It was Channel 5, the news, and you took a seat on the couch in front of the TV.

"NIGHTWATCHER STRIKES AGAIN. NYC CRIME RATE DECLINING FAST. IS PLAYING VIGILANTE OKAY?" You read the headline at the bottom, and then watched as an amateur camera-man got a shaky and blurry shot of the Nightwatcher. It was difficult to see, but you could still make out his figure atop the roof of an apartment building at night if you squint hard enough. You thought in your head about the headline. Is a vigilante really okay? I mean, going topside and busting criminals faster than the police can is not a bad thing, but most New Yorkers would say to leave the crime to the NYPD. But, the crime rate has gone down a bit from where it was last after the Nightwatcher showed up. So...maybe it's not so bad to have him around. You couldn’t imagine doing a better job than the authorities and NOT receiving any type of reward- specifically money- for the hard work you put in for keeping the city safe, and this dude did it for free. FREE.

After tuning in to the latest news story, it was now 6:11. You turned off the TV and headed toward the kitchen to feed Stella dinner and put cold water in her bowl to drink, hearing a loud THUMP when she jumped off the bed and light footsteps scurrying to the kitchen to eat the second you opened a can of cat food. After, you patted her head and left her alone with a goodbye and pleaded.

“See you tomorrow night, please don’t break anything.” You stated, only to have Stella completely immersed in her meal, and not paying any attention to you- it wasn’t like Stella could understand you, anyway.

With that, you grabbed the spare key to your apartment and opened your door, locking it behind you. Knowing Stella would need to be fed in the morning, you walked down the hall to the all-too familiar sunset yellow apartment door: 8-H. You knocked on the door, knowing the doorbell wasn't working.

After a few moments and some shuffling coming from the inside, an all too familiar male voice finally answered-

"Um, one second!" You heard two hushed voices on the other side of the door, one being a voice that wasn't April's and you haven't heard before, and you were now a bit curious. About a minute or so later, you saw the lock of the door turn and open, revealing one out of the two who resided in 8-H. A jet black haired, hair gel free Casey Jones.

"Y-Y/n! What's up kid?" A stuttering Casey asked, it was as if he was almost nervous. He placed his hand on the door frame and the other on the door, making it impossible to see the inside of his apartment's living space.

"I wish you'd stop calling me that, we're literally 2 years apart." You both shared a laugh.

"But I'm not in College anymore--thanks to Google and April, I graduated" You rolled your eyes at the smiling idiot in response. You remembered the time you were in their apartment the same week you met them 2 years back, chatting it up with the couple and soon getting into the topic of school for the very first time.

---

“I just...I feel like everyday it just gets worse.” April handed Y/n a cup of hot green tea with just the right amount of honey. Casey paused the movie he was watching- ‘Miracle’ was it?

“College is the worst aside from the parties. Not a day went by when I had a shitty day come to think of it. I’m surprised I balanced college and hockey without wanting to drop out and become a rapper.” Casey replied laughing to himself, April took a seat on the couch next to Y/n, taking a sip of her own cup of tea.

“As dramatic as he makes it, he’s right. I knew a friend who did a sport every season- tennis in the fall, swimming in the winter, and softball in the spring. She had a 3.8 GPA, even. Once Junior year came around, she couldn’t handle academics and athletics together and her grades started to decline. So, she didn’t swim or play softball that year. I didn’t do a sport, but I still struggled. I can’t imagine how stressed others were. School is meant to kick your ass, but you have to kick it harder.” April placed a comforting hand on Y/n’s shoulder, as she smiled in response.

“But, when you really need help, you should ask for it. I remember Sophomore year, the exact day I met Casey- who came to me begging for help in Geometry, and wouldn’t stop bothering me about it, until I agreed minutes later.” The red-haired girl stared at the ceiling, basking in its plainness, remembering her own school experience and how quick it all went by.

“I can’t believe you remember that! Then Y/n, I asked her to come watch my game, then homecoming, then I asked her out on a date, and then prom and then-” ''Slow down, Jones!” “Am I rambling again?” April laughed at her boyfriend, seeing how excited he was to talk about their history together.

“I know we just met on Monday but...I feel like I’ve known you for longer. You’d make a good therapist.” Y/n complimented.

---

"Is April around?"

You hoped she was. Lord knows Casey can't take care of himself, let alone a simple task of checking up on a cat and feeding it. He most likely would oversleep and forget.

"She's not, actually. She left for South America two days ago on a big business trip or something for some artifacts." Casey replied. Great.

Casey Jones and April O' Neil. You were close with both of them, as they were the first two whom you met, and greeted you when you moved in down the hall from them. When you got to know them well, you would often visit and drop by sometimes just to talk. A bit more with Casey since he was around more than April. You ranted about class, and he ranted about work and trying to be perfect for April. You thought they were relationship goals, they were so in love and happy and you were happy for them. It made you want to be in a relationship and experience the same feelings. They were both extremely humble and fun young adults to be around. You liked to spend time shopping with April or spilling the latest gossip on anyone on campus (even though she finished college, gossip always keeps it interesting) and you liked to talk about how much you disliked a lot of people in your classes with Casey, or watch a football, lacrosse or hockey game with him since he loved the company, (especially hockey, since it reminds him of his ‘school days.’)

"Wow, that's far. But, I'm actually not gonna be home until tomorrow evening, I’m spending the night with Jade, then I have to work from 8am to 5pm and I won’t have time to stop by here-I sort of need someone to feed Stella and see how she's doing in the morning, and April is always happy to see her…" You looked down at the floor, playing with the white earbuds in your hands. You did notice Casey tapping his foot at a fast pace, almost impatiently.

"That she is. I'd be more than happy to feed her for ya, Y/n. Responsible Jones at your service!" You looked up and saw Casey shooting you a toothy grin that made you snort. Who knew responsibility was in his vocabulary?

"Aren't you allergic? I can ask Mel downstairs, but I trust you and April more…" Casey shook his head, "That's what Zyrtec and Claritin are for, duh!" He exclaimed.

"If you insist, Jones. I usually feed her around 7 to 8:30 in the morning,” You took a breath before you continued onto the rules part of feeding Stella. “Make sure to give her COLD water, not room temperature, she'll look at you like you're crazy- and yes, she’s silently judging you- and won’t drink it. It HAS to be filtered water, or she won't drink it. You can put one ice cube in her bowl, not two, or she won't drink it. Her food is under the kitchen cabinet--give her half the canned food and put the other half in a small container on the top cabinet and I'll feed her that one in the evening. Thanks!" Casey looked absolutely lost.

"Picky cat- and I thought I was bad" He finally said in shock. Yep, Stella was one peculiar cat.

"You are!" A voice beyond the door shouted. Well, it was definitely a male, who possessed a gruff and deep even, but not too deep voice. One thing’s for sure, it definitely wasn’t April.

'Oh' you thought. You didn't know Casey had company over. Hell, you didn't even know Casey had FRIENDS other than you. Then again, he and April were somewhat secretive when it came to their social lives. Casey whipped his head back at the source of the voice, raising his slender middle finger. He looked back at you and saw the look of curiosity in your eyes.

"Did I uh...interrupt something? You seem off right now." You stepped a bit closer to Casey, and he stepped back, clearing his throat.

"Nah! Not at all! I just...didn't expect you this late ya know?" He laughed awkwardly.

You checked your phone, "It's 6 in the night, you're far from late." you sighed adjusting the strap from your duffle bag.

"6:20 actually." Jones stated matter-of-factly looking at the analog clock against the wall.

"Alright smart-ass, 6:20. So, here's the spare key, do NOT lose it. There WILL be consequences if you do." You handed the silver key paired with your lucky sea turtle Keychain over to your friend--who twirled it around his index finger.

“And if I do?” The “all-natural” haired male challenged.

“I’ll get rid of all your Zyrtec and Claritan and swipe it for laxatives. Don’t play me.” Casey gasped, wincing at the thought.

“Evil!”

“Well,” You started, “Don’t lose it.”

Casey saluted you. "Yes sir! I mean…ma'am." To which you rolled your eyes slowly in response.

"Thank you, seriously. I'll text you in the morning to remind you even." You suddenly heard the same voice clear their throat in the background, and Casey gripped the door knob.

"Welp, I gotta go! See you…tomorrow I mean, Y/n- have a safe walk-BYE!" Casey stumbled over his words, getting quieter and muffled after every second due to the door closing more after each pause.

“Bye, let’s talk-…” With that, the door closed, and you were face to face with the deep yellow door after it cut you off.

“...later.” You finished your sentence to the door.

"That was…odd." You say to yourself. There was definitely something going on, but you had no time to do some FBI secret agent super sleuthing. However, this encounter was nothing new you’ve seen. Casey or April taking longer to answer the door, shuffling and other voices behind the door becoming silent once he opened it. The times you actually entered the house, you felt as if they were hiding something during your short stay. You never saw anyone else in the house except for April and Casey- but you had enough knowledge that they knew other people. You never asked them directly, but the time would come eventually. You put your earbuds back in your ears and chose a new song to listen to, walking towards the elevator and out the building entrance door once you reached the 1st floor, beginning your walk to Jade’s.

What Y/n didn’t know, however, was that the person who she was curious about would come face to face with her soon enough.

NEXT CHAPTER: HERE

CHAPTER LIST: 1 (current) 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 9.5 10

#tmnt #tmnt 2007 #raphael tmnt #bayverse raph #raphael #tmnt raph #tmnt raphael #tmnt donatello #tmnt imagine #tmnt headcanons #tmnt x reader

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waiting4inspiration · 4 years ago

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Cold as Ice (Loki x Reader One-shot)

Summary: When Loki joins the team, he notices a few things about you. The most intriguing is that you don't allow anyone to touch you. He wants to know why.

A/n: I didn't expect it to be this long, but anyways...

One-Shots Masterlist

You're a new addition to the team. That's the first thing Loki thought when he saw you sitting amongst the team when he arrived with Thor. You weren't part of the team when he attacked New York. But then again, quite some time has passed since then. So, you might not be as new to the team as Loki thinks, but you're new to him.

He knew from the moment he set his eyes on you that you prefer to be left alone. Which is something he found odd considering your current placement on the team. But from the way you make sure there's a substantial amount of distance between you and whoever sits beside you, the way you keep your arms and your hands close to your body, it's enough to tell Loki that you're not fond of being around people.

First impressions can be deceiving. For when he actually walks into the room, past the glass door he was peering through to stare at you, he found that you were freely participating in conversation, even smiling every now and then.

When your attention turns to him, your smile falls and it's as if you retreat into your body, hugging yourself tightly as you force yourself to stand along with the team.

Of course, you knew he was coming. You're not overly fond of meeting new people because that generally means some form of formal greeting will have to take place; like a handshake. But this is something that you just have to live with. Because of the truce made with Loki and the team, they've agree to bring him onto the team, which means that he'll be around all the time.

"Loki, this is (Y/n). She's been with us for a while now."

After Thor introduces you to Loki, he holds out his hand for you, thinking you would do the same. You glace down at it, a sad look coming over your eyes as you take a step back in response. "It's nice to meet you, Loki. Hopefully you won't cause as much trouble as you have in the past," you say, trying to lighten the atmosphere around you with a gentle smile.

"I bare no ill intentions this time."

For the next few days as Loki settled in, he watched you and how you interacted with those around you. He wanted to know what ever would happen if you did what you seem to be avoiding to do - touch someone. In his mind, he thought of all kinds of things. Perhaps you have a touch of death. Perhaps you can read the minds of those you touch. A lot of things came to his mind as he tried to figure it out himself.

He tried to catch you in a training time, but he could never find you. So, he could never find out for himself what your abilities are. He never thought to ask the team about you, perhaps because he just wanted to find out for himself. It's like a personal mission for him.

One night, he walks up to the roof. He's not sure what made him do that, but the sky seemed clear from his bedroom window and he thought it would be good to look at the stars outside. When he steps out onto the flat roof, he stops you sitting close to the edge, your head turned up to the sky.

It's probably the first time Loki's seen you relaxed.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Loki's voice makes you jump and you quickly turn your head over your shoulder to see who it is. You pull your arms to your sides at he walks forward, bring your hands into your lap when he sits down beside you, and you turn your gaze back to the sky. "Yeah, it is. It makes me relax and gets my mind off of everything," you say, smiling to yourself.

"I've noticed that you prefer to keep to yourself," he speaks, making your smile die and your head drops between your shoulders. "And that you don't allow anyone to touch you-"

"I prefer it that way," you cut him off, looking at him coldly. You wait for him to say something else but he doesn't. He just stares at you, waiting for you to speak again, like he doesn't have an idea about why you don't like to touch anyone.

You breathe out a long sigh, turn your gaze down to your hands, and bit your lower lip. "They haven't told you why?" you ask, looking at Loki again as he shakes his head.

"I would prefer if you told me," he mentions, turning slightly to face you directly.

You shift away from him when he moves, weaving your fingers together. He does have a right to know now that he's part of the team. So, you take a deep breath and look at him again. "I have the ability to control ice and make anything I touch freeze. Including a person. And I have no control over it."

Loki nods his head, his eyes falling to your hands in your lap. He gets it now. "How did you...discover your powers?" he questions, lifting his gaze to your face again.

Licking your lips, you swallow harshly and look up at the sky again. "My mother accidently touched me. And she turned into a column of ice right in front of me. I didn't know how to bring her back, how to unfreeze her, and the destress I felt made her shatter," you explain, not wanting to look at Loki as you wring your hands tightly.

It all makes sense now. He understands why you don't want to touch anyone close to you now. You don't want them to have the same fate as your mother. Perhaps there might have been a away to bring back your mother and unfreeze her, but only if you had not made her shatter. Loki thinks you know that, which makes your reasons to not touch anyone greater.

"How long has it been since anyone has even touched you? On purpose," Loki asks, the question just falling from his lips when he thinks about what it must be like to not be touched by anyone, even if it's the most friendliest touch, for years.

"Since I was 12," you simply say, not thinking much of his question. You turn to look at him, sadly smiling as you shrug your shoulder. "It sometimes feels like a living hell. It's even worse when someone on the team gets hurt and there's nothing I can do to help them. Then I feel useless. Gloves don't work either because the cold just goes right through the material and it burns a hold through the glove. There's no escaping this cold touch," you explain, your hands curling into fists, almost like you're angry.

You're touch starved, Loki can tell. He can see how much it affects you, but it's a wonder that you're going on so strong.

Then, a thought comes to his mind. He is Jotun. A Frost Giant. Would your cold powers have the same affect on him as it would to everyone else?

The thought stays with him through the night, past when you said goodnight to him and left for bed. He sat on the roof for a bit longer, thinking about everything you had said and everything you didn't say but what he could see in your eyes. He could tell that even though you're with the team, you feel alone. You feel isolated.

It's a risk he's going to take, but he'll do it nonetheless. Not because he's curious as to what might happen, but because if his feelings are right, he'll be able to help you. He knows what it's like to feel alone and isolated from everyone around you. And though he hasn't experienced this hell you live through everyday, he knows that it would drive him insane not to touch or be touched by anyone for years.

He sneaks into your room, finding you fast asleep in your bed. It's warmer in your room than he expected it to be and when he looks around and finds a heater on in the corner of your room, he understands why. He wonders if it's freezing in he room when the heater isn't on, and how much coldness do you let off in your sleep?

The image of icicles on the furniture in your room in his mind make his smile to himself. It must not be a great sight for you to wake up to something like that, a reminder of your difference from everyone and the personal hell you live in.

Loki walks up to the side of your bed, careful not to make any wrong steps to wake you. It would be best if you don't know what he's up to or why. He hadn't even thought what might happen if he's wrong and he freezes over at your touch. He doesn't think that will happen and he's never wrong.

Slowly, he moves his hand towards your arm that lies on top of the blankets. His fingers are close to your skin, just hovering over it, close enough for him to feel the cold radiating off your body. It makes the flesh color of his fingers fade into the blue color of his Jotun form and he pulls his hand away. Even though he expected it to happen, it still surprises him and he watches his finger return to normal.

Now, for his real test.

With the back of his hand, he strokes a gentle line from your shoulder down to your elbow. Even though your skin is so cold, it's almost comforting to Loki. And when he doesn't freeze over right away, he looks over his body, checking for any signs of ice spreading over him.

But all that changed was the color of his hand again. That has gone back to normal again, and he looks down at your face to make sure you're still asleep.

All he can think about now is cupping your cheek in his hand, telling you that your powers have no effect on him.

He wants to tell you that you don't have to suffer anymore.

He wants to touch you again. And he wants you to touch him in return.

Permanent Tags- @cassindeansass @simsadventures @fandomfic-galore @belovedcherry @what-just-happened-bro @geekandbooknerd @lonewolf471 @moonie-flower101 @p8tn0lish @rinkashirikitateku @readsalot73 @louisolos @petlaufeyson @bangtan-serendipity @aworldwideapart @mythicalbullshit @ateliefloresdaprimavera @xbuckxnastyx @madithemagicalfangirl @shannygoatgruff @a--1--1--3 @nerdypinupcrystal @mblaqgi @tephi101 @coconutqueen21 @wonderlandfandomkingdom @babypink224221

#loki #loki x reader #loki (marvel)#loki fanfic #mcu loki #loki oneshot #loki of asgard #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki x enhanced reader

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lonestarbattleship · 4 years ago

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New York Class Battleships: Identification

Ordered in 1910 and built with same specifications, USS NEW YORK (BB-34) and USS TEXAS (BB-35) performed the same and were almost identical in appearance. However, like twins, there are some tell tale differences between the two to identify them. Here's a quick guide on how to tell them apart.

From 1914 to October 1917

When they were built, they were virtually identical except for their search lights. For whatever reason, New York's search lights are on a single platform on the main and fore masts, side by side. On Texas, her searchlights on two platforms one on top of the other. So basically New York horizon searchlights and Texas vertical searchlights.

From January to October 1918

They were both refitted for WWI in September and were set to sail to Scotland to join with the Royal Navy. However, TEXAS ran aground in September 1917 and had to go back to the Yard for repairs. While at the Navy Yard for repairs, she was further modified. Range clocks were added to her masts and training marks were painted on bottom part of her second and fourth turrets. Later, NEW YORK would have training marks painted on the same turrets and rangeclocks.

From October 1918 to July 1924

While in England, an enclosed bridge was installed on TEXAS. Eventually, New York will get an enclosed bridge as well after July 1919 on the West Coast, but is noticably different. See my post on them: link. These bridges are the second easiest way to tell them apart.

From 1926 till their decommissioning.

There are plenty of differences after their rebuilds and modernization in 1926. But the easiest way to tell them apart is their yard arms on their forward fire control towers.

If the yardarm is above the above set of windows, then it's NEW YORK. If the yardarm is below the bottom set of windows, then it's TEXAS.

There are others things to look for to tell the difference between the two, such as their super structure configurations and AA gun placements on the top of their forward fire control towers, but these are the easiest clearest indicators.

source, source, source

Library of Congress: LC-B2- 3055-13

Photo from Henry Sabuda's Collection: link

#USS NEW YORK (BB-34)#USS NEW YORK #USS TEXAS (BB-35)#USS TEXAS #New York Class #battleship TEXAS #Dreadnought #Battleship #Warship #Ship #United States Navy #U.S. Navy #US Navy #USN #Navy #1914 #1945 #my post

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careysmith1 · 17 days ago

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avengerscompound · 4 years ago

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Small Gods: Lazy Mornings - 5

Lazy Mornings: A Captain America Fanfic

Lazy Mornings Masterlist | More Small Gods PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Rating: E

Word Count: 1696

Warnings: smut (MF, vaginal sex)

Synopsis: Steve Rogers has trouble taking time for himself. When his friends set him up with a person with a very unusual skill, perhaps he can learn that the quiet moments are just as important as everything else.

Chapter 5

There was something a little magical about the way the sun crept through the curtains as Steve slowly woke. It fell in a clear beam over the bed, and dust motes floated in it, glowing brightly like they were alive and filled with their own kind of magic. From the beam the light diffused through the room, blanketing in a soft white haze that made everything seem like it was wrapped in cloud.

Steve had slept well. Better than he could ever remember sleeping before. It was the good, deep, restful sleep that most people just long for. There was no urgency to waking either, so he did it gradually, appreciating the scent of coffee, linen, and fresh-cut grass, along with the warmth of your body pressed against him.

You slept so close to him - practically buried into his side. Sleeping with another person usually brought with it some minor discomforts that were a trade-off to the intimacy of sharing such a space with another person. Hair that got in your mouth. Awkward arm placements. Overheating from the shared body temperature. Accidentally getting kicked in rather tender areas.

There was none of that with you. The bed which would normally be too soft for him to be truly comfortable was somehow perfect. The air temperature was cool, but the bed was perfectly warm in that way that made it hard to leave. The way you tucked in against him felt like the two of you were made for each other. Like two pieces of a puzzle, or Lego bricks.

You made a soft sound and your arms tightened around him. “Good morning,” you mumbled, in a sleep-heavy voice. “Will you stay?”

Steve hummed and pressed his cheek against the top of your head. “Mm-hmm.”

He wasn’t even quite sure what he was agreeing to. Now? Forever? He didn’t know, but either way that answer felt right.

You hummed and nuzzled at his neck, kissing his throat and gently grazing your teeth over his skin. “Good,” you whispered. “I have plans.”

He pulled back and looked down at you, smiling a lazy smile. You looked ethereal in the soft morning light. You returned his gaze and reached up and ran your finger along his jaw so that his morning stubble scratched over your fingertips. For a moment that’s all either of you did - just lay there gazing at each other - and then he broke. He leaned in and kissed you deeply. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled yourself tightly against him. There was a slowness to your movements that seemed to translate to a deeper intimacy. There was no rush. No desperate need. The two of you took your time to just kiss and caress each other’s skin. He ran his hands over you as you raked your fingers through his hair. Your hips moved slowly against him so your cunt rubbed against his morning erection.

The pressure of your body against his, the warmth that radiated from your skin, and the way his body buzzed under your fingers, made that lazy, cozy feeling start to blend into his desire and need.

He kissed your throat and massaged your ass as he slowly rutted against you. Your fluids dripped from your cunt and coated his cock. He hummed and when the head of his cock caught on your entrance, he pushed, slowly sinking into the warm passage. The movement was met, not with a moan, but a soft contented sigh.

He rolled so he was on top of you and the two of you began to move together. He rolled his hips penetrating you deeply, taking his time to feel every ridge and contour of your internal walls. You counter, arching your back and rocking under him and clenching around him. The kissing was a constant tender caress. Lips against lips and necks, collarbones, and chest. It added to that soft buzz inside him, and the world became fuzzy and far off as the two of you made love.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you hummed against his throat.

He moaned in response and brought his lips to yours. You nudged him and he rolled over so you were straddling him. You broke the kiss and sat up, closing your eyes and letting your head loll back as you twisted and circled your hips while staying seated on his cock. He watched you, mesmerized by the way your body moved as you rode him. He ran his hands over your breasts and down your sides, letting one settle on your hip and the other over your pussy, working your clit with his thumb. You moaned and moved a little faster, your lips parted in silent pleasure. Your cunt began to clench and flutter and with a deep moan, you came, your body seizing up. Steve grabbed your hips and began to thrust up into you, chasing his own release. When it came, it was like his orgasm washed through him like a wave, he closed his eyes and groaned as his muscles clenched and he spilled inside you.

You stayed sitting on top of him for a moment, just letting yourself relax and come down from your orgasm high. As your breathing returned to normal, you climbed off him. “I’m going to make breakfast,” you said, grabbing your robe and sliding it on.

Steve stretched and watched you leave the room as he debated what to do. He hadn’t ever had breakfast in bed, and he couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t comfortable right where it was.

His need to be up and participating in the world ended up winning out, and he dragged himself out of bed. He tried to keep in the spirit of the lazy morning though. He used the bathroom and pulled on his boxers and t-shirt before coming out to find you. The kitchen smelled of coffee, bacon, and maple syrup, and you stood at the stove singing to yourself. He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist as he nuzzled into your neck.

“Really giving yourself to it, huh?” You asked. “I can feel it. Makes me feel a little more real.”

“If that’s all it takes for you to feel that way, I’ll have to do this more often,” Steve said.

You laughed and turned, kissing his cheek. “If you really want to spoil yourself, the paper should be on the doorstep.”

Steve let you go and went to the door. Sitting on your welcome mat in the hall was a copy of the New York Times. He picked it up feeling a little bewildered. Since waking up from the ice he’d seen newspapers being sold, but he’d never known anyone who bought them. He’d been dropped into a world of leading-edge technology where the new was delivered digitally in an instant. It was all tablets and holographic screens in his world now. Having an actual honest-to-god newspaper felt a little like he was stepping back in time.

He took it to the reading nook you had by the window and reclined back on the window bench, pulling the plush blanket you had sitting there over his legs and unfolding the paper.

It was strange how strong the scent of fresh-cut grass was, even though he wasn’t sure he could smell it as much as he formed the idea of it in his head just from being around you. If he looked down through the window, it was just another busy New York street below him. You lived across from Central Park though, and looking right ahead he had views of trees and grass he could sink into the illusion of a Sunday in the suburbs with neighbors mowing their lawn while he took his time to read the paper.

“Don’t you look comfortable here,” you said, bringing over a tray. Sitting on it was a plate filled with pancakes, eggs, and bacon, a mug of hot coffee, and a glass of orange juice. He shifted a little and took the tray, placing it over his lap, and you took a seat in the wingback chair beside him.

“You’re spoiling me,” Steve said, picking up his coffee and breathing in the aroma. “You’re not eating?”

“When I have someone who’s really giving themselves over to what I have to offer, I don’t actually need to eat,” you replied.

Steve surveyed you, raising his eyebrow. “Thor always needs to eat.”

You laughed. “Thor and I are slightly different entities. And I don’t pretend to understand it. I am feeling it very strongly from you right now though because this is not something you let yourself do very often. It’s nourishing.”

“For us both,” Steve said and started to eat. He took his time to savor it all. It wasn’t the best food he’d ever had, but it seemed to hit the spot exactly. The coffee was hot and brewed just how he liked it, bitter but not burned. The eggs were sunny side up but the white had cooked through while the yolk was still runny. The bacon was salty and crispy and mixed with the maple syrup on the pancakes perfectly.

“Do you think we can actually work long term?” Steve asked as he ate. “We seem to need such different things. And what would happen if I stopped fighting and just retried? Would that affect how this worked for you?”

You shrugged. “To answer your second question first; no it wouldn’t. Eventually, you’d stop appreciating the lie-ins and it’s really in the desire and appreciation of them that gives me my power,” you said. “As for the first, I couldn’t say. No one knows what the future brings or how long people can stay compatible. It’s working now, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Steve agreed, and sipped on his coffee thoughtfully. Maybe he needed this. A reason to balance his life so he took something for himself once in a while. Maybe appreciating the quiet moments more would help him get through the chaos of his everyday life. Maybe his friends had been right, it was time for him to get a life too.

// NEXT

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #captain america #captain america fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #smut #small gods #lazy mornings

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winterscaptain · 5 years ago

Text

focused.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: thanks to kira for helping me through the last dregs of this!! you’re amazing!! As promised, here’s lo-fi/mayhem in our ajf world. as (usually) usual, no context required to enjoy, but it’s pretty fun over here!

words: 6.4k warnings: language, canon-typical injury/violence, everyone’s mad and everyone’s worried!

summary: “knowing when to fight is just as important as knowing how.” terry goodkind, faith of the fallen. au!may 2008

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next? updated: february 1st, 2021

“Don’t get comfortable. There will be time to debrief on the plane.” Hotch’s eyes are trained on the monitor, where grainy security footage plays and replays an exceedingly casual murder in an underground subway station.

Reid, entering behind you, squints at the monitor. “Where are we headed?”

“New York.”

Rossi advances on the monitor. “Five shootings in two weeks. It’s about time we got the call.”

You watch as Hotch replays the tape again. “Why the delay?”

Aaron doesn’t answer you, but rather addresses Derek. “I want to take Garcia with us. Hopefully they’ll give us access to their surveillance systems.”

He’s distracted, almost absent-minded. It’s odd.

“What do we know?” You try again with another question, and Emily dips her chin - she had the same one.

Hotch pauses the video, turning toward the rest of you - loosely circled around the table. “All the killings are mid-day. Single gunshot to the head with a .22.”

“Any witnesses?” As always, JJ looks for somewhere to go as soon as wheels are down.

She really doesn’t get paid enough.

There’s something odd in her voice and temperament this morning, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. Now that you’re really awake and looking around, everyone's a little jumpy this morning. It doesn't help that the two most grounded people on the team are the most absent-minded of you all.

“No.”

Spencer pipes up. “.22-caliber pistol’s only 152 decibels. New York streets and subways are routinely well over a hundred.”

“So,” you ask, “could it be such that possible witnesses don’t even clock it before the unsub’s already on their way?”

Spencer nods.

Derek shifts beside you. “They sound like mob hits.”

Aaron dips his chin, but says, “Except none of them have ties to organized crime.”

The rest of the facts and questions fly past you - no connection between victims, no communication or contact, surveillance footage that shows next to nothing, an establishment that the unsub is bold and well-trained.

Seems completely random.

Spencer voices your next thought. “Son of Sam all over again.”

The grim look on Aaron’s face tells you all you need to know.

+++

Derek, Penelope, and Emily shoot the shit as they get on the plane, but you notice JJ staring forlornly out the window. You resolve to discover what that’s about as soon as possible. Having her down was odd…

But she has been acting strange lately, not just today.

You sit beside Hotch, across from Reid as Rossi flips through photos of the victims.

Spencer makes astute observations about the continued pattern of, well, no pattern at all, while Hotch provides some remarks here and there.

One of them catches your attention. “It’s a joint FBI-NYPD taskforce?”

Yeah, because those always go over so well.

“Kate Joyner heads up the New York field office. She’s running point on the case and called me directly.” He calls out to JJ, who then informs the pilot you’re all ready to get wheels up. “Kate’s starting to butt heads with the local detectives and wanted a fresh set of eyes.”

There’s something in his voice you can’t place. History, maybe?

“Joyner, I know her,” Derek says. “She’s a Brit, right?”

Hotch shrugs. “Well, dual citizenship. Her father’s British, her mother’s American. She was a big deal at Scotland Yard before coming to the Bureau.”

You look over at him.

That’s a ridiculous amount of knowledge for someone who doesn’t work in the same state, Aaron.

“I heard she can be a little bit of a pain in the ass.” It’s a test. The defiant tip of Derek’s chin tells you as much.

Hotch takes the bait. “I didn’t think so.”

You can’t help it. “You know her?”

“We liaised when she was still at Scotland Yard.”

You look at Emily, who shrugs.

“And she’s good?” You wouldn’t call Dave’s tone skeptical, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it was another test. He’s a lot subtler than Morgan.

Hotch looks back at Dave. “I think we’re lucky to have her.”

+++

You all step out of the elevator, and you stay closest to JJ. Her absent-mindedness had yet to leave her, and as the person closest to her age, you were doing your best to support her with your presence alone.

JJ leans toward you as you approach the center of the office. “Is it just me or does she look -”

“- exactly like Haley?” You finish JJ’s thought. “Yeah.”

There’s a little smile you can see on Aaron’s face, just touching his profile. Agent Joyner has one too, and it makes you feel...something.

Whatever it is, it isn’t comfortable.

“Kate.”

“Aaron. How’ve you been?”

You take another glance at JJ. She seems to have the same thought as you.

First name basis? How close are they?

“Well, thank you. This is my team.” He introduces you all one by one, and you attempt to plaster a polite smile on your face, just like everyone else. Derek’s the only one who doesn’t make an effort, and you tap the side of his shoe with your foot.

Penelope gets settled right away, and the NYPD detectives approach shortly after that. Of course, they start with a snide remark at Spencer. Your hackles rise, and you take a little huff of a breath.

Calm down.

Kate introduces Detectives Brustin and Cooper. Dave gets right to the point, doing his best to establish baseline rapport.

It doesn’t work.

You don’t notice that you’ve crept closer to Aaron throughout the proceedings, now standing just off his shoulder, next to Emily, until Kate leans into him. “Can I have a word with you in private?”

The crumpling of your brow is quick, and you hope nobody noticed. Emily’s head, whirling around to look at Derek, is far less subtle.

“Sure.”

Emily tracks back to JJ, who looks confused. In a hushed and suggestive tone, she tells her, “They...liaised when she was at Scotland Yard.”

You hide your laugh in your shoulder, covering your movement with an attempt to adjust your backpack.

Derek steps up behind you. “Let me get that for you, kiddo.”

You look up at him, hard-pressed to keep your mirth to yourself. A little smile plays at the edge of his lips as well. He turns you around when he’s done pretending to be helpful, holding you in the little huddle that develops between the rest of you and the NYPD detectives.

Derek’s eyes keep flickering to Kate’s office, where she and Hotch chat informally and perhaps even fondly, to an extent. Heat rises in your cheeks.

Get over yourself.

+++

You attempt to ignore the sheer amount of time Aaron spends looking over Kate’s shoulder behind her desk. Tearing your eyes from her office window, you return to your task.

The whiteboard marker in your hand is seeing lots of use as you follow Spencer’s instructions, tracing lines between key points, making notes, etc. Cooper’s banter with Emily puts a little smile on your face.

“Anti-geographical profiling? Now you wonder why we’re so skeptical?” Cooper’s voice is full of play, but there’s a very real concern behind it.

Emily laughs, but then explains, “This unsub’s organized. He strikes at the same time of day, he knows where the cameras are placed. That means he’s doing his own surveillance.”

You offer your two cents in support of Spencer, who outlines the difference between need-motivated killers and organized killers. Cooper looks a little impressed by the time you add, “So, essentially, we need to look everywhere this unsub isn’t to find where he lives. He has a comfort zone, and we just have to find it.”

“What are we finding?” Hotch and Kate roll out of her office, and he settles beside you, peering at the map.

You look over your shoulder at him. “He’s organized, so we’ve redirected to an anti-geographical profile.”

“Keep looking.” He turns on his heel and walks out the door, Kate trailing behind him with a confidence that tightens your jaw.

Maybe Derek was right. Maybe she is a pain in the ass.

+++

You keep your eyes up as Rossi and Hotch inspect the body on the busy New York street. Your mind wanders to a lecture at the academy, the voice of the late Jennifer Shepard echoing through your head.

“Always watch the watchers.”

But then again, she’d always backed it up with another story about “the man with all the rules” to undermine the rules in question. The stories did more than make you laugh - they helped you remember.

“See anything?” Hotch looks up, not at you, but you know you have his attention.

You shake your head, your eyes still on the crowd. “Nothing obvious.”

He hums, and tunes back in as Derek says, “From the placement of that camera, odds are the only view they’re gonna get is the back of his head.”

“Let’s not be too quick to decide what we do or don’t have.” Kate meets Derek’s eyes and stares him down. You bristle, but Hotch turns just the smallest bit toward you, reminding you to behave.

The detective makes another snide remark as Kate brushes past the rest of you.

Derek turns toward Hotch, and you step back, giving them the illusion of privacy. “You mind telling me why I’m catching attitude from her?”

Because you’re better at your job? Because you don’t have a chip on your shoulder the size of the Atlantic? Because you probably haven’t maybe slept with our unit chief, maybe?

“FBI brass has made it clear to her that if she doesn’t bring this case home, she’s gonna be reassigned. And you are at the top of the list to replace her.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Aaron squints a little, but his words are deeply genuine. “Why should you be surprised? You’re good at your job. People notice that.”

He’s right.

“What happened to the Bureau patting itself on the back from stealing her away from Scotland Yard?”

Hotch shakes his head and sighs. “I don’t know. Politics here are different. And you can see she doesn’t pull punches.” He walks away, and Derek looks over his shoulder at you.

With a little smile, you say, “He’s right, you know.”

“You’re a terrible ass-kisser, kid.”

Nevertheless, he taps your shoulder with his knuckle and you both make your way to Rossi, examining a tarot card.

+++

“We’ve got more than one unsub.” Hotch’s tone is more than defeated, and you peer further over his shoulder, your fingers pressing lightly into the back of his arm for balance.

Rossi circles the desk. “So, we have more than one unsub. What does that tell us?”

“Most teams stick together,” Spencer says. “Ng and Lake. The Krays. Bittaker and Norris. They don’t usually kill separately.”

Derek is next, offering, “Could be some kind of gang initiation.”

Emily and JJ volley about gang operations and local task forces for a moment before Kate asks. “Do you think we have enough for a working profile?”

You startle a little. She’s closer than you thought, on the other side of Hotch. You lean around him, the soft wool of his suit sleeve still under your fingers. “Broad strokes, maybe. Nothing specific, yet.”

Hotch makes a few assignments, but you’re focused on Derek. As you suspected, he has an idea. “I think we should get out on the streets.”

Also unsurprising, Kate has an immediate rebuttal. “I brought you here to create a profile.”

“Which we can give in the morning, and they can share it with the afternoon shift.”

She huffs. “We’ve allocated every extra man we have.” You don’t miss the warning glance Hotch shoots Derek or the way Derek ignores it. “This is New York City. It’s not like adding a few more people is gonna blanket the city.”

“I understand it’s a long shot. But these guys, they hit at mid-day. We could target ingress and egress to particular neighborhoods. Position us near express stops - 14th, 42nd, 59th -”

“Morgan. It’s not your call.” Hotch’s rebuke is harsh, surprising.

You inhale sharply and tuck your lip between your teeth, retracting your hand.

This is gonna be a long case.

+++

Thankfully, you’re all headed back to the hotel in fairly short order. Hotch has all but ordered Kate to bed, and you try not to let your thoughts stray too far in response.

Spencer’s eyes wander up, and you follow them. “JJ -”

Will?

You’d only met him once but like him well enough. He was polite, pleasant, and even funny. Seeing as you hadn’t heard much about him in the last few months, you assumed JJ had broken it off.

Guess not.

She turns. “Will.”

“Hey,” he says, “took a shot and flew to D.C. but it didn’t work. I figured I’d train up to New York - only a few more hours.”

Hotch looks a little surprised, which probably means you do too. He extends his hand. “Detective.”

Will takes it. “I’m sorry for showing up like this. I know you’re working. But, um…” He drops his voice. “I can’t stand you being on this case and me not being here - not with what’s going on.”

You look at JJ, who looks a little uncomfortable, and then Hotch, who looks a little confused. Aaron’s the first one to speak, and you’re more than a little touched by the concern in his voice as he addresses JJ and JJ alone. “Is there a problem?”

Will dips his head, and you know he’s disappointed.

What the hell is going on?

She turns toward the team. With a little laugh, she says, “I’m pregnant.”

Hotch freezes, and you step close to him as Emily congratulates her. Will extends his hand and Hotch shakes it again. “I’ve asked JJ to marry me.”

JJ whirls around, and there’s a warning in her voice. “Will.”

“We’re, ah, working out some kinks.”

“We’ll, um” Aaron says, coming back to himself, “give you both some privacy.” He nods and steps away. You follow close behind him, but you fall back as JJ hops after him.

“Hotch -”

There’s something in his voice you’ve never heard before when he replies. “JJ, you could have told me.” He almost sounds...hurt? Your brow crumples, and you try to stay out of his eye line as they chat.

Pin that for later...

“I know.”

“I understand if you need to take some time.”

“No, I want to be here.” She’s firm in her conviction, and you can’t say you’d be any different if you were in any similar situation - injury, illness, otherwise.

“Okay. Seven AM.”

She nods and turns back to Will while Hotch continues toward the elevators. The rest of the team passes ahead of you, leaping into the open lift. Aaron hangs back and you follow his lead, letting the doors close.

“Are you okay?”

He sighs. “Yeah. Just unexpected.”

Taking a little leap, you step close to him in a show of camaraderie. He’d never let on, but he needs contact sometimes. You might even go so far as to say the poor man is touch-starved.

He wraps his arm around you, and you bite back a pleased smile, feeling more than a little chuffed. You examine his profile. “What’s on your mind?”

His shrug says many things. His sigh says more.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

+++

“We’re not having that discussion, right now.” Hotch’s cutoff is flat, and it shoots irritation through you.

Your brow furrows, and you sputter for a second before turning on him. “What’s with you? That’s like the sixth time you’ve shut me down today.”

Hotch opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Kate’s voice chirps from behind you.

“Are all your younger agents this insubordinate, Aaron, or is it limited to this one?”

You grit your teeth, and blatantly ignore the apology blossoming in Hotch’s eyes as you say, “Excuse me, sir.” You turn your head, not quite looking at Kate. “Agent Joyner.” You brush past Hotch, almost shoulder-checking him, and leave the room. The door shuts loudly behind you.

Derek looks up, and you wave him off as he rises to follow.

Throwing the stairway door open, you fly down two flights of stairs before sitting heavily upon the landing. You throw your blazer off, the heat under the fabric only fueling your anger.

Your hands cover your face and you manage three deep breaths before tears press in at your eyes. Molten humiliation courses through you, your face hot and hands shaking.

It’s not fair to expect Kate to understand the rapport you have with Hotch, why you can push him inexplicably further than the rest of your team. It’s not fair, but you still feel betrayed by Hotch’s accommodation of her insecurity and Kate’s own ridiculousness.

The lack of sleep doesn’t help.

A few relevant thoughts regarding the profile float through your head and you pin them for later.

The door opens two floors above, and you hear Aaron’s familiar footsteps hesitate before they slowly descend to your level. You keep your face pressed into your hands as he sits beside you, resting his arms on his knees.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you today.”

You sniff, but don’t answer. He waits for you, a few minutes passing in silence, but you don’t have anything to say.

“I’ve done my best to make Kate feel supported, but I -” he huffs, and you know he’s working hard to properly articulate his feelings. You appreciate it. “I’ve failed both you and Morgan in the process. I’ve explained the situation to him, but I didn’t speak to you before I…” He trails off. “For that, I’m sorry.”

You drop your hands from your face, wiping at the evidence of your anger. “Just...remember who’s on your team, would you?”

“I do.”

“Then -” You throw your arms up and huff at him, his response inspiring a new wave of irritation in your chest. “Then why the fuck are you riding my ass about this shit today? You haven’t taken a single one of my ideas, and all but one has been really good.”

He sighs. “I know. I also know that you can take it. I trust you to be resilient in difficult political situations such as this one. I don’t have that same trust in Kate right now.” He pauses and you watch his left thumb worry a track back and forth over the knuckle of his middle finger. Your eyes wander to the barely-noticeable tan line where his wedding ring used to sit. With a start, you realize you didn’t notice its absence and you don’t know when he took it off. When he speaks again, your eyes snap back to your feet. “Your ability to step away instead of rightfully lashing out at Kate speaks to your excellence and professionalism in your role, and shows me my faith is not misplaced.”

You look at him, finding his brown eyes soft and apologetic. “Thanks.”

He grabs your blazer off the ground and stands. He straightens his suit jacket, offering you a hand. You take it and rise, using the back of your other hand to rid yourself entirely of tears.

With gentle hands, he slips your blazer over your shoulders, fixing the collar and brushing debris off the back. You let him fuss, knowing all the while his concern is another apology.

“It’s far too organized to be just organized crime, by the way,” you inform him casually, as if remarking on the weather.

He looks almost startled. “What?”

You tug on his arm and take the stairs two at a time back up to Kate’s floor. “Look.” He follows you as you burst back through both sets of doors into the conference room, stepping in front of Kate for access to the map. “We have more than one unsub. They’ve attacked different neighborhoods across Manhattan - all different demographic and socio-economic backgrounds. They’re trying to send a message, and each attack is a play to build their audience. If anything, our presence tells them that it’s working.”

A look of realization crosses Hotch’s face, and he presses a hand to your shoulder, his fingertips squeezing just a little before he lets go. “Well done.” He turns to Kate. “We’re ready to update the working profile.”

You keep your eyes trained on Aaron, but Kate’s clenched jaw doesn’t escape your notice.

+++

“Focused? From where I’m standing, your focus is on her.”

It’s finally come to a head. Derek has absolutely lost it, rightfully so, in the middle of the federal building, while Hotch tries to keep the peace, and Kate looks appropriately chastised.

You reach for Derek’s elbow with gentle fingers, but he shakes you off.

“Take a walk. Now.” Aaron’s tone is nothing to trifle with, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

Fuck.

“Derek. C’mon.” You yank once on his sleeve and lead him out the doors. He’s pissed, almost vibrating with energy.

You look over your shoulder exactly once to check on Aaron, who leans heavily over a desk. When he looks up, you turn your head before he can meet your gaze.

Yes, it’s a punishment. Yes, he knows it. He'll get your attention once he’s earned it again.

Derek cools off a little once you get outside, and he leads the way to the hotel bar. You’re sure you'd be better off returning to your post upstairs, but he needs you more than anyone else right now.

You also don’t trust yourself to be in the same room as Aaron - the likelihood of losing your usually-endless patience with him is dangerously high. At this rate, you’d get yourself a first-class ticket to Suspension City - at worst ending with your removal from the unit.

There was no way on this green earth that you’d end up off the unit of Hotch had any say, but your exhausted brain was only giving you the worst-case scenario at the moment.

He sits heavily on a barstool and orders a Stella. You don’t comment on his choice to drink while on the clock. You take a water, and wait for him to speak. He doesn’t touch his beer.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“Of course.”

“You should go back.”

Looking up, you see Rossi walking through the doors. “Alright, but you’re not getting out of anything.” By the time you’ve finished, Dave is at Derek’s other side, getting comfortable. You press a hand to Derek’s shoulder, leaving them alone.

You take a few deep breaths before returning to the proper floor. Kate is in her office with Hotch over her shoulder.

He looks up when you walk in. How’s Morgan?

“He’ll be back.”

+++

You reach Emily with Derek and JJ, and she looks flustered.

“Are you okay?” Derek takes stock of Emily, but you figure out there’s nothing to know about Cooper.

Emily walks through the moments before and during the shooting, growing increasingly intense. You watch her as Derek digs and digs - finding the right questions for the answers she wants to share.

“Wait,” you ask. “You think he deliberately shot someone where he could be caught?”

“What if he did?” Her eyes are wild, angry. “What if they chose this spot because we were here?”

“What are you thinking?” Derek leans forward, searching her face for answers.

She enumerates her points. “He had no ID on him. He waited until we caught up to him. He was strangely calm- it’s almost like suicide by cop.”

“Why?” You hear yourself ask. “Why would he do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to make us think everything was finished.”

You look at Derek. He looks back at you.

“We need to walk back through this profile.”

Just then, Aaron and Kate dip under the police tape and make a beeline for Rossi and Reid. Dave looks grim and you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you’re sure they’ve come to the same conclusion as you.

Terrorism.

+++

“So much for theory.” Dave uncrosses his arms and the room leaps into action.

Kate grabs her blazer and looks at Aaron. “We need to hit the ground running.”

“I'm gonna head to the hospital,” Emily says, already headed for the door. “I'll check on Cooper and brief detective Brustin.”

“Good.” Aaron makes the rest of the assignments. “Dave, will you go talk to the commissioner?” He assigns you and Derek to Homeland Security for a briefing, and you grab your things. You will be Derek’s shadow for the duration, and you’re more than happy you’re with him.

So why does something feel...wrong?

You look at Aaron, and his brow is furrowed. He meets your eyes. What’s wrong?

I don’t know.

His mouth presses into a thin line. This first, then that.

You nod and he starts talking again. “Kate and I will go talk to the mayor and we'll meet back here as soon as possible.”

“One advantage that we have right now is that they don't know we know they're watching.”

For once, you agree with Kate. It’s about damn time.

+++

You get into the car with Derek and head toward the DHS field office.

“I’m proud of you, kid. You’ve done well.”

Smiling a little, you thank him. “Though I do think we’ve pushed Hotch to the absolute limit this week, between the two of us.”

He rolls his eyes, speeding down the shockingly barren New York streets. “If one of us isn’t, who is?”

“Rossi.”

You both freeze as an explosion goes off. You don’t know where it is, but Derek turns around with a spectacular screech of tires.

“Derek...What -”

“We’re going back. That’s not good. Let’s go.” He guns the engine, and you’re on your way back to the federal building with sirens blaring.

His phone rings and he checks the caller ID as he answers. “Yeah. I'm still here.” He looks at you. “We’re still here.”

“Yes, you are. Thank God.”

Garcia.

“I'm almost back at the federal building. What the hell's going on?”

“Alright, we're going over the closed-circuit footage right now.” You can hear her faintly through the phone, and he puts her on speaker.

“Who else have you checked on?”

“You're the first. Rossi and Reid called me.”

“All right. Keep me on the line while you check on everyone else.”

Emily picks up next. “Is everyone ok?”

Garcia tells her she’s got the both of you on the line, and she’s already spoken to Rossi and Reid.

Your body is almost completely bowed toward Derek, twisted in the passenger seat. “Emily, where are you?”

“I'm following detective Brustin to one of the NYPD’s Critical Incident Command Posts.”

“One of them?” Garcia’s confusion is only a little frantic, and you more than sympathize with her tangent. Anything is a better thought than the one you’re all sharing at this very moment.

Derek explains the decentralization of the CICP’s following 9/11 - too many eggs in one basket.

Garcia cuts him off, getting back on track. “Has anyone talked to JJ?”

Emily answers her. “She was headed back to the hotel.”

“In an SUV?

“I think so. Stay with me a minute. I'll dial her mobile.”

JJ’s voicemail rings through Derek’s phone, and your heart sinks. “This is Agent Jareau, Communications Director for the FBI’s Behavioral--” It cuts off.

You lean over the center console. “What was that? What happened?”

Garcia’s voice is flustered when she answers, “It went dead mid-message.”

“Try her again. She's probably back at--” You lose Emily.

You lost all of them in the middle of a sentence, and all the blood drains out of your face. Derek drops his phone into one of the cupholders and reaches out. You grab his hand, holding it in both of yours.

This is a nightmare.

Derek keeps driving, and you find a police barricade on your way back to the federal building. Derek throws the car into park and you both leap out of the car, flashing your badges at anyone who will look. You find the man in charge, but he tells you to get back to the federal building.

Hot anger flies through you.

Who does he think he is?

You stick close to Derek, but startle when you hear Hotch cry out. Pressing along the barricade, you call across the block. “Aaron! Aaron! We’re here!”

You get leave to go, and you and Derek sprint toward Aaron and Kate. He’s covered in blood, both his and Kate’s and you get on one side of him while Derek crouches on the other side of Kate. Your hands flutter over him for a moment, one of them landing on the nape of his neck. The softness of his hair is the same as it’s always been, and it grounds you.

“Aaron -”

He’s not looking at you. “Morgan, we've got to get her out of here.”

Derek throws his arm out of the side, outlining the situation. “They're not letting any ambulances down here ‘til they clear the scene.” He turns to the young man hovering behind Aaron. “Kid, you gotta get behind the barricades. Let's go. Go!”

Hotch nods at him. “Go, Sam.”

“Good luck.” The kid sprints off, and Derek draws Hotch’s focus again.

“Talk to me. Can we carry her?” He leans further over Kate, into Aaron’s eye line. “Hotch, can we carry her?”

“No, I tried. Morgan, she's gonna bleed to death if we don't get her out of here. We gotta do something.” The ache in his voice is horrible. You reach out, brushing some hair off Kate’s forehead. She’s cold to the touch, and you press your hand to the side of her face, willing your warmth into her.

“C’mon Kate.” You whisper to yourself. She’s still not your favorite person, but Aaron’s agony as he literally holds her body together tears your heart in two.

Derek’s phone rings, and it’s Penelope. “Garcia, I got Hotch. But listen to me. You gotta get somebody down here right away, you hear me? Right now. What? You're absolutely sure?” Derek looks up, finding the kid standing by the shelled remains of the car. “Hotch. The kid. He's the bomber.”

“Go.” Aaron’s voice is defeated, and you hesitate as your body coils to chase after Derek. Aaron looks at you. “Please. Stay.”

You nod, and tuck in close to him, keeping one hand on his arm and another on Kate’s cheek. An ambulance pulls up, and you’re more than relieved.

Hotch briefs the paramedic. “She's got an arterial bleed in her back and I'm doing my best to hold it closed.

“You ok?”

Isn’t that the question of the hour.

“I just want to get her out of here.”

That’s not a fucking answer, Aaron.

You let it go, for now. He’s a mess, but he’s alive and he’s conscious. That’s what’s important right now. You tune back in.

“You were calling for help and I couldn't listen anymore. My partner was too afraid to come in here with me.”

Aaron leans into Kate, and your heart pulls again. “Kate, we're gonna get you out of here. We're on our way out of here.”

You help as much as you can, following instructions and making sure Kate’s stable.

+++

When you’re all finished, you get into the passenger seat of the ambulance. Hotch is on autopilot and he shouldn’t be driving, but you’re ready to take over at a moment’s notice.

When you’re stopped at the emergency room entrance, you flash your credentials as Hotch explains the situation as clearly as he can. The Secret Service agent reluctantly waves you through. Kate’s crashing in the back, and Aaron’s agitation flies through the roof.

It’s a blur, but you finally end up in the hospital, shadowing Aaron. He collapses, and you cry out for help, holding his hands as he hits the ground.

Everything's happening so fast.

When will it end?

+++

“Kiddo, where’s Hotch?” Derek comes flying through the doors of the ER, and you throw yourself into him.

“He’s fine. Massive trauma to his right ear and a shrapnel wound. Kate’s in surgery.”

There’s a commotion from behind the open door, and you both rush in when you hear Hotch’s voice.

You get in between Hotch and the attending, doing your best to calm him down. “Aaron, Hotch. Calm down. Slow down. You’re really hurt.”

“Where’s Kate?”

You press your hands into his wrists, and he twists his arms, surprising you by gripping your forearms. “She’s in surgery. Your go-bag is on its way. Nothing’s happened since the first blast.”

He looks somewhat placated but looks over at Derek. “Sam?”

“He’s dead.”

Hotch releases you. “Morgan, the profile's wrong. Call JJ.”

+++

“Are you ok?” Emily takes full stock of him, and isn’t happy with what she finds.

“Yeah. I just want to understand why I'm still alive.” You help him with his vest, minding his shoulder. You’re not sure what’s wrong with it, but he’s favoring one over the other. He looks at you, and there are thanks in his brown eyes. You offer him a quick, soft smile but continue with your task, gently tightening the vest around his tender ribs, smoothing over the velcro with even pressure.

You’re listening as they go along, talking signatures and bomb-making and all manner of horrific precedent. You pass two pieces of fresh cotton to Hotch, who immediately replaces the bloodied cotton in his right ear. He shakes his head with two deep blinks.

His ears are ringing something stupid right now, I bet.

I wish I could do more.

Just be here. Do your job. That’s what you can do.

All at once, you figure out that the ambulance is the bomb. You spot Hotch as he moves (way too fast) down the hallway.

Goddamn it, Aaron.

+++

The bastard slit his throat.

Fuck.

The look on Aaron’s face is nothing short of disgust, and you’re sure yours matches.

+++

You’re waiting for him when he walks out of the operating room. His eyes are hollow and they seem to look through you rather than at you.

“Hotch - Aaron - I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t particularly like Kate, but you know how much he cared for her. His pain often feels like yours - even more frequently, you can't parse his from yours. While you didn’t expect to mourn her, you find that weight in your belly anyway. Your eyes mist up against your will, your breath hitching in your throat.

He doesn’t say anything, and your voice is almost desperate when you ask, “What can I do?”

Brown eyes flicker around the room. He looks more like a caged animal in this moment than in any other you’ve ever seen. You approach him slowly, and you’re not sure if he heard you. There’s still blood on his neck from his ear, and you’re terrified he’s lost his hearing for good.

“Aaron?”

He finally acknowledges you when you’re close enough to him to take his hand. You catch him as he wilts, pressing a hand to the back of his head as he tucks his head into your neck.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Aaron.”

He mumbles something into your shoulder, and you lean back, holding him up with your hands on his biceps.

“What?”

“Call Haley. Tell her, please. They got along really well. She’d want to know.”

You nod and guide him to a chair. He sits heavily, tilting his head against the wall. Pulling your phone from your belt, you ask, “Do you want me to stay here?”

He nods, his eyes closed.

You dial the familiar number and hold the phone to your ear, settling down on his left so he can hear.

Haley answers the phone, a question at the end of your name.

“Yeah, Haley, it’s me. Hi.”

“Hi. Is everything okay?”

You look at Aaron, who’s still and quiet beside you. “Not really.”

“I heard about the bombing in New York, the murders...Is everyone alright?”

“We’re alright. Aaron’s fine - some mild injuries but nothing serious.”

“Okay?” You hear the unspoken question. Then why are you calling?

“I was told you’d - um.” You take a deep breath, and it catches. Aaron flips his hand palm-up on his knee, and you take it. “I was told you were close with Kate Joyner, from the New York field office. She used to be at Scotland Yard?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Her voice falters. “Wait. Oh, God…”

“Haley I’m so sorry.” You swallow some tears. “I’m so sorry, but she was killed in the bombing.”

You hear a shaky breath on the other side of the line. “Oh.” There’s a pause, and you suspect she has more to say. You’re right. “Aaron told you to call, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

She sighs. “Can I talk to him?”

You look over and he nods, releasing your hand and holding it out for the phone. “Yeah, he’s right here.” She says something else, and you put the phone back to your ear. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I just wanted to thank you. Thank you for telling me.”

You nod to yourself. “Of course. Here’s Aaron.”

He takes the phone from you. An exhausted, “Hi,” leaves him.

“Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re alright.”

A little smile pulls at his lips. “I’m alright. How’re you?”

Her bright laugh echoes faintly through the phone, but there’s a solemn edge to it. “You’re asking me how I am?”

His eyebrows rise, his eyes still closed. “Isn’t that polite?”

You can almost see her suppressed smile. “It is. I’m fine. Jessica and I just finished dinner and put Jack down for the night.”

“How’s Jack?”

You tune out, the exhaustion taking over. Aaron pats the seat on his other side and you shuffle around, tucking yourself under his open arm. Leaning against his shoulder, you close your eyes, letting the voices of two divorced people who love each other very much lull you into something that feels a little like sleep.

+++

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#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #hotch x reader #hotch #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #tali writes fanfiction #tali talks cm #a joyful future #a joyful future fanfic

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unholyhelbig · 4 years ago

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Title: Centerfold

Ship: Beca Mitchell/ Chloe Beale

She heard it before she saw it, the incessant chattering of her male coworkers. It was the same every single morning; a bunch of men with half-suits, or suit jackets, or loose ties, standing around a coffee machine that whirred and sputtered. They didn’t’ have a literal water cooler, but Beca knew if they did, they would be swarming like gnats to honey-soaked bread.

“Look what I have?” Jason said.

“Oh, shit dude,” Rick said.

Beca clenched the corner of the fridge tighter and leaned into the cold scent of cheese and half-rotted vegetables. She scanned the Tupperware containers that were stacked liked Tetris and tried to hear them over the hum of the Maytag. It was hard, but not impossible.

“She is… well, she is magnificent.”

She. Well, that didn’t’ narrow anything down. It could be a boat or a car or even a damn pool noodle. Anything that they could objectify and name and own. And really it was just as degrading as it sounded but in this case, they seemed to be talking about a magazine. A playboy that had the back folded over.

Her fellow Coders leaned with their backs to the coffee machine, each in pale button-downs, each practically drooling over whatever page they had turned to. Beca clenched her jaw and let the fridge fall shut with a muffled bang. Not muffled enough to keep her usually unnoticed presence under wraps.

They looked like well-groomed deer in headlights.

Jason snatched the magazine from his counterpart and hid it behind his back. Color blossomed against his cheeks and he started to squirm. “Nothing,”

“Nothing? Because it looks like a porn magazine to me.” She held her hand out and flexed her fingers. It was the universal sign for wanting him to hand over whatever wasn’t there. He eyed her suspiciously, then looked at Rick, then back at Beca before he shoved it forward.

She smiled and flipped right to the page that they were gawking at. Because not only did she feel kind of excluded from a mostly male office, but she also liked the deflated expressions that Rick and Jason wore like masks.

The picture was a mostly modest one if you didn’t count the placement of the woman. Most of this stuff was online now and it was rare to see a magazine in the first place. But this dawned a classic centerfold image of a woman. Her legs spread and the part that kept everyone guessing cut expertly with the spine. There was tan skin and curly russet hair, hand fingers dawned in gold rings.

She lifted an eyebrow because this was the thing her coworkers were gawking at? Not even a full picture. But it was enough to get them embarrassed and aroused and she never really understood why. Her eyes flicked down to the corner; in neat cursive writing, sat a name. Chloe Beale.

Beca had to stifle a cough, more of a choke after her throat dried entirely. She had to keep a cool face, but some red color must have gotten to her cheeks because now Jason was grinning like a fool again. He shoved his elbow into Rick’s arm.

“Nice, huh?”

“Yeah,” Beca croaked. She shut the magazine “Mind if I keep this? Just for a bit?”

Rick spoke to his friend “I mean sure, just don’t forget to lock the bathroom door behind you.”

Beca fought the urge to roll her eyes, but she did anyway. “Yeah, whatever.”

She tucked the magazine under her arm and left the breakroom then. There was a cacophony of typing and she nodded at a few people that offered her smiles as she walked towards her corner office. She beckoned her assistant as she walked with her free hand and closed the door behind them.

They had given her the space for “Human Relations” but the main reason for the privacy lay in the fact that Beca knew how to calmly talk down anyone, except for herself. She would have them leaving with a smile and a feeling of accomplishment even if she spun the bad news about sales in a different way. It was all about perspective, and right now her perspective was in shambles.

Emily closed the door behind them and stood there expectantly. She watched as Beca drew the blinds on the windows leading towards the office. She paced a few times, magazine in hand before stopping and staring at her assistant.

“Are you going to fire me?” Emily asked “Because if you are, just rip the bandage off Beca. I can take it.”

“I’m not going to fire you, Em”

There was a thick sigh of relief. It didn’t’ last long. Beca turned the page to the centerfold image once more and shoved it towards her friend. She frowned at it for a moment. “Oh?”

It took Emily the same amount of time to figure out the caption. She had turned the magazine vertically, her deep eyes widening and her mouth forming a thin line. “Oh! Oh my god.”

“It’s Chloe,”

“Your Chloe.”

Yes, her Chloe. Not anymore- it had been years since they had seen each other and even more time since they had spoken more than two sentences. But Beca didn’t’ think her childhood flame would turn towards nude modeling, and she didn’t’ figure that she would be the watercooler discussion of the day.

Her blood was running cold and she had to sit down. Instead, she settled for leaning against the edge of the desk and squeezing the bridge of her nose. She didn’t’ want to look at it, she didn’t’ want to think about her first girlfriend posing like that.

I mean- Chloe had every right to do so but that didn’t’ make her jaw drop any higher. “She looks nice,”

“Not helping, Emily.”

“Sorry, it’s just” The girl threw the magazine back on the desk. “You should reach out to her. The two of you… God the two of you had everything. There wasn’t’ one kid who didn’t idolize what you had.”

Beca nodded. She knew that, to a certain degree. They had met in middle school and stayed together until College. God, college was an absolute dampener and long-distance didn’t’ work for anyone, not even the strongest of people. They had been named homecoming queens both Junior and Senior year, only to break up on Beca’s porch in the stifling summer heat months later.

Emily the wide-eyed freshmen, the innocent friend. The one who Beca went to when she needed cheering up. They mixed all the flavors of Slurpee together at the local 7/11 and made something they called the Frankenice. It was stupid and tasted horrible but it made her feel better, and then it made her feel worse enough to throw up on the sidewalk.

That was years ago, and they had grown into adults. Beca didn’t’ try to contact Chloe, but she did look up her socials in vain. She was pretty; gorgeous and interesting and nothing ever hinted towards this. Not that it was bad and not that she disapproved of the lifestyle, but it made her ache. It made her regret not reaching out sooner. And that made her want to throw the magazine across the room.

“Wouldn’t it be kind of… I don’t know, obvious if I message her right after this thing printed?”

“Half the city is probably messaging her right now,” Emily blew air out of her nose but settled at the pointed glare she received “Look- she probably misses you. You guys didn’t end on bad terms, right? Just not ideal ones.”

Beca rounded her desk and flopped down in her chair. She pulled open her laptop, not blinking an eye when Emily pressed against her back and stared as she pulled open the tab for Instagram. She typed in Chloe Beale and her profile popped up along with four or five fan accounts for her. And Beca had been stupid not to do this before.

They pulled up her feed and Beca felt like she was intruding, but she wasn’t. This was a public and popular profile with pictures of Chloe in bikinis smiling widely and then a few of her at the mansion itself. But most were just joyous and filled her with warmth. She clicked on the messages, open to the public. She typed something and let it linger.

Emily scoffed, hitting the back of the chair. “Hey?... Really? That’s what you’re going with? What are you, Ten?”

“Okay, okay! What would you write?”

“Move please,” Emily shoved Beca to the side and spoke while her fingers worked against the keyboard. “Hey Chloe, how have you been? I know we haven’t spoken in years, but I would love to catch up. If you’re ever in New York, we should grab a drink or coffee.”

She sent it before Beca could object about it being too formal, or not formal enough. Emily shut the laptop and stood back. She was proud of herself and wore the smile that showed it. “Don’t touch that until tomorrow. Play hard to get even though you’re the one initiating conversation.”

“I-“

“No buts, even if she messages back right now, you don’t touch. No.” Emily pointed a finger at her. “I know how this works, I’m still in the dating scene.”

“And I’m not?” Beca asked incredulously

“Please,” Emily scoffed “if you were, you wouldn’t have a magazine with Chloe as the Centerfold.”

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe Beale #Bechloe #bechloe fic rec #Bechloe Fanfiction #Pitch Perfect #pitch perfect fanfiction #au #request

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tellymantra01 · 2 months ago

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Architecture and Design in New York: Blending Innovation with Timeless Style

The Influence of New York Architecture on Interior Design

New York’s architectural landscape is as diverse as its residents. From classic brownstones and pre-war buildings to contemporary penthouses, each structure offers unique design opportunities. Understanding the city’s architectural essence allows for thoughtful interior design that enhances both aesthetics and functionality.

1. Classic Brownstones & Townhouses

These historic homes feature grand facades, ornate moldings, and high ceilings. Interior design in brownstones often balances preservation with modern upgrades, incorporating timeless elements like hardwood floors, marble fireplaces, and elegant staircases.

2. Luxury High-Rises & Modern Condos

Contemporary New York residences are known for sleek, minimalist designs, floor-to-ceiling windows, and open-concept layouts. High-end materials, smart home technology, and custom-built furniture elevate these spaces into sophisticated urban retreats.

3. Industrial Lofts & Warehouse Conversions

Repurposed industrial buildings bring raw charm to modern living. Exposed brick, steel beams, and oversized windows create a bold aesthetic, while warm textures, statement lighting, and modern furnishings add a refined touch.

Key Elements of Architecture and Interior Design in New York

Successful architecture and interior design seamlessly integrate beauty, function, and comfort. Here are some defining elements of New York’s design approach:

1. Maximizing Space in Urban Living

New York apartments are often compact, making smart storage solutions and multi-functional furniture essential. Custom cabinetry, built-in shelving, and clever layouts optimize every square foot.

2. Statement Lighting & Fixtures

From grand chandeliers in Upper East Side residences to industrial pendant lights in Brooklyn lofts, lighting is a focal point in New York design. Strategic placement enhances ambiance and highlights architectural details.

3. High-End Materials & Custom Finishes

Luxury spaces demand premium materials—think marble countertops, exotic wood finishes, custom millwork, and handcrafted furnishings that add character and sophistication.

4. Seamless Indoor-Outdoor Living

Rooftop terraces, balconies, and glass doors that open to private gardens blur the lines between indoor and outdoor spaces, bringing nature into the heart of the city.

5. Timeless Meets Trendy

New York’s design philosophy blends timeless elegance with contemporary trends. Classic color palettes, mixed textures, and curated art pieces create a space that feels both luxurious and livable.

Grayscale Homes: Bringing Architectural Excellence to Interior Design

At Grayscale Homes, we take inspiration from New York’s architectural diversity to create interiors that are both functional and breathtaking. Whether designing a high-end penthouse, a cozy loft, or a historic brownstone, we curate every detail to enhance the character of the space while meeting the modern demands of urban living.

#interior design #home design #home art

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phykios · 4 years ago

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honesty and promise me, co-written with @darkmagyk [read on ao3]

“I’m in love,” Piper tells her when she shows up for another fitting. “Have you seen the new Beyonce video?”

“I heard the song.” Annabeth says, “isn’t that enough?”

“God, your whole play-acting thing is too far if you’re pretending to not like Beyonce.”

“I never said that.” Annabeth holds up her hands, “I like the song. But I did not see the video.”

“Well, when you see it, you’ll be in love too, but I will fight you.”

Piper could be scrappy in a fight. But Annabeth had been a champion fencer in high school.

“Kidding!” Piper says at her look. “There’s plenty of them to go around.” She didn’t even start to drape fabric over Annabeth, pushing her onto a muslin covered couch, and then pulling the video on the TV. She didn’t have one of those voice control devices. Because she was friends with Leo, and he was pretty firm on them being evil. “But I do call dibs on the main guy. The CALVES. The thighs. He’s unreal.”

“That good?” Piper went all ways, though as of late she gravitated towards women more often than not, so this was some high praise indeed.

“Unreal, I am telling you. Like, the hand of God came down and sculpted him personally out of marble.”

Already in her recent watch history, the thumbnail of the video greets them, the song title splashed across the TV screen, weaving between a very, very familiar set of legs.

Like, intimately familiar.

In something of detached horror, she watches the camera pan up, lovingly lingering on every inch of bare skin, following the muscles of his calves (which were unreal) to his knees then his thighs (which Annabeth had spent almost too much time between now), up his torso and his chest (which she knew made for an excellent pillow) to Percy’s face, set in a firm, hard stare.

And that fucking blue lipstick again.

She can’t even focus on Beyonce herself, too distracted by the way her hand traces the length of Percy’s outstretched thigh held in perfect arabesque as she gracefully drapes herself over him, crooning softly into his ear.

Annabeth should do that next time. That’s her spot, after all.

Tearing her eyes away from the screen even as Piper watches, enraptured, she slips out her phone, sending a quick, furious text.

annabeth: BEYONCE???????

A minute, then he responds.

percy: oh lol i didn’t realize that came out today 😁

percy: what’d you think?

annabeth: i think im going to kill you later

“Just look at him,” Piper says, pausing on Percy’s form, his arms outstretched, fingers placed delicately around a bar. “I mean--look at him!”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, maybe a little uneasy. “He’s alright I guess.”

Incredulous, Piper swivels her head. “Alright? Alright? Do you need your eyes checked?”

She just shrugs.

Why is she being so weird about this? It’s just Piper. She’s trained to find symmetry and beauty in bodies. They’ve happily shared crushes and fixations plenty of times before, so why is Annabeth being so weird about Percy? It’s not like they’re… you know… dating or anything. Just hooking up a bit.

Piper squints at her, then shrugs herself. “Fine. I don’t have time to get an answer out of you anyway. Come on.”

“Speaking of time,” Annabeth says, following Piper back into the kitchen studio, “I have to head out by 6:30.”

“Oh yeah?” Piper’s head is buried in her belt box, searching for the perfect accent. “What for?”

“I’ve got a show to catch.”

“Kind of early,” she says, pulling out something thin and silver. “Don’t you usually meet Thalia at the ass crack of midnight?”

“Well I kind of want to eat first.”

“Okay.” She cinches the belt around her waist, tight. “Then you’re going to have to help me with this skirt.”

***

Hands aching from hours of macrame, Annabeth walks up to the box office window at the Koch Theater at 7:46, having a handful of second thoughts.

Old, uppity white couples keep shooting her some particularly intense passive aggressive glares, some of them even venturing into actually aggressive territory, which usually wouldn’t even register on her very short list of things to care about, except that she is feeling woefully out of place. The lady in front of her has ten pounds of diamonds hanging off of each old, wrinkly ear, and the best Annabeth could do was fish out her least-ripped pair of jeans, pairing it with one of her nicer black shirts, the sleeves long enough to cover most of her tattoos. The macrame kept her longer than she had meant, so she didn’t have time to change before dinner, but fuck it, right?

She did also take out most of her face jewelry on the way. But she left the nose stud, obviously. And the tongue piercing. And the industrial, because Percy really likes those, so she doesn’t feel that bad about it. And he hadn’t even told her about this until after she had already given herself the half-undercut, so it’s not like she could do anything about that either.

“Can I help you?” At least this box office worker isn’t giving her the stink-eye.

“I’m here to pick up a ticket? Should be under ‘Jackson.’” He’d offered to leave it under her name, but this was safer. She doesn’t think her mom is a big ballet person, but she isn’t about to risk it, either.

She slides the ticket towards Annabeth beneath the glass plane. “Enjoy the show,” she says, with a quirk of her mouth that is surprisingly sincere for someone in customer service.

She’s pretty sure she’d enjoy the show more if she weren’t panicking thinking about getting dirt on their fancy carpets. Her boots are clean, of course, and she doesn’t really care, but she doesn’t want to, like, embarrass Percy or whatever. She’d asked him if she should dress up, but he’d assured her otherwise. “No one’s going to care, I promise,” he’d told her the night before, her lounging in his bed while he did some pushups. “And if anyone says something, let me know and we can kick their ass after the show together.”

“Great. Guess I don’t have to break out the Chanel, then.”

He’d paused, frowned, then huffed a laugh, shaking his head. Like the idea of Annabeth wearing Chanel was hilarious. Like what she’s wearing tonight really is the best that she can do.

Self-consciousness isn’t really a feeling that Annabeth has anymore. She’s spent so many years chafing against expectations, shucking them off when she inevitably failed to meet them, desperate for a place, a crowd where she could just be. In her scene, she doesn’t have anything to prove to anyone, and when Percy is out with her, he doesn’t need any convincing. He likes her. He likes her a lot, she thinks. He likes her enough to let himself be dragged out to every shitty dive bar and shittier rock show in New York City, laughing and cheering and holding her close the whole time. He likes her enough to cart her to his apartment at 4 AM, inevitably waking Nico up from his undead slumber, and leave her with nothing but a glass of water and a kiss on the forehead. And she likes him, too--a lot. Annabeth likes Percy enough to ditch her band t-shirts for a night and track mud on the carpet of the Koch Theater and willingly sit through a performance of fucking Swan goddamn Lake of all things, and it’s only a little scary how much she is willing to do for him after only a few months of fucking him. Because this really isn’t her scene, not anymore.

The weight of everyone’s stares bears down on her, threatening to crush her beneath them, a feeling she was so sure she’d left behind.

At least Percy had been thoughtful enough to get her a ticket out of the way in the back of one of the balcony sections. It’s a bit of a hike, but the audience members aren’t dressed quite as nicely as the ones downstairs, and she feels like she can breathe a little easier.

She pulls out her phone, checking her text messages on instinct. There’s a selfie from Percy in his stage makeup (and she’s not going to lie… he looks fucking pretty), with his standard accompanying three blue heart emojis. She can’t help it, her heart skips a beat and she can’t help but smile, even as she rolls her eyes. She’s just about to send him something appropriately sarcastic when another text notification slides in. It’s from her father.

Hi Annabeth… I was talking to a friend in Boston who said he's looking for a new

prospective in his architecture firm. Passed your information along.

Love you, dear

She swipes it away. Deletes the whole text conversation, for good measure.

Forget about him. This night is about Percy.

A few minutes later, so engrossed in Percy’s program bio (it’s about all she can focus on right now), she doesn’t even notice everyone around her leaning forward in breathless anticipation, until the warm, honey-like sound of the oboe draws her head up.

Roughly two minutes in, she’s really wishing she had attempted the synopsis. The extent of her knowledge of Swan Lake is a few half-remembered orchestra rehearsals in her teens and reading the Wikipedia article on that Natalie Portman movie a few months ago, and she definitely doesn’t recall there being anything about any Men-in-Tights looking motherfuckers prancing around. They’re sort of bobbing, back and forth, elegantly stepping from one side of the stage to another. Even from back here, she can see the delicate, precise placement of their hands, fingers curved just so, moving through space as though they aren’t bound by the laws of physics.

The fingers, she remembers. She could never get the hang of the fingers. Her old ballet teacher had given up on them after a week, and that had been the beginning of the end for that particular extracurricular.

Now her fingers tap on her jeans, impatient, far faster than the easy going music on stage. She’s just about to give in to the millennial instinct and pull out her phone, maybe play a round of sudoku, when the dancers motion as one to the back corner, and Percy comes stepping out. His hair is perfectly slicked back, gelled down, any hint of curl beaten into submission, and his smile is small, but white, gleaming against the tanned brown of his skin. She can’t help but smile back, like he could somehow see her. Finally, she thinks, relaxing a little more into her seat. Something to watch.

On his off days, her off days, any day when she would spent the night at his (always at his, never at hers) and wake up wrapped in his comforter and the smell of seawater, she would take the blanket with her and steal into his living room, curl up on his couch with her feet tucked under her legs, and watch him dance. She’s seen him drill these sequences over, and over, and over again, counting furious sequences of sixes and eights beneath his breath in duet with the thuds of his feet on his floor. Most times he would notice her and shoot her a grin, granting her permission to observe the artist at work. Sometimes, though, he would be so caught up in his body, the shifting of his feet and the music in his head, that it was like he couldn’t see her at all. Seemingly alone, he would dance, uninhibited, and she would be struck by a feeling that she usually reserves for specific monuments. Watching Percy dance in his apartment, in his brown tights and black tank top, lost in his own world, is like looking at pictures of the Gateway Arch, or the Hoover Dam, or the Parthenon.

She searches for that feeling now, leaning forward in her seat, eyes hungrily raving his form, but she just doesn’t see it. It’s… honestly, it’s a little boring. She won’t lie. He had warned her it would be something of a slow start, but this isn’t exactly an ADHD friendly medium, and she is losing her patience, just a bit. He’s so reserved, like he’s holding something close to his chest, impersonal as he takes the hands of the female dancers and lets them twirl around him.

Personally, Annabeth thinks that he looks kind of lost. Maybe he’s just nervous--it’s a big role and he’s a young guy. But he had seemed fine when he’d kissed her goodbye just after lunch.

The court jester is killing it though. Feeling just the slightest bit guilty, she lets her eyes drift over to him, deciding to watch him for a while instead.

On some level, she does appreciate the skill on display here. Percy can raise his back leg in a perfect ninety degree angle that would make her architecture professors sweat. The girls drift back and forth across the stage on the tips of their toes, weightless and ethereal. It’s mesmerizing, and she lets herself be mesmerized.

Time must slip away from her, because she blinks and all of a sudden the stage has gone from sunny yellow to cool blue, the crowds of dancers having vanished. He is alone on stage. Percy kneels in a deep lunge that makes her thighs ache just looking at him (and for… other reasons), his arms and his attention pointed to the wings, with a… Annabeth squints. When the hell did he get a crossbow?

But everything is swept to the sides when the White Swan tiptoes her way on stage, impossibly graceful, and all of a sudden, Annabeth gets it.

It feels a little cliche to say, but the way that woman moves on the floor really does remind her of those old, vintage jewelry boxes, suspended in animation, moved by some otherworldly force. It’s amazing. It’s a little terrifying. Sublime is the word that comes to mind as Annabeth watches her. Her arms move with fluidity, perfect curves, her fingers trailing behind her like wings.

And Percy is just as mesmerized as Annabeth is. As the audience is.

A few things hit her, in rapid succession. First, that Percy is, actually, a really good actor. His reticence before--he’d been playing a character. He’d been playing aloof and reserved and unmoored, because Percy--Siegfried--whatever--has been waiting his whole life for something to fulfill him, until this singular moment, the moment he laid eyes on this beautiful creature. Second, that she doesn’t need words to understand what’s going on. It’s all there, in every look and gesture and step, as the two characters circle each other, slowly but irrevocably falling in love. And third, that she recognizes the look on his face. It’s the look that Percy gives her when she has been talking for too long and he can’t get a word in edgewise, or when she screams along to the god awful underground bands, three beers in and missing every single fuck she’d ever had, or when she wakes up after him to Percy’s arms around her waist, her hair in his mouth and her head resting against his collarbone. She recognizes it, because that’s the look that Siegfried has for Odette. Because that’s the look that Percy has for Annabeth. Because he loves her.

And fourth, that that doesn’t make her as happy as she wishes it would.

There’s a cold pit in her stomach for the rest of the show, a turning screw that twists in deeper, minute by minute, with every turn of the dancers. She wastes the next hour trying to puzzle this out, not even pretending to watch the drama unfolding on stage, because it makes no goddamn sense. (Her situation, not the ballet--she managed to skim the synopsis during intermission, her foot tapping incessantly against the blessedly empty seat in front of her.) Things are great between them. It’s been a heady, intoxicating four months, full of bubbles and butterflies, sweet, soft mornings, and some really, really phenomenal sex. This should make her happy. This should put her over the fucking moon, and she cannot, for the life of her, figure out why it doesn’t.

The prima ballerina comes back out as the Black Swan, just as poised and precise as her counterpart, but she’s a great actress as well, because there is something undeniably different about her. Her arms move like rubber, like joints are just an afterthought, wrapping themselves around Percy’s neck and shoulders. She misdirects his attention, drawing his eyes to her wrists, her clavicle, the curve of a leg or the point of her toe. Seducing him. Tricking him.

Like Annabeth.

Because try as she might to run from it, Annabeth isn’t who she says she is. She wants so desperately to be this fuck-the-rules, fight-the-power, punk rock princess that she took every part of her that didn’t fit that image and tried to rip it out of her, bloody and struggling. Her trust fund, her two (two!) Harvard degrees, her enriched childhood and her bright and shining future; she took it all out back and shot it, and prayed that would be the end of it. She’s a phony, just like that goddamn Black Swan. Percy is in love with a phony.

Her sweet, wonderful, devastatingly kind and handsome Percy--she tricked him and made him fall in love with a mishmash of archetypes and aesthetics, distracting him with nose piercings and ripped t-shirts and ugly, deafening noise.

She’s not surprised that she’s crying when the curtain falls. She’d never known that Siegfried and Odette both died at the end.

When the cast reunites for curtain call, Percy is given a standing ovation, and Annabeth enthusiastically joins in, wiping the tears from her eyes, smearing her makeup.

She doesn’t wait for him at the stage door, but sits on the steps of the theater, plucking at her sleeves, aching for a drink and wishing she had had the presence of mind to wear something a little nicer. Percy finds her there almost an hour after the show ended. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

In the dark of night, illuminated only by streetlamps, she can’t read his face--but she can read exhaustion, in every part of his body. “I was waiting for you by the stage door.”

Something in her stomach goes cold. “I… wasn’t sure if I was allowed,” she offers, weakly.

He smiles, a light in the dark. “Of course you’re allowed,” he says, offering her a hand. “Shall we?”

She knows what will happen next. She’ll take his hand, and they’ll walk to the subway together, fingers intertwined. They’ll get on the 1 train headed north, and Percy will let her rest her head against him, tilting his head back against the window, eyes closed, almost asleep. The doorman will nod at them as they walk up to Nico’s apartment, barely batting an eye at his sweats and her ripped jeans, the two of them sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of impeccably dressed rich New Yorkers. Nico will wave at them distractedly from his office, gulping down his sixth coffee of the night, and they’ll tiptoe into his room, falling asleep in each other’s arms with little more than a good night kiss.

Which, of course, is exactly what does end up happening.

Almost.

Annabeth crawls on top of him in his bed, kissing him soft and senseless. She doesn’t know where he’s getting this energy from, but she is not complaining as he slips up inside of her, the two of them rocking each other gently to orgasm, their foreheads pressed together. Shuddering as he comes, he captures her mouth in another kiss, pouring every ounce of love he has in him into her.

A waste, honestly.

But as far as goodbye sex, it’s pretty damn great.

She needs to end this, before either of them get hurt. It’s the least of what he deserves, after all. To put yourself out there, to offer yourself up like that, that might be the bravest thing Annabeth’s ever heard of, and surely, Annabeth can find the courage to do what needs to be done.

#whomp whomp!!#ballet au #pjo fic #my fic #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #darkmagyk #perseannabeth

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duskholland · 5 years ago

Text

I'll Take Care of You | Peter Parker

summary ↠ you’re a med student who falls into the habit of patching up Spider-Man

wc ↠ 4k

warnings ↠ some descriptions of injury (but nothing very graphic because I am a wimp), light swearing, fluff

a/n ↠ based off a request I had for a doctor/patient fic with Peter. I didn’t want to do that exact dynamic, so I put a spin on it and had some fun with it! I hope you enjoy, anon! any feedback would be gratefully received :’))

It’s 11pm on a chilly October night, and you’re hunched over one of the high wooden benches in your university’s lab. The only light in the room comes from the lamp you’re settled beside, and you’re completely lost in thought as you practice your running stitches on a rather beaten and bruised banana. You can’t quite seem to get it right, and with each failed attempt at securing an even stitch, you find yourself growing more and more frustrated. You’re about to pack it in and call it a night when there’s a loud crash behind you, and you spin around to see the shady figure of someone attempting to break into the lab.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter. Your heart rate spikes and your mouth runs dry, fear replacing your irritation as you watch a dark stranger jimmy open the window at the other side of the lab. You freeze, eyes wide in fear, and cower back as the person topples through the window, cursing lowly. They scramble to their feet, brushing themselves down, and when they take a step towards the centre of the room, your eyes light up with terrified recognition. “Spider-Man?!” You exclaim.

It might be dark in the lab, but that doesn’t prevent you from making out the red and blue lines of the familiar spidersuit. You didn’t think it was possible to be even more shocked than you were, but then the figure stumbles towards you and crashes to the ground, and you realise the darker spots on the suit are patches of blood.

“Help me…” Comes a high, quivering voice.

Shaking like a leaf, you tentatively approach the figure. He’s curled up in a ball on the floor, and you grab a handy first-aid kit as you crouch beside him. The darkest patches seem to be around his torso, but you’re not sure how to access that without harming the suit. As if sensing your predicament, the man reaches up and presses a button on his neck. You gasp lightly as the entire torso section of his suit separates itself and dissolves into nothing, leaving you facing the exposed, clammy skin of New York’s favourite hero. Your eyes quickly identify his source of pain, and you find yourself wincing as you see the issue: there are several shards of glass impaled in his side, and they’re preventing his body from regenerating and healing. You know you’ll need to remove them.

“Okay, okay,” you mutter, steeling yourself. You quickly unzip the kit and pull out a pair of tweezers, some disinfectant, and a roll of bandages. You try to keep your voice as level as possible as you speak to the man. “You’ve got some glass stuck in your side,” you say calmly. “I’m going to pull them out and disinfect the wound. It, uh, it’s probably going to hurt, and I’m really sorry, but it could get infected if I leave them in.”

Spider-Man manages a breathless, “okay,” which you take to mean you can start working.

Trying to still your shaking hands, you press one palm to his chest as the fingers of your other hand wrap around the tweezers. You manage to get a grip on the larger shard of glass and slowly pull it from the wound. The hero tenses and curses, but he stays still, allowing you to quickly and safely remove the piece. Once the first one is out, you grow more confident and manage to clear the others within the minute. After inspecting the wound and deciding there’s nothing left in there, you drag a ball of cotton wool soaked in disinfectant over the gash.

“That’s you,” you remark. Your forehead has a line of cool perspiration over it, and you feel a wave of intense relief pass through you as you finish bandaging his side. You sit back and lean against a wooden bench, a deep sigh passing through your lips.

Spider-Man looks down at his side, the erratic movements of his chest slowly calming. It’s for the first time that you’re able to properly look at him, and you find your heart beating a little faster in your chest as your eyes make out the shadowed lines of his abs.

“Thank you, uh…”

“Y/N,” you supply.

You can sense the smile beneath the mask. “Thanks, Y/N,” Spider-Man finishes. He scoots himself back so he’s also leaning against a wooden bench, his body facing you. “I usually have to do that myself.”

A warmth tickles at your cheeks as you push your hair back and away from your face. “You don’t have, like, a team of people to do that for you?”

Spider-Man laughs, his voice light and airy. “Not exactly,” he replies. “I mean, I probably could if I wanted to, but I work better alone.”

Your lips curl into a frown. “Alone?” You echo. “Isn’t that kinda dangerous?”

Spider-Man shrugs. “I guess,” he says, voice drawling. “I’ve made it this far, though, so I must be doing something right.”

You laugh gently. “Yeah, right,” you tease. “If it wasn’t for me, you would’ve passed out and woken up with a nasty infection.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he says, raising his hands innocently. He tilts his head to the side. “What are you doing here, anyway? No classes run this late.”

It’s your turn to feel a little embarrassed. “Oh, uh, I’m a first-year med student. Sometimes I stay back late to practice some of my sutures.” You point up to the desk and where a pile of your abused, half-stitched bananas sit. “It’s the only time I can get some peace and quiet.”

He surprises you by nimbly climbing to his feet and walking over to your workstation. As he moves, he presses a button on his neck again, and his suit closes over his chest. You find yourself frowning as the suit hides the rippling muscles of his back, and you quickly clear your throat to suppress that particular thought. You get up and join him, lingering a little behind.

“Not bad,” he compliments. He turns to look at you, and you know from the way the suit’s mask twitches that he’s smiling. “Med student, you say?”

You nod. “Yeah. So far I only know the basics, but it feels good to be able to give back to people.”

Spider-Man nods. “I know what you mean.”

A silence falls between you both, and you lean down to grab a scrap piece of paper. You quickly scribble down your number before passing it to him, the hero accepting it cautiously.

“Take it,” you plead. “Just in case you ever need anything. I live just off campus, and I’m usually awake at night. If you ever decide you need a medical squad, I’m your guy, alright?” Your lips pull into a smile as he pockets the paper.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, voice softer. He takes a few tentative steps back, looking at the window he entered through. “I should go. City to save, and all that. But… I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight. Thank you.”

You manage a brave smile as you urge him towards the window, pretending it doesn’t shatter your dreams to bid farewell to the hero you know you’ll likely never see again. “See you around, Spider-Man. Stay safe!”

And he raises a hand in a quick wave goodbye before hopping from the window and disappearing into the night sky, leaving you, a messy lab, and a thousand thoughts behind.

You don’t hear from him for three months.

Over those long, twelve weeks, you start your first placement at the local hospital and soon become too busy to feel sad at his lack of contact. But still, occasionally, you’ll catch yourself with a dullness rounding out your heart as you think of the way he’d taken your number and since ignored you. A part of you is grateful he hasn’t needed you, but another is sad you only spent one night with him. Spider-Man has always been a bit of an idol to you, and the realisation that you’ll never see him again is a tough one to come to terms with.

It’s mid-January and 1.32am when your phone vibrates on your nightstand. You groan as you turn over, your body shifting beneath your rustling sheets as you blindly bat at the table before your fingers close around the device. You pull it in close, silently begging you’re not being called in to work a spontaneous night shift, and lazily force your eyes open as you read the texts.

[Unknown] hey where do you live ???

[Unknown] it’s spider-man

[Unknown] I need you

[Unknown] help

Suddenly you’re wide awake, and with trembling fingers, you quickly attach your location and send it off. You jump from your bed and turn on your bedroom light as you pull a hoodie around your torso. Luckily you live alone and have your own comprehensive first aid kit, otherwise, you know you’d be fucked.

You wait for about three minutes before there’s a sudden, loud knock on your bedroom window. Your heart catches in the back of your throat as you squeak loudly, spinning around to see a blurry figure behind the pane. You hurry over and quickly unlock the window, and jump out of the way just in time to avoid the very heavy, and very wet figure of Spider-Man as he rolls into your room, collapsing in a heap in the middle of your carpet. He’s groaning - loudly - and this time, he appears to have dislocated his shoulder.

“Pop it back in,” he whines, voice pulled tight with stress. He manages to sit up, hunched over as his good hand clutches at his shoulder. “Oh my god, I’m gonna pass out.”

“Calm down,” you manage, gulping. Luckily for him, you’ve just finished a rotation in orthopaedics, so you aren’t completely in the dark about how to help him. “Take a deep breath, Spidey.” You push his hand away from his shoulder and replace it with your own. “I’ll count you down. 3, 2, 1-”

He curses, expletives rolling down his tongue as you carefully, but decisively, pop his shoulder back into the socket. A sickening crunch fills the air, but a moment later, his entire body seems to relax. He sighs and slumps back.

“Thank you so much,” he manages, voice sounding a little weak. “I tried to do it myself but apparently that just made it worse.”

Your eyes widen. “Uh, yeah, that’s a terrible idea.” You pull yourself to your feet and quickly help him up, depositing the hero on your bed. “I’ll go get you some water, or something. You look terrible.” You don’t have to see his face to know that beneath the suit, the man is bruised and exhausted. His posture alone speaks volumes as he sits curled over on the edge of your bed, his head falling forward to rest in his hands.

When you return with a glass of water and a bar of chocolate, he lets you sit beside him as he gratefully devours them. To your surprise, the suit parts at his mouth and exposes the thin lines of his pink lips, letting you see his cheesy grin as he smiles at you.

“Always coming to my rescue, Y/N,” he says, voice a little stronger just after a square of chocolate. “Thanks.”

“It’s alright,” you reply. Suddenly you become very aware of the large, sagging bags beneath your eyes and the way you’re sure your hair is sticking up all over the place. “Anything for New York’s best.”

He chuckles slightly. Once he’s done with the water and the chocolate, he places both the glass and the wrapper on your bedside table and collapses back on your bed with a soft thump. He stares up at the ceiling, his breathing gradually growing slower. “How’s college?”

You shrug. “Busy,” you explain. “I’m in the hospital most days, learning how to do stuff. Never thought it would be so demanding, but it feels good to be able to make someone feel better.”

“You should get extra credit for helping Spider-Man,” he ponders, voice quiet but sweet.

You laugh. “It’s not exactly been difficult to help you, so far. I can handle a dislocated shoulder and a few bits of glass.”

“Oh, so you want me to be more injured next time I visit you?” You can practically feel the smirk in his voice as your face heats up.

“No! Absolutely not. I don’t mean that at all.”

Spider-Man’s laugh warms your heart. “I know what you meant.” He sits up with a sigh. “Your bed is so comfy, Y/N.”

“Help yourself,” you tease.

He laughs again as he carefully rises to his feet, rolling around his shoulder as if testing its capabilities. “Feels as good as new,” he says. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Any time,” you reply. You stifle a yawn, and Spider-Man crosses his arms over his chest.

“Get some sleep,” he orders sternly. He hops over to your window and wrenches it open easily. “Thanks for the water, and the chocolate, and the life-saving,” he adds, already with a leg swung out of your window.

“Bye, Spiderman,” you say. The smile fades from your lips as he disappears once more, closing the window behind him with a quiet thud. But the grin quickly springs back as you realise he might contact you again, now he knows where you live, and you can’t help but find a little comfort in that thought.

Over the next few months, Spider-Man visits you semi-regularly. He has you text him your rotation schedule so to ensure he never bothers you when you’re busy at the hospital, and that alone causes your heart to warm to him even more. It’s always small things he visits for: bullet wounds, dislocated joints, grotty injuries. Things that would seriously harm any normal human, but since it’s Spider-Man, they only graze him. You fix him up and then send him on his way, and that’s it, simply. A fleeting encounter and then he’s off.

And it goes on like this for a while, until a warm evening in May. You’re sat cross-legged on your bed as darkness falls across the city, curled up with a nice book as you enjoy your day off from college. You feel calm and collected, and you’re about to light a candle and crawl into bed when there’s a loud banging on your window and you startle.

You stare outside, but there’s no one there. It’s dark, so you put your book down and tentatively creep over to the window, confused as to the source of the noise. Curiously, you pull up the window, and that’s when you hear Spider-Man’s familiar groans, and you look down to find him crumpled in a heap on your fire escape. Instantly you’re filled with dread.

It’s very difficult to actually get the hero into your apartment, but you manage to haul through your window eventually. You set him on the floor where he lies motionless, his breaths shallow and pained, and your blood runs cold as you take in the state of him. You crouch down beside him, first aid kit in hand, and find yourself at a loss of where to start. His suit is covered in lacerations and dark, bloody marks, but you don’t have access to him at all.

Just as you’re beginning to despair, you remember the buttons on his neck and carefully reach up. You don’t know which ones to press, and you certainly don’t want to betray him by accidentally removing his face mask, but when he releases another pained groan, you just push at a few random buttons. The suit deflates and retracts from his chest and lower half, leaving him in his gloves, face mask and underwear, but luckily exposing all the areas you need access to.

You survey the damage and feel despondent. He’s been very badly injured, and you’re terrified you won’t be able to help him. But that fear is quickly replaced by a determination as your brain shifts into doctor mode, and your hands start working before your mind can even process what you’re doing. You start by applying pressure to some of the larger gashes on his chest, stemming the steady flow of deep crimson blood until it’s a weaker trickle, and you feel confident bandaging them in a tight white wrap. Then you clean out some of the smaller wounds and stick a few smaller plasters there. Once you’ve cleaned him up a bit, the damage doesn’t look so bad, and though his pale skin has the beginnings of some deep, yellowy-blue bruises forming, you don’t think he’s got any internal injuries.

“How are you doing, Spidey?” You manage, voice croaking hoarsely.

Spider-Man groans softly. “I don’t feel like I’m dying anymore,” he quips, “But I still feel horrendous.” He pauses for a moment before grabbing at your hand. He’s still got gloves on, but you feel the tenderness in his touch as he squeezes your fingers gently. “Call me Peter,” he requests.

You nod as surprise settles across you. “You’ve lost a lot of blood but I think you’ll be okay, Peter. I don’t really understand how your body heals so quickly, but you’re looking stronger already. I think you just need to rest.” You glance out at the dark night sky. “You should stay here overnight.”

To your surprise, he doesn’t disagree. “Okay,” he says instead. His grip on your hand tightens as he slowly tries to get up. You help him out as much as you can and quickly settle him on your bed.

“I’ve got some clothes you can wear, wait.” You turn around and go to rummage through your dresser, pulling out a spare t-shirt. You toss it to the bed, and when you’re back by his side, he’s slid it over his chest. He looks very odd, sitting on your bed, your t-shirt on his upper half, his boxers on his lower, and a mask on his face, but at this point, you just accept it. “I’ll go crash on the couch. Yell if you need-”

“No, no. That’s not right,” Peter interrupts. You can tell he’s frowning. “You can, um, stay here, if you want. With me. In here.”

Your face shifts into a surprised o. “Oh, no, really, I… You should have space to spread out,” you say. You can’t ignore the way your heart beats deeply against your ribcage at the idea of cosying up against the hero.

“Please?” He asks, voice sweet. “What if I suddenly crash in the night? Or start bleeding out? How will I live if my doctor isn’t here to help me?”

You roll your eyes. “Dramatic, aren’t you?” But you walk over to him anyway and help him settle into your bed. You flick off your light and shut your window, and then you tentatively climb into the other side of your bed, slipping down until you’re beneath the covers, the warm figure of Spider-Man beside you. You’re tense, and for a moment you just lay there, breathing unevenly, staring at the ceiling and wondering how the fuck you ended up in this position.

“I’m, um… I’m gonna take off my mask,” comes Peter voice, quiet, but still loud enough for you to hear.

“What?!” You exclaim. You turn over on your side so you face him, your eyebrows pulling towards your forehead. “Why would you want to do that?”

He shrugs, his slim fingers knocking up against his neck. “It’s dark,” he reasons. “I trust you. And honestly, I’m feeling kinda delirious and this thing can be a bit hard to breathe through.”

You swallow deeply and watch carefully as Peter slowly pulls the mask up, up, up. It rolls up over his chin, his mouth, his nose, and his eyes, and with each feature it reveals, you find yourself holding your breath even more. Because it’s dark, in your room, but it’s not dark enough to hide his face, and you realise in a terrifying moment that he trusts you - Spider-Man trusts you - with his most hidden secret: his identity. And that makes you feel incredibly special.

“Peter…” You whisper, voice escaping into the air. Your eyes trace all over his face as he flings the mask aside. He’s got lovely dark, wispy hair, that stands up madly in all directions, and deep, caring brown eyes that watch your face intently. Your gaze shifts to his nose, and you smile as you notice it sits a little wonkily to the side, and then you find the air being pulled from your lungs as your eyes settle on his perfect, parted lips.

He’s beautiful. Utterly, completely, beautiful, and you really wish he’d kept the mask on, because he’s made it very hard for you to lie there as your lips quirk into a smile and your heart races in your chest, and just do nothing.

But then he does something.

With a shaky hand, Peter reaches up to cup your cheek. He shuffles closer, his musky cedar-wood scent filling your nostrils as he places his head on your pillow. His long, roughened fingertips move over your cheekbones, scattering trails of warmth over your skin as he gently caresses your face, his eyes gentle and loving. “Thank you for always looking after me, Y/N.” His breath fans out across your features, drawing a warmth to your face.

You swallow deeply, subconsciously nuzzling your cheek into his hand. You stretch out your legs and they tangle with his, and excitement rushes through your veins as his other hand finds your waist and he pulls you closer. Your foreheads are practically pressed together now, the warmth of his body heat surging through you as you gaze into his eyes. “I’ll always look after you, Peter,” you promise, voice soft and sweet. “I care about you.”

The tip of his nose brushes against yours softly. “I care about you too, Y/N. So much.” His eyes flicker shut, his long, feathery eyelashes falling to a soft rest at the top of his cheeks. You follow suit, and with your eyes closed, it’s as if everything else is amplified: his tender touch on your cheek, his warm hand wrapped around your waist, his legs tangled with yours. You find yourself straining closer, desperate for more.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, finally.

“Of course.”

And then his lips are on yours, moving softly against your mouth. It’s tender at first, barely even a touch, but as you push back against him, it grows stronger, like a small fire gradually building heat. You reach for his figure and gently wrap your hands around his waist as you kiss him deeply, clinging to him, longing for him, enjoying the feeling of coming home as your lips move together. It’s soft, and warm, and perfect, and it seems to span an infinity as you kiss him in the dark, bundled up beneath the blankets together.

He pulls back after a few perfect minutes, his forehead pressed flush against yours as he pants for breath. “I love kissing you,” he murmurs. “I love being with you, Y/N.”

You drag a hand up through his soft brown curls, a permanent smile hanging from your lips. “Feel free to kiss me as much as you’d like,” you mumble.

He presses another sweet kiss to your lips and holds you close. “Oh, I fully intend to,” he promises. Then he drags his mouth to your forehead and leaves a scattering of light kisses to your hairline, and you relax back into his arms, a sense of fulfilment blossoming through your chest. He’s warm, and soft, and you know there’s nowhere you’d rather be than right here, bundled up in Spider-Man’s arms, drifting off into a gentle slumber. And as he presses a final kiss to the back of your head, you know he feels the same way, too.

any feedback? I would love to hear any thoughts you have on this!

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#Peter parker #Peter Parker oneshot #Peter Parker imagine #Peter Parker x reader #Peter Parker fluff #woohoo #I wrote this all this evening so if it's bad I apologise but ? I think it turned out kinda sweet n fluffy #any thoughts would be appreciated!#am still getting into the swing of writing #so any feedback welcomed #thanks for reading <3 #my writing #self-insert #y/n #y/n use #wahey #college!peter

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