#based off temporary fix by one direction

[sprout-fics]

Takedown

Part Two of Snowblind

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x Medic "Fix" Reader)

Rating: Teen and Up Wordcount: 9.1k Tags: Slow Burn, Mutual pining, Angst, Implied Trauma, Found Family, Team Bonding, Sparring, Wrestling, Takedown maneuvers, Dad Price, Mom Laswell, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics Warnings: None A/N: The official part two of Shadow and Bone featuring our beloved Fix! Fix uses she/hers pronouns and is AFAB but is written in 2nd person POV

Summary:

"My turn."

Ghost seems to materialize from thin air. With a roll of his shoulders he straightens from where he was braced against the wall, just to Gaz's right. The shade of the building did nothing to hide him, and yet it still feels like all the world like he wasn't even there. Like a daytime phantom, he simply appears, a fragmentary blink all that's needed to mask his arrival.

You're stunned into silence when he raises his eyes towards you, and there's that familiar prickle of trepidation, a warning murmured below your heartbeat of the danger present in his stare. It flays you open effortlessly, laying bare your secrets and closely hidden truths, rendering you transparent against his masked, piercing gaze.

"Oh, uh, sure LT." Soap is the first to speak, and even he seems a bit disturbed by this, by the almost garish sight of Ghost in the brightness of daytime. "Lemme just-"

"Not you."

You stop breathing.

Taglist (Please reply to this post to be tagged in future updates of this series!)

@dankest-farrik @zwiiicnziiix @moondirti @sritashimada @ladiilokii @yeyinde @sandinthemachine @verdandis-blog @guyfierriii @fan-of-encouragement @starlitnotes @novellas-den @kkinky@myblackwolfs2 @soapskneebrace @stressyanddepressyfoodservice @mvtthewmurdvck @pettyprocrastination @day0walker

-----

Dry grass on your back. Arms folded as a cushion under your head, the bitter, jaunty breeze of September in Staffordshire brushing against your face like the whisper of an old friend onto your cheeks. It whooshes softly over your ears, ruffling the edge of your T-shirt sleeves and up, away into the fluffy cumulus clouds that puff over the landscape of the English countryside.

You didn't know England could be this beautiful.

It seems like every time the 141 ends stationed back at Beacon Base it's in the rife, cold dead of winter or the soggy, laden dampness of spring. Yet the past two weeks here have been blissfully beautiful, temperate in the way only Autumn is, crisp and braided with the colors of changing seasons. In the late afternoons, in the hour before the sun kisses the horizon, the entire base is painted with a soft, golden light like the god Apollo has bestowed a singular touch on the dying embers of daytime. You drink it in like the nectar of the gods, imbue it with hazy, resplendent glimpses in the repository of your memories.

The team had been grateful the first few days you were here, having returned from the Nepal mission fatigued but successful, thankful for a break. You hardly remembered coming into base in the witching hours of the morning, the world still cloaked in inky darkness. As soon as your legs hit the edge of your bunk you had collapsed into it, gear and all. It wasn't until you woke nearly 13 hours later that you realized someone had mercifully peeled off your vest, boots, helmet, and outer layers while you were asleep.

(When you had asked Gaz, he'd looked over your shoulder worriedly at someone. Yet when you turned, there was nothing there.)

Laswell had warned you all that the hiatus was a temporary one, that you were all on standby as she worked to verify intel on the next mission she directed you all towards. Her promise of only a night had doubled into that of a few days, only for that to lapse into uncertainty as the sizzle of August had faded into September.

It had taken only a few days for the team to get antsy, used to motion, movement as a core, steadying force in their lives. You failed to understand it the first few times you had all been on shore leave, trying to soak in as much peace as you could during your scarce time off-duty to combat the exhaustion carved into your marrow. Now, almost a year into being on the team, you began to see it- the way velocity was a need variable in these mens' lives, how it kept the demons that hid in the back of their thoughts at bay.

Even so, you had all adjusted to life on base, ephemeral though it was. You had each of the 141's schedule mapped out by now, keen eyes observing the silent lives your teammates lived outside of wartime.

Price rose early, before dawn. The only time you ever saw him without his hat was before his first coffee. When you had mentioned to Soap that the man looked like a bedraggled Airedale terrier at first light, the sergeant had nearly spat his drink. Yet that look was combed over by the time he was at his desk, poring over reports with Laswell on the phone. More than once he had enlisted your help with the matter, looking over your shoulder as you traced satellite images under your calloused fingertips, brow scrunched in thought.

After one exceedingly long day, your eyes still swimming with Russian and Arabic as you stared dazedly up at the aging ceiling of the captain's office, Price's hand had landed on your shoulder. His voice was tired but warm as he offered you a smile.

"Good work, Fix."

You had practically strutted back to the team's common area, head held high and smile broad across the planes of your face, darkening in the evening light.

(Unaware of the stare that had traced you from the shadows.)

While Price remained holed in his office all day, Soap and Gaz had been approached by the base commander after the first few days in, enlisting their help training a fresh batch of recruits that had arrived only a week prior to the 141. They both had grumbled about it at first, but you now often found them at the training grounds on the other side of base, barking drills to the younger men and women who regarded them with as much respect as they did fear.

Soap is a natural born leader, you realized; The sight of him overlooking the troops, arms crossed and dressed in tac gear is enough to inspire any soldier. Gaz's inspiration, however, comes not from the way he demands deference and respect the way Soap's strictness did, but from his easier, more hands-on approach to the younger, less experienced soldiers. You often found the sergeant assisting them in their specialist training, hovering over their shoulder at the shooting range or offering a demonstration on weapon safety and management to bright faces and eager eyes.

You couldn't stifle a sense of pride at the two, reminded every time you saw them with the recruits at just how experienced, how reliable they are, these two men you trusted your life to with every mission. Soap, with his cocky but friendly, approachable smile and Gaz with the softer, kinder eyes- those of a friend. They had been wary of you at first, all those long months ago when you had joined the team, regarding you with a cordial distance as you sought to prove yourself to them. It wasn't until your most recent mission, since Nepal- where you had taken down a dozen men with your sniper rifle despite being alone, injured and half snow-blind- that they had truly opened up to you. Since then they had welcomed you into the fold, if their teasing and amicable banter was any indication to go by.

You watched them from the infirmary, where you dedicated the majority of your hours, tracing their broad backs from the hospital windows at the training field just beyond. When your hands weren't busy inventorying your field kit or striving to keep your skills sharp as the team's designated medic, you found them outside, smiles as warm as the afternoon sun that shone down on you three. More often than not you found them waiting for you at the end of your shift, chatting and bantering in the lobby until you made yourself known, strolling easily with them in the golden hour painted by the metamorphosis of Fall.

There was an easiness now that wasn't there before, as Gaz enlisted your help cooking a group meal (His mother's recipe, you later found out) as Soap and Price bickered over soccer matches just beyond the kitchen, as they both griped at you for refusing to use the term 'football', as Soap asked you to spot him with his weight lifting, making a point to flex playfully at you until you conceded as gave a shy pat to his bicep. The evenings between the five of you are quieter, relaxed in a way you're unfamiliar with.

It seems like the world was always doing that, putting you in places you least expect.

Just like it had done in Nepal, with your frigid, shivering form curled into the warm, protective embrace of your Lieutenant.

Neither you nor Ghost had discussed what happened, had dared to mention the soft, fragile words exchanged between you on that clear, starry night as frost had sifted down from the trees above the outpost.

"You see my mistakes."

"I see you. Just you."

Yet after the team had returned to England Ghost had made himself scarce, absent within the daytime regimens of your teammates. You think he might be nocturnal, the way he only appears after dark, waiting until the sun dips low below the horizon to ooze from the shadows, eyes blank, haunted. He hovers in the corners of the rooms you're in, silent, vigilant, slouched with a bone-deep fatigue that no amount of rest seems to cure.

It's a bit startling, truth be told. This calm, this stillness in him is beyond the scope of what you're familiar with. On missions Ghost is the sharp, cutting slice of a blade, concentrated, soaked in blood, piercing with his fatalistic aim and hungry, driven gaze. When he moves it's like watching a predator stalk prey, rippling muscle and broad, unfaltering steps. His eyes glint in the darkness like he can see there, can discern targets from the distant, trembling thump of their heartbeats alone. At your front he's an unstoppable force, yielding no ground no matter the shower of bullets that rain down on him. At your back he's an immovable object, a wall to pin yourself to when the enemy forces you there, ready to strike down encroaching hostiles with his adamantine, skeletal grip.

Now, outside the theater of battle, there's a distance there in Ghost's eyes, decaying there like necrotic flesh. It's something that's been there since the beginning, that's been engraved black in his bones long before you even knew he existed. You see it in his eyes as the lights of the muted television flicker across his mask, playing advertisements he doesn't seem to see. If the other members of the 141 need inertia as their own mental gravity, Ghost craves the ever-existing tides of the ocean to drive away the specters in his thoughts.

You know that unnamed emotion. Know it too well.

Dusky pink sky. The sound of a trumpet, the flurry of figures and clothes and voices blurring into morning fog. When the world shifts it's your hands on the ropes, calloused, sweaty palms digging in for purchase. As the sun rises your weapon thrums under your fingertips, and the voice of the instructor seems louder than the rapid fire that jolts you backwards until you're scrambling for balance- tipping into the dark of evening when the alien shadows of night vision color your gaze. It still feels too bright, too bright, until-

The memory flashes like lightning, and the resulting thunder has your heart hammering in your chest at the shiver that runs through you. It feels endless, infinite, stretching like lengths of gauze on a shallow slice of a wound. Yet there's a familiar heaviness there, bitter and grounding like the crunch of gravel underneath combat boots. There's a comfort in the mindless triumph of combat, of training and needed movement that settles everything else like a murmured, macabre berceuse. It's dark, it's haunting, it kills demons not with the scepter of divine radiance, but in a crepuscule so deep that their shadows are indiscernible from the lack of light in your eyes.

It's hard to imagine now that you lived like that for years, whittling down yourself until there was no hurt, no pain, no lingering words of disdain from familiar voices puncturing your ears. Nothing. Only bones.

And then.

Then there had been Laswell.

Ethiopia, you think it was. Sent for your field requirements for your combat medic training, the air stifling, dusty, caked in a scent that smelled innately of foreign soil. Laswell had been overseeing a mission there, helping gather intel. She hardly slept for days, existing on cooling coffee and leftovers from the impromptu mess hall. Eventually she'd stumbled into the medic tent, had asked for painkillers, an adrenaline, something to keep her awake. Yet then she'd looked up, looked into your eyes without light and hesitated.

A conversation followed, one fragmented over the course of weeks, bleached by the sun and chilled by the nighttime wind. Steaming mugs sitting together, over a desk piled with reports, voices muted with fatigue and sparkling with the rare bite of laughter from her. Evenings spent together, her voice like a needed balm to the cracked sinews of you. Eyes focused, sharp but warm, and you had ached for it, desperate for the regard of this older woman who felt like the things you wanted from the one you called mother. You wonder if Laswell saw that too, with her ever searching eyes and scalding stare. Perhaps she did, perhaps she saw the hollow inside you just as she saw what you tried to fill it with- a raw, unflinching determination that weighed on you so heavily it forced you to crack, to endure and crystallize like blood diamonds.

"Find me after you get back to the states." She told you, voice raised over the sound of the chopper that would take her back to base, and then to home. Her eyes had glinted for a moment in the dry, raw heat, tracing your face with an insight you couldn't comprehend, a prophecy that glittered at the edges and made you blink from the brightness.

So, you did. American soil under your feet, you had found her exactly where she said she'd be, once again basking in the warm flicker of her gaze, the hand on your shoulder that of a friend.

"I have a proposal for you."

It felt like decades ago now, when you had sat alone in the back of a black-hawk, carted off to a base you weren't allowed to know the name of, the earth again shifting endlessly under you.

It was weeks into your training before you understood why you were there. The brutality of it threatened to crack you, the endless and violent force which required your entire concentration and nothing less. The squad around you seemed to stare past each other, dazed by the ceaseless waves of intel, of briefings, medic practice, language courses, nighttime ops, bomb disarmaments, air raid drills, parachute practices, terrain training-

All for them. For the 141.

It was you, in the end. One out of a dozen, a dozen out of a thousand, a thousand out of a million. You. Only you. Designed, bred, honed like a weapon of old, deadly ossein bleached white by nothing other than an oath, a duty. You lived these men's lives before they even knew you existed, had traced each of their steps with your smaller ones, looking up and to the future where they marched onwards.

Now it was their voices, soft and firm, streaked with laughter and teasing that had filled the void inside of you where you had carved everything else away. Slowly, like phases of the waxing moon, you became full again.

Yet there's a doubt there, one present inside just you. Like earl grey steeped for too long, it curls acrid and bitter against the back of your tongue. You swallow it down, forcing it lower and lower even as the aftertaste clings to you, flavors the edges of your words. A fear, an abyss you are constantly trying to avoid tipping into, one that threatens to swallow you and all your achievements in a single, mortifying instant. You walk the tightrope between confidence and fear, and try not to look downwards into the chasm below, where the wind howls with inadequacies and alienation.

If the team notices they don't say. You see it though, see the way their eyes linger over your expression as if they can see the pause there, can hear the voices that whisper sinister prophecies of failure to you even in sleep. You're not sure which to believe between the two divinations- of Laswell's fledgling hope in you, or of the cataclysm which seems to be constantly dwarfing the horizon in a gaunt, pale wash of color.

"Fix!"

You startle, and your callsign sounds for all the world like a gunshot that rouses you from a ruminating slumber, thrusting you back into the crisp air of the Staffordshire countryside.

"Sir!" You bark on instinct as Price's voice directs itself at you, shooting to your feet with your shoulders straightening and muscles coiled in readiness.

Yet instead of the displeased, furrowed brow of your captain all you see is the three men before you freeze, turn halfway from the training area in surprise at your yelp. You see Soap's eyebrows raise in a silent question of your yipped response, but the pause gives Gaz the opportunity he needs to kick the Scotsman's legs from under him. Instantly, the brief look of surprise on Johnny's face morphs into shock as he tilts, mouth opening as the shorter sergeant wraps a leg around him, arms straining as he forces his brother to the ground.

"Getting distracted, Johnny?" Gaz asks breathlessly as Soap struggles under him, biting out a curse tinted with stupefaction at his opponent's surprising burst of strength.

Whatever Price was going to say to you dies on his lips as he barks a laugh, arms crossed and supervising the scuffed section of terrain the team has designated as their sparring mat.

"Gaz is right, Soap. Should be paying more attention to your opponent and not your audience."

Soap doesn't respond, he can't. Not with Gaz's arms securing him in a headlock and his legs forced together so he can't free himself. Briefly, his arms flail out beside him, stirring brown dust into the breeze. Yet he seems to realize the futility of the effort, because you watch his eyes close, see his jaw grit as he grunts, taps twice on the shorter man in a signal of surrender.

It's only once he's released that he sucks in air with a gasp that's a little too dramatic given the circumstances. Yet it only draws a warmth flickering inside you, a smile tickling your lips as you take in Soap's cocky grin and Gaz's glinting eyes, both of them oozing a camaraderie and mischief that occurs only between brothers of the same oath.

"A point to me." Gaz huffs, winded, and when he stands it's to offer Soap a hand, attempting to lift the sergeant to his feet beside him.

Soap goes for the hand, but you see the flicker of playfulness there that sparks behind his gaze. Before you can warn Gaz, Soap's hand shoots forward, grappling Gaz by his forearms and dragging him off balance and into the dirt once more.

You watch as they scuffle, hearing Price's bemused chuff of laughter steps away from you. You know usually he'd issue a strictness between his team, enforcing a set of boundaries designed to keep the sharpness of their skills from dulling. Yet here, in the golden afternoon of fall, there's an ambience that feels lighter, lifting the spirits of the men and you.

It feels a bit like watching the boys from your youth wrestle, all smiles and gangly limbs as they test the boundaries of their strength. Both Soap and Gaz are grinning, the wrinkles of their smiles almost broad enough to obscure the flash of focus in their gazes. Yet there's no adolescent awkwardness there, not with their broad, straining forms and deep, resounding grunts as they battle for supremacy.

"Had enough?" Soap asks between gasps as he catches Gaz between his legs, calves pressing down hard on his chest. Gaz only grunts, thrashes, trying to buck his weight up and disturb the hold Soap has on him.

"Alright, that's enough, both of you." Price interrupts with a wave of his hand, and just like that the two men separate, chests heaving and muscles still coiled. "Gaz, a point, but you best make sure your opponent is down before you gloat."

"Aye, he's right mate." Soap crows, knocking dust away from his shirt. Yet all he gets in response is a nudging elbow in the ribs, and for a moment the two of the jostle, grinning and grappling.

"Fix, you're up." Price nods at you, and you blink, arch your eyebrows at the captain in a silent question, pausing with uncertainty. Yet Price merely nods at you, eyes flicking over to the sparring area meaningfully. "Go on then."

So, you do, standing from your perch on the sloped grassy area beside the dirt pit and cautiously entering the circle. Trepidation, a flutter of courage bounces through you, escaping as an exhaled breath as you steady yourself.

Yet when you look to Gaz, it's Soap who's pushing in front of him with a lopsided smile, extending one brawny arm in front of his comrade.

"Mind if I take this one, cap?" He asks Price, and despite your little murmur of apprehension Price merely shrugs, nods at the Scotsman in a silent assent. Your heart races a little higher in your chest, legs widening as you try to ground yourself, eyes flicking over Soap's larger form and trying to pinpoint weaknesses.

Soap is built like a brick wall, rigid, strong. There's not an ounce of fat on him. The sleeves of his T-shirt cling to his biceps. You can see the veins under his brawny arms- designed for wrangling opponents far larger than yourself. It's not that you think you can't defeat him, smaller as you are, this man who's taken down dozens with his bare hands, it's just a matter of summoning the wit, the endurance to fend him off long enough to do so.

"Easy, Fix." Soap warns, and your eyes dart up to catch his. He's seen your gaze, caught sight of your eyes glinting with determination and a near fatalistic focus. "I'm one of the good guys, yeah?"

You think you hear Gaz scoff behind you, the sound disbelieving and warm all at once. Soap's eyes flicker over to him, feigning hurt.

You launch forwards at that exact moment, using Soap's lapse in attention to your advantage. Soap reacts a moment too late, trying to sidestep you as you barrel at him and try to knock him in his center. Yet that only gives you the opportunity you're looking for, sweeping under his lifted arm and grabbing it in an attempt to lift it behind him, force him to his knees.

Unfortunately, Soap seems to see exactly where you're going, and instead sidesteps around you, securing one, long, leg behind and between yours. It's a move you should have expected, given his size, but by the time you try and twist to correct it's too late. It takes the Scotsman hardly any effort to scoot his leg to the side, and suddenly you're losing balance, teetering backwards. Yet you refuse to relinquish your hold on him, and Soap chokes as you shoot out an arm, wrapping it around his throat and taking him down with you.

The impact of the harsh dirt ground on your back is nothing compared to the weight of the sergeant atop you, the back of his head against your collarbone as you strain to contain him. Yet Johnny is a force, a raw mass of rippling muscle as he pries your headlock enough for him to flip over and shake you off.

On your back, hands free and Soap sat up between your legs you try and scoot back, gain ground on which to recover. When he turns, Soap's eyes are gleaming, and he reaches for you, one massive hand wrapping around you calf and scooting you closer to him. Even when you try to kick him he simply bats aside your attempts, dirt scuffing around you both as he secures his hands around your hips.

A loud "Oof!" leaves you as the Scotsman flips you, settles his weight across your lower back, effectively immobilizing you. He grapples with your arms for a moment, as you scramble and writhe under him, but eventually Johnny manages to catch both hands behind you, your face pressed into the dirt and his immense weight weighing down on your back.

"Nice try, hen." Soap tuts down at you, breath caught in his chest. His hands clasp on both your wrists, and you know you could get them free if you wanted to, but even then it's an exercise in futility. "Better luck next time."

You sigh, limbs going limp under him in surrender and face scrunching in dismay.

"Curse you and your stupidly large body." You groan as he releases you, your hands pushing you up out of the dirt to a stand once more. Soap only chuckles, the sound like warm summer sunshine as a single dusty hand claps you across the shoulder.

"It's not about size." Price responds, summoning your gaze to him once more. His arms are crossed, his gaze leveled at you strictly, eyes narrowed. "It's about form, making sure you can outsmart your opponent."

You feel the chafe of dismissal run through you, tighten across your shoulders. It stings, this reprimand of his, even if you know it's only for your benefit. There's something about his words that knocks against something hollowed, deep inside you where the voices of the past threaten to spill through.

"Of course, captain." You manage, voice tight even as you meet his gaze head on, make sure he doesn't see the bitterness masked behind your stare.

If Price sees he doesn't say, instead nodding to the sergeant next to you in a wordless gesture. "Again."

You nod stiffly, shaking the tension from your shoulders and the dirt from your clothes, turning back to Soap, eyes focused once more. He settles into his stance, and he seems looser somehow, ready for you.

"He's bigger than you, Fix." Price calls. "You've got the advantage of speed and center of gravity. Use it wisely."

You nod absently, trying to gauge Johnny's movements, watching the Scotsman bounce on the balls of his feet. It's a difficult choice, trying to find that target that will put him off balance and allow you enough space to recoup if needed. You think if you can have some distance, land a few strikes to give you an opening...

"C'mon now Fix, show me what ya got." Johnny taunts playfully, fingers waggling at you.

Smug bastard.

You feint to start, watching how Soap favors his right leg as he reacts. You can feel his tension in the air, feel it ripple through and bolster you with a steely, calculating confidence.

He's just another obstacle, another hurdle. You haven't fallen from that tightrope thus far, and you won't start now.

At last, you launch forwards, ducking out of the way of Soap's outstretched reach and placing a well-earned kick to his upper leg  that has him grunt, briefly buckle down-

Oh shit.

Now at the perfect height, Soap locks his arms around your middle, hauling you to him. You try and struggle, kicking apart his legs in an attempt to disturb his balance, one hand trying to push up at his jaw-

The world tilts, Johnny's hands on you shift, and you shriek as suddenly you're being hauled up. Your feet kick uselessly in the air as Soap lifts your shrieking form higher, his raucous laughter loud in your ears. With a heft, you're suddenly over one broad shoulder, his hands balancing you precariously as you squirm.

"S-Soap!" You squeal, face warming and unable to contain the abrupt gasp of hysterical delight that rises inside you. "Johnny! You-!"

"The cap'n told you to watch your balance!" Soap cackles over your protests. "How's gravity now, eh?!"

You beat at his back with your fists, but even then you can't contain the sudden burst of laughter that's being squeezed from your chest. When you try to kick, Soap merely shifts an arm down, locking the back of your thighs.

"You little shit!" You giggle, trying to raise yourself off his shoulder, only for him to twist where he stands, sending the world flying into a haze of color around you. "Put me down or I'll-!"

"There's no escape!" Soap crows in triumph, and you laugh truly this time, the warmth of it bubbling up your chest and vanquishing the solemnity there in a breezy gasp of air. "I have you now!"

"Alright, that's enough." Price interjects, but you can hear the smile on his voice, and when Soap spins again to face him you're left with Gaz, who grins broadly at your form splayed across his mate's shoulders despite the disbelieving shake of his head. "Put the medic down and back away slowly."

"Aye cap'n." Soap affirms, and the world shifts as you slide down, your shirt catching on his vest for a moment long enough to make it rise a few inches up your stomach. Once your feet are on solid ground once more you fiddle with it, shooting Soap a look of pure mischief as you playfully shove at him.

"You're a right bastard, you are." You jeer at him, but there's no true malice behind the insult.

"Oho! Looks like our bonnie medic has picked up some British slang, hasn't she?" Soap grins wickedly back at you, pretending to rub a bruise left by your touch.

"Shut up."

"She'll take you down with words alone, mate." Gaz quips off to the side, a grin stretched across his face. "Better watch your step."

You turn to him, still smiling, feeling that bravado wash over you now in the wake of Soap's prank.

"You want some too, sergeant?" You shoot back, and Gaz feigns surrender, tossing up his hands and taking a step back against the wall he's braced on- only to freeze.

You see him at the same time Gaz senses him, shoulders going rigid at the figure, the mass behind him, leaning in the shadow casted by the aged, brick building. The air seems to suck into silence, drowning into a ringing nothingness like the aftershock of flashbang that was far too close.

"My turn."

Ghost seems to materialize from thin air. With a roll of his shoulders he straightens from where he was braced against the wall, just to Gaz's right. The shade of the building did nothing to hide him, and yet it still feels like all the world like he wasn't even there. Like a daytime phantom, he simply appears, a fragmentary blink all that's needed to mask his arrival.

You're stunned into silence when he raises his eyes towards you, and there's that familiar prickle of trepidation, a warning murmured below your heartbeat of the danger present in his stare. It flays you open effortlessly, laying bare your secrets and closely hidden truths, rendering you transparent against his masked, piercing gaze.

"Oh, uh, sure LT." Soap is the first to speak, and even he seems a bit disturbed by this, by the almost garish sight of Ghost in the brightness of daytime. "Lemme just-"

"Not you."

You stop breathing.

Ghost's eyes are locked on you. Hell, they never left you, trained on your form since the moment he announced his arrival. You think if he steps closer, into the training are he might hear your heartbeat, reach out a hand to feel it thrum under his fingertips-

Your pulse flutters against his fingers like a trapped bird, wings spread and beating the frozen air around you. He's never been this close before. He's hardly ever touched you- much less with his bare hands. The sensation of it threatens to throw you from that precipice where you balance precariously, falling once more into that asymmetry you fail to understand. You can only pray that your rapid, strumming heartbeat doesn't betray you, doesn't let him sense the thoughts you're holding silent within your heart.

You swallow, but all you taste is dust.

"H-hang on now." Soap intervenes, stepping up beside you. He's a weight at your back, keeping you steady, grounded against the gale inside you. The wind whips higher, and it seems to carry the scent of your uncertainty, the carpal, raw taste of it filling the back of your mouth.

He's huge. Larger than Soap. Immense and looming. Ghost occupies enough space in your mind it rivals your own doubts, blending at the seams with the dark, inky bleed of him into your form. The weight of him, even at this distance, threatens to bear down on your shoulders, and you feel that pressure, that muscled strain compress you until there's almost nothing left.

Only bones.

"It's fine, Soap." Your voice is surprisingly steady when you speak, lift an arm to gently halt the Scotsman behind you. "I can do it."

It's a lie. You're not sure if you can at all. It's not Ghost's size, his stature that concerns you. No, rather it's you, the way the lieutenant before you seems to summon those linger doubts in you- the urgent, insurmountable need to prove yourself. You can't explain it, can't fully understand why it's Ghost of all people that needs to see this, needs to see how you fail to crack, that no amount of pressure here will force you to fail.

Then again, perhaps you do know. After all, you've always known it was him.

You trace the marrow white paint of Ghost's mask up to his eyes, watching as they slide from you to Price, waiting for his assent. You hear Price inhale deeply, eyes flickering between the two of you before he at last sighs, gestures Ghost into the ring.

When you try to step back, Soap catches your arm.

"You don't have to do this." He tells you, and the tone of his voice makes you pause, frown at the odd tint of concern there.

"Yeah, I do." You tell him instead, and jerk your arm from his touch, brushing past him to give Ghost the space he needs to prepare. When you glance at the sergeant there's an odd pinch to his face you don't recognize. It feels oddly like doubt, a sourness that doesn't believe in you. It chafes against the inside of you, brittle and pale.

When you turn to face Ghost a few paces away, he's stretching. It almost catches you by surprise, the sight of his hulking frame as he rolls his shoulders, pops his neck with an audible crack. Again, you're reminded of the breadth of him, this man who's shielded you more times than you can count by now, can take down a man larger than you with nothing but his bare hands.

Your mouth dries.

Even so, you nod at Price when you settle into your stance, preparing yourself for his assault. The captain returns it, lets his stare linger over your unsteady hands before his voice rings out into the afternoon sun:

"Begin!"

You tense, preparing yourself, but even then you aren't ready for the sheer, massive strides Ghost takes towards you, closing the distance so rapidly your mind reels trying to catch up. You sidestep him a moment too late, trying to get a leg under his frame and use it to upset his balance, send him stumbling.

A hand seizes your shoulder. The world spins.

The gasp that escapes from your chest upon impact with the ground floats upwards into the eggshell blue sky.

Just like that.

You blink once, twice, trying to understand exactly how Ghost managed to flip you so easily, barely even touching you before you're flat on your back staring up at the clouds. Gaz hisses a grimace somewhere beyond you, and you hardly hear it, thoughts spinning.

"Up."

That puffy crisp September sky is blotted out as Ghost hovers above you, towering over your prone form as your breath stills in your chest. You stare at him dumbly for a moment, still trying to understand how he moved fast enough to make your head spin.

He doesn't offer you a hand, letting you sit up on your own, dusty with dirt and heart rattling in your chest. When you stand he's already paced away from you, wordlessly waiting for you to resume your stance.

"Give him hell, Fix!" Soap calls from the side, but even he doesn't sound entirely convinced.

You ignore him, trying to clear your thoughts, trying to focus on exactly how Ghost managed to flip you. Maybe his arm was around your middle- or was it your shoulder, you can't tell, he-

"Don't make me wait, sergeant." Ghost tells you, and the low scrape of his voice is enough to startle you, feeling like bone meal grinding against the recesses of your mind.

You tense, observing, watching, seeking weaknesses in his stance. When you launch forwards again, you move fast, ducking under Ghost's outstretched arm as he reaches for you. It's enough to give you an opening as you reach forward, throwing an arm out to his middle and aiming a fist with all your strength. It's not enough to send him stumbling backwards, but you know if you unbalance him you can get one of his legs, force him to his knees-

Ghost deflects your strike with ease, however, and before you can retreat to recoup that same arm twists your outstretched hand deftly. You're spun, boots skidding in the dirt. Yet this time Ghost doesn't put you down in the ground. Instead, he hauls you backwards until you're pressed against his front, and a heavy arm settles under your throat in a vice-like grip, rising up enough to threaten your airflow.

"Better." Is all he tells you as you struggle, and the motherfucker isn't even out of breath.

When you aim an elbow back into his stomach he merely grunts at the impact, and after a brief second the world spins wildly out of control as Ghost flips you over his hip and into the dirt once more.

You think you may have skid a few inches past where you landed, the impact harsh and unforgiving against your form. When you open your eyes you're on your side, staring at his boots as he again looms over you.

"Get up." He tells you, and there's not a single ounce of hesitation there, his tone harsh and unforgiving. It bites harder than the bruises forming on your flesh, sinking deeper past the sinews of you into the place where you harbor your own self-doubt. Ghost doesn't give you any recompense, demanding your immediate restitution even as you brace on your elbows, try and catch your breath.

"If you stayed down this long you'd be dead." He tells you plainly, and when you grit your teeth you feel your jaw threaten to pop. Frustration, humiliation clots under your skin, racing along your nerve endings and threatening to set your skin aflame. It boils inside of you, this shame of being defeated so easily, of not being able to stand your own, of him seemingly mocking you for your lack of strength.

"E-easy LT." Soap tries from your other side, trying uncertainly to intervene. "She's just catching her breath, she-"

"She's getting caught in her head, Johnny." Ghost replies, and the tone of his voice has shifted now- irritated, impatient. You grimace against it where he can't see, with your brow bent over your arms as you push yourself upwards. Yet the motion isn't fast enough for Ghost, who's gloved grip settles on your bicep and hauls you to a stand.

When you try and shake him off, however, Ghost doesn't budge. You turn to him, ready to snap a complaint bitten with anger, but the pale paint of his mask looms over you instead.

"You're only seeing me." He tells you, voice dipping lower, quieter. A growl. "Not an enemy. You're seeing someone bigger and stronger than you and it's messing with your head."

You blink at him for a moment, trying to process his hissed accusation. For a moment it feels as if he's bragging, lauding over the fact that you aren't a towering six foot six and built from unbreakable bone and mass. Yet beyond that is the harsh, unrepentant bite of his words, digging like thorns into the smog of despondency that clouds your thoughts.

He releases you before you can object, turning on his heel and striding away to the other side of the dirt pit, leaving you suppressing a shiver of fury. The sharpness of it digs harder than a combat knife, buries between your shoulders as they tighten and flex, trying vainly to push it down further into the depths of you. It imbues into your marrow, seeping like icy water and freezing, furthering the fractures that are already there.

"Again."

You breathe, steady yourself, turn to him. Behind you Gaz and Soap shift nervously, their boots scuffing against the grass as they exchange a look.

You're faster this time, as if that same righteous bleed into your bones has gifted you a speed you aren't entirely aware of- focused only on the massive looming form of your lieutenant in front of you. Yet when he blink he's not there- the after effect of him wavering before your eyes and you swear you see his eyes glint.

Just like that, you feel your legs out from under you. There's not even a breath in your lungs to yelp before you're landing on your side- a second too slow to land on your stomach. When Ghost reaches for you, however, you manage to catch his arm between your legs, pressing and holding, immobilizing it. Your victory is short lived, however, when Ghost twists and suddenly your whole body shifts with you onto your stomach. The hand that had held his arm, trying to haul it backwards is seized, and after a momentary scuffle it ends with Ghost pressing his weight into the small of your back, knee braced between yours.

Grunting, you try and push up, try and dislodge him from atop you, kneeling above your prone form. It's not use, and the only reward you get from your LT is a tightening, warning grip on your forearm, pushing almost painfully into your spine. Face pressed into the dirt, thrashing, you bite down on a yell of frustration. When you turn your head, glare venomously over your shoulder, Ghost regards you with an unwavering, unblinking stare.

"Tap out." He tells you coldly, but you refuse, still squirming and trying to buck him off you.

"I said." Ghost repeats, and the grip on your wrist is almost enough to bruise as he leans further over you, pressing more weight into your back. "Tap. out."

The "Fuck you." sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and acrid with venom. When you swallow the taste lingers in your throat. Yet you close your eyes in defeat, using your remaining free hand to tap the ground twice in surrender. Instantly Ghost is gone from you, weight and hands vanishing, but you can't deny the momentary touch of disappointment that flickers in your belly at his figure vanishing from atop you.

Traitorous. Unacceptable.

Dimly, your mind conjures the sensation of him, of the planes of his body curled around you, blunted at the edges by his gear and jacket in the darkness. The warmth of him seeps through, blanketing you, drawing the freeze from your bones. Now that same figure towers over you, casting you in his shadow- one you think you'll always dwell in, unable to outshine the sun.

You stand without his help this time, face smeared with dirt. Fists curled at your sides, heart thrumming too fast in your chest, you force yourself to breathe. The air feels dusty, putrid, cracked in your throat- rotting with frustration and bitter self-loathing. Price says something, but you can't hear him over the blood rushing in your ears, the clench of your joints popping under the pressure.

Ghost seems to suck the light out of the air at the other end of the pit, arms crossed as he silently waits for you to right yourself. His eyes, tinged black at the edges, bore into you. They carve deeper downwards, flaying you open and exposing your heart, your lungs, the spilling threads of you that reek of weakness.

You think he might see it, might see the thing you're keeping curled within you- a fragile tender thing made of glass you've kept safe all this time.

His voice, soft, just for you, murmurs against the midnight.

"I see you. Just you."

Oh.

"You're only seeing me." He told you.

Not an enemy. Him.

Ghost. Because you could never see him as anything else. Not when it's him.

You blink and the light changes. Your next breath, forced through parted lips, seems to ooze the toxicity from your veins, lifting the weight from your shoulders. The bones inside you are still cracked, fractured, and you know they probably will be forever. Now, however, you understand, and the knowledge seems to strengthen them, dull the bitter horrible pain of your own doubt long enough for you to see.

Not a shadow, a light in the darkness. Guiding you forwards even if it threatens to blind you, drawing you out of the confines of your own lack of confidence by force if he has to. He's not doing this to mock you at all. He's not looking down on you, he's not gloating or tossing you around for his own sadistic self-pleasure. He's trying, in his own way, to teach you, to show you that you do have what it takes. He's breaking you systematically, scooping you from the ashes and charred remains so the frayed and broken edges of you are polished into something new. Something stronger.

He's doing this because he sees you. Just you, and that's already good enough. You're good enough.

Sometimes you have to break bones for them to mend correctly.

"Fix!"

You jolt, turning to Price. Arms crossed, one shaggy eyebrow arched towards you, he regards you with scrutiny.

"You done?" Is all he asks, and he seems to see it too- the telltale twinkle of knowledge in his eyes at what his lieutenant is trying to accomplish.

"No sir." You breathe, and Price grins.

"Give him hell then, sergeant." He nods towards your opponent. You follow his gaze, and this time Ghost is focused entirely on you, eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

You can do it.

Ghost settles into his stance, one arm extended slightly in front of the other, his tattooed forearm rippling with muscle. He's big, bigger than you, and that thought alone is enough to threaten you into a tailspin of doubt like before. You know now that if you indulge it, allow it to take hold it guarantees defeat. So, you push it down, refuse to see it, summoning a phantom in its place, one of your own design. it wavers before you, whispering sinister prophecies of failure, howling like the wind in the abyss of the impossibly high tightrope you tread upon.

When you launch forward Ghost tenses, ready for your attack. He throws out an arm to block your attack, but you merely twist around it, throwing it up and giving you the opening you need. It takes all your strength as you ignore his other hand settling on your shoulder. You shift, balance, and then bring your  foot against his leg with vicious force. It's enough to make him stumble, shift his weight and grunt at the impact. His distraction allows you to free yourself, land another hit against his arm and throw it wide.

There.

He reaches for you, but the motion is slow, stunted by his size. You slide around him instead, ducking under his arm and instead kicking again to the back of his knee. It's enough, and Ghost buckles not completely, but the few inches you need to reach forward, wrap your arms around his neck and pull.

You both go teetering back into the dirt, the air whooshing from your lungs upon impact. Ghost doesn't wait for the dust to settle before he's struggling, trying to twist to his side and dislodge you. You don't let him, grunting as you force your forearm under his chin and secure it with your other arm. His hands reach up, but you raise your legs on either side of him. Twisting, you secure them around his front, clenching down with a cracked yell even as he thrashes under you. With one of his arms now trapped, Ghost grunts, tries once more to twist. His boots scuff in the dirt, stirring clouds of beige dust into the crisp air.

It takes all your strength to contain him, and even then you feel your grip slipping. Breath caught in your chest you strain against him, back arching off the ground and grunting low and deep at his form against yours. You know it'll take only a momentary lapse in concentration for Ghost to seize the opportunity and free himself. You don't intend to give him that much.

Gaz and Soap cheer from across the clearing, whooping encouragements as you strain to keep Ghost locked between your arms and legs. Their silence has faded to hollering praise you don't hear as you concentrate, use all the force in your body to maintain your victory. Blood rushes in your ears- a churning tributary of red pulsing under your skin, sharp with adrenaline. Like the river Styx it seems to burn you, scald you to the touch even as you emerge dripping with power and purpose. A god-like strength inherited only for this moment.

A tap, then another on your calf.

He concedes.

It takes you a moment to realize the gesture for what it is, so surprised are you at your own victory. It takes Ghost tapping an insistent third time for you to release him with a gasp, flopping back into the dirt and letting your weakened limbs collapse at your sides. Starved of air, your chest inflates rapidly, head tossed back and staring dazedly up at the blue sky above. The world spins, and at last you realize there’s noise beyond the war drum of your heartbeat in your ears.

"That'a fucking girl Fix!" Soap yells from somewhere beyond you, voice carrying loud and clear. You can hear Gaz clapping beside him- and even without looking you can imagine the wide spread of a smile plastered on his lips.

Ghost sits up from between your legs, but you can't find it in you to follow just yet- exhausted to the core. Your heartbeat throbs in your ears like a wound, your arms and legs shake with exertion. Yet the heaviness there is not of defeat, acrid and disappointing. No, this feels like relief, like triumph.

You did it.

A shadow falls over you, and when you blink it's Ghost's white mask that filters through your thoughts.

"Doesn't count as a win if you can't stand." He tells you, but there's no venom there. Instead, it sounds lighter, and it must be the dizziness because it almost sounds playful.

Still, you accept his hand when he offers it. He pulls you sharply to your feet, and you teeter for a moment before his hand lands on your shoulder, steadying you.

The boys are all grinning at you, pride blooming across their faces. It's enough to make you freeze, stiffen with surprise at the blatant delight they have at your small victory. The warmth of self-consciousness blossoms across your chest, crawling up your nape. You press a hand there nervously, averting your eyes with a small, shy smile.

"If you can take down Ghost, you can take down anyone." Gaz tells you, and his eyes are sparkling mischievously, the corners of his gaze wrinkled with a smile.

"Could take me down any day, Fix." Soap adds, and when he winks you roll your eyes at his suggestion.

"Stay down, Soap." You tell him, but you're unable to contain the smile there, tugging insistently at the corner of your lips.

"Good work, sergeant." Price tells you and when you turn he nods at you, satisfaction written across his expression. It lifts you, warms you and raises you higher on your toes. His pride bleeds into you, makes you straighten and raise your head a touch higher to meet his gaze.

"Thank you sir."

Price nods just once, and looks as if he's going to speak again, except-

"Captain!"

You all turn at the sound, and it's a recruit who's voice catches your attention. He jogs out from behind the shadow of the building, hair mussed and cheeks flushed with exertion. When he stops just short of your group he doubles over, panting and trying to catch his breath. it takes him only a moment- straightening before price can correct him, standing at attention.

"Captain." He greets. "You're needed at the commander's office. Kate Laswell has your briefing ready."

Just like that, the mood shifts. Instantly you're all moving, responding, gathering the supplies scattered around the training area as Price barks orders.

"You heard the man. Get sorted, I want you all ready for briefing in five minutes, understood?"

There's a chorus of "Yes Sir!"s that goes up from all of you, hard and unflinching, ever ready for the tasks set out ahead of you.

"Good. Get moving." Price issues, before he's taking long strides to follow the private, form coiled and stalking with the authority of a commander, a leader.

You yourself move to follow Soap and Gaz, watching as they excitedly push and jostle each other like friends, grins still spread across their faces.

Yet there's a hand on your shoulder, and you pause to turn towards the source, lips parted in surprise. Ghost hovers just behind you, caught in the shadow of the brick building, the angle slanted across his mask.

Yet then there's silence, and you see his eyes flicker behind the mask. It's brief, just a flash, but you see a hesitancy there, a contemplation you know he'll never voice. He squints, and in that instant you wish you could see him the way he seems to see you, gazing into you like looking into a glass prism, seeing the lights that reflects outwards. Yet in him it's only ever shadows, smoke obscuring the things you wish you could observe behind his coal dark stare, graze across with the tips of your fingers.

"You did well." He tells you. Yet he doesn't hold your gaze, his touch vanishing from you in the scarce heartbeat that follows. His boots crunch dirt as he eases past you, broad dark form vanishing in the direction where the others have gone.

You're left alone behind him, watching as he disappears. For a moment you feel it once more, see the four of them vanish before you into a cloud of snow, atop the mountain of impossible expectations you have for yourself. Yet stronger now is the fragile, crystal heart of you, the one where you keep your wildest hopes and secrets, the home of you where his voice lies in tender, sleeping wait.

You follow him.

----

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[blouisparadise]

Upon request, today we have a rec list of bottom Louis fics that are based on Louis' solo songs, Harry's solo songs, or One Direction songs. If you enjoy our rec lists, please be sure to like and reblog this post to help spread the word. Happy reading!

1) Sweet and Sour, Hearts Devoured | Explicit | 1,756 words

Note: This fic is inspired by One Direction's song No Control.

Louis wakes up in a hotel bed to find Harry's not beside him. He starts remembering their previous night together, and when Harry returns to find him jerking off, he decides to bring him to orgasm himself.

2) Little Black Dress | Not Rated | 1,973 words

Note: This fic is inspired by One Direction's song Little Black Dress.

Based on the song ‘Little Black Dress’ by One Direction.

3) No Control | Explicit | 2,368 words

Note: This fic is inspired by One Direction's song No Control.

"I'll make this feel like the first time."

4) Your Good Time | Explicit | 3,070 words

Note: This fic is inspired by One Direction's song Temporary Fix.

Louis and Harry meet in a bar when Harry's date is an ass.

5) Blue Lights To Dreams | General Audiences | 3,741 words

Note: This fic was inspired by Harry's song Little Freak.

“I’m glad we’ve made it so far,” Louis said, smiling widely, giving a second look to the diamond ring in his ring finger. “I love you H.” After a few seconds Harry grinned at him and responded, “I love you more than anything else Lou, I’m happy that you are the one I’ll always come home to everyday”. The view of the Caribbean waters made their date better, but not perfect because that was a Harry and Louis thing, to be perfect together. “I’m glad we’ve made it so far,” Louis said, smiling widely, giving a second look to the diamond ring in his ring finger. “I love you H.” After a few seconds Harry grinned at him and responded, “I love you more than anything else Lou, I’m happy that you are the one I’ll always come home to everyday”. The view of the Caribbean waters made their date better, but not perfect because that was a Harry and Louis thing, to be perfect together.

6) I'm Your Goodnight | Explicit | 4,310 words

Note: This fic is inspired by One Direction's song Temporary Fix.

Louis is bombarded with Larry questions from an interviewer after the 2015 AMAs, and becomes too overwhelmed to stick around for the after party. He bails on the band and goes home to his LA apartment to spend the night there. After a couple hours of constant tossing and turning in bed, Louis can't get his mind off of the interview from earlier so he calls Harry looking for some comfort.

7) Please Master | Explicit | 4,344 words

Note: This fic is inspired by Harry's song Carolina.

“I was staring at you”, Harry says quietly, his fingers dancing on Louis’ heated skin, “earlier, on the dancefloor. I know you noticed me. But you’re used to people staring, aren’t you?” Though the question comes with a chuckle, it feels to Louis as though he is being scolded. Scolded, for he is desirable, and innocent, and untouched, and irresistible. Words, all of which were said to him by Harry as he requested his company for his endeavors for the night. It was the manner in which he said them, with a drawl so slow it reminded Louis of the way he liked to pour honey in his tea in the afternoon; through a spoon slightly tilted, each drop a triumph of its own. Most he had liked how the words had melted his mind as hot water did to honey; persistently, inevitably. And, much like he does his tea, it appears he prefers his company – sweet, steaming, and alone. “I think you enjoy it. The staring. I think you find pleasure in knowing you are wanted, a thrill in being chased. How boring”, Harry says, appearing indifferent to Louis despite the cruel nature of his words. “It’s a pity. You enjoy feeling like a slut, but all you need is somebody to fuck the seductive little brat out of you.”

8) I Can't Get You Out Of My Mind (I Still Crave It) | Mature | 4,520 words

Note: This fic is inspired by Harry's song Complicated Freak.

"You're an idiot," It was Lya's time to interrupt. "Why would you want another guy when you already have yours? Don't you ever get tired of those silly games?" "It is different!", Louis defended himself again, mouth open. "How come is it different?" Lya asked again. "I love Harry," it was easy like breathing. "He's the love of my life, I'm going to marry him," Louis looked around, until his eyes looked with Harry's, glossy and vibrant. "That guy was just a hook."

9) One More Taste Of Your Lips To Bring Me Back | Explicit | 5,469 words

Note: This fic is inspired by One Direction's song Love You Goodbye.

“I should go.” He dropped the box. Harry stepped closer. The hand around his wrist left, going to hover over the curve of his hip where the jumper had ridden up. Harry wasn’t touching him and Louis felt frustrated that he wasn’t taking the opportunity for escape. He took a step back, breath hitching when Harry followed. “You-I haven’t seen you in a skirt since…” Harry trailed off, his voice filled with too much emotion for this to be the short, simple goodbye it was supposed to be. Louis swallowed harshly, but offered, “Since the AMAs after party at Niall’s.” Harry nodded slowly, his eyes drifting up and over every inch of Louis, drinking in the sight as if it was the last time. It is, Louis told himself, it’s over. Leave. Leave. “Fuck. You, you look so pretty, I- dammit,” and then Harry was finally looking at Louis' face, eyes sharp and darkening into something that Louis was familiar with. He couldn’t breathe with Harry’s eyes on him, heavy. His heart was stuttering unevenly and he jumped when his back hit the wall, gasping softly. “Why?” Harry asked, his fingers finally brushing the hem of his skirt.

10) Just Stop Your Crying (It's a Sign of the Times) | Explicit | 5,864 words

Note: This fic is inspired by Harry's song Sign Of The Times.

My own imagining of the inspiration for Sign of the Times. Featuring boys in love, even after all this time.

11) Stockholm Syndrome | Not Rated | 17,985 words

Note: This fic is inspired by One Direction's song Stockholm Syndrome.

"You see, I don't see insanity as a burden or a horrible thing anymore. I chose to be insane because that's the only time I truly feel free."

12) Strong Enough | Explicit | 20,791 words

Note: This fic is inspired by Louis' song Fearless.

Five years after Vertigo goes on hiatus, the band comes back together for a benefit concert. Can Louis and Harry work through their complicated past, or are some wounds too deep to be healed?

13) What's Left Of My Halo's Black | Explicit | 22,464 words

Note: This fic is inspired by Louis' song Holding On To Heartache.

A year after a devastating breakup, Louis is still trying to put himself back together - but getting over a breakup is hard when you work as a wedding planner. Thankfully, his coworker Harry is the most supportive friend Louis could ask for. But Harry has some secrets of his own, and they send Louis' world spinning off its axis all over again.

14) Hash Brown, Eggyolks. I Will Always Love You | Mature | 26,883 words

Note: This fic is inspired by Harry's album Harry's House and unreleased songs.

Harry loves watching Louis, it never gets old or boring for him because everytime he looks at him he finds traces of something new he didn't find the last time and it always left him in awe to call Louis as the love of his life, he get to call him his and he get to know someone as amazing as Louis. The way there's a small mole underneath his chins and traces of freckles wrapped around his cheeks like constellations. Louis is so beautiful to just sit and admire what he's like and the small omega didn't even know how beautiful and how important he is for him. That's why whenever Louis would get inside his head and be an insecure mess, harry would kiss every tear away and would fill Louis up with love. He never wanted Louis to go to a drop again because of it so he always makes sure to give him enough of everything he will ever need. Andy place down their orders as harry was still lost in staring at his muse that Louis was quickly arranging their food in the way he loves to. "Okay we've finally got our hash browns, some nice sunny side up egg yolks.. and what else?" Louis rambled, trying to organize the many food his alpha had ordered for him. "I love you."

15) Somebody's Got Your Trainers On (It's You) | Explicit | 28,000 words

Note: This fic is inspired by Louis' song Saturdays.

Louis hasn't thought about Harry since half an hour after the shift started, when Krystle told him that she was binging Gogglebox last night and therefore didn't get enough sleep - a sure reminder of Harry’s temporary Gogglebox obsession. Five hours isn't much without thinking about someone, but that's as long as it gets. Louis came to terms with that two years ago. When Harry walked out the door with his stupid New Balance trainers and never looked back.

16) The Pink Album | Not Rated | 31,039 words

Note: This fic was inspired by Harry's debut album.

They don’t really discuss how hard it is to be in this situation, or to be doing the things they have to do to continue being together. It’s just something they don’t talk about, and that’s alright. Or maybe it isn’t, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[apatheticlexicographer]

inspired by this wonderful post by @wibble-wobbegong , riffing off what i said in my reblog but in longer form lol.

basically what they were saying centred around the idea of there being "unnatural" powers, which have been intentionally induced in a subject to resemble pre-existing powers (all of the numbers, with their powers that are based on parts of henry's ability set) and "natural" powers, which occur spontaneously and present themselves in a unique manner (henry and in the case of this theory, will.)

hawkins is the weak spot between our world and the upside down. some people seem to think the upside down exists only within the limits of hawkins while others think it's just the crossing point. regardless, the thin barrier between the worlds there is the reason why every organization attempting to breach the border has come to hawkins to do so.

what i find interesting is that out of every known character with powers, none were born in hawkins. none, except will, who does have at least one canonical ability in his true sight. the only possible exception to this is el: i don't know if she was born in the hospital part of hawkins lab or if she was born elsewhere and then taken there. if she was born there it might account for why her powers are abnormally strong despite being "unnatural."

we don't know when henry's powers first manifested themselves, or how they were affected by his move to hawkins, but considering his shift in behaviour coupled with the way will is able to feel things more strongly when in the hawkins area it's safe to assume his powers were somehow elevated from the relocation, if not that his move to hawkins was what caused them to appear.

so just think about will. will, who was born and raised in hawkins, who in this theory has "natural" powers. abilities do seem to strengthen with age, but imagine will as a tiny child too small to be taught how to manage his abilities, growing up right on the cusp of the burgeoning rift between dimensions.

one thing they mentioned and that i strongly agree with is the thought that perhaps will was taken to the lab as a child, by lonnie. he saw that there was something unnatural about his son, and we know that he's a christian. maybe he thought will was gay, maybe he thought he was a demon. regardless, he decided to take will to the nearby lab that doubled as a children's hospital to get him "fixed."

the lab didn't know how to deal with him: his "natural" powers were unlike those of the numbers, and they couldn't get away with simply taking him when he was located so close to their base of operations. they did have one temporary solution, though, that could be implemented until he was old enough to be persuaded to the lab for testing. or, if his parents weren't agreeable, old enough for an accident to be quietly arranged.

the soteria chip. they already knew it worked to suppress "natural" powers, as proven when they implanted one in henry. under brenner's direction they gave baby will one of these chips and sent him on his way, but made sure to keep tabs on him. that's why they had the dummy of will so easily ready: powers seem to manifest themselves in a stronger way the older the child becomes. will was probably just getting to the age where he would need to be dealt with in one way or another when eleven first made contact with the demogorgon and reopened the gate.

i've always thought that will having a chip would make sense with how much the show draws attention to him touching his neck, but could never get behind him being a number, or joyce bringing him to the lab, or it being implanted while owens was directing the lab. this theory is the only situation where i could envisage the setup for it.

imagine: will has been vecaned and henry is monologuing like usual. "there's something wrong with you, will byers, something that sets you apart from everyone else. you do your best to ignore it, but you've always felt it, haven't you? your father could sense it, too." the audience thinks it's about will being gay. shit, maybe even will thinks it's about him being gay. it's not, though, it's about his powers.

[finite-breakpoints]

trust issues (Angstpril 2024, #9)

[ Previously: emotionally distant // no way out // never see you again ]

"What is this place?"

Paige hates the unsteadiness in her voice, echoing even at a whisper -- this isn't the time or place for fear, let alone displaying it. Standing here in a long-abandoned building on the edge of a city no longer familiar, where no one will hear if she calls for help, shivering in the cold.

But if not now… when?

"Temporary accommodations. Used to be an off-cycle stopover for the light-rail, before the track got re-routed." For a program who seemingly spends most of their time committing sedition and thinking of new ways to instigate civil unrest, Signal's voice is surprisingly soft. "Might be some network programs around, if we're lucky. Last I knew, there were a few of 'em crashing here, in and out."

They look more like a data processor than a hardened revolutionary. Maybe that's the point. But Paige can see it too clearly for it to be entirely a facade -- cautious in their movements; a fastidiousness about their appearance; sandy hair pinned back with studied precision. Not very tall, kind of spindly. Not exactly built for fighting.

But then again… neither is she.

"If we're lucky, huh?"

"Sure. They're friendly, mostly harmless. Good kids." Signal hands her the heated canister they've just finished preparing. "Here. This should help. Might be a bit strong, though."

"Thanks." She waits a moment first; and they notice, making a point of pouring the rest into their own glass with a playful grin. She wonders what's hiding underneath it -- watching as they skim through the documents on the data cube. Faster than should be possible, but she has no doubt they're taking in every word.

Sips at the concentrated energy idly, feels the warmth of it even out in her circuits. It is strong stuff, the kind you only need in unpowered places like this… or when your energy processing's been altered by constant direct input. Straight into your circuits, for cycles on end, until your body and mind start to give out.

Yeah. Data processor for sure. Or at least they used to be. She'd bet on the presence of those telltale silver scars at the base of their neck and across their shoulders. Not many of them left, not now. She worked with so many of them at the medical center -- sealing re-opened ports, tapering down their energy levels as safely as she could. It's entirely possible that Signal was one of them.

"…Who knows you're here, Paige?"

Oh, there it is. Her hands are shaking, and not from the cold. Keep it together -- but what does she have to hold together, anymore?

"Lie," hisses the sharp voice in the back of her mind. But what's the point? Tesler will be hunting for her soon, once he realizes what she's done. She has no home to welcome her. No sense of purpose, not now. No friends to lean on for support. Nowhere to go, and no one she can trust.

Only one program's offered her a way out of this.

"No one," she says. "I'm a program of my word."

"So I hear." And that smile turns to something a little less reassuring. "But Tesler seems to know -- and that means General Advan does, too. I don't know if she'll cooperate, if he decides he wants to look for you. But I'd rather not take that chance."

"…What do you mean?"

"I mean that you need to hide, and quickly. They'll be tracking your data signature. We need to fix that… and your metadata, too. Let me see your disc."

"No." She steps back, purely out of instinct, as an acute sense of danger grips her. But she can take them in a fight, if it comes to that. "Not happening."

"Won't hurt a bit, promise. I've done it myself enough times." They pull up a tool -- something that takes her a moment to recognize. It's a wrench, and not an entirely unfamiliar one. But this looks heavier than the ones Mara keeps in her garage, or even the one the Renegade would carry with him. Older, maybe.

But Signal holds it differently. Not with the casual nonchalance of the Renegade, or even the curiosity of Argon's mechanics, but with the same careful attention that Paige remembers having for her own tools. The sort of respect -- reverence, even -- that you have when your tools are capable of both wonderful and terrible things.

"You're not touching my disc," she says quietly.

"Alright, fair enough. But if you aren't careful, they will find you. I know you don't trust me -- and maybe you're right not to. But I can help keep you hidden, if you'll let me."

"I'll take my chances." Fights back the creeping panic, feeling that sharp and slithering pain, as if those code worms have returned, burrowing into her database. "I'm not doing that again."

By the time she realizes that it's slipped out, it's too late.

"…Oh." Signal rezzes down the not-a-wrench. For a tick or two, they seem unusually at a loss for words… and not quite sure what to do about it. "I wondered about that. Barbaric of them. I'm sorry."

"…What are you talking about?"

"There's a scar, under your eye. I'd guess your render usually compensates for it, but you're starting to run low on energy. For all I know, you might not even have known it was there." They regard her with something just short of pity, sharp grey eyes clouding over with emotion… or a memory. "You stayed there even after they did that to you -- and then you came all the way out here, you gave everything up. There was a reason, wasn't there?"

It's not really a question. She doesn't answer.

"I think you left because Tesler lied to you." Their tone implies no moral judgement -- although she suspects, given what she's read over the cycles, that Signal might be holding back a little. "I never will."

And for just a clock-cycle, she very nearly believes them.

[magmacannon]

odds 20-30 and 42 for yarrow? :]

oOO thank you sm!!!

21. What common etiquette do they disagree with? Do they still follow it?

Yarrow isn't a staunch supporter of any cultural norms that would limit the expression of someone's appearance to maintain 'proper' form, thinking (correctly for sure, given the city he's currently living in) that this is a way to 'other' people who do not fit within a narrow range of arbitrary categories of dress/mannerisms/etc. He's also incredibly versed at navigating appropriate dresswear for all types of events and while he can blend in with proper clothing for different situations, he tends to knowingly dress Up.

23. What do they feel guilty for that the other person(s) doesn’t / don’t even remember?

Yarrow is 243 years old and remembers (/regrets) things he's done with other people that have since died of old age. The biggest of those that the least people likely remembered when they were alive is saying "I love you" sincerely in situations where it wasn't returned. However, Yarrow tries to live with as few regrets as possible day-to-day now that he's gotten better at handling his emotions, meaning the number of things that dwell in his mind (of late) has gone down. For sure he'll get too pissed off and put his foot in his mouth sometime soon though! He'll likely think about it extensively even if the person he snapped at has moved on (and try to fix it if he's able to do so, or eventually move on with his life if not)

25. What subject / topic do they know a lot about that’s completely useless to the direct plot?

Yarrow knows a WHOLE lot about the cultivation and crossbreeding of apple trees! It bears no merit to his current life in any possible way but he genuinely could start an orchard if the fancy ever took him! He also has extensive knowledge about how to braid flower crowns together in very complex ways, knows the inner workings of worship of the Seldarine, knows mid-tier medical knowledge (he can absolutely perform effective sutures with a bit of practice beforehand), and a variety of other things that don't come up in his day-to-day life.

27. What’s the worst gift they ever received? How did they respond?

I had to think about this one for a quite a bit but the three worst gifts (for different reasons) that Yarrow ever received were a well-made but lacey blouse from his father when he was young (extremely not Yarrow's style and not the first lace-based gift his dad had given him), a locket containing crystallized blood in the shape of a heart and a braid of (his and the gift-giver's) hair serving as the lines for said heart (from someone he was having a short fling with, WAY too soon to give a gift like this), and a dildo that was of such bad quality that he was genuinely hurt by it. In all three cases he got extremely angry and vicious for a while, vowed never to speak to that person again (in his father's case, this was temporary), and then made a deliberate attempt to not be in that position again. (In the case of the dildo, he started making sex toys.... origin story)

29. How do they respond when someone doesn’t believe them?

Yarrow believes himself to be extremely knowledgeable about a whole lot of shit (he is, but he can also be really annoying about it - or seems to be above it just with how he looks/acts which is really infuriating) and gives advice nearly at the drop of a hat, so this happens a lot lol. If it's a serious issue he'll try to appeal to emotions to help whoever he's trying to advise, but if it's lower-stakes stuff or someone he's annoyed with he'll scoff at them for not listening/believing that he has useful info about whatever it may be. Yarrow is also really good at lying so if he is fibbing, his acted-out Hurt is nearly indistinguishable from genuine disappointment.

And 42. If invited to a TED Talk, what topic would they present on? What would the title of their presentation be?

There are... literally so many options but I'll go with "How to survive falling in love ten thousand times" as a title and the topic is how to navigate into higher emotional maturity, how not to get consumed by heartbreak and despair at relationships/the world, and how to find as much joy as possible in every day of life pff

[redemptioninterlude]

Five times blurted to sookhee 🫶😘

5 times ... meme ( no longer accepting ) + @wndrbcy // jade five times the receiver impulsively blurted something out to the sender

"This isn't serious." OUCH. She knows how that sounds. But Sookhee likes to make things clear, to define the boundaries of things, before it becomes complicated. A certain weight to that kind of potential problem that she hasn't the capacity within which to deal with, her cooled gaze darting in his direction, knowing that there, too, was a truth in it that he's never even implied that it might be like that with her. But better to cut ahead of things, she reasons, unbothered if he might turn to her and consider her perhaps too forwards instead... and honestly, given the circumstances, he ought to know by now that she's no shrinking violet, her stern expression settling over the passive one of his own. "But thanks for the fun time regardless. I didn't think that someone like you would have interests like this, but... you know what? Maybe it's not so bad. You're not going to go running your mouth to anybody about this. And neither am I. Let's call it the perfect discretionary experience for us both."

"Why did you call me?" They were meant to be a one time thing. Something fun, but nothing warranting a repeat, even if it'd been a rather strict, but enjoyable session for the both of them. After all, she couldn't afford the attention a pop star like him had to OFFER UP should the both of them get caught, peeling off the gloves she's got on at the front of his door, stepping inside with the decisiveness of a woman who'd already decided what she wanted, stepping closer so that her fingers could run through his hair, her lips curving into the slightest of smiles. "I suppose I'm lucky that you still had the number. I'm surprised I even had it." and it's not the nicest thing to be said, but Jade, she knew, was some who seemed better suited towards the truth rather than fanciful words of comfort, her grip tightening at the base of his skull as she leaned in to sear a kiss against his mouth. "... whatever. Who cares. Let's have fun."

"I missed you." The words even surprise her. But they've been at this for how long now? Across cities, in different spaces ; she links a phone number that only he has to her line, digitally access and pulled from, and... it's almost nice, to entertain someone like this. And that's all this was, right? A little bit of extra curricular activities for whenever THE STARS ALIGNED and allowed for it. But it's getting easier to read him, and harder to ignore that they've met more than she has with anybody else in all too long. And it's not as if she particularly minded if he had other lovers and people in between. It wasn't as if she'd hold it against him, either, if it took time between each meeting and momentary affair caught between each call, each tour, each new world location. Jade never asking how she was there, or what was happening that allowed them such deliverance - he'd only ever send a schedule, and ask if she was available. But it was nice, wasn't it? Hearing from him... lips pressing to the curve of his neck, head tilting to whisper in his ear. "... I can't wait for you to show me how much you missed me too."

"Was that a good idea?" His bandmates are leaving ; the two of them caught, their stares EVER CURIOUS when examining the two of them together. Sookhee, clad in business clothes, as if she were a rich patron rather than a temporary comfort, her lips curving, red-slicked with lipstick, downwards. Wouldn't they have questions? Or was that nothing that really seemed to concern him, Jade's indifference to the affair halfway a comfort, half infuriating. But whatever. Let that be a problem for him with questions that he'd dodge just as apathetically, the elevator doors closing behind them as her hand found itself wrapped about his wrist, jerking him closer to her with a sharp edged grin fixed upon her features. "... now. Do you still have the things you wore in that photo for me? You're such a good boy... I want to see them on you in person. You brought them, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry." She didn't mean for this. Any of this, not knowing that he'd have to go on the run like this with her, fingers curving along her skull, because really... what could she say? Knowing that it as a risk to divulge these things to him, but honestly, WHAT OTHER CHOICE WAS THERE given how much he was giving up for her? Given that he's killed for her now. Motioning for him to take a seat, her fingers curving through Jade's own, slotting them closer so that she could give him something to hold to as she carefully dissected her words, knowing that once the shock wore off, that he'd have more questions, and feel further betrayed unless she got ahead of it. Be smart, Sookhee wanted to tell herself. Kill him, move on. But... she couldn't, could she? "I think I need to explain to you what it is that I do for a living. Actually. Not the things I told you before. Are you ready?"

[rememberthisham]

All He Ever Wanted Ch. 14

The first day Dib still didn't see Zim in Skool wasn't surprising. He'd finally returned to his base after several weeks of imprisonment, he probably had to take a day or two to contact his leaders and…take a shower? Could Zim shower? Dib didn't know but he tried not to focus on it.

By the fourth day, it was all he could focus on. The entire week had gone by without Zim's return and Dib was starting to worry. More for himself than for the alien, he knew after so much time fighting him he couldn't rightfully be killed. Dib was worried about himself and the venomous glances he was still receiving from Miss Bitters.

He was beginning to worry about the gradually increasing whispers of his classmates as they all drew the connection between Zim's mysterious disappearance and Dib's constant paranoid threats to his fellow classmate. He was beginning to worry quite a bit when no one threw their lunch at him in the afternoon, instead skirting around him and Gaz fearfully as they sat at their usual table. Dib stirred his peas and relish with his spork, absent of appetite.

"Gaz, you said I could tell you about…stuff… right?" He croaked, his voice a bit weak from not speaking all day. Gaz groaned dramatically and didn't look up from her intense boss battle on her game slave.

"Yeah, I  guess  I did, huh." She admitted.

"Well it's just that I had a big breakthrough in the alien case lately and it's kinda torn a huge hole in everything I thought I knew and now he hasn't been back to skool even though I let him go and eventually people are gonna think I did something to him and then I'll be arrested and dad will think I'm a failure and he'll be all  'eef only aid done somthink soonar aboot your insanhity'  you know? Am I being crazy Gaz? Gaz?"

"Yes."

"Oh…" Dib deflated, after rushing through all his problems in a few seconds they really did seem much smaller. Gaz sighed at his defeated posture and stopped messing around in her game, killing the boss and finding the safe point to put down her controller.

"Dib, did you kill Zim?" She asked. Dib looked up sharply.

"No! Well…maybe for a second, but he's ok now!" He argued. Gaz rolled her head on her neck in a gesture that would indicate an eye roll if her eyes were visible.

"Look man, even if you  had  done something to Zim, dad would just fix it." She pointed out lazily. Dib rested his head in his hand.

"He can't fix everything."

"Pretty much everyone does what he says, if he says you're innocent they'll probably publish an article on his genius deduction or something." She picked her game back up, seemingly deciding the conversation was over. Dib didn't argue, not having much else to say. Her logic wasn't wrong, but it didn't make him feel better. He was still worried about himself. Worried about what he didn't know, he liked to know things. He went back to stirring his peas.

0

The weather was more like spring than winter as Skool let out for the day. It seemed the cold snap that caused the snow day was a temporary weather phenomenon. Dib walked out of Skool and didn't board the bus, and neither did Gaz. They both walked down the sidewalk in silence for a few blocks until they split off in equal silence. Gaz heading in the direction of their house and Dib heading the opposite direction towards the woods. The 'School' excuse had been holding and every day after his usual Skool Dib walked down to the woods and learned something from the witch. Sometimes he was a kid like Dib when he taught but most of the time he was the old man Dib had originally met. Dib left the sidewalk and felt the mud and grass squish under his sandals. It was getting a little cold for sandals, but the witch had this idea that "shoes are part of humanity's obsession with elevating itself above nature and therefore alienating itself from the very fabric of its own design and all the connections it once had to the grand enlightenment" or something. Dib wasn't gonna go around barefoot in fall, that's how you lost toes, but he'd concede to wear his sandals a little longer while he was learning. 

As he came to the treeline he made sure to touch all the trees' bark as he passed. They were solid and impressive but they just felt like trees. It was as he did this for many days in a row that he found they didn't feel different, but the way he thought about them began to change. He began to more consciously conceptualize the idea of them as plants; they were giant plants that humans lived amongst, no different from ants living amongst the grass. At first glance to a young boy, they seemed more related to rocks or buildings. They were structures. They were landmarks built specifically for casting shade or filling out someone's front lawn. Yet so casually and frequently visiting their own place where they live naturally makes one confront that they live at all. They grow from children and they move to follow the sunlight. The witch says there is just as much tree below the ground as there is above, and thinking of a tree's roots so large and spread out as the tree itself makes one feel much much smaller. Every single tree is secretly twice as big as it looks. Giants in real life.

The witch says they talk to each other like people, but Dib doesn't think it's quite as complicated as human communication.

As Dib walked he touched the trees and listened to the crunch of leaves beneath his sandals. Were they more like hair? Or more like skin? He supposed they were neither since they were leaves. He walked the path until it was time to leave it, he knew the spot through practice, and found the witch's house.

Knock knock knock knock

The door swung open and the young witch greeted him. Eye to eye he invited Dib in as he did most days, however, Dib didn't take off his shoes as he usually did.

"So uh…are we doing something outside today? Counting grass? Communing with squirrels?" He bounced on the balls of his feet. The witch had opened his mouth to say something before Dib interrupted him. Now he changed his greeting.

"You seem excited." He said suspiciously. Dib didn't notice as he turned back towards the door.

"Yeah, it's nice out. I wanna learn stuff." He dismissed. The witch pursed his lips.

"You're not excited, you're nervous." He observed easily. Dib rolled his eyes, swallowing the heart that had jumped into his throat.

"What's the difference? Come on, it's a nice day, let's go."

"Nope" the witch walked leisurely to his couch, flopping down and saying nothing as he waited.

"So…so we're doing an indoor lesson?"

"Call it what you want, you're telling me what's up." He said. Dib grumbled. He was tired of telling people what was up, they always said he was making something of nothing.

Then again, the witch had been surprisingly solid with his advice, however, he pried.

"Fine, if this is what we're wasting the lesson on then sure." Dib conceded. He sat on the floor with a huff and a less-than-comfortable silence lapsed between them.

"Well?"

"It's Zim."

"It always is." The witch laughed and Dib shot him a side-eyed look. "What? You're obsessed with him, that's not news."

"I am not  obsessed  with Zim." He argued, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes. "Why does everyone keep saying that? I'm not obsessed with him. I don't even have to care what he does anymore cause he's not actually going to take over the Earth!" He shouted. 

The witch stared at him for a minute before idly examining his hand. Dib rolled his eyes and continued. 

"What's bothering me is  everyone else.  Zim hasn't been to Skool since I let him go and he wasn't in Skool when I had him in my lab so if he doesn't show his ugly green face soon, people are gonna suspect that I did something to him."

"You did do something to him." The Witch pointed out unhelpfully.

"Not anymore!" Dib tried to impress the difference. "What happened to him?  Why  isn't he in Skool? I'm not holding him hostage so is someone else? Is he planning something? Is getting me blamed for his disappearance his master plan? Haa!" Dib shot up suddenly from the floor. "Oh my God, I have to go." He turned for the door.

"Sit down."

"No! I just realized what he's done." He pointed accusingly at the witch. "It was so dastardly, he  deceived  me into believing his tallest banished him here." The witch stood from the couch and approached Dib as he ranted. "That's it, he planned the whole thing to make me let my guard down. I will not be a fool." 

"Breathe dude," he put both hands on Dib's shoulders to stop him from stepping away. Dib gasped sharply when he realized he'd said all that in one breath. "You're being ridiculous."

Dib felt the words smack him like a hand. The one person who believed him finally stopped. 

"Let go of me."

"No just think about it." Dib stared at the floor in hurt, unhearing, and unreachable for several minutes. He let his anger and his nervous energy calm over the course of a few minutes, trying to put into words why his revelation made sense. 

It didn't.

Zim didn't know he was being manipulated, that much was obvious, to him he was a hero who was beloved by his people. It didn't make sense that the armada was moving away or that Zim's mission had no aid and no set timeline for the invasion. 

Dib deflated again, his scythe flopping forward a little into his face. He blew on it a little bit, but he didn't have the motivation to actually move it back into place. Slowly, the witch dropped his hands from Dib's shoulders.

"When are you gonna stop coming into my house and having breakdowns?" He muttered. "Without chasing Zim you're chasing your own tail,"

"What do I do?" Dib asked the floor. "I can't just…he's an  alien.  The first extraterrestrial life ever to contact Earth. I can't just let him go forever."

"You know where he lives?"

"Yeah," 

"You should go talk to him."

"His base is heavily guarded."

"You can't knock on his door?"

"Knock?" Dib at long last looked up from his own shoes.

"Go knock on his door, ask him where he's been." The witch suggested with a shrug.

"I can't…" Dib flushed in embarrassment. "I can't just  knock. "

"You're obsessed with him, you're worried about him, go talk to him." The witch said firmly as he turned Dib around and pushed him towards the door. Dib started at the turn of events, fighting weakly as the witch opened the door.

"But, what about the lesson?"

"You're dismissed early, do your homework." He smiled smugly and led Dib out, shutting the door behind him. 

Dib stood by himself for a second, looking at the door. The wind blew lightly across his skin making him shiver. He turned, the quiet sway of the woods calming him and making everything else feel insignificant for just a second. How did it do that?

With a sigh he trudged onward, he supposed he had homework.

0

"This…is stupid." He muttered to himself as his hand hovered a few centimeters from the green metal of Zim's front door. The Gnomes pointed threatening lasers at his back but didn't fire. He clenched and unclenched his raised fist as he contemplated knocking. "This is  so  stupid." He muttered, equally to himself. He closed his eyes and pretended he stood in front of someone else's door. 

Knock knock knock knock

He did it.

There he did it and there was no taking it back. Maybe Zim wouldn't even dignify the gesture by opening the door? Maybe he wasn't even home? Dib shifted nervously from one foot to the other, waiting for enough time to pass for him to justifiably walk away and say he tried. 

Crash

An echoing cascade of falling objects that gradually increased in volume could be heard and Dib froze, suddenly contemplating running. The crashes culminated in a small bang on the other side of the door followed by it quickly swinging open.

The undisguised robot minion of Zim faced him on the other side.

"Are you my pizza?"

"Uh…" Dib had spoken to GIR a few times, but he knew how it went when he tried to be reasonable. He decided to try something different. "Yes?"

"Whoooohooo!" GIR yelled triumphantly, moving to the side and waving Dib in. Dib took a tentative step forward before freezing. Minimoose floated ominously in the living room, round lifeless eyes trained on the intruder.

“Squeak.” He asked, but it wasn’t in a questioning tone. 

“I just wanted to talk to Zim.” He admitted. It felt strange to say, and even stranger to attempt, something so casual towards his nemesis. The moose didn’t change outwardly, yet still noticeably seemed to soften. 

“Squeak.” He revealed. Dib didn’t know what to do knowing Zim was occupied in his lab, should he leave?

“So…he’s unavailable?” He asked. The moose moved up and down where he floated and nodded to GIR.

“Squeak.”

“Okie Dokie!” The robot saluted with smiling bright blue eyes and waved for Dib to follow him.

“Oh! Oh, ok…” Dib followed the robot through the uncannily decorated living room and into the kitchen, quietly thanking Minimoose as he passed. He was going to Zim’s lab? Down into his secret base? Was Zim aware of this?

Dib had a hundred questions and that wasn’t even including questioning why there was a toilet in the kitchen. He honestly didn’t know what else he expected as he was led by the whistling GIR up onto the back of said toilet to stand on its tank. GIR flushed the plunger and Dib felt his body jolt as he was suddenly being lowered on a platform down into the floor. 

He’d be lying if he said he had never seen the deeper recesses of Zim’s base before. He had his spy drones and his covert missions, but to just  walk in  and  take the entrance  was so…nice. He could stare openly at all the intricate tubing lining the corridors and wonder at all the various glowing buttons and cranks. Where did those wires go? Where was all this steam coming from? Dib Asked GIR these questions without really expecting answers. His expectations were met as GIR responded with things like “To the umbrella cabinet” and “Oh that’s where the lasagna gets made”. When he was certain GIR was leading him in circles completely devoid of purpose, he finally rounded the final bend of a long and twisted corridor. The mouth of the hallway opened up into a large room that could possibly be described as a Laboratory, but was more akin to a high-tech government-funded research facility on the moon. Every wall was lined with heavy machines, each more large and unnecessary than the last. Shelves were stocked with tools, supplies, samples, and what looked to be ingredients. The many island work tables were scattered with beeping trinkets and stray wires, jars of unearthly brain-goo, engines in various sizes and states of assembly, model trains, different color hairs stretched over lengths of wood and carefully labeled by species and edibility, large test tubes of liquid ranging from water to arsenic, complete taxidermy projects of many small animals at a dining table enjoying a meal, a fully decorated three tier cake, a spiked metal doomsday device with the broken countdown flickering between three seconds and four, the list went on.

Dib opened his eyes as wide as they could possibly be opened, and still, he felt he wasn’t seeing everything. His dad's lab at home seemed so mundane by comparison, and his workstation in the shed felt like an actual joke. He whipped his head around the room, never had any of his expeditions into Zim's liar revealed his Laboratory, he had no idea what he’d missed until now. 

Beep beep beep beep beep

“Wheeeeoooo!” GIR charged headlong into the mess, diving without hesitation into the three-tier cake. Dib looked to the ceiling, wondering what the sudden beeping alarm could mean.

“Sir?” The voice of the computer was small as it addressed Zim, who finally drew Dib's attention as he sat up straight from his slumped posture in the corner. Amongst all the new sights and movements he had been nearly invisible hunched over his PAK on the humble counter. 

“Yes yes, eight minutes.” He muttered, raising his arms at his sides as the disembodied hydraulic arm in front of him raised the half-open PAK from the counter and fastened it to the metal socket on his back. He sighed tiredly and slumped back over, sliding into a waiting nearby chair. 

Dib very suddenly wanted to back out. He was suddenly certain Zim didn’t know he was here and he was about to embarrass himself. He wanted to run back up the hall and out the door and go home knowing Zim was fine, just busy. He almost convinced himself to do it when the computer blew his cover.

“No sir, uh, you have a…visitor?” The computer sounded just as confused.

Zim whirled around in his swivel chair, and his eyes found the human who’d intruded on his home without his knowledge. Dib didn’t know what he’d expected as he faced Zim for the first time in days, maybe anger? Suspicion? It wasn’t the expression Zim had for him just then.

Just then he looked defeated.

Next

[julie-desautels]

Efficiency, Reliability, and Convenience: Why Businesses are Turning to Battery Power Stations

Introduction

In today's rapidly evolving energy landscape, businesses are increasingly seeking innovative solutions to meet their power needs. One such solution that has gained significant traction in recent years is the battery power station. Battery power stations, also known as energy storage systems, offer numerous benefits over traditional power sources. This article will explore why businesses are turning to battery power stations for their energy needs, focusing on efficiency, reliability, and convenience.

Efficiency: Maximizing Energy Utilization

One of the primary reasons why businesses are adopting battery power stations is their exceptional efficiency. Unlike traditional power sources that suffer from energy losses during transmission and distribution, battery power stations offer a seamless and direct supply of electricity. These systems efficiently store and discharge energy, minimizing wastage and ensuring optimal utilization.

For example, imagine a manufacturing facility that experiences high energy demands during peak hours. By utilizing a battery power station, the facility can store excess energy during off-peak hours and discharge it during peak hours. This efficient energy management not only reduces the facility's reliance on the grid but also significantly lowers its energy costs.

Moreover, battery power stations can integrate renewable energy sources such as solar or wind power. These clean energy sources are often intermittent, but with the help of battery power stations, the energy generated can be stored and used when needed, further increasing overall efficiency.

Reliability: Ensuring Uninterrupted Power Supply

Businesses today heavily depend on a consistent and reliable power supply. Any disruptions in power can result in significant financial losses and operational downtime. Battery power stations offer a reliable solution by providing uninterrupted power supply during grid outages or fluctuations.

Unlike backup generators that require time to start and stabilize, battery power stations kick in instantly, ensuring a seamless transition without any power interruptions. These systems can store large quantities of energy, enabling businesses to sustain their operations for extended periods without relying on external power sources.

Moreover, battery power stations are designed to provide fast response times, making them ideal for critical applications such as data centers or hospitals. These systems can instantly detect any power anomalies and switch to battery power, preventing any disruption in operations and ensuring the safety of sensitive equipment.

Convenience: Flexibility and Portability

Battery power stations offer unparalleled convenience due to their flexibility and portability. Unlike traditional power infrastructure, which is fixed and limited in capacity, battery power stations can be easily scaled up or down based on the changing energy requirements of a business.

For instance, a construction site may have varying energy demands throughout different phases of a project. By utilizing a battery power station, the site can adjust its energy capacity accordingly, avoiding any unnecessary investments in permanent power infrastructure.

Additionally, battery power stations are often compact and modular, allowing businesses to easily transport and deploy them in remote or temporary locations. This mobility and ease of installation make battery power stations an ideal choice for industries such as events and entertainment, where power needs frequently change.

Conclusion

As businesses strive to navigate the challenges of the modern energy landscape, battery power stations offer a reliable, efficient, and convenient solution. Their ability to maximize energy utilization, ensure uninterrupted power supply, and provide flexibility has made them increasingly popular among various industries. Whether it's reducing energy costs, enhancing reliability, or adapting to changing power requirements, battery power stations are revolutionizing the way businesses meet their energy needs.

Source: None battery power station - https://www.nonebatterypowerstation.com

[posh-taco]

Overcommitted and overwhelmed. Hurried and harried. Racing at warp speed and running on empty. Out of breath and on edge. Can't keep up and can't slow down. Expended and exhausted. Wrung out and worn out. Depleted and defeated. Stretched and stressed. Anxious and restless. Sound familiar? This is what I often sense when I look into the eyes and hearts of my Christian sisters. All too often, it's what I see when I slow down long enough to consider what's going on in my own soul. And based on what Shaunti has written in these sixty short devotional readings, I'd say she's no stranger to this same breathless-on-the-treadmill-of-life sort of experience. Yet she understands, and she wants us to understand, that the gospel (and this is Good News indeed calls us to another way. God's Word promises us green pastures and still waters, times of refreshing rivers of living water flowing from within. So from one needy pilgrim to another, I invite you to push pause, step into these pages, let your mind be renewed, and let your racing heart slow down. Mostly I invite you come to Christ. And in Him, find: Grace and gratitude. Contentment and courage. Peace and perspective. Dependence and delight. Trust and thriving. Strength and sanity. A slower pulse and steady praise. Worship and wonder. Restoration and refreshing. In a word, rest. Our Savior beckons to you and to me: "Stand by the roads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls." - Jeremiah 6:16 Stop your running, He says. Stand still. Look at the way you're heading. Ask for directions to a new and different place (actually an ancient place). Walk in that good way- His way, the paths walked by those who have gone before us. Find rest for your soul.

Enter

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Think of a decision (small or large) that is causing you stress, that you need to make in the coming days. What temporary things might you be looking to for a sense of direction? (For example, the path of least resistance at the moment, or what your colleagues are suggesting you do...) What unchanging truth can you look to instead? Finding Your Good Way When I moved to New York City in 1994, I spent a lot of time on the subway. Always busy, I enjoyed speeding under the gridlocked traffic to quickly reach my destination. Most of Manhattan is laid out in a clear grid pattern with numbered streets, so getting around is easy. As long as you know where you are, you know exactly where to go. I'm at 32nd and Park, so I just need to head north two blocks and turn right on 34th street. There is just one hitch: When you come off the subway at an unfamiliar stop, how do you know where you are? Surrounded by tall buildings, you have no sense of direction. In those days, there was an easy solution: we would turn in a circle until we spotted the Twin Towers, which were clearly visible at the southern tip of Manhattan. We knew that was south, so we could use that landmark to determine where we were and where to go. We based our sense of direction on the Twin Towers because they were fixed and unmoving. Until they weren't. On September 11, 2001, every New Yorker-and every person on the planet, really-saw the truth that all man-made things are temporary. In our crazy, modern lives, each of us is looking for direction: how do we get to that life of peace and joy we want, rather than the stressed and frazzled life we have? All too often, we base our decisions on things that loom large in our eyes convenience, the advice of friends, whether it avoids pain or brings pleasure. But those factors are a fickle guide. We are stressed and frazzled because we have followed temporary directional signals that do not lead to peace (the "good way," as the prophet Jeremiah put it). Jesus quoted the prophet Jeremiah when he said there is only one way to find that good way: taking on His yoke and learning from Him. (Matthew 11:29). We must stop looking to temporary signals for a sense of direction. We must look to the One who both never changes and is gentle with our human, frazzled state. As we will see on Day 2, His yoke (guiding force) will never pull us astray. "WHEN I UNDERSTAND THAT EVERYTHING HAPPENING TO ME IS TO MAKE ME MORE CHRISTLIKE, IT RESOLVES A GREAT DEAL OF ANKIETY." -A.W. Tozer

[davieswealthmanagement]


No Asset Allocation Strategy Is Always Right


No Asset Allocation Strategy Is Always Right When the facts change, your strategy should change, as well. If you stay wedded to the same investment plan all the time, you lose sooner or later. I was talking to an advisor earlier in the week about my firm’s preference for tactical asset allocation, which rebalances the mix of your assets based on their performance trend, and weighing the portfolio by risk metrics. He told me a story about how he had allocated money to a tactical strategy that stopped working. This should not surprise a seasoned investor. Every investment strategy stops working at some point, either temporarily or permanently. Buy-and-hold and asset allocation worked well in the bull market of the 1980s and 1990s, but those portfolios tanked in 2002 and 2008. The legendary value investor Bill Miller, whose fund at Legg Mason beat the Standard & Poor’s 500 for 15 straight years yet lost a lot of investor money in the 2007-2009 downturn because he stayed the course with value investing – favoring undervalued stocks. Even a smart strategy fails sometimes, too. Market dynamics are constantly changing, it is foolish to expect an investment methodology to work all the time in every type of market, or never just stop working. Here are four ways that you can protect against this: 1. Use multiple, asset allocation uncorrelated methodologies. You need to be sure that your portfolio doesn’t all move in lockstep. There is nothing wrong with hedging your bets. We use intermediate term momentum analysis to judge how strongly an investment is moving up or down and how likely it is to continue on that trajectory. We buy when it is going up and sell when it starts to weaken. We also use short-term counter trend analysis. This model buys when something is weak and sells when it is going up. These methodologies do not move in the same direction at the same time and use completely different metrics. If one holding stops working, the others aren’t affected. So if you use a of buy-and-hold or asset allocation strategy, you need to combine it with a completely different return stream as a hedge in case your main strategy doesn’t pan out. 2. Define what it means when your asset allocation strategy stops working. If you follow a failing momentum strategy in a market that should be favorable for momentum, reconsider your strategy or the individual holdings in your portfolio. Decide ahead of time how much your plan can veer off before you must change tack. Every method fails at some point, so constantly monitor everything for signs that it is not working properly 3. If you identify a asset allocation strategy that is not working as it should, determine why and whether it is temporary or permanent. Err on the side of caution here. Over the years my firm used models that stopped working as we expected. For example, fixed allocation to commodities and bonds is common. Bonds are presumably safe, but right now there is a major selloff in government debt. Momentum investing can be very risky when prices are volatile, so we don’t use that exclusively. We decided that these changes in the market dynamics were most likely permanent and took the models out of our strategies. Let’s take a closer look There are three types of financial patterns that may affect your investments and ways to help you protect your financial future: A bull market is when stock market indices like the S&P 500 and Dow Jones Industrial Average steadily go up by at least 20%. When markets rise, investors may see the value of their retirement account increase over time as well. A bear market occurs when those same types of indices drop 20% or more from their previous peak over a period of at least two months. When bear markets occur, some investors may see the value of their investments drop significantly. Unfortunately, rebuilding a damaged portfolio just to where it was may take time investors don’t have. A recovery is represented as the number of months from the bottom of a market decline to when the market reaches the level of its previous peak again 4. Most importantly, always work to improve. It is tempting to find an investment strategy with a great long-term track record and assume it must continue. Nothing works forever. Sticking to the same method, no matter the track record, is a recipe for disaster. Look at all the companies through the years that went out of business because they assumed that what worked for them in the past is sure to continue. Just as companies need to innovate to stay competitive, a wise investor is always in a constant state of improvement. There is always a better way to manage our clients’ portfolios, and I spend hours every day trying to find it. When I do, I try to find something better than what I just found.   ✅ BOOK AN APPOINTMENT TODAY: https://calendly.com/tdwealth =========================================================== 🔴 SEE ALL OUR LATEST BLOG POSTS: https://tdwealth.net/articles If you like the content, smash that like button! It tells YouTube you were here, and the Youtube algorithm will show the video to others who may be interested in content like this. So, please hit that LIKE button!💥 🎯🎯🎯Don’t forget to SUBSCRIBE here: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UChmBYECKIzlEBFDDDBu-UIg ✅ Contact me: TDavies@TDWealth.Net 🔥🔥🔥 ====== ===Get Our FREE GUIDES  ========== 🔥🔥🔥 🎯Retirement Income: The Transition into Retirement: https://davieswealth.tdwealth.net/retirement-income-transition-into-retirement 🎯Beginner's Guide to Investing Basics: https://davieswealth.tdwealth.net/investing-basics ✅ LET’S GET SOCIAL Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DaviesWealthManagement Twitter: https://twitter.com/TDWealthNet Linkedin:  https://www.linkedin.com/in/daviesrthomas Youtube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/c/TdwealthNetWealthManagement Lat and Long 27.17404889406371, -80.24410438798957 Davies Wealth Management 684 SE Monterey Road Stuart, FL 34994 772-210-4031 https://TDWealth.Net Read the full article

[aetheriet]

Warships Development

The first feature I implemented was movement for the player ship. This was fairly easy to do as by applying a force in the given direction while the respective key is being pressed while making sure it stays within the screen.

The next feature was getting weapons of different types to appear on the ship at fixed points which was a lot more difficult than the movement. I had a basic idea for how it could be done from the beginning but there was a lot of trial and error trying to get it to work properly.

I started by getting a fixed gun to appear at a single point. I accomplished this by creating a point on the ship object and put it in the position where I wanted the gun to appear. Than in the script I could create an object at the coordinates of that point. This did work but there was two problems, the gun was off centre and it would not move with the ship.

To solve both of these issues I made the gun store the name of which point it was at in a variable so it could remember where it is suppose to be. Than referencing this variable I could move the centre of the guns bounding box to the coordinates of its designated point. This centred the gun correctly and allowed it to move with the ship.

Now I needed to allow for any gun implemented in the future to be able to be put at a point. To do this I decided to use a structure which let me assign keys and values which I used to hold both the gun type and its placement point in one variable. Now to get these keys and values I used a For Each Child event which would loop through the structure assigning the key and the value to temporary variables which I could use to create the guns.

This didn't work at first which was very confusing but upon reading the GDevelop documentation it turns out that this event can only be used for structures stored as scene variables. I had this structure attached to the ship object as that made the most sense. It's an odd limitation in GDevelop but easy enough to fix.

To create the objects I used the create object by name action which looks at an object group for an object with the given name and will create it if it exists. This was my first time using groups but they have proved very useful in reducing repeating code by applying actions and checking conditions for all object in a group.

The name of the gun type was taking from the value of the current structure index and the location to create it at was taken from the corresponding key. Where it was initially created doesn't actually matter though so long as the gun that is created is given it's designated position from the key it will be centred at that point.

While it was interesting using the For Each Child event I think in the future it would be better to just use a normal loop to index two separate arrays, one storing points and the other storing gun types. This would allow it to be attached to the player object which just makes more sense.

With the system in place I added three gun types and two gun bases. These were the small turret, the big turret and the missile launcher and a small and big gun base. Guns can be either big guns or small guns which determines which points they can be put at. The gun bases are simply objects placed on a gun point when no gun is there to show the player what slots they have.

Making the guns function was easy enough, I just created bullets at fire points set on the guns and give them a permanent force upwards. Missiles act mostly the same only they are given a permanent force every frame which cause them to accelerate as they move which seemed to make sense.

I also added a sprite with animated water, made by Zabin, that I found on Open GameArt which can be found at https://opengameart.org/content/the-battle-for-wesnoth-water-animation

[webbloggers1]

5 Tips On How To Choose A Payroll Services Company In Queensland

The IRS penalizes about one out of every three business owners for payroll errors. The New Jersey Department of revenue has a similar ratio of penalties to business owners. The number 1 reason you outsource your payroll to a professional payroll processing company is to stay compliant with the IRS and State of New Jersey.

Even if you are not making mistakes handling your payroll internally, you still are wasting your most valuable asset, TIME. Time is the 2nd reason you should outsource your payroll company. Your time equals money to your business and even if delegate the responsibility to a member of your staff, there are some additional things you need to be concerned about. Their time doing payroll is money lost to your business. Not only do you have to pay their salary or rate of pay, but you have to pay the employer tax expenses, workers compensation, and employee benefits.PandC Advisory Queensland

The worst case scenario you have opened yourself up for potential fraud. Internal payroll fraud is more common in small businesses because there is not a high level of security with bank accounts, access to checks, signature stamps, social security numbers, addresses and other personal information. All of this gives you my third reason which is having the peace of mind that your employees are paid and taxes are filed accurately and on time.

So how do we choose a payroll services company?

When choosing a payroll company, there are 5 things you need to know.

1. Financial Protection - Ask your payroll company to provide proof that they are bonded and insured. You want to know if your payroll company makes a mistake, that they responsible for fixing their mistakes.

2. Disaster Recovery and Backup Strategy - Ask your payroll company what their backup plan is if there was any kind of disaster (example: Fire, flood, computer virus, and power and phone failure). Where is your information backed up and stored? How quickly can they be up and running again if there was a disaster?

3. Customer Service- The person who handles your payroll is more important then person selling it to you. Ask who is going to be handling your payroll? Remember a salesperson job is to sell you, and they are trained very well to do so! You should ask to speak with the specialist that you will be working with to see how you like them and find out their level of expertise in the industry. Ask for some reference of clients that they are currently working with. Find out if your specialist temporary or permanent? Some of the larger payroll companies are Data Processors and Call Centers. Ask yourself if that is the kind of service you want. You should feel comfortable and confident that if a problem does happen, your specialist can get it fixed quickly.

4. Pricing - The payroll industry has changed drastically over the years from al carte to bundled pricing. Most payroll companies bundle all of their services to give you a per pay period fee based on the number of employees you have and your frequency of pay. There are additional charges for delivery, and year end processing and W2s as well. Since the payroll industry has gotten very competitive make sure you ask your sales person if there is a discount applied, and when it runs out.

Some of the larger national payroll vendors and franchises have introductory rates, specials, and free months. Buyer beware! These specials end and discounts disappear and annual increases occur. Remember you are being sold by a highly trained salesperson that gets paid if you run your payroll, not if you stay. Ask them to put it in writing and email to protect yourself, and if you really want to get creative, ask them to have their direct manager or boss sign off on the proposal as well. PandC HR Services Queensland

5. System Integration of Employee and Employer Benefits - Most payroll companies can offer additional services such as Employee Access Online, Pay-As-You-Go Workers Compensation, 401k, HR Solutions, Health Insurance and Time and Attendance Solutions. When choosing your payroll vendor, make sure that you choose a company that can grow with your business.

Follow these 5 simple steps when choosing your payroll company and you will save your company time and money!

[maglife17]

The Audacity of Faith! Part Two"For we walk by faith, not by sight." 2 Corinthians 5:7 While our natural inclination is to focus on what we can see, the Christian life is one lived with our eyes focused on eternity and the hope of what is to come. This hope is not wishful thinking but rather a confident assurance based on the promises of God. In Ephesians 2:8-9, Paul reminds us that it is by grace that we have been saved, not by anything we have done. The woman's story in 2 Kings 4:1-7 is a remarkable example of faith. The woman's husband has died, and she is now responsible for paying off his debts. She goes to the prophet Elisha for help, but Elisha doesn't give her a direct answer. Instead, he asks her, "What can I do for you? Tell me, what do you have in your house?" The woman replied, "Your servant has nothing there at all," she said, "except a small jar of olive oil." Elisha instructed her to go and borrow as many vessels as possible from her neighbors. The woman of faith borrows several pots, bowls, and jugs from her neighbors. 2 Corinthians 4:18 says, "So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." Elisha then tells her to pour oil into all the vessels. She does as she's told, and miraculously, the oil keeps flowing until all the jars are full. Elisha tells her to sell the oil and use the money to pay her debt and support her family. From that moment, she and her family can live comfortably and debt free. Are you in any desperate situation? If so, have faith that God will help you. Have faith that God will take you out of that miry clay place where you're stuck (Psalm 40). This story is a reminder that God is always willing to help us, even when we face difficult situations Don't be afraid to ask for help when it comes your way, and trust him with everything. He knows what you need, and he'll provide it for you. The woman believed God could provide for her and was not disappointed. You too, will not be disappointed in Jesus' name. We can all learn from her example and believe that God will help us in times of need. I believe you will experience that breakthrough that will set you free in Jesus' name. Amen. Hebrews 11:6 says, "And without faith, it is impossible to please him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him." Amen. Prayer: 1. Thank you, Jesus, for your love for me. 2. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, I subdue and overcome the troop of doubt personalities and powers that enslave me for a breakthrough now in Jesus' name. Amen. https://maglife.org/

[topsydneyau]

How to paint on the surface without brush strokes?

Painting is a process for which patience is a prerequisite in obtaining a picture-perfect finished product. Professionals at steel painting Sydney address paint-related queries and come up with the most satisfying answers from a network of seasoned painting experts like TOP Painting and help you nail the right paint job.

Usually considered a hobby, painting is widespread among all age groups; however, the secret to being extremely good at it lies in paying attention to details. Hence, if you notice that the quality of the paint job is not satisfactory because of inconsistent brush marks on the surface, then it's time to seek a professional's help by contacting steel painting Sydney for a guide on how to paint on the surface without having brush strokes.

Supplies needed for carrying out a painting task:

-        Paintbrush

-        Paint

-        Desired masking materials

-        Paint thinner or lacquer primer

-        Sanding sponge (sandpaper)

Tips about how to prepare the surface for painting:

-        The paint should be applied to a clean and smooth surface. This would lead to a visually appealing and polished outcome, which will also be long-lasting.

-        If the paint is applied to a loose, dusty, and edgy surface, the result would be temporary as the paint falls off quickly from such surfaces during cleaning and other activities.

6 Tips for a perfect painting:

Use quality paints and brush with nylon and polyester bristles.

The brush technique is a vital part of any painting; thus, the type of brush needed to complete a task should always be kept in mind before shopping. The same technique of moving the brush is used for all types of paints, be it latex, chalk, mineral, or oil. However, the main difference lies in the brush.

Type of brushes that are available for painting:

-        Natural bristles are ideal for oil-based paint products but tend to absorb the water inside latex paints. Animal hair of either horse, badger, ox, or hog can be used as natural bristles.

-        Synthetic brushes work well with latex and solvent-based paints, such as bristles made from nylon, polyester or a mixture of both these materials.

-        High-quality paintbrushes hold the paint on the brush better, creating a smooth and balanced final look.

 Getting the right amount of paint on the brush

Generally, brush marks on steel are due to insufficient paint on the brush. Therefore, steel painters in Sydney advise it to take just enough paint to be on the tip of the brush for a neat and perfect finish, neither too less nor too much.

 2. Don't apply too much pressure on the brush

Applying too much pressure is a common mistake, especially with amateurs. Hence, it's better to seek professional help initially. The paint has to be evenly spread on the brush and then allowed to float on the surface without exerting extra pressure, which might ruin the result. If overpressure is applied, you can fix it by scarping sandpaper once it has dried and then applying another coat of paint to smoothen it out.

 3. Leave end strokes in the same direction

One of the most crucial elements to remember while carrying out the paint job is to paint the entire object in a single direction. Be it a roller brush or a regular one with bristles, the same rule applies to all.

You should always paint consistently, leaving the final layer of paint in the downward direction to avoid a reflective and contrasting finish compared to the other edges of the painted item. Moreover, be extremely careful when adding the last coat of paint, as that coat either makes or breaks the deal, as it is responsible for the final outlook of the finished product.

However, if you are hesitant to paint and are not an expert, steel painting Sydney provides you with people who are skilled in this field and will complete your work within a specific time frame.

 4. Instead of a paintbrush, use a roller or a spray can

The best way to avoid having brush strokes is not to use any brush for painting. As many other alternatives are available, you can think of eliminating using a brush. Nowadays, spray cans and rollers have taken over the painting industry and are getting increasingly popular as they are easy to use, allow users to paint the intricate details with precision and help you finish the work in less time.

To summarize everything, if you follow the above-mentioned basic painting techniques, you can turn your project concept into a thought-out masterpiece that shall be admired by all and bring you the utmost satisfaction.

If you need any assistance or guidance during the process, then the team at steel painting Sydney will divert you to the perfect painting services in town that can solve your problems immediately.  

Disclaimer: This is a generic Information & post; content about the services can be changed from time to time as per your requirements and contract. To get the latest and updated information, contact us today or visit our website.

[dameronology]

scenes from a modern romance (tasm!peter parker)

summary: everyone has stupid arguments, but it's hard to stay mad at peter parker

warnings: language, mild angst. this is honestly just a catharsis for the stress of being in ur 20s.

this is based on the song therapy from tick, tick...boom! which stars the wonderful beautiful talented andrew garfield, hence, this is for his peter parker. spoiler free, of course. enjoy

- jazz xx

New York was a tiring place. No matter where you went or how fast you walked, you couldn't escape the people. They were everywhere; on the streets, in the bank, blocking the aisles of every goddamn shop and oozing out the subway. Nobody moved to the city with the intention of it being an open and peaceful space but man. After a long day of work at a diner - filled with spilled coffee, angry customers and the clogged-up air of heat fryers and grills - the last thing you wanted was to deal with that. With people. So many fucking people.

Even the hallways of your apartment building were filled with them. Your elderly neighbour was dragging her five dogs out for a walk (it explained the smell in the hall, at least) and there was a group of teenagers smoking something much stronger than tobacco in the stair-well. Your grocery bag ripping a few feet from your front door was the final straw.

"Peter!" you let out an exasperated sigh as you kicked open the door. "Did you not hear me calling from the hall?"

"Huh?"

Your boyfriend stuck his head up from the sofa, soft tufts of hair sticking up in a million directions and brown eyes tired with sleep. You'd clearly ruined his nap - not that you had much sympathy for him. More like jealousy.

"My bag..." you trailed off, deciding it wasn't worth it. "Don't worry. Can you just help me unpack the shopping?"

"Yeah, of course," Peter hopped up, over to the kitchen in a flash. "Man, am I happy to see you."

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you back against his chest. You didn't mean to ignore his affection, but you just wanted to get shit done and pass out on the sofa. You could be all over him then. That meant for now, if he wanted hug you, he'd have to awkwardly shuffle around the kitchen whilst attached to you. To no-one's surprise, that was exactly what he did.

Peter pressed a kiss to the back of your head. "The oven broke again by the way."

"Seriously?" you groaned. "That's gonna take ten years for maintenance to fix."

The only thing worse than the crowds in New York was the housing. Unless you were a millionaire, there wasn't much on offer. The estate agent had called your apartment a steal, but with its terrible lighting and thin walls, you had to disagree. It had been the first place you and Peter had got together after high school and it felt like home now. That didn't mean the real estate gods didn't test you every now and then by blowing up an appliance or bursting a pipe.

"It's okay, we can use the microwave."

"Yeah," you forced a smile. "Did you send off the cheque for the gas bill?"

You felt Peter tense up behind you. That was a no.

"Peter," you groaned, turning around to face him. Despite you attempts to elbow him off of you, he stayed pretty stuck. "I asked you to do it three days ago."

"I forgot. I'm sorry-"

" - so the oven probably isn't broken," you cut him off. "The gas company have cut us off, most likely. And no gas means no oven."

"I'll do it tomorrow," he gave you a goofy smile. "I promise."

"Yeah, okay," you let out a small sigh of defeat. He was hard to argue with.

You felt bad nagging him; you didn't want to sound like his Aunt May, but you could have sworn the boy had undiagnosed ADHD. He worked his ass off at night to protect New York, but his day-job as a freelance photographer had dried up. That meant most of the financial burden fell on your shoulders, which had been fine when it was just a temporary thing. Temporary had lasted almost six months by that point and Peter forgetting basic things you asked him to do was starting to get to you. Coming home to empty take out boxes and piles of washing up after a ten hour shift wasn't fun.

Your eyes landed on a strewn pizza box half way across the room. You let out a groan. It had flies on it.

"Pete," you sighed. "How old is that?"

"Oh, like two days," he pressed a kiss to your nose. "The one I got today is - I mean, I didn't order one today-"

"- Peter!" you groaned.

Spiderman needed to be fed. You got that. What Spiderman didn't need to do was order another fucking pizza when there was enough food in the fridge.

"I was hungry!"

"There's food in the fridge," you reminded him.

"You sound like my Aunt May," he muttered.

"And you're acting like the teenage boy that used to live with her," you shot back. "You're twenty four now, Pete."

"Thank you, I think?"

You rolled your eyes. "I mean you can cook for yourself. I'm not working fifty hour weeks to make ends meet just so you can spend it all on-"

"- I'm finding work," he cut you off. "There's just a lotta crime right now! You know how I feel about crime."

"We all feel that way about crime," you grumbled. "I'm just tired is all. Spiderman is great but it doesn't pay the bills."

Peter blinked in surprise. "I thought you liked Spiderman."

"Why are we talking about him like he's a third person in our relationship?" you huffed. "What I mean is that you need to start balancing this life with that one, because you can find a job and help old ladies cross the goddamn road!"

He almost reeled backwards, finally releasing you from his grip. Okay so yeah, that had been a low blow on your part. He did a lot more than just help get cats outta trees. He'd saved New York like...multiple times. It was just that this whole thing was either an issue of Peter being too tired from Spiderman-ing to have a life in the day, or he was using it as an excuse. You didn't know what worse, but you did know that you were tired.

You'd been in love since you were teenagers and sometimes, you still argued like kids. Maturing into an adult relationship was a learning curve.

"Yeah, well maybe we wouldn't need to worry so much about money if you hadn't spent four years at a fancy art school for a useless degree!"

Maybe you deserved that. At the very least, you had to admit you'd thrown the first punch.

"At least I went to college!" you snapped. "How's the self-employment going, huh? The last gig you had was taking pictures for our school newspaper!"

"I took photos at your cousin's wedding, remember?"

"Only because my mum got you the gig!" you snorted.

"God, you're starting to sound like her-"

"- don't bring my mother into this!"

"You brought her into this!" Peter waved his hands in the air. "So hah! I win!"

"You have pizza on your chin," you grimaced. "I don't think you do win, babe."

"At least I'm doing something I enjoy," he continued. "I'm not working at a soulless job doing work that I hate. Spiderman might not pay but hey, at least it counts for something more than wasting my time in a hospitality job!"

Peter regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He could practically see them float from his mind and into the air - he wanted to swat them away, catch them with a net, shove them back in to his stupidly loud gob. He knew he'd fucked up. The seething look on your face confirmed it.

"Oh my god," he murmured. "I didn't mean that. I did not mean that. I am so, so sorry. You are the light of my life and I love you and I do not think-"

"- fuck you, Parker."

The next few seconds were a blur of your angry face. a middle finger, and the slam of your bedroom door.

--

Your apartment might have been shitty, but hell, at least it had a bath tub.

Once you'd soaked in there for an hour and washed off the smell of chip grease, you felt a lot better. You put on an old hoodie of Peter's and some pyjama shorts; you might have been angry at him but his clothes were comfy as hell. Maybe the fact they smelt like him was nice too.

It was hard to avoid him in such a small space, but you found an old book and curled up in the old sofa by your window. It was a nice place to sit and stew - not that you had much to think about. What you said - however insultingly - was true. You were more scared that Peter's words were as well. He knew how lost you'd been since finishing college. It felt like all your friends were going off and getting high paying jobs in their fields; starting families and buying houses. Meanwhile, you'd been at the Moondance Diner since you were nineteen years old. Your apartment had the structural integrity of a piece of lasagne and you really had no idea where your life was going. The only good thing in it was Peter - even if he had a tendency to run his fucking mouth.

After a few hours, there was a knock on the door.

"Heeeey," Peter's voice came from the other side. "Can I come in?"

"That depends," you called back. "Are you gonna slag off any more of my life choices?"

The door creaked open and Peter stuck his head around. "No."

"Then please," you gestured to the bed. "Do enter, Lord Parker. I hope being in the presence of a petty little food server such as myself won't harm you, permitting that you even let me breathe the same fucking air as you-"

"- okay, enough!" he groaned (but you could see him fighting back a smile).

He made his way over to the chair, kneeling down in front of you. He took your book out your hands and took them in his. It seemed like a good sign that you didn't stop him.

"I did not mean a single word that I said," Peter softly said. "I just knew that you were right about everything and apparently, I'd rather be a complete asshole than admit it."

You gave him a little smile. "I hate my job, Pete. I'm terrified I'll be stuck there forever. I don't know what I'm doing with my life and it freaks me out when you make comments like that."

"I know, baby," he murmured, giving your hands a squeeze. "I'm proud of you, whatever happens. Whether you wanna wait tables for the rest of your life or become a busker on the subway, I will support you. I promise."

"There's still the issue of money," you reminded him. "I didn't word it the best, but-"

"- I need to get off my ass, I know," he said. "I think I've worked out a way to get money."

Your eyebrows shot up. "You have?"

"I just sold like fifty Spiderman selfies to The Daily Bugle for $2000 bucks," he gave you a lopsided grin. "I can't say my ego is in tact but that's our rent made for the month."

"Oh my god," you dropped your head against his shoulder, letting out a groan. "Please don't turn Spiderman into a social media star just for my sake."

"I'm not, I promise," he chuckled. "I can get some more...dignified photos and sell them to legit papers. It'll put my name out there to other news sites and it'll get me more gigs."

"That's amazing," you smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "That's a job."

"We'll see," Peter stood up. He pulled you up from the chair and pulled back the covers of the bed.

You both climbed underneath them - he did an awkward shuffle dance for a moment as he kicked off his shirt and jeans. Part of you half expected him to pull out the Spiderman suit in their place. He had been going out every night recently.

"So, are we good?" Peter gently asked. He rolled over to face you, pressing his forehead to yours. "I never want to go to sleep knowing we're not good."

"Yeah," you nodded. "We are."

"Perfect."

"Aren't you going out tonight?"

"Nope," Peter pressed a soft kiss to your lips. "M'very happy here with you."

You didn't know what you wanted to do with your life, but there was thing you were sure of - as long as you had the absolute fool that was Peter Parker by your side, you'd be absolutely fine.