#if you can’t parse this. what i’m trying to say is that not a single other person perceives me as a deeply chinesely homosexual man as i do

[happyfanofeverything]

i disabledly walk around in my small frame and my autistic-plural-depressed-transmasculine demeanor like i’m an ice prince deuteragonist in a homoerotically-charged chinese action series and apparently that’s why no gay boy has ever taken note of me while men & women alike hit on my nonexistent perceived girlhood

[avacoleman]

and like a groundhog, i have emerged from the depths to make a delivery. im slowly getting back into writing and have added more words to my wip inspired by the vow. i hope you'll enjoy! 💜💕

Henry sits up the second he hears the doorknob of the front door give way. He’s on his feet before it closes back.

His breathing is heavy as he waits for Alex to enter the living room. He’s half tempted to bombard him but he remains patient. He’s waited this long for Alex to come home at all.

A few moments later Alex comes around and the air leaves Henry’s lungs before he remembers how to form the most basic greeting.

“Hello,” he says, fiddling with his signet ring.

“Hey,” Alex answers back.

The silence that falls is so heavy, it presses firmly against Henry’s eardrums. 

“I’m sorry,” they both say at the exact same time.

It’s a moment of levity that they both seem to cling to. 

The full weight of all Henry wants to say bears down on him, but he hardly even knows where to start. All he knows is that an apology must be made. It doesn’t seem he’s likely to ever forget watching Alex’s face fall this morning. 

“Me first, please,” Alex says, cutting into Henry’s thoughts.

Henry blinks twice and resigns, taking a seat on the couch once again as Alex comes into the room and sits on the single seater across from him.

Though Alex was keen to insist on going first, he takes a moment to parse his thoughts. Henry can’t blame him. The situation they’ve found themselves in is vast and precarious. After this morning’s fallout, they both seem to understand more than ever just how carefully they’ll need to navigate this unsteady terrain.

“Henry, I’m so sorry for what happened this morning. The way I left…that wasn’t right. I was upset, yeah, but that’s no excuse. I know this is hard on you. I can’t even imagine…,” he trails off with a sigh.

“I’m not mad at you. Not even remotely. I’m just pissed at the world for what it took from you…what it took from us. It hurts, but I want you to know that I do understand or I can at least see this from your perspective. I’m a stranger to you now. I shouldn’t have expected you to still have those big feelings.”

Alex looks down at his left hand, his thumb brushing the gold band on his fourth finger. Henry’s heart twinges.

“I think a part of me was just naive in being hopeful that something still stuck despite the accident,” Alex says quietly before looking at Henry again. “That’s on me. I was being selfish.”

Henry shakes his head vehemently.

“No, you weren’t. Anyone in your shoes would hope for the same. I only wish I could give you that.”

The urge to touch Alex is there, to reach out a hand and offer comfort, but Henry wonders if that would do more harm than good at a time like this.

Alex groans quietly, dropping his head in his hands for a moment before looking at Henry again.

“What can I do to help?” Henry asks, feeling anxious.

Alex shakes his head.

“All I want right now is for us to be friends again. I miss that just as much as our romantic relationship. I think…maybe we should stop trying to force your memories back.”

“We could make new ones,” Henry says. He’s treated to a warm smile from Alex that lights him up inside.

“Exactly. We have a new starting point. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing, not if we work it in our favor. Instead of chasing after what we used to have, we can create something new.”

Henry nods twice.

“I’d like that.”

tagging @sunshineacd in case you'd like to share something this week!

[olderthannetfic]

I’m kind of surprised that the whole heteronormativity BL discourse turned into me hating femme men and wanting every man to be masc. It’s doubly nuts because the story I described that got the brunt of this was one I made because of a certain masculine gay character trope that I really hated, to the point where my idea of fixing it was to basically make him sensitive and soft and a yuri on ice fan, and bullied for his lack of masculinity. If I find myself hating or feeling negatively about any part of a BL story it’s usually because of the actions of the top/seme character.

If a BL is bad, or I don’t know if it’s good or not, or I think there’s any bad writing moments at all, the top is usually the problem. This rule applies even if I think the top is a great character. This applies even if the bottom is a fucking terrorist who crippled an innocent young woman and tortured her for hours and never once grows as a person the whole story. (to be clear I really like the story i’m talking about and would recommend it, halfway across by dracze, but it’s still insane how the top basically NEEDS to be at the more toxic one in the relationship if the story has any flavor whatsoever). I know there are obviously exceptions, I can’t name a single one at the moment.

None of what i’m saying is a criticism of BL or of masc gay characters, i’m just saying that way too many people jumped to one specific conclusion about me based on my words. I really hope this doesn’t turn into discourse about me hating masc gay men and wanting everyone to be femme or some shit. I’d probably rage quit the internet for a week if that happened.

--

You are the only one who can't let this go. Everyone else forgot about it five minutes after it happened... or would have if your ongoing behavior didn't remind them.

--

As I've explained numerous times, people respond to the subtext and vibe of what a person writes as much as to their literal words. You said a bunch of shit that was laden with buzzwords and dogwhistles from communities with bad attitudes. People picked up on that.

You send lots of lengthy posts that are hard to parse and that come out of nowhere. And no, "you don't have to answer this but..." is not the ass-covering you think it is. I have to at least look at the posts in my inbox to evaluate them before they go in the queue. Normally, I don't mind if the same person sends me lots, and I don't care if they're all super interesting, but yours are particularly self-absorbed, boring, and horribly-written.

They're always phrased like "I think X about media Y". They don't invite discussion. They aren't tied to past conversations on here. They don't show the slightest spark of interest in what others think.

You apparently want eyeballs on your writing, both creative and nonfiction asks, but you're incapable of showing genuine interest in others. If these posts are an attempt to interact rather than to just say words in front of an audience, it sure doesn't show in the final product.

The posts people respond better to are just written better, but they are also more obviously part of a dialogue that treats other readers of my blog as peers, not a spigot dispensing free attention.

--

Why should anyone care why you dislike one BL or another? I get that you're trying to prove something about yourself, but why should anyone care about that either?

You are not the main character in other people's lives.

You're treating this like some need to clear your name, but fundamentally, that's assuming any of this matters to other people. It doesn't outside of refuting a given comment on a given post and then, like I said, forgetting about it five minutes later.

--

Every time you ask a new question, it just demonstrates the same lack of clue as before. For example, you recently asked (in part):

"What would changing my behavior look like? I have full plans to write […]"

It does not matter what comes in place of that ellipsis because no one cares what you do in your own art.

No one ever had an issue with your art because nobody has consumed it. And, to be honest, plenty of people have perfectly fine values for things they do. The fact that you do or don't include problematic thing X or proship stance Y in your own art is not proof of anything.

The issue is in how people talk to others about other people's art.

Endlessly trying to bring up your own work just looks like pointless grandstanding. Meanwhile, the vibe when you chat with others here has not really changed. There's still a strong subtext of unexamined assumptions and desire to make everything about yourself.

It's not about swapping out word X or Y. It's about your overall writing ability and command of subtext, which is poor. Really, really poor.

It's also about moronic statements like:

Like would it have made you mad that I said what I said if I removed those words? Because I didn't even mean them I just didn't think long enough to cut them from the post.

"Ooh, I didn't think".

Then don't fucking speak.

Or, if you do run your mouth without thinking, like most of us do sometimes, expect to suffer the consequences and don't cry like a cowardly little weasel when you do.

--

To be perfectly frank, I spend less time trying to promote my own work on here than you do. On my blog.

And I can actually write.

This constant me, me, me, me bullshit is what makes you seem selfish, self-absorbed, and like you're wasting everyone's time on purpose.

[the1975attheirverybest]

Matty should be proud that every day he wakes up and he fights his addiction. It must be a constant battle and for him to have the strength to do that while dealing with a bunch of idiots on the internet thinking they know his something. I’m so glad he is surrounded by good people. The boys really are the best and that is one strong friendship

I promise you that I am not making this up. I tear up every time that I hear “I’ve not picked up that in a thousand four hundred days and nine hours and sixteen minutes babe/ it’s kinda my daily iteration.”

If it’s on max volume in my headphones?? I’m SOBBING not just tearing up. The words “daily iteration,” HIT ME RIGHT IN THE HEART. think about it for a moment, please! I beg you. “Daily” as in every fuckin day. “Iteration.” Like a repeated manifestation of something.

In other words, he’s saying, I carry this with me. Every. Single. Day. My whole day is about not touching that. The some total of my existence would be compromised if I touched it. The thing I must do, above all else, is not touch it for another day. Anywhere I go, whatever I’m doing, that’s the most important thing of all. And then I get up in the morning, no matter what “iteration” of myself I become, I have not remember one thing must remain constant. I can’t go back to that. Whomever i become whomever else I become, I will always be a recovering drug addict. And my days are counted in how much time I’ve spent trying not to do drugs. That’s what I measure.

That’s beforeeeeeee all the bullshit. Since May, the fact that he kept his mouth shut, performed onstage LESS THAN AN HOUR after some pretty major news/ tabloid articles were calling him the most vile shit, put a smile on his face, connected to the audience to the best of his abilities, and tried to make the show like every other 1975 show? Then got up and did it the next day and the next and the next while EVERYTHING that he has ever done or said, good or bad, is being torn apart? He stayed quiet. He put the audience’s experience first. He kept his head up.

We had bigger fish to fry at the time. Whether it was dealing with the horrific swifties. Or parsing the bullshit from the real legit deserved criticisms. But I think right now is a good moment to say that Matty handled this with grace and he deserves credit for that.

[magnetictapedatastorage]

“Ask me to kill for you.” “No(t at that price)”

i have fem sniperspy thoughts. okay. the first time that spy hired sniper was the most satisfying mission of sniper's career. and now shes got an itch she can't scratch because for some reason, little miss ive-got-enemies doesn't want any more of them shot in the head! or, at least, she doesn't want them shot at the price sniper is charging. it would be idiotic to lower the price. unprofessional. needy. really, it's not that much lower. honestly. same number of digits.

it's hot in the Maldives, even in the shade. she barely remembers the way the way the target's greasy, balding, sunburnt head split like rotting fruit. instead she remembers the hotel phone, heavy in her hand, sweat dripping down her back in the freezing air conditioned room. it was barely 36 hours since she'd received a single black and white photo, and the entire time, she'd worked like a woman possessed, until he was dead. shot in the middle of one of his company's fields, while the farmhands were busy elsewhere.

"ma tireuse, perhaps I can find more work for you, if you are always to be so..."

when the silence stretches on in lieu of a compliment, sniper tries to complete the sentence, by offering "efficient." her voice is strained. she feels halfway suffocated by some kind of emotion, but she doesn't want the feeling to stop.

there is a sound not quite like agreement on the other end of the line, but the words give her enough of a rush to live off of. "Yes, efficient, you were certainly faster than I had expected." Sniper breathes a near-silent sigh of relief. The bed she's sitting on is still made, from when she checked in yesterday morning, before spending all day and night on the stakeout. "Nonetheless, there are, shall we say, economic concerns. I'm not asking for a bulk discount, nothing of the sort, but if you're to become my on-call, I cannot be forced to keep such a conspicuously liquid account in order to access you."

It takes sniper nearly a full minute to try and parse all of that, especially with the way her client's voice seemed to drip like honey over every word. and how tired she was from the heat. but sure, she can go a little cheaper. nothing crazy. "What kind of budget limitation are we talking about?" she steels herself for a crushingly low number. somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she'd accept almost anything.

"ma tireuse you misunderstand me. I am giving you full access to my account. I trust that you will be able to control yourself."

the change is so fast, she feels lightheaded for months. no matter where she goes, what hotel she books, she is simply never billed. and far from needing to buy ammo in cash out of the back of a pickup truck in the middle of nowhere, she's shaking hands with the 5th-in-command of the Sicilian mob, and taking home a rifle in a bassoon case.

spy made the calculation that she was worth more as a loyal, long term investment than as an exploitable source of cheap kills.

sniper is living in an apartment for a month or whatever, there's down time while spy is under the radar for a very delicate plan. sniper goes to bed alone. she wakes up alone. but in the middle of the night She Was Not Alone. 

and it's not like spy had to break in or anything. technically it's her apartment. she's the one paying for it. she'd been a bit surprised to find herself so thoroughly wrapped in long limbs, and it had been a challenge to extract herself, but she slipped away eventually, and long before the woman awoke. it was an acceptable way to spend the night, and to lose the tail that had been following her the past few days. 

sniper awoke fully wrapped around her pillow, as if she'd been afraid of it trying to escape. and the coffee machine was on.

she'd never take a trophy while out on a job, but she does take the bullet casings home (more out of hiding her tracks than anything). and if those casings make their way on to spy's desk on a regular basis than who's to say what that's all about.

[spilledreality]

1. Mimosa pudica, or an economy of signal

I remember reading an interview with a pretty successful/respected Army rangers battalion leader. Said one of the biggest advantages he got was, in the Iraq and/or Afghanistan campaigns, all the officers were constantly trying to suck the teat of big government, get as many resources as they could, even stuff they didn’t need. So, regular requests for supplies, little luxuries, time off, etc. “Why not? The Army’s got the money” was the logic—which, fair enough from an ethical perspective, but think selfishly now: This is actually self-defeating behavior.

Because officers who did this burnt out their credibility, burnt out the goodwill of supply teams and logistics officers. “Ah yeah he’s always asking for shit.” Eventually the system gets “numbed” because it can’t distinguish signal—it doesn’t know what’s actually important/needed vs unimportant/unnecessary.

Whereas—this ranger battalion head said—he never requested anything they didn’t absolutely need, had in fact turned down offers. “Hey, need any XYZ?” “Nope, we’re good.” “Are you sure? What about ABC?” “Nope, we’re good.” So that on the rare occasions he did send a message up command, making requests, they were granted immediately, without questions, without delays, and in full. Because it was assumed that if he was requesting something, it was absolutely necessary.

One way to think about this is as an economy of credibility—how much building a certain (typically respected/“good”) reputation gives you immense, outsized “manipulative” leverage when you need it. Manipulative in the sense of "getting things done by communicating."

There’s something wild about the way that, because I don't boss my partner around, I could, if needed to (e.g. we were in a dangerous situation), use a very serious voice and tell her to do something and she’d immediately do it without questioning, because if I’m “playing that card”—a card that is quasi economically scarce due to the numbing effect (i.e. its frequency-dependence)—she'll assume there’s a very good reason.

And you can get information out of situations by what cards skilled strategic players play—e.g. in the Milwaukee game the other day, Curry flipped out about a no-call on a three-point attempt to refs. On replay it really doesn’t look that egregious, but… it was early in a regular season game, the shot went in, it wasn’t like some tight final-possessions thing—it’s like, why would he choose now to play this card? If, that is, you think “refs taking seriously player complaints” has an “economy” to it. It’s almost—and this is amazing IMO—a more reliable signal of an egregious foul happening that he chose to play the card than any single replay angle on its own.

Abstractly: Player moves emit information about their experience of the environment, and when those players are more sensorily proximate to aspects of that environment, or more skilled at parsing and structuring that sensory input in a culturally schematized way (e.g. what contact is or isn't a foul), your observation of their observations (second-order) can be more reliable than your first-order observations.

What I’m trying to say is, once you assume players are strategically competent, you can do “algebra” on the world, using their choices of action to model events you might not have fully witnessed, the same way you can use responses + environment to model player agenda, or agenda + environment to forecast behavior. Which is maybe just what “theory of mind” entails, under it all. Triangulations of their knowledge state, the world state, their desires, and their actions. Like it sorta seems like this is how we navigate the social world already?

You know that shy plant? Mimosa pudica, sometimes called the shameplant, that curls to the touch? If you give it opioids, it stops responding. It is "numbed."

The other way you get it numb, get it to stop curling? Touch/stimulate it the same way, over and over, until it’s habituated (with all the undertones of pragmatist habit, or Bourdieusean habitus). It’ll respond to novel types of stimulations, just not the one it’s used to (i.e. has seen over and over, i.e. has learned). It’s all frequency dependence.

Regardless of what light group the plants were in, one drop was not enough for the plants to learn to ignore the stimulation. For the groups that were dropped repetitively, the plants stopped folding their leaves and were even fully open after a drop before the end of the trainings. The low light plants learned faster to ignore the dropping stimulation than the high light plants. When the plants were shaken, they responded immediately by folding their leaves, which suggests that the plants were not ignoring the dropping stimulation due to exhaustion.[45] This research suggests that the Mimosa has the capability for habitual learning and memory storage and that Mimosa plants grown in low light conditions have faster learning mechanisms so they can reduce the amount of time their leaves are unnecessarily closed to optimize energy production.

There’s some universal law here. I find sort of incredible—that a plant, despite not having a nervous system, behaves the exact same way as animals do in response to the same chemical. And that this mimics habituation, the sleepwalking that is a world perfectly expected, i.e. ready-to-hand. That difference jolts the system into awareness, and that there’s an economy of difference, and that we're constantly playing the numbers, stockpiling jolt-power.

Part 2

[shilchdcesntcare]

will graham is autistic: red dragon, chapter 1

“I think there’s been a lot of bullshit about the way I think.” “You made some jumps that you can’t explain.” “The evidence was there,” Graham said.

“I just decided to stop. I don’t think I can explain it.” “If you couldn’t look at it anymore, God knows I’d understand that.” “No. You know--having to look. It’s always bad, but you get so you can function anyway, as long as they’re dead. The hospital, the interviews, that’s worse. You have to shake it off and keep on thinking. I don’t believe I could do it now. I could make myself look, but I’d shut down the thinking.”

Jack Crawford heard the rhythm and syntax of his own speech in Graham’s voice. Often in intense conversation Graham took on the other person’s speech patterns. Later Crawford realized that Graham did it involuntarily, that sometimes he tried to stop and couldn’t. // this is called echolalia or echopraxia--involuntary copying of speech. i know it happens to me after i watch a show where people have foreign accents, or even if their rhythm is particular (like the Roses from Schitt’s Creek, especially Moira.)

After half a minute he put the photographs down again. He pushed them into a stick with his finger. Graham, ignoring his guest, watched Molly and the boy for as long as he had looked at the pictures. // social fauxpaus of ignoring your guest. jack is pleased when he looks at molly for the same amount of time, because he knows it means graham can parse his thoughts.

“I meant to thank her for the books she brought me in the hospital, but I never did. Tell her for me.” // like he just remembered. executive function. 

“I want to ask you, do you respect my judgement, Will?” “Yes.” “I think we have a better chance if you help.” Graham did not reply. “Let’s talk after dinner.” “Stay and eat.” // social convention regardless of whether graham actually wants him there

“Crawford stopped by to see me at the shop before he came out here. He asked directions to the house. I tried to call you. You really ought to answer the phone once in a while.” “What else did he ask you?” “How you are.” “And you said?” // i never answer my phone. also because of life experience, if i can know what other people are saying about me when i am not present, i do

“What does he want you to do?” “Look at evidence.” [Later] “He thinks you want him to look at evidence.” “I do want him to look at evidence. There’s nobody better with evidence. But he has the other thing, too. Imagination, projection, whatever. He doesn’t like that part of it.” // this again feeds into my slight paranoia about what people are saying about me and specifically my behavior behind my back.

“If you missed your other life, I think you’d talk about it. You never do. You’re open and calm and easy now...I love that.” “We have a good time, don’t we?” Her single styptic blink told him he should have said something better. Before he could fix it, she went on. // if i had a dollar

Graham resigned from the FBI and found a job as a diesel mechanic in Marathon. It was a trade he grew up with. He slept in a trailer at the boatyard until Molly. // he found a job with a skill set he was familiar with, and was content to live right there with just the necessities 

“Do you believe it?” Graham watched three pelicans fly in line across the tidal flats. “Molly, an intelligent psychopath--particularly a sadist--is hard to catch for several reasons. First,” //so my boy gives a whole half page instruction manual about this which is what we call infodumping// “You have to try to find patterns.” // yes there’s the autistic stereotype of being more logical and therefore more adept to pattern and puzzle solving, but it’s not an unfair stereotype.

Graham loved the way she turned her head, artlessly giving him her less perfect profile. He remembered suddenly and completely the taste of salt on her skin. He swallowed. “Maybe it would sour this place for you.” “If I were asking, what would you say?”

“I’m selfish, huh?” “I don’t care.” // instead of an ‘no you’re not selfish don’t say that’ which is was generally is expected in response.

“Make you know it. Value it, I mean.” // she clarifies for him

“He was really obsessed with the dogs for a while. Now he just takes care of them; he doesn’t talk about them all the time.” // special interests, and yes in general autistic people have an easier time relating to/being around animals rather than people, and especially pet dogs can be very emotionally sensitive; and vice versa it’s easier to pick up on and adjust yourself according to whatever vibe the animal is giving off this is me infodumping i have cats.

When Graham finished, Molly helped him pack. // Executive dysfunction be that way.

this is what i highlighted in ONE chapter.

[josiebelladonna]

”what’s wrong with billie eilish?”

short answer: i don’t know, you tell me.

long answer: how much time you got?

they’re antisemites, especially her: they wore those “artists for ceasefire” pins which are bad enough on their own (won’t parse into that, but they’re not good), at the grammys this year, but then they had the nerve to cover them up at the afterparty (read: they can’t even stand for what they believe in). 

she’s a racist. she appropriates from black culture CONSTANTLY—mind, rock and roll as a whole wouldn’t exist if not for black people, but i don’t ever recall elvis or ozzy continuously faking an ebonics accent after supposedly apologizing. 

she’s also been caught using racial slurs. 

she’s also a misandrist, and i’ll forever use this against her every time someone tries to tell me that she’s any good: she’s been caught—ON TAPE, mind—calling all men evil and that girls are stupid for being with them.

she just reeks of “not like other girls” syndrome, and apparently she always has, too. there’s a reason why resources about her from 2015-2018-ish are pretty much based on hearsay, and that’s because her team erased it all. there are still screenshots floating around, though, because the internet never forgets.

one example of this is her supposed body insecurity. i’ve suffered from body insecurity in my teen years and into the first year of my twenties, but it was not like this, though. people with body insecurity either tend to over sexualize themselves or they do what i did and recoil into the background, they don’t wear their brother’s board shorts to look like boys. there’s literally a screenshot floating around that confirms this, too: in 2016, she said she dresses boyishly so no one would sexualize her, and the way she says it is weirdly hostile and backwards, like god forbid anyone else your age at the time dresses in a way to feel better about themselves. so, what this tells me is she’s either been faking this whole time or she’s a disney starlet minus the disney part in that she couldn’t wait to be 18 so she could make her entire shtick about sex, and the whole thing leaves a pit in your stomach. either way, she’s not this “confident vixen” everyone wants us to think.

she seems to have written a few songs about abusive relationships. someone will have to back me up on this but from the time she was 15, she’s dated a 22-year-old, then a 25-year-old at 16, then a 30-year-old at 19. …the first time you get bit by a strange dog you were trying to pet? not your fault. you didn’t know it was vicious. but the second time, you knew and you lose sympathy from me. it also makes her “don’t sexualize me” thing extremely hypocritical.

because of all of this, i have a hard time believing anything she says, or any song she (co)writes (with her brother) for that matter.

paraphrased from the wikipedia page for happier than ever: “she didn’t like going to meetings and doing business with her first album.” listen, i’m not in the music industry but even i can tell you that you have to work and do the “boring stuff” because the “boring stuff” serves a purpose. total spoiled, entitled brat behavior, and it shows, on that album as well as any music that followed: case in point, she dropped an album back in may but it barely left a mark on the hot 100. in fact, did anyone know she put out an album? i haven’t seen a single soul talk about “hit me hard and soft” (which is a stupid name, sorry not sorry) since the week it came out. compare this to chappell roan, who i’ve literally never heard of until just last week (and i always want to call “chaperone”, too 😂), but has had an absolute stranglehold on the charts all year.

she’s hard to look at, too, like i feel dirty just looking at her, especially now. it’s like i’m looking at a porn actor who takes herself way too seriously. 5 years later, and the “might seduce your dad” line still makes the skin crawl. finneas also apparently dates girls who look like his sister. freud would have a field day with these two, seriously.

and finally, if you’re not satisfied, this is just a “me” thing but i genuinely hate the sound of her voice. i don’t hear a pretty voice when she sings. i hear a voice that’s aesthetically pleasing, and yes, there’s a difference. some examples of pretty voices to me: sarah maclachlan, adele, elizabeth fraser, amy lee, cristina scabbia, marina diamandis, kate bush, julee cruise, judy garland, sade, lana del rey, hell… taylor swift has a multitude of moments, especially recently. I have a love-hate relationship with taylor but tortured poets is easily her best album since folklore, like there’s a reason why i’m taking inspiration from it for my kinktober fics. one of my favorite female singers is amy winehouse and her voice was anything but pretty. it was deep, gritty, and soulful, but she’s a favorite for a reason. a couple more favorites are alanis morissette and liz phair, and same story there with both of them. all these voices move me and stay with me. i hear billie and i forget her almost immediately once the song ends. it also doesn’t help that literally every singer on tiktok right now is trying to sound like her, so it may be a retroactive thing, but it doesn’t sound like anything to me. she doesn’t look like anyone, either. she’s just some girl who got famous because “oh god, pretty voice!!!”

i dislike the sound of her voice. i dislike the way she looks. i despise everything she stands for (or what she doesn’t stand for, rather). i hate how she wears band shirts and the band in question goes apeshit about it, mainly because i’m constantly reminded of the kardashians wearing slayer and misfits shirts: guys, the o’connells, like the kardashians, live in a nice neighborhood in l.a. she and finneas were homeschooled and took music and dance lessons as kids, none of which is cheap. they never lived in the projects in downey, they never had to worry about money or where and when they’re getting their next meal. so, big fucking deal if they’re wearing a shirt.

*edit: i also dislike how she feels a need to constantly explain herself. i did that all the time when i was like 19-20 and it’s a sign of insecurity. still think she’s some kind of sex symbol?

and i especially hate how she can’t make any music without her brother getting involved, and it’s getting really weird as her music gets more and more sexually charged. it’d be like me sharing my kinky/smutty writing with my brother, it’s really weird. and i wish we all would just collectively forget she ever existed.

again. you tell me.

[coffee-at-annies]

I do think the VGK game will be the final straw for the Pens. Sid and Geno won't let the Pens freefall anymore in the standings, and I think this may prompt Hextall to make a coaching change and a shakeup for the bottom 6 / defense injuries. We haven't seen any midseason coaching changes this season yet but *knock on wood* the Pens could be the first to pull it off. Trying to be optimistic here but this streak looks bad when: we have a lot of injuries, this roster will not be the same roster come March 3, and we may still see a lot of personnel changes around the league. Yes the other Metro teams look so great compared to our struggling Pens but their schedules are far easier right now while we had to play all but 1 playoff team the last 2 weeks with a depleted lineup. What's the point of comparing our lows to their highs - ignoring the fact that we might have not even seen our final team, we have 49 games left; and the All Star break hasn't even happened yet?

Tanger will come back soon, Jarry too, even Petry. The bottom 6 will have a lot of changes. It's easy to point out how we are struggling when it seems everyone around you is doing well - like what I've been saying several times - and thinking whether the hockey gods are deliberating making us suffer by giving all the bad things that could happen to a hockey team at once.

But no, I look at the calendar and wonder, maybe this is a blessing it's happening now because we still have time to turn things around rather than a late season collapse? It's hard to stay positive when the teams around you are peaking together this early, but again the season isn't over yet. Sid and Geno and Jake will break their slumps as the perfect time - and months later when we look back, if the changes do happen, I feel like we can say to ourselves that these struggles came at the right time because had they not happened the Pens wouldn't have fared better anyway.

Idk what to tell you anon I stared our schedule in the face after the red wings game and accidentally predicted a w*nless streak that’s not gonna end until we get home to play the Jets. Thought we were gonna hit OT more though. We’re gonna get goalied by Veggie and they’ve got some hot kids who I think will embarrass DS and Dumo in front of the net.

As for everything you’ve said in the first paragraph, I’m having trouble parsing what you want me to say? You seem to ask and answer your own questions as you’re typing them out.

Do I think Sully’s job is in jeopardy? Ehhhhh. I’m not sure who we’d hire instead. Do I think he’s safe? No. Do I think we’ll make a trade? We’re certainly going to try but the problem is who do we give up. We can’t just trade away bad players for someone good, even to teams trying to tank. Is it fair to compare us to everyone else? That’s how the world works but if it’s getting you down try not to listen to those things. In the grand scheme of things it’s a long season and we’ve got time to course correct and figure it out.

I’m doing my best to not be worried about the current streak, either we figure our shit out or we don’t. I asked myself last night what the worse case scenario for this season is (barring retirement or player injuries *knock on wood*) and the best case scenario. The worst thing I could think of was we miss the playoffs.

Is that bad? Is it the end of the world? Steelers (my football team) are currently trying to figure out how to backdoor their way into the playoffs and before that people were doomposting about how it would be the first time Mike Tomlin (the coach) would miss the playoffs and I’m like I’d rather the Steelers be functional and good heading into next season than to watch them play a single playoffs game this season.

For the pens, I’d be disappointed if we br*ke the current streak but we kinda did in 2020 and it wasn’t the end of the world. The best case scenario is, of course, always the Cup. If those are best and worst, I’m fine with both options. I know what I’d prefer, but I’m sitting here trying my best to enjoy watching my favorite flightless birds zoom around the ice and trying to remember how lucky we are to still have this core and this team.

[sagaofstardustmkg]

atropa belladonna || orpheus || mm.3 || re: accusing his fucking husband

“Shut up.”

Ben’s voice is hard as he says that. He’s been listening to the conclusions that the table has been coming to. He’s not stupid. He has a degree. He’s a highly intelligent person who’s more than capable of following a path of deductive reasoning, and Ben is keenly aware of what people are trying to get at without saying it with their words. Bo, Fumie, and Haruki’s the only one who has the nerve to say what they’re all fucking thinking.

They’re entitled to their opinions, even if their opinions are dead wrong and utterly fucking ridiculous. He’ll gladly point it out. No problem.

“Your conclusion is flawed to the core. Not a single bit of it is conclusive--in fact, I’m ashamed to even have to give it a modicum of attention, but it has to be quashed so that we can move on to actually finding an answer, I suppose, so fine.”

He spits the last word, his hand squeezing his husband’s, having flipped over from holding his knee to lacing their fingers together. Ben’s eyes drift confidently between each person seated at the table, and his voice has lowered from it’s near-shout volume to a level that speaks of years of standing before a podium and presenting arguments. 

His face is not that of denial; rather, it’s of a man who is firm in his convictions. It's a simple fact.

“You’ve all described Caleb, yes, but isn’t it a common observation that two people share those traits? You’ve effectively described Bo as well. Rather convenient that it’s Bo who stated so certainly that he was number 3 on the chart when the ego could easily be used to describe Caleb as well. We all simply went along with his conclusion, but I’ve decided it’s time we push back against it.

The point with Perennial: Caleb easily could have noticed something amiss with them without the use of magic, and he’s not exactly one to mince words, so it goes to reason that he could have easily been the one to cause the crisis that required a reset. 

Convenient that Bo is also British, isn’t it? And he admitted it himself that he was able to parse information that no one else here likely could from the research.

In regards to the notice with the strange spelling, Sasha easily could have made that sign. On the other hand, the people working together clearly have a rapport between them, don't they? Glassbreaker and Timekeeper? It could be a note from one to themself, saying if they leave without something then Bo, as Timekeeper, would notice. An inside joke. Nothing more.

I'm not saying it's Bo: I'm just saying you're all not bothering to examine anything in-depth or from different angles. Do that, hm?”

As he lists his points, he remains calm, but, as he continues, he can’t help but laugh through his words.

“And--And to your point about something happening to me, I’m right fucking here, aren’t I? I’ve been here the whole time! If something ‘worse’ happened to me, I think I would bloody know about it! 

He wouldn’t keep that from me. He can’t lie. Everyone has seen that, everyone knows that, so, then, explain how he kept this from me--this whole mess--for months. You can’t. And don’t say ‘oh, you just don’t know him, he can lie’. I’ve known him for almost thirty years. No one here other than Caleb himself gets the fucking right to claim they know him better than me.”

Having at some time leaned forward in his seat during his last point, Ben sits back and lets out an aggravated puff of air, muttering something about “ridiculous” and “fucking barmy” under his breath.

[whirlybirbs]

         (  chapter 6′s gif by @buckysbarnes​​ from this lovely set !  )

✪   —   VACANT MIRRORS  ;  B.B.  |  6/?

summary: gunshot wounds, panic attacks, and evil next door neighbors.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

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

word count: 5.3k, a filler before the real sexual tension.

a/n: be warned, this chapter has a diy medical procedure where bucky removes the slug from rabbit’s shoulder. it’s nothing too graphic, but keep that in mind! also, i wanted to say thank you to everyone who has rec’d, reblogged, commented, kudos, liked, looked at this fic. the response to every chapter has been so overwhelmingly kind and i’m so thankful that i have the oppurtunity to share this fic with you all. that being said, i broke this chapter up. next week has some spice. ;-)

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Bucky wakes up with a headache that feels like someone’s tapped an icepick between his eyes. A fire-bright burn radiates under his ribs.

It’s a slow creep back to reality — he just lays there and stares at the peeling wallpaper that meets the corner of the ceiling for a while, knowing deep in the back of his muddled, confused thoughts that he most likely has a nasty concussion, maybe a few broken ribs.

How? Hm. Fighting. Music? The club.

Rabbit.

He sits up fast and Bucky’s blue eyes struggle to adjust in the low-light of the scarcely furnished apartment. The searing pang of his headache is enough to make his stomach churn, but he’s had worse. So much worse. This is manageable. So, he swallows down the nausea and looks around the room like a wounded animal — and almost immediately, relief greets him at the sight of you in the armchair across from the couch.

Your hair is a mess, falling from it’s previous style that you’d proudly worn to The Glass Cannon. Your lipstick is smeared, there’s glitter on your cheeks, and your make-up has transitioned from starlet beauty to broken-hearted bombshell. Bucky notices, with a bit of dismay, that you’re even missing an earring. There’s a nasty bruise forming along the peak of your cheekbone and a gash there from when Alexei had cracked you across the face with the pistol — and even despite all this, Bucky can feel his heart clench at the sight of you. A good clench. The sort that makes his heart kick into a stutter step.

You look… well, you look like someone who’d had the shit choked out of them and then was shot.

Shot.

Your jacket, punched clean through with the single bullet hole, is hanging over the back of the chair and there’s gauze taped to your shoulder. You’re leaning your good cheek in your hand, attention turned totally to Bucky, where you’ve fallen asleep. From here, you’re a picture of exhaustion.

Anxiety flashes in his heart and he swings his legs over the edge of the couch.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Take it easy.”

It’s the woman from before, Kiwi, and she’s got an ice pack in her hands. It’s wrapped in a ratty, green dish towel, and she hands it off to Bucky with a pitiful little look. Rounding the couch, Bucky finally gets a better look at her.

She’s older than you, maybe by a handful of years, but sharp and beautiful nonetheless. Her hair is dark as night and the tips are drenched in a lime colored dye. Her eyes are dark, too, ringed by kohl and glitter, and Bucky wonders if he’s ever seen her before.

“You heal quick,” she says quietly as she plops down into the chair across the room. On a makeshift desk, there’s a laptop, “Care to explain how you know our dear friend Rabbit here?”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. Again, his eyes fall on your sleeping form.

He maneuvers the ice pack in his hands, then gently presses it to his ribs. He melts a bit, ignoring the evident tears in the silk shirt. He feels bad — he’d busted some of the seams in the midst of the brutal scuffle and it seems like this artifact of Jaimie’s was most likely beyond salvation.

His dog tags jingle against his chest.

“Therapy,” Bucky croaks, “We, uh, we met in therapy.”

A new voice comes into the picture now, one that’s muffled by a mouthful of food.

“That’s cute.”

It’s the other one, Climber. He’s traded in his all-black, all-polyurethane outfit for an expensive looking t-shirt. Without the strobes, without the tunnel vision, Bucky can now see the intricate buzz cut that sits beneath the mountain of blue curls on his head. There are patterns buzzed into his tight-shave. He’s got a smile, too, the glimmers a little too artificially. Bucky spies crystals inset on his incisors between bites of what looks like a bowl of cereal with no milk. Spoon and all.

“I don’t think we’ve properly met,” Climber says as he plops down next to Bucky on the couch, “What’d you say your name was?”

A hand is jutted his way. Bucky blinks. He shakes it with his vibranium hand.

“I’m Bucky.”

“Well, I’m gay and you’re gorgeous,” he says candidly, giving it a good shake, “So, if that’s of any interest—”

“Can you please shut up, Climber?” comes an irritated rasp from you in your armchair. Bucky turns to watch as you raise your head and rub your eyes, “Christ, I just fell asleep.”

“And your little supersoldier just woke up,” Kiwi chirps from her preoccupation with the laptop and contents on it, “So why don’t you stop being a little baby and let him look at that gunshot wound.”

Bucky’s face falls flat. He drops the ice pack to the coffee table with a thwunk.

You sit up, gingerly trying to maneuver yourself so as to not bother both your ribs and your shoulder. It takes a moment, but finally you’re sitting up with only a dull ache of pain throbbing beneath your skin. Now, the real sting comes from the bitter look Bucky has pinned you with.

“You haven’t cleaned it yet?”

“The shits in the kitchen,” Kiwi waves at Bucky, as if to say told you so, “She fuckin’ refused to let me take care of it.”

“You’re going to get an infection if it stays in you any longer,” he snaps, standing to his feet, “Get up.”

“Kiwi isn’t exactly the most gentle person I know,” you manage to supply as an excuse as you move through the room, “And I know that thing isn’t coming out without a fight.”

He can feel the grey hairs coming in already.

You stand slowly, and Bucky looms behind you as you weave into the small apartment’s kitchen.

It’s barely lived in, but a few years ago it most definitely had life. Now, it’s mostly abandoned save for a few necessities. Kiwi had told you, a long time ago, about this spot — it was her parent’s place before the Snap. After the Blip, they ended up moving back to Massachusetts. Now abandoned by anyone seeking to really live in the one bedroom, it sits collecting dust until Kiwi inevitably needs it.

Like now.

“Up on the counter.”

You wince at his tone, but still thankful to be away from Kiwi and Climber’s prying eyes.

For the entire time Bucky had been out, you’d been subjected to a myriad of questions — all were fair, really, since Bucky did just bust out the Avenger-level super-moves on some Russian mafiosos for your sake, vibranium arm and all. The arm was really the biggest stuck point in the conversation as you tried your best to explain the nature of your relationship with the unconscious supersoldier on the couch. It was met with plenty of looks, both curious and skeptical.

You’re slow to hop up on the dusty marble countertop. From there, you watch Bucky poke through the kit that Kiwi had pulled from under the sink.

Then, with the calculated process of a man who has pulled one too many bullets from himself, Bucky slams the kit shut and wanders into the bathroom.

He returns with a pair of large tweezers. He’s silent as the dead as he rummages for a pan, fills it with water, and sets the gas burner on. He stares, watching the pot boil, as his foot taps against the floor.

You swallow down any comments.

There’s a clean towel beside you, and Bucky casually reached into the boiling water with his vibranium hand to retrieve the tweezers — whether or not he purposely ignored the pain is lost on you. You’re too busy anxiously spiraling into silence.

(He’s trying to ground himself, to feel something other than panic. It’s a mild spike, but it’s still panic. Because you’re hurt. Because you still have a fucking casing lodged in your shoulder and he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you. Ever. Because he saw it happen and then it was black, and now that anxiousness is creeping in.)

Rubbing alcohol, tweezers, gauze, tape, and… Jack Daniel’s.

It’s from the top of the fridge. It’s got a layer of dust on it — and it’s unopened.

Bucky unceremoniously pops the cap and hands the open bottle to you.

You take it and pause.

Bucky’s gaze is cold.

“You’re gonna want to take a few swigs, Doll.”

You almost snarl. You take a long drink then, ignoring the burn of the whiskey down your throat. It’s only when you’ve had enough to nearly gag that you hand the bottle back and then hiss:

“Don’t call me Doll.”

He takes the bottle and unceremoniously slams it down on the counter.

His movements are rough as he washes his hands — and if Bucky was a better person, maybe he’d take a second and parse through why he was feeling so damn irritable. But, no, no, he could figure out that he was angry at himself and you and Alexei Gardzov and Innessa Sidrova and fucking… everyone because he can’t have any normal relationships in his life without there being bloodshed or pain or suffering. That was enough, and he didn’t want to dig deeper into the nipping fear of losing you, not now, not when he had a job to do—

You suck in a sharp breath when his fingers brush your collarbone. He gently moves the delicate strap of your bodysuit, ignoring the soft skin beneath, and pulls the gauze away from your shoulder.

Your jacket had taken most of the impact it seems. Bucky frowns deeply at the pink fibers clinging to the entry wound. It’s a nasty puckered bit of flesh, smeared with blood, right in the soft muscle of your left shoulder. The hole is a little smaller than a quarter — Bucky recognizes it as shot from a 9mm almost immediately. He’s taken a few of these in his days. He’s glad it wasn’t close range. The burns from the muzzle flash make for nasty scars. He’d know. He has one on his back, right above his hip.

Bucky’s jaw is tight. He’s gritting his back teeth. His headache throbs angrily behind his eyes.

Bucky leans, eyeing the wound carefully. His limited reaction is enough to spark a little light of bravery in your gut, and you move to look at the hole — only to find a vibranium hand rooting your jaw in place. It’s gentle enough as it recorrects the line of your gaze straight ahead. His thumb rests on the curve of your chin as his index climbs your jaw, and the vibranium is warm and cold all at once. It’s an odd sensation. Not bad, but not flesh.

You like it.

(You find your mind quickly flashing with the thought of what that hand would feel like in other places. You ignore it.)

Your eyes are stuck on Bucky.

He’s clearly upset — the pinch between his brows and the evident scowl on his lips is enough of an indication. The bridge of his nose is busted and there’s a bruise crawling under his left eye. The shirt you’d given him is a wreck, and as he bends to snatch up a rubbing alcohol soaked pad, the feeling of shame creeps up on you. The anxiousness that’s settled in the pit of your stomach doesn’t help.

Arguably, it exacerbates the symptom.

The whiskey is slow to make an impact.

But, when Bucky finally swipes the gauze across the wound, your ankles have begun to tingle and it isn’t blinding white pain you feel — not yet. It’s sharp and it feels like he’s touching your shoulder blade when he presses his fingers into the holes to clean the immediate area. That has you grimacing tightly.

His obsidian-hued hand holds your face still through it.

So, you opt to stare.

His arm reminds you of some pottery you’d seen back at the Museum of Modern Art once, on a school trip. In a dimly lit room, spotlights lit up a row of vases that had been gilded back together with gold-dusted sap. You’d sat there for nearly an hour, staring at those things. You can’t remember the name now, not while Bucky does one more pass across the wound. It started with a ‘k’. It was beautiful. You loved that exhibit. Why can’t you — fuck — remember the name? Kinsi… kinsigumi? Gumi. Kintsi —

You grit your teeth and grip the counter tightly. He pauses. You exhale.

You inhale.

Kintsugi.

The seams of his arm remind you of Kintsugi.

It’s beautiful.

Bucky’s eyes flit to yours. He sees your stare.

Maybe it’s the pain, or the half-cocked daze, but the look in your eyes is enough to spur an immediate reaction. Bucky scowls. He yanks his hand back, retreating to the supplies on the counter. He’s pulled, hard and fast, and now he seems miles away.

Quietly, and with a bit more chill than he intended, he speaks. “If it was making you nervous, you should have said something.”

It.

Your head snaps to him.

“What?” you ask, nearly incredulously.

He’s silent. He has the tweezers in his hand now.

Your eyes narrow critically — and instead of shame and anxiety, it’s hurt that flies off your tongue. It’s drenched in enough pain that Bucky hears it in the waver of your voice.

“You think I’m afraid of you?”

It’s nearly a whisper.

He swallows.

He ignores it. He has to. He doesn’t want to know the answer. Either way that conversation goes is enough to drag him into territory he can’t handle right now. Not when he needs to do this without his hands shaking.

“This is going to hurt.”

Your mouth is open — be it shock or anger, he’s not sure. Bucky, however, makes a point of ignoring your expression and your reaction by handing over the whiskey once more. You snatch it from his hands quickly. There’s a look on your face that makes his chest ache. With one last pass over him with your eyes, you take a long swig.

You feel like crying.

You won’t, though. Not now. Not while he does this.

You deserve this.

And holy fucking hell does it hurt. It’s like someone’s taken a hot poker and punctured your skin, then rotated it around and around and around. You can feel every time the tweezers touch the bullet because the metallic little click echoes in your chest. It’s enough to make your head spin, and you grit your teeth and close your eyes and try to breathe — but even after a handful of minutes, when Bucky finally retrieves the slug, there’s no relief. Just a desperate throb.

Your hands are shaking when you reach for the whiskey once more.

You do cry, finally, when Bucky packs the hole.

He rolls the gauze up tightly into a cylinder and, as gently as he can, pushes it in.

It’s a horrible choke of pain that you smother into your palm and pant through. It reminds you to breathe, and while you stare up at the water damage on the kitchen ceiling, Bucky tapes a square piece of gauze over the bruised wound and wraps your shoulder tightly. He takes his time, but there’s a curtness to his actions.

Finally, when he begins to clean up the mess of bloodied gauze, you speak.

“If you’re mad at me, then just say it.”

He snaps almost immediately, like a kicked dog. “And say what, Rabbit? That I almost lost you?”

Your mouth slips shut.

Bucky pauses what he’s doing. He drops the gauze onto the towel and he bares both hands against the counter top. He leans and exhales and drops his own head back — then, you can see his own waves of anxiety knocking him against the shore of composure. His eyes move back and forth, he inhales, and then after a long while he speaks.

It’s calmer. Not so horribly mean.

“You should have told me about Alexei.”

You go to speak — but he stops you.

“I mean really, really told me,” he explains, “Had I known he wanted your fucking head mounted on a spike, I would have kept you far away from that place.”

“We had to—”

“No,” he says sternly, standing up full height, “No, we didn’t. We never have to do anything that’s going to put you in danger. Never. I won’t do it again. You should have fuckin’ told me.”

You’re quiet.

“A few more inches to the right,” he says, gesturing to your throat with his finger. His eyes are expressive and he’s speaking like he’s lived this experience, “You’d be dead. Cold and dead and I’d be here, carrying the fucking guilt around with me because I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”

His voice splinters at the end — but he’s moved to throw away the gauze and dump the tweezers in the sink. He can’t look at you as he says it, and you know that. Because, just like before, people like you and him have a hard time looking the truth in the eyes.

You slide off the counter.

Your heart is sad. It’s heavy and mournful and weighed down with guilt.

“Bucky.”

It’s soft. He’s scrubbing your blood from his hands.

He doesn’t turn around. He can’t. He can feel the prick of an anxious breakdown beginning to climb into his eyes. Instead, he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs and your blood is stuck in the plating of his hand and it’s not going to come out—

Think of what could have happened if it had been a few inches to the right. The arched spray. Blood everywhere. She can’t speak through the gargle, she’s going cold, she’s gone. And, like always, you’re alone again, Bucky.

Then, your hands are on his.

The touch is enough to stop him. It’s enough for him to move aside at the large, inset kitchen sink. You exhale slowly as you run the water a little warmer and gingerly run his hands under the tap. Your hands are smaller than his, a bit more delicate, and he’s stunned into a sharp silence at the feeling of your fingertips gently washing away the crimson blood.

You grab another dish towel from a drawer beside the stove.

Then, in the dim light of the kitchen, you take both his hands and dry them.

It’s the vibranium hand that you pay special attention to, though. And Bucky feels like a fucking idiot — just standing there, just watching as you run the rag between the gilded plating and use gentle pressure to get into the harder to reach spots. You turn it over, and you dry his knuckles.

You take your time.

You don’t look up when you speak. You’re focused. Almost reverent.

He doesn’t deserve this.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say sternly.

His mouth is dry. “Rabbit…”

Bucky shifts on his feet and takes a deep inhale. He feels lightheaded.

The whiskey, and the closeness of the two of you, makes your skin warm. His whole nervous system feels like it’s on fire.

“I didn’t mean to stare, I don’t ever mean to,” you apologize as your hands still over his arm. He watches your irises trace the plating above his wrist. The rag is forgotten, its purpose null. Your words are heavy, and Bucky can hear a little shake in them as you swallow, “I just… think it’s beautiful.”

You’re beautiful.

Even now, blood-soaked and sweat-stained. With makeup running down your cheeks and your composure in shambles. Even now, on the run and apparently wanted, you’re incredibly beautiful. Bucky hates how easy it is to admit and how hard it is to keep off his tongue. It nearly gets the better of him. He watches your eyelashes flutter. When you look up at him, the world is suddenly drowned in honey.

“I’m sorry.”

You mean it.

Your bottom lip wobbles.

Bucky, immediately, regrets being so goddamn cold.

You were just trying to help — you were just trying to do the right thing.

“Stop it. Come here.”

The hug is the first time you can remember touching him like this. You think you’ll always remember it, too. It’s sturdy and warm and gentle and honest and you bury your face into the shoulder as his arms come up around your neck. He’s careful of your own injured shoulder, and his fingers find the base of your neck. Around his waist, your fingers dig into the back of his shirt. Both of you ground yourselves in the other’s arms, and for the first time in a handful of hours, you both find peace.

Quiet, sturdy, lovely peace.

And the two of you stay like that for a while in the quiet little kitchen.

It’s not until Climber’s voice rises from the living room that you’re pulled away from Bucky — and even then, your face linger inches from one another for a moment too long. Neither of you say a word, only swallow down confessions that could have been, and move on.

“Oh, girlie, you’re gonna wanna see this.”

Bucky frowns. With your brows knotted tightly together, you weave through the kitchen and back into the living room.

Kiwi has sat up and both her and Climber have their eyes on the bulky flat screen on the dust-covered entertainment center. It’s cable news, and as Climber leans to turn the television up, a picture of you flashes across the screen.

It’s a photo from your arrest six months ago.

“Local authorities are asking that anyone with information on the whereabouts of this young woman call the FBI’s anonymous tip line—”

“Is there a reward?” Climber whispers almost excitedly, eyes on the screen.

“—Authorities are offering $100,000 dollars to the person who provides enough information to lead up to this dangerous fugitive’s capture.”

“Dangerous fugitive?” hisses Bucky.

“A hundred thousand dollars?” cries Kiwi, “Who the fuck did you piss off?”

You inhale deeply as you wave your hands. “The bigger question is who the fuck knew I was going to The Glass Cannon last night. Because they’re looking for me — not you.”

You point at Bucky and the gears are turning in your head.

The pacing is almost immediate, and Bucky crosses his arms tightly as you begin to walk back and forth behind the full length couch that Climber is currently spread out on.

It’s cut short, though, by Kiwi’s laptop chiming successfully.

“Well,” she stands quickly, “I have a feeling that someone knows you’re onto them. And the facial recognition software just got a match. A three point one, too.”

Your eyes brighten.

You’d given Kiwi the photo of the young Innessa, with all her decorated furs and blonde curls. She’s laughing and she’s young and she’s in love and it’s hard for you to imagine a woman like her to be dangerous. While you’d made sure Bucky was propped up comfortably on the couch and then finally calmed down from the adrenaline high enough to get comfortable yourself, Kiwi had dug out the hard-drive she kept on her at all times and began pulling data from the Alexandria Library files.

It had been a handful of hours, so it was clear that Innessa had hid herself well in the vast, expansive database SHIELD kept for all those years while it was in operation.

Bucky is quick to gather behind Kiwi, eyes scanning the screen.

Sure enough, when you come to look at the photos pulled up on Kiwi’s screen, there’s a hit. There’s an identification card photo of an older woman, maybe in her forties, pulled up alongside the photo Bucky had given you. Her hair is no longer blonde, but deep auburn color. She’s marked as having worked with Rumlow — a supervisor of some sort. Makes sense. You didn’t need to see a picture of Crossbones to remember Brock. Even when you’d interned, he’d been infamous.

And that was when he was one of the good guys.

There’s a handful of other photos of her — candids, professional photos, and even one where she is shaking Tony Stark’s hand.

And in all of them, you see your next door neighbor Bonnie McLayne.

“Fuck.”

Bucky blinks. Kiwi turns to look at you over her shoulder.

Again, you speak. Your eyes are wide. You can’t look away from the screen.

“Fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Rabbit…?”

“Fuck.”

Bucky’s face narrows considerably, confusion melting to make room for realization.

His voice is quiet.

“Do you know her?”

“Oh my god,” you say loudly, shaking your head and blinking, “Oh my fucking god, that’s my neighbor.”

Bucky can feel his whole face go clammy.

“The neighbor who—”

“—Who I showed your fucking picture to,” you nearly shriek, “Like it was some cute little matchmaking game!”

Immediately both hands are over your face as you throw your head back. Now, the pacing has begun, and like you’re being carried on autopilot, you begin to move back and forth and back and forth and—

“You don’t think she’d hurt Poke, do you?”

“Rabbit.”

“Oh god, oh god—”

Oh.

Oh, you’re having a panic attack.

Oh, that was quick. Brutally fast. Nearly immediate.

After all, she knows where your family lives. She gets Holiday cards from mom to give to you. She’s been your closest friend for nearly six years. But she’s not Bonnie, she’s Innessa fucking Sidrova. She’s seen you with Bucky. She knows — she knows a lot and you don’t know anything and you’re miles from home, from Poke, from Mom, from Ana… Oh, god, the baby. The baby.

“The baby.”

Bucky’s voice is level. “Rabbit, you gotta calm down.”

“I have to call my mom.”

“No,” Kiwi snaps immediately, “They’re going to be watching for your cell phone pings. No calls, no texting, none of it. And god forbid this woman is one step ahead of the FBI—”

“Oh, god.”

You gasp like a fish out of water, paralyzing fear sending you to lean against the back of the couch.

You claw at your chest and try to remember what Dr. Hart said about these sorts of moments. Square breathing. In and hold and out and hold. Again and again.  

“Sit down,” Bucky says as he returns to your side, nearly sweeping you up long enough to plop you down into the armchair from before, “And do me a favor and breathe.”

The whiskey isn’t helping right now.

“I’m trying.”

Another gasped breath.

Climber and Kiwi watch.

Bucky shakes his head sternly, kneeling on one knee and snagging your hands. “Don’t try. Just do it. You can do it. Just follow my lead — you’re the sidekick, after all. Remember? C’mon. There’s the smile. Breathe.”

So you do.

In, hold. Out, hold. You draw a square with one hand on your jeans and hold onto Bucky’s with the other.

Again, in and hold. Out and hold.

And again.

And then, you just listen to Bucky’s breathing.

You’re not sure how long it takes — half an hour, ten minutes, who knows — but finally you’re able to calm the spiraling thoughts in your head. Finally, the loudness quiets down, you catch your breath, and the world isn’t falling apart. The bite of anxiety still remains in the hollow of your chest and Bucky can see that when you finally open your eyes and squeeze his hand.

There’s that look again between the two of you. The one from before, in the kitchen.

“Good?” he asks quietly, blue eyes swimming with some sort of emotion you can’t really pin down. Not now. Maybe, if you’d been a bit more collected, you would have seen it as infatuation. But, no. It’s just… nice.

You swallow and nod.

“Damn, girl,” says Climber from his spot on the couch, “Now I’m starting to get the whole therapy thing.”

“Thanks, dickhead.”

“That’s recent, isn’t it?” he asks, genuine worry crossing his face as he stands to gently pass a hand over your back, “I don’t remember it ever being this bad.”

Your face is sad. “I was just partying through it back then. Distraction was always the best method and then… When I had no more distractions and it was just me? Alone? And, psh, the accident with Jaimie? It got worse. So much worse.”

Climber’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, bunny.”

You try to put on a brave face.

Bucky stands from in front of you and begins his own pacing. This one isn’t so much born out of anxious nature — but more of a tactical logic born out of keeping you safe.

This wasn’t exactly the turn he was expecting.

“You didn’t recognize her?” he asks after a moment, voice high and tight.

“I’m sorry,” you wave a hand, exasperated, “She doesn’t exactly look the same as she did in the 70s.”

Kiwi frowns at the screen. “Definitely botox.”

Bucky squints. He looks to you for an explanation.

You vaguely gesture to your face.

His brow lifts, he closes his eyes, and he sighs.

Kiwi is next to pipe up. “It explains why the feds are looking for you, especially if she saw you with the one man she knows is looking to hunt her down — so, I think it’s best the both of you lay low for a couple of days.”

“Not to mention,” Climber wags a finger, “Bucky the Babe over here did just piss off one the smaller Russian crime families in New York. So, there’s always that ontop of the evil Nazi-HYDRA-woman-next-door.”

You groan.

“Poke has enough food for a week,” Bucky says nearly reading your mind, “He’ll be fine.”

“So, what? We just wait here? Until something happens?”

“Sidrova is going to try and bait us out,” Bucky mutters, “She knows she can’t just disappear. She’s been settled for too long and we know too much. Engaging us in an altercation is how she’ll do it. Plus, I have a feeling she wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to shoot me in the knees after a few decades. So, we wait.”

“Few decades?” Kiwi whispers.

“How old are you?” Climber asks.

“Hundred and six.”

Both of them just blink at an unphased Bucky.

You sigh, finally standing on wobbly legs. “This feels like a bad idea. I’m just stating that for the record.”

“Better than her hunting the both of you down,” Kiwi supplies, “You can stay here. There’s cable, there’s booze, and there’s plenty of instant ramen to last you until winter.”

“Stale cereal, too.”

“Wait— where are you two going?” you ask, narrowing your eyes, “You’re leaving?”

“Keeping our hands clean,” Kiwi says, closing her laptop, “And letting you be the sidekick, bunny.”

The sadness in your heart grows a little heavier at those words, but there’s a little bit of pride in Kiwi’s tone. As she stands, she moves to wrap her arms around you in a gentle hug. Quietly, she murmurs into your hair.

“Your dad would be proud of you, y’know.”

Bucky watches.

Climber is next, and that hug is bigger, more brotherly, more like sunshine and less like autumn.

“Don’t be a stranger, Rabbit.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out as the two of them gather their belongings, “For dragging you both into this. But, thank you. You didn’t have to help me—”

“Yeah, we did,” Kiwi chirps as she knocks Bucky on the arm three times, “Keep her safe, aakarshak purush.”

The Hindi rolls off her tongue with ease.

Bucky laughs. “Bahut lamba.”

Kiwi pauses mid-step. She narrows her eyes. There’s a smile on her lips. “Your pronunciation isn’t bad.”

He shrugs plainly. “I get lunch almost everyday at the Indian place below my apartment, so. The owner has been teaching me some stuff on the side.”

An approving nod.

Kiwi hucks you the keys across the room.

She points at Bucky.

“I like him. Try not to fuck that up, eh?”

And then, the two of them are gone.

And it’s just you and Bucky in the empty apartment.

[ugh-againwiththenames]

2021 - The Year of Fic...

While I have watched SPN a few times over the years (watching and rewatching as new seasons came out), I did not join the fandom until this year – this is (at the age of ‘older than most’) my first fandom, and I fucking love it here. Due to not being part of a fandom previously, I had also never read fanfiction until this year; and to say that I fell headfirst into the ocean of Destiel fic is an understatement.  I wanted to track my progress – I wanted to understand what I was capable of accomplishing in (less than) a year.  

While I can’t scream this from the rafters anywhere but here – I’m proud as hell of the number of fics and the total amount of fic I’ve consumed this year.  Of all the amazing authors I have found, followed, and screamed over – of all the stories (of the same two idiots) I have devoured and begged for more on, I know there are so many more stories to read and so many more authors to find.  

The 2021 Numbers:

I read a total of 222 Fics

Totaling over 11.3 Million words

I have learned that:

I tend to prefer AU’s (as evidenced below)

I love an author that can bring Dean to life WELL (he’s a tricky one, but I’m so Dean-coded, I get upset when authors don’t get him right, or over-do his issues – he has enough already!)

I like LONG stories over short one-shots (this doesn’t surprise me at all, as a high/epic fantasy reader)

I can get behind anything except A/B/O….I tried, but it’s just not for me. (I’ll try anything once...)

I am a Top!Cas truther, but have found a couple of instances where Top!Dean has cracked my top fics list…(I have no problem with Switch!fics)

Explicit or Fluff, either works, as long as it works with the story that’s being told

I’ve never cried reading a physical book (and I read A LOT) - but fics have made me cry/sob more often than I care to admit to…

I tried to start off by reading all the “big ones” – the ones that I had heard about all over the place (T&S, 4LW, 91W etc.), I’m sure there are so many more that qualify here (the mermaid fic, the hockey fic, the baseball fic, etc.) which I have also read – but I want them all, so please – please let me know your favourites.  What are the MUST READS?  There is no definitive list, everyone has different favourites, and it’s so hard to parse out what needs to go on the list to read.  I often found myself falling down small rabbit holes, which was fine with me (and often lead to me finding fics I’d never heard of, and some of them were spectacular).  

So, as a NEW fic reader, and a FIRST year of reading fic, wading through the LARGEST single pairing on AO3, here are some of my favourite stories/authors etc. (in absolutely no order, because I can’t possibly!) – but these are the ones I would generally tell everyone they need to put on their Must Read Lists (linked):

Domination and Submission: A Love Story (Series) – Anyrei/Queerwerewolf

The Inexhaustible Silence of Houses – Askance (doomcountry)

Talk (Series) – Bendingsignpost

Control – Dothraki_shieldmaiden

To Build a Home – intothesilentland

Ninety-One Whiskey (Series) – komodobits

Under the Midnight Sun – NorthernSparrow

Cursed Metaphors (Series) – Sobsicles

Out of the Deep – riseofthefallenone

Fire and Ice – Castielslostwings

That’s only 10…of 222…Choosing only 10 was no easy feat.  I have fallen in love with so many of these authors, not to mention a ton that aren’t mentioned here.  Thank you to all fic writers for making 2021 tolerable! For a year (well, the second year really), where I could not partake in any of my favourite hobbies/activities due to COVID related nonsense, I’m glad that I was able to find a new obsession to keep me interested and excited every day. Further, thank you to the fandom for being a new and exciting place to check in on daily, for being a space where we can love these two silly boys with reckless abandon in every way possible.

Please give me your recco’s – If any of these are your favourites as well, please let me know what/who else I should add to my list…

[misterghostfrog]

[IMAGE ID; a digital drawing of Martin Blackwood carrying Jonathan Sims from The Magnus Archives. Martin is a fat freckled white man with curly ginger hair that is shaved close at the sides. He has a pair of round framed glasses in a bright red, under the glasses he is wearing eyeliner, and a navy eyeshadow. He has black lipstick, two black snakebite piercings under his lip, and a small black nostril piercing. His ear has a large black piercing that cuffs a chain to a small black piercing higher up his ear, and one final black piercing in the middle. He has a black choker, and then a looser chain necklace with an eye ornament on it. He has a studded lather jacket on that is covered in multiple patches and pins, mostly hidden by Jon: of the visible pins there is a trans flag patch on his chest, and on his shoulder is a large dark colored patch that has A-C-A-B on it in white. Under the Jacket is a black shirt that he has partly tucked into his pants, the shirt has a large anarchy symbol drawn on it in red. Under that he is wearing jeans that are significantly ripped as far as we can see. On his right hand he has several black rings, and his nails are painted black. Jon is a skinny Jordanian man with brown eyes and shoulder-length grey-streaked dark brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail at the base of his neck. He has a beard beginning to grow that appears to be the product of forgetting to shave. He is covered in a series of small round scars that vary in exact size. He is wearing a pair of rectangle-framed glasses, a plain t-shirt, a pair of jeans that are ripped at the knee, and converse. Martin is carrying Jon bridal style in his arms, and is looking away, he is blushing, though his expression is concerned and appears to be speaking. Jon has his arms wrapped around Martins neck, his cheeks are darkened and he is staring at hte ground with an expression somewhere between fear and the face one makes when they’re having to retrace every step they’ve taken to get here. END ID]

Punk Martin but make it Jonmartin.

Also I wrote a lil thing to go along with this under the cut, its only barely edited because it was mostly for fun so be warned its a big ol mess! But its s2 jonmartin nonsense with Martin being very cool and attractive and Jon being seven layers deep in denial (Also I may have written Jon as a touch autistic because its projection hours tonight i’m too sleepy to mask and that goes for writing too babey)

(Mentions of worms, past injuries, and Jon dealing with some internalised ableism and general foolishness)

Jon forgot his cane.

It’s a relatively regular occurrence, for a multitude of reasons. For one thing it’s something of a recent addition to the list of things he needs to keep track of when he leaves the house. Another lovely parting gift from Prentiss, a worm in his left leg that went just quick enough to start burrowing into the bone before it was removed. 

For another, he really has other things to worry about. And if it doesn’t hurt, it shouldn’t matter. Most days he can get by just fine without it- it hurts of course. But not so much he can’t support himself, and really, does he need it otherwise?

Martin and Tim don’t seem to agree, though Sasha has kept respectfully to herself on the whole business. Martin, of course, he trusts. Albeit only recently. But that doesn’t make him right, his priorities are warped. Naturally. He doesn’t see the bigger picture.

(or at least that’s what Jon tells himself)

Which is what leads to this moment, sitting on a bench outside the shop, single grocery bag by his feet. He’d only run out to get a few things, but somewhere between the his flat the the shop his barely visible limp had become more pronounced as his hip began to throb, then he was halfway through the frozens when he realized he wasn’t going to be able to finish the trip. After that he’d barely made it through checkout to the nearest seat before all but collapsing into it.

And now he’s sitting, stuck. An insurmountable walk from home, without his stupid cane. Which, he notes, he wouldn’t need if he’d brought in the first place. Funny how that works.

“Jon?” A familiar voice jolts him out of his thoughts. Jon jolts upright. Martin. 

He knows Martin lives in the area, a side effect of his... investigations. Though he was unaware he used the same shop. He looks up, a greeting or perhaps a question on his lips that dies as soon as he actually lays eyes on Martin.

Martin is wearing a leather jacket. Not just a leather jacket of course, but that’s the first thing Jon can process. He’s wearing a studded leather jacket covered in various patches that advertise various opinions and identities that Jon doesn’t have time to think about. His  jeans are about as much rip as they are Jean, and he’s got piercings- and eyeliner. he’s dressed like he should be riding a motorcycle, not the beat-up red bike he’s got beside him.

“Are you alright?” Martin says, and Jon realizes he’s been staring.

“Are you going to a costume party?” Jon blurts instead of answering. A costume party would make sense, of course. Martin doesn’t dress like this, he dresses like- like-

It occurs to him dimly that he’s never encountered Martin outside of work, at least never in a scenario that would allow him to change out of his work clothes. And some part of him has always assumed that sweaters and khakis were simply how he dressed. It suited him, really. Or Jon had assumed, but then again he assumed anything familiar is suiting.

“Wh- A- no?” Martin answers, looking vaguely offended. Jon flushes.

“I- sorry, I just- I’ve... I didn’t think you seemed the type to dress... like that...?” Jon fumbles, pathetically trying to salvage the conversation. Judging by Martins expression, he’s failing.

Martin opens his mouth to say something, and Jon realizes there’s likely no coming back from this particular mortification. He snatches the bag by his feet and moves to stand. Some excuse already tumbling out when the reason for his sit-down, which had dulled to a shockingly forgettable throb, decides to remind him of his place in the world.

He lets out a cry of pain, and crumples. Only stopped from hitting the ground by a pair of arms that wrap around his chest and under his shoulder. 

“Oh my god, Jon. Are you alright- what- is it your leg? Where’s your cane-” Martin babbles, Gently replacing Jon on his bench as Jon breathes through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine- i’m fine Martin I-” he sighs, studiously avoiding Martins gaze. “My cane is at home.” He tries not to sound chastised as he says the last part- he shouldn’t have to after all. He’s still Martins boss. He shouldn’t be looking away like he’s been caught at something.

“Jon” Martin sounds exasperated, and Jon crosses his arms. Once again, nothing like someone being scolded. He’s not being scolded. He’s an adult. “How long have you been sitting here like this?”

“I...” Jon begins before trailing off, he’s not actually sure. The period between sitting on the bench and the pain dulling enough for him to think through the fog is something is a blur. He is pretty sure someone asked if he was alright at some point. His lack of answer seems to be enough for Martin though.

“Just give me a moment.” He says, stepping away from Jon over to his bike- which has fallen over onto the ground -pulling it upright and over to Jon on the bench. He pushes down the rusted kickstand with a hearty kick- and Jon briefly notes he’s wearing steel-toed boots -and sets the bike gently upright.

“Okay, so! If you sit on the bike I can push it, and you can get home and rest that leg without jostling it too much by trying to walk without your cane.” He says pointedly. Jon makes a face,

“This... this really isn’t necessary Martin- I’m perfectly capable-” He grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. But a glance at Martins expression shuts him up quick. 

“Do you think you can stand?” He asks. Jon pauses, the memory of the white-hot flash of pain still fresh in his mind. He grimaces, shaking his head. Martin hums thoughtfully. “Alright, would you be alright if I picked you up? Just for a moment to get you on the bike” He asks carefully.

Jon hesitates, looking between Martin and the bike. And weighs his options. After several seconds he nods. Martin smiles, and Jon feels something in his chest flutter. Anxiety at his decision most likely. Or perhaps nerves in relation to sitting on a bike, he’s never ridden one- of course Martin will be doing all the work but surely there’s some sort of balance required isn’t there? Really he shouldn’t be riding a bike like this-

Those thoughts are all swept away at the feeling of large warm hands gently scooping him off the bench. He instinctively throws his arms around Martins neck for support as he’s lifted into the air. 

He can feel Martins chest warm against his side as Martin holds him close, one hand on his shoulder and the other supporting his legs. He’s being cradled by his subordinate, carefully as so not to jostle his leg. And all he can think about is how warm Martin is. He’s large and soft despite all the sharper accessories and he smells a bit like leather and tea on top of whatever soap he uses. Probably something that Jon wouldn’t be able to name with a gun to his head. And Jon can see the freckles on Martins cheeks and neck close enough to count if he wanted to even as he looks away, saying something Jon can’t quite parse because he’s too busy reeling from the realization he’d be happy to sit in Martins arms like this for the rest of his life.

His face goes hot and he forces himself to look down at the ground. The pain is clearly messing with his head, or perhaps the sleep deprivation. Or perhaps he’s still riding the high from that moment of realization that Martin isn’t trying to kill him, that he can trust him. 

Either way he’s not thinking straight, which is why he’s dissapointed instead of relieved when Martin gently places him on the bike with the exact amount of care he took in picking him up. Which shouldn’t make him feel so oddly jittery but it does.

The ride is quiet, aside from awkward instructions from Jon on where to turn as Martin guides them carefully along the sidewalk. They miss a turn once because Jons too preoccupied with the feeling of Martins arm bumping against his shoulder as he guides the bike.

And then they’re at Jons flat, and Jon once again feels that misplaced disappointment. He wonders if perhaps Martin will carry him up to his flat, and his face burns again as the silliness of the thought hits him.

Martin does very, very briefly lift him to help him off the bike when he stumbles. But his leg has recovered enough that he can make it up to his flat without assistance, or so he tells Martin. Who looks unconvinced.

“Let me at least walk with you, yea? That way I know for sure you got home safe.” He insists, and Jon forced himself to be displeased with the situation.

It ends up being a good thing Martin came along though, a partway up the steps the railing is no longer enough to support Jon, and he ends up half-carried the rest of the way. Martins arm under his shoulder, his own loops around Martins back, gripping the jacket for support. He can feel his head drifting at the contact- Martin is just so damned warm and safe and Martin it’s impossible not to get distacted.

He forces himself to think about something else, anything else. The jacket- he can feel the leather under his fingertips and it’s as good distraction as any.

It’s a nice jacket, really. Clearly well-worn. And it does suit Martin, in an odd sort-of way.

Jon winces internally, remembering the conversation from earlier. He hadn’t meant to come off so... well. It doesn’t matter. Except that it does, even though it doesn’t, but it does.

Once they reach Jons door, he pushes off of Martin to lean on the wall while he fumbles for his keys. Martin lingers as he does so, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly in the silence.

Jon finds his keys and sighs in relief as the door swings open.

He nearly wanders inside and shuts the door before remembering basic human etiquette. He pauses in the doorway, turning to Martin. Who smiles awkwardly.

“Thank you.” He says stiffly, still leaning heavily on the doorframe. “That was... very kind. Of you.” Martin shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, really. Couldn’t exactly just leave you there, could I?” 

Jon shifts awkwardly, wincing at the brief weight on his leg. He’s right of course, morally at least. If not logically.

“I... I suppose not.” He says, hesitating before adding “I’m sorry.”

“Look, Jon. I already said it’s fine-”

“No-” Jon grimaces “not for that. I- I meant... for what I said. About your clothes. They don’t... I just- I didn’t expect it, and I may have come off as... rude.” He mutters

“Oh.” Martin says flatly, Jons sure he’d forgotten about that until just now, and he wishes he could have kept it that way.

“they do suit you, though.” He says, after an awkward pause. “Your clothes, I mean. It looks- you look nice.” he finishes as genuinely as he can- he does mean it. Of course, he just doesn’t know how to make it sound like he does.

“Oh” Martin says again, brightening slightly, his cheeks going blotchy red in a blush. “I- er- thank you...? I suppose?”

“Yes. Well. Your welcome, I suppose.” There’s another awkward pause, Martin isn’t quite smiling at Jon, but there’s something soft in his expression Jon can’t quite parse. “ Have a good day, Martin.” He says finally, after a long pause. Martins cheeks redden again.

“Oh- yeah, er. You too Jon- and take care of yourself. Alright?”

Jon nods, and Martin smiles. And Jon thinks he’d like to see Martin smile a bit more.

He waves as Martin heads down the stairs, he can hear Martin humming as he goes.

[phoenixyfriend]

Rex and Anakin Raise a Family: Part One

The beginning of the end is this: Ahsoka removes Rex’s chip and finds her masters, starts to run, and loses her life before they make it to safety.

(She is the chink in all their armors.)

The beginning of the end is this: Anakin does not Fall, is there as his children are born, and sobs himself to pieces as his wife still dies for reasons none can find.

(Darkness would not have saved her, and the Light was already shattered.)

The beginning of the end is this: Obi-Wan mends his relationship with Anakin just in time to stay behind and guard the escape of what is left of his family.

(Obi-Wan would never have forgiven himself if he hadn’t, and Anakin will never forgive his Master’s memory for sacrificing himself.)

The beginning of the end is this: Their path to safety passes through Malachor.

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

The house is small and dusty, but empty and uninfested.

Anakin is used to worse. Rex is used to worse. The twins can barely see six inches beyond their faces, and do not know any better.

“Do you think they take Republic credits?” Rex asks. They still don’t know what planet they’re even on.

Anakin shrugs. There’s no life to him, even with his daughter in his arms, and his son at his side.

“I’ll pawn a blaster if I have to,” Rex decides. He wraps the bottom half of his face in a scarf, and prays that the blond hair and civilian clothing are enough that nobody will look too close for the eyes of a clone.

Anakin shrugs again. They need food for the newborns, who can’t survive on packed rations and hunted game. There’s only so much formula on the ship they took, and it won’t last the week.

(He is not the only person to lose everything in the last three days, but Rex is more practiced at compartmentalizing.)

(There’s more to it, from the Force letting Anakin feel the deaths of those he loves to the extremely personal betrayal that was Chancellor Palpatine’s reveal as a Sith, but when it comes down to the basics, he knows this: Anakin is broken now, and Rex can hold his own widening fissures together a little longer.)

“I’ll be back soon,” Rex promises, and lets the slow blink and half a nod be his general’s response.

The village isn’t very large. It’s not wealthy, but it seems largely untouched by the war. Nobody looks at him for more than a moment, and he thanks the tweaking of his genetic line for the hair that lets him hide just a little more. There aren’t any rumors catching his ear; he only parses about half of what’s being said. They’re in Mando space, and the words flying about are largely Basic and Mando’a, in a dialect he only mostly understands, and sprinkled with what he thinks is Huttese and Bocce. Still, nobody’s passing hushed gossip about the Jedi turning traitor, or the Republic becoming an Empire. Nobody mentions the Separatists or the war.

Rex feels a mix of rising anxiety and loosening fear. People won’t be looking for them yet, not here, but something is wrong for there to be so little hint of the wider conflict. He’s no scout, but he didn’t make Captain--or Commander, for that it lasted only the length of that final, ill-fated battle on Mandalore--by being as unobservant as a fresh cadet.

He finds himself standing in a store specializing in childcare supplies, staring at a shelf of some twenty different kinds of formula.

“You need some help, stranger?”

He glances at the woman out of the corner of his eye, notes down the degree of danger--minimal, even if he’s not in his armor--and decides it’s not too much information. “My friend, his wife died in childbirth, just a day ago. The children need to eat, but...”

Her face turns into a grimace of sympathy. “You don’t know what’s best. Did the midwife not suggest anything?”

A midwife. They really are in the middle of nowhere. “The birth was... they only had a med droid. No professionals.”

He doesn’t elaborate, hopes she’ll just drop it, and she does. She turns to the shelves, eyes them for a long moment, and then picks out three different boxes.

“Here, try these and see which one the baby likes best. They’re what I’d suggest for newborns. Should be easy to make with some hot water. I’m guessing you have bottles already--”

“No,” Rex says, and then scrambles to explain in a way that doesn’t make it clear just how unprepared they all are. “Not enough. It was twins, and nobody expected it.”

“Did she not--”

“Please don’t,” Rex says, desperate already. “It’s been a long few days, and it’s not my story to tell.”

She nods, a tad too slow, but he hopes it’s just concern.

Bottles and pacifiers, diapers and towels, just enough to tide them by with the excuse of buying for the unexpected extra child instead of the truth of having gone on the run the second the twins had been born.

Rex sees the face the woman makes when he goes to pay. His heart sinks.

“I’m... we don’t usually take Republic credits here, you understand,” she says slowly. “But you’re in a bad spot, and I don’t want the babes to suffer. See about visiting the exchange office soon, though.”

He could almost cry. He doesn’t. It’s a near thing.

“Thank you,” he says instead, as emphatically as he can. “Thank you so much.”

She smiles faintly, tightly, uncomfortably. “If I could make one more suggestion?”

He nods.

“There’s... there’s a nurse that runs a clinic down the way,” she says slowly. “She can look over the children, for one thing, but she can also... well, there’s a medication we can sell, to single fathers and the like, but only with a prescription...”

He blinks at her, uncomprehending.

“It induces lactation in those who otherwise wouldn’t,” she says, and bares her teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Not the most popular option, but it’s technically on the table for anyone with breast tissue, and breast milk is usually healthier overall for babies than formula, for most species. Um, it’s popular with adoptive mothers, wet nurses, same-sex couples, single fathers in a situation like your friend’s... tell me if I should stop talking.”

“No, no, I think that he’d actually appreciate that,” Rex hurries to assure her. “I can at least bring it up, and we’ll need to have regular medical attention for the twins anyway, so I need the address, don’t I?”

Her smile brightens into something a little more real, and she scribbles something down on some flimsi. “Here, just give this to your friend. Come here and ask for Teskarim if you have questions; that’s me.”

He commits the name in memory, dips his head in a nod of thanks, and makes his way for the door.

The trip back to the house is, by and large, uneventful. There are still no rumors. There are still no chip-loyal brothers. There are still no bounty posters, or--

His eyes dart back to the bounty board, just for a second. There’s a face on there that shouldn’t be. He doesn’t linger; it’s bad form, suspicious. Instead, he heads for the newsstand a few stalls down, pauses just long enough to get the date, and strikes out for the little house and their ship without changing his stride. Externally, he looks entirely normal.

His mind is in a daze.

3,594 ATC

The year is 3,594.

He hasn’t been born yet.

He does the math.

His General hasn’t been born yet.

Sith Hells, High General Kenobi hasn’t been born yet.

Rex is...

He has to talk to Anakin.

[piratefalls]

previous lists here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.

to keep a secret by itsmylifekay

Things are settling down after the lawsuit, but Eddie's new hobby isn't something Buck can get behind. He doesn't know how to get him help without sending the whole house of cards crashing down, so resolves to do it himself-- and in true Buck fashion winds up in the hospital for his efforts.

such stuff as dreams are made on by renecdote

Buck—in a move proving his maturity—sticks his tongue out at him. “You know, I’m pretty sure embarrassing dreams are supposed to be about your own embarrassment.”

“You think it wasn’t embarrassing for me?” Eddie says. “My husband couldn’t dance at our own wedding—I was mortified.”

Buck goes still. It was just a dream, he reminds himself, but something about the way Eddie says it—something about the expression on his face—

“Husband?”

"I guess it's been on my mind a lot lately."

Aka the proposal fic I didn't think I would ever write.

If You Need Me, You Know I’ll Be There by soft_satan

Eddie’s heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach. “Buck? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No,” Buck laughed, breathless and bitter, just on this side of hysterical. He sniffled again, sounding like he was trying to stop himself from crying. “C-could uh… could you come get me? Please?”

You can build a house, but not a home by justhockey

“I have walked through fire every single day of my life, because of you.”

Buck is so good at being a firefighter because he grew up inside a burning building, where one wrong move could send it all crashing down.

It’s hardly his fault that he got burned along the way.

* Or, five times Buck says how he feels, and the one time he doesn’t have to.

california wishing on these stars by hattalove

She’s been a roadblock for the longest time, a hard stop that cut off so many of Eddie’s thoughts halfway.

What if—but Buck’s with Taylor.

He could’ve sworn—but Buck’s with Taylor.

Sometimes he wonders—but Buck’s with Taylor.

And now he isn’t.

in which 'tis the season, buck is single again, and eddie is being very brave about it.

how easy it would be to show me how you feel by spinningincircles

After a while, Eddie nudges Buck’s shin under the table with his foot, motioning toward the stairs with his head.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re coming home with me.”

“You should really buy a guy dinner first, Eds.” Buck says, because he may be exhausted, but he can’t just let Eddie get away with saying things like that.

call you home by ashavahishta

"He’s like, so pretty sometimes I can’t believe he’s real?” He’d rambled once, so tired at the end of shift he was basically drunk with it.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Hen had said patiently, and patted him on the shoulder. “I like girls, remember?”

 “He’s built like a Greek god with the face of an angel,” Eddie had argued, a stubborn set to his mouth like he was determined for Hen to believe just how gorgeous his husband was. “Even you couldn’t resist that.”

Or: "Eddie Diaz drinks his 'I fucking love my husband' juice for 6,000 words." OR "5 Times Eddie Told The Firefam About Buck and 1 Time They Actually Met Him".

I get this feeling I’m in motion (a sudden sense of liberty) by anonymous

After Buck's breakup, Eddie decides he needs a night out to try and take his mind off things. But when Eddie shows up looking like that, well, one thing leads to another.

nothing left to lose but everything i have by thisissirius

SPOILERS FOR BUCK BEGINS.

“Defective parts,” and Eddie feels adrift, unable to parse Buck with the idea that he’s only ever been spare parts.

“That’s not on you,” Eddie says, because how could Buck think—

When Buck says, “I doubt they would agree,” Eddie wants to scream. Or find the Buckleys and tell them—

Buck’s everything.

you look wonderful tonight by lecornergirl

“Smells really good,” Eddie says, his first test of the night. Just a careful dip of his toes into the metaphorical waters of Evan Buckley’s potential praise kink.

The ripple effect is immediate.

Buck gets that look on his face again, like he’s trying to hide how much he likes it. He blushes, and he’s so goddamn pretty Eddie’s about to do something stupid, like march across the room and grab Buck and kiss his stupidly pretty face. The only thing stopping him is Christopher, who walks into the room at the perfect moment like they’d planned it.

a moment’s peace by iphigenias

"Honey, I'm home," he calls softly, toeing out of his boots and tucking them into the cubby by the door next to Buck's worn old trainers with the soles splitting away. He rounds the corner to the living room and feels the last five hours wash right off his back at the way Buck smiles at him from the shitty yellow couch they’ve been meaning to replace: tender and tired and easy, like it's no effort at all.

Maybe We Could Be Enough by ofloveandlonging

When the 118 is tasked with finding a lost child, something stirs deep inside Buck’s heart.

More than a thousand words by sugarandspace

It really shouldn’t have surprised Buck that Eddie prefers to keep Christopher’s pictures in a good old photo album instead of storing them on a hard drive or a cloud service. What does surprise him however, is the lack of Eddie in the pictures.

“Hard to be in the picture when you’re behind the camera,” Eddie explains like it’s not a big deal.

His words stay with Buck long after that conversation, and soon Buck and Christopher’s Super Secret Father’s Day Plan takes root. Eddie might have to spend the next year washing glitter out of his sheets, but it’s totally worth it.

in a car with a beautiful boy by outphan

"Buck crashed into his life, brighter than a meteorite, lighting up everything around Eddie. Life suddenly made sense. It made sense before, with Shannon and especially with Christopher, but it’s always been a little bit off-kilter, like someone forgot to remove the lens from the camera. Then Buck happened."

Chris has a birthday party to attend an hour and a half away. Buck volunteers to go with Eddie and by the time they get home, their life will have forever changed.

Think of a white horse by Phreakycat

Buck has the hiccups, the rest of the 118 have ideas, and Eddie (ultimately) has the solution.

good love grown by farfromthstars

“Hi,” Buck says, and Albert suddenly feels like an intruder even though he is the one who currently lives here, thank you very much. “Hi,” Eddie says back and yeah, he’s definitely never looked at Albert that way. Or anyone who isn’t Buck, as far as Albert can remember.

or

living with buck gives albert a front row view to whatever it is buck and eddie have got going on.

Your Name A Promise In My Mouth by kitkatpancakestack

She stood from her desk and hoped the expression on her face resembled something warm and trusting. She faltered a bit when the two men walked through, one brunette and the other blond, both huge and muscular and a bit intimidating. They were dressed in civilian clothes, both in denim, the blond with a LAFD sweatshirt and the brunette wearing a red and black flannel. She zeroed in on the gold wedding bands on their fingers, and took it as a good sign neither had taken there’s off in some show of passive-aggressive defiance.

"So," she said. "Let's start at the beginning."

* Buck and Eddie attend Couple's Therapy, told entirely through the therapist's POV.

beautiful lies by intotheblue

Buck has regrets. So many regrets. Most of them have to do with the way he isn’t touching Eddie’s biceps right now. He’s dressed like a walking wet dream, in a tight fitting maroon shirt whose buttons are fighting valiantly against Eddie’s broad chest.

“Jesus christ,” Buck mumbles.

“Hm?” Eddie says, turning to face him.

Buck feels his face flush. “Nothing! Just, uh, I thought you were trying to avoid attention at this party.”

Eddie winks at him. He winks. “I didn’t say that. I just need you to protect me from Winnie’s mom.”

[zintranslations]

Kaleidoscope of Death, Ch. 109

Kaleidoscope of Death by Xi Zixu Link to Chinese / Novel Updates

Chapter 109: Opening Restrictions

When the two left the bathroom, they headed straight back to the living room and found Xiao Ji, who'd gotten the stethoscope out of the chest the day before.

Yesterday Xiao Ji had opened three chests all in one breath. He was fortunate to not have immediately died. One chest had an item for the humans to use, one had a skill for Hako Onna, and one had been empty.

When Lin Qiushi and Ruan Nanzhu found Xiao Ji, Wei Xiude was sitting beside him.

Ruan Nanzhu explained the situation, indicating that the stethoscope could distinguish whether or not the Hako Onna was inside a chest. If they opened the chest after using it, then the risk would be greatly diminished.

Wei Xiude didn't say anything after, but Xiao Ji shot to attention.

"Really? This stethoscope's really that useful? Then we've hit the jackpot, we can just listen our way through."

"There must be a usage limit on this item," Ruan Nanzhu said. "You can go try it on a chest first."

After listening to their conversation, Wei Xiude still didn't speak up, acting as if he was just a bystander. Though he seemed harmless, nobody who made it to their tenth door was easy pickings—everybody was quite clear on this. Plus, all the newbies he'd brought along was telling.

Xiao Ji put on the stethoscope and picked out a random chest in the living room. Putting the stethoscope to the wooden exterior, he gave it a long listen before turning around and saying, "there's no sound inside."

"Try opening it," Ruan Nanzhu said.

"Why don't you do it?" Xiao Ji said. "I'm a bit scared."

He said he was scared, but there wasn't a single touch of fright on his face. Clearly, he just didn't want to shoulder the risk of opening the chest.

Ruan Nanzhu's lips curved up.

"Sure, I can do it, but if I open up an item, who gets to keep it?"

Xiao Ji said, "me, of course. I'm the one who picked this chest."

Ruan Nanzhu, lazily, "as if. I take all the risks and you keep all the benefits?"

Xiao Ji thought about it, and seemed to find Ruan Nanzhu's words logical. He got ready to open the chest himself, but Ruan Nanzhu suddenly thought of something.

"Wait. I want to give the chest a listen."

"Hm?" Xiao Ji was a bit thrown.

Ruan Nanzhu first pressed himself to the chest and listened for a while. And then he waved Lin Qiushi and Liang Miye over. The three listened around the chest for another bit of time, until Ruan Nanzhu finally got up and gave Xiao Ji a wave.

"Okay, open it."

At least Xiao Ji was brave. Among the newbies who'd entered, he wasn't in a bad condition, nor did he show any signs of pending emotional breakdown. After rubbing his palms together, he took hold of the lid of the chest and gave it a hefty lift—

The chest opened with a click, revealing the empty bottom. There was nothing inside.

"Empty." Xiao Ji was disappointed that they hadn't opened up any useful items.

"Come here for a second," Ruan Nanzhu said. "Come with me to the bathroom."

"Ah." Xiao Ji eyed Ruan Nanzhu up and down. "That's…not gonna work, right?"

Ruan Nanzhu, "I said come to the bathroom, not use it. Let's go."

Xiao Ji laughed and followed Ruan Nanzhu to the bathroom.

Lin Qiushi followed and very quickly understood what Ruan Nanzhu wanted to do. He saw Ruan Nanzhu bring Xiao Ji to a certain stall and point at the chest inside.

"Listen to that with your stethoscope."

This chest was the one that used False Answers just now to trick Lin Qiushi into opening it. If there were restrictions on the Hako Onna's motions, then she couldn't have left this chest in such a short amount of time. From the difference between these two chests, they had a lot of information to gain: first was what sounds came out of a chest with the Hako Onna inside, and second was the usage limit for the stethoscope.

Xiao Ji took out the stethoscope and, just like before, pressed the listening end to the wooden chest. Moments later, his expression changed and he swore a low, oh fuck.

"Heard something?" Ruan Nanzhu asked.

"Yes," Xiao Ji said. "There's a kid crying inside…"

He quickly stowed the stethoscope away, clearly unwilling to listen to more.

Ruan Nanzhu approached the chest and gave it a few pats, saying, "seems like she really is inside. If we find any key items, we can actually give them a try."

They had yet to find any items that could be used against the Hako Onna, however.

"Your stethoscope can be used at least twice. If you get a chance tomorrow, you can try using it a third time," Ruan Nanzhu said. "It's a really good item, congratulations."

"Hah, no need for that, I just got lucky," Xiao Ji replied off-handedly.

Wei Xiude had been standing quietly at the side this whole time. It was only now that he smiled and chimed in, "that's right, Xiao Ji's always been lucky. I would never have wanted to help him pass the doors otherwise."

"Thanks, Wei-ge," Xiao Ji answered with his own smile.

Though he was thanking Wei Xiude, there wasn't actually that much gratitude in his eyes. It seemed he wasn't an idiot either. After all, even though they were newbies, the group was at least of average intellect. They had parsed the fact that Wei Xiude had conscripted them as cannon fodder. It was just that they were less lucky this time around, and were encountering a door world beyond the average.

After confirming the stethoscope's usability, Ruan Nanzhu said he wanted to check out the second floor again next, so Xiao Ji and Wei Xiude left.

When they were gone, however, Ruan Nanzhu was still in no hurry to leave the bathroom. He approached the chest again, bending down and pressing his head to it to listen. Then he beckoned Lin Qiushi over.

"What is it?" Lin Qiushi asked.

"You try it," Ruan Nanzhu said. "Who knows if the stethoscope actually has special powers, or if it's just an amplifier. If it's only an amplifier…"

He paused, peeked at Lin Qiushi, and grinned.

"Then don't we have an even better one right here?"

Lin Qiushi laughed. "It can't just be an amplifier, right? Or I could just hear it all, what would the items be for?"

As he spoke, he too pressed his ear to the wooden chest—but the moment he made contact, he really did hear a soft sound…which, upon careful listen, sounded like a young girl crying.

The change in Lin Qiushi's expression gave Ruan Nanzhu his answer.

"What? You really can hear it?"

"I hear it." Lin Qiushi's eyes were wide. "…I really do hear it."

He checked again and again that this wasn't his imagination. He really could hear the sound from inside the chest.

"Fuck, this has gotta be cheating." Liang Miye had also heard their conversation from off to the side. "Then Linlin can tell what's in all the chests?"

"No," Ruan Nanzhu said. "There's a use limit on the stethoscope, so there might be one on Lin Qiushi too. It's still best to be careful. But at least…we have two tries per day."

Lin Qiushi left the chest. He asked, "can we tell when Hakobito are inside?"

"Probably yes, though we don't know what they'll concretely sound like yet," Ruan Nanzhu said. "With Qiushi, our safety factor's much, much higher."

Being sitting ducks was no longer a concern.

Lin Qiushi was quite impressed with Ruan Nanzhu. Who else would've thought to have him try this?

Once they had this confirmation, they headed for the second floor. When they got there though they heard hubbub from the study, as if there were a lot of people crowded inside.

Ruan Nanzhu went to the study to look. He saw some people crouched in front of the strongbox with their heads down, doing something.

"Are they trying passcodes?" Liang Miye asked. "Can that work?"

If they were bent on trying, of course they could do it. There were ten thousand possible combinations—if they counted two seconds per try, ten thousand tries was twenty thousand seconds, which in hours, came out to about five or so. They could get it done in an afternoon.

This was even the worst case scenario; under normal circumstances it would be faster, because it was basically impossible that it would take them the first try all the way to the last.

Ruan Nanzhu spoke slowly, "in their dreams."

The doors would never give them such a big loophole to worm their way through.

He called to the people in the study, "stop that. There's no way there's such an obvious loophole inside the doors."

"How do you know it won't work? Besides, it's pretty standard to try the safe access codes." The people in the crowd thought differently from Ruan Nanzhu. They continued, "and we've been at this for so long already…"

Lin Qiushi was about to take a step forward and get a better look inside the study. Ruan Nanzhu, however, pulled him to a stop.

"Don't go in."

"Why not?" Lin Qiushi asked.

Ruan Nanzhu, "bad feeling."

Practically the moment he finished saying this, there came a holler from inside the safe: "It's open!"

"What??" Liang Miye was stunned. "It opened, just like that? No way, right?"

Ruan Nanzhu's brow furrowed.

Though it seemed highly incredible, they both heard a click and saw the safe open from where they stood outside the door.

The people inside, upon seeing the safe open, even tossed taunting looks at Ruan Nanzhu over their shoulders, as if saying Look, didn't we get it open after all?

"Let's see what's inside."

The person testing the passcodes rubbed his palms together in excitement before pulling open the strongbox door. However, upon seeing what was inside, his expression instantly turned into one of pure terror. With a scream he made to run—but a moment later, a pair of thin, white arms reached out of that safe and caught him in a death grip. In an instant, they'd dragged him inside that small strongbox.

"Aaaaaah—"

The man being pulled in let out a single, dreadful scream before disappearing before everybody's eyes.

What had just been an energetic atmosphere in the study froze instantly, as if a block of ice.

Ruan Nanzhu approached the safe and gave the door a tug. He wasn't surprised at all to find that it had locked once again.

But coming from inside were horrible wails for help. They were coming from the person who'd just been dragged in.

"Help, help me, help me, please please you have to help me…"

As the despairing screams emanated out from within, everybody in the study was turning and running.

The number of Hakobito in the house now was up to three. The situation was getting steadily worse.

Frowning, Ruan Nanzhu said, "this is precisely why I don't like newbies."

Had it been veterans challenging the strongbox just now, they'd likely have stopped the moment he said something… No, veterans would never even have taunted the door's authority to such a degree, and done something like trying to force the safe open.

"Yeah, they've got no sense of deference, and each thinks they're the main character here," Liang Miye sighed, shaking her head. "They keep thinking they'll be the lucky ones, when in reality, they're just bystanders and cannon fodder."

The man dragged into the safe was still wailing. It was spine-chilling to hear.

Due to this incident, by the time Ruan Nanzhu had returned to the foyer the entire house was pretty quiet. The veterans were checking every corner of the mansion, and the newbies were huddled up and trembling like sheep in the living room. Some were even sobbing. Lin Qiushi spotted a man in his thirties inside the group…He seemed like he was reaching the end of his rope as well.

"Let's eat first," Ruan Nanzhu said. There was no point in comforting them at a time like this. "It's twelve."

"I don't have an appetite." There was a pitiful-looking young woman. "What do we do? Are we going to die here?"

Ruan Nanzhu glanced once at her.

"I don't know if you're gonna die here or not, but I do know people will die if they don't eat. Let's go, I'm hungry."

The three of them went to the dining room and found a table of steaming dishes and a group of pale-faced people. These were, for the most part, veterans. Not a single one of them had picked up their chopsticks, and were all silently watching the table of food before them without saying a word.

"What's wrong?" Ruan Nanzhu sensed something wrong in the air, and asked, "why aren't you eating?"

"We can't." Sun Yuanzhou seemed to have a good impression of Ruan Nanzhu, and so replied. "Why don't you give it a try?"

Can't? Hearing this Lin Qiushi blinked. He took a random seat, picked up some chopsticks, and got ready to eat, but then felt some force stop him—he couldn't reach the food in front of him with his chopsticks.

Ruan Nanzhu and Liang Miye too were met with the same situation as Lin Qiushi. It was as if some sort of wall had been put up in front of them, preventing them from accessing the food.

"No way…" Liang Miye's face had begun to go pale; she'd clearly surmised a very unfortunate possibility. "Tell me it's not what I think it is."

"The world of the doors indeed," Ruan Nanzhu sighed. "As if we'd get so lucky."

He'd thought they had plenty of time, but in reality, the door was nowhere as lenient as they'd imagined.

Ruan Nanzhu got up.

"Let's confirm it first."

He went to the living room and called for Xiao Ji.

Xiao Ji said, "but I'm not hungry yet."

"Just come take a quick bite," Ruan Nanzhu said.

Xiao Ji was confused, but still followed Ruan Nanzhu. He too sensed that something was wrong inside the dining room—when he sat down and picked up a mouthful of vegetables with his chopsticks, he saw the instant change in everybody's gazes, and jumped.

"Fuck, what are you all staring at me for?" He glanced at his chopstick, and immediately dropped the food. "There's poison in it?"

"No doubt about it, our guess is right," Ruan Nanzhu sighed.

The air in the dining room was deadly silent.

A bit on-edge from all the people staring at him, Xiao Ji let out a humorless laugh.

"What are you all looking at me for?"

"Can the food be shared?" Sun Yuanzhou asked. "Xiao Ji, feed me a bite."

"Ah??" Spooked by Sun Yuanzhou sitting right next to him, Xiao Ji jumped to his feet. "Man, don't be like that, I'm not interested in men."

Sun Yuanzhou gnashed his teeth.

"I'm also not interested in men! We can't eat the food, and you're the only one who can even use the chopsticks—"

Seeing that Xiao Ji was still clueless, Sun Yuanzhou picked up his chopsticks and decided to give Xiao Ji a practical demonstration.

At first Xiao Ji thought that Sun Yuanzhou was joking, because surely it was too absurd. But when he saw that everybody else's expressions were deadly serious, he realized this wasn't a joke.

"You guys mean that if you don't open a chest, you can't eat?"

"Yes," Ruan Nanzhu said.

"So why could we eat breakfast?" Xiao Ji asked.

Liang Miye made a joke that wasn't funny at all: "Maybe they were worried we'd have low blood sugar?"

"Hurry up and try to see if you can feed me or not." Sun Yuanzhou was a bit impatient. "I'm starving."

Xiao Ji, "…can I try on somebody else?"

His glance slid toward Ruan Nanzhu. Feeding a beautiful young lady, after all, was a far more joyous affair than feeding a rough and tumble old guy.

Sun Yuanzhou sneered, "you sure got a lot of shit to say."

Xiao Ji, "…"

Under the force of Sun Yuanzhou's glower, Xiao Ji unwillingly compromised. He picked up a bite of food in his chopsticks and began delivering it into Sun Yuanzhou's mouth. But before it could get there, Xiao Ji felt a blockage around the chopsticks in his hands. It should have been within easy reach, but he simply couldn't put the food into Sun Yuanzhou's mouth.

"Great." Seeing this, the group had irrefutable evidence to the truth of the hypothesis. Someone at the table blew a fuse, swearing in dialect: "This dick shite of a door, son of a cunt."

Lin Qiushi kind of wanted to laugh at his words, but it didn't feel appropriate. So he covered his mouth with a hand.

"What do we do?" Liang Miye was crumbling a bit. "If we want to eat we have to open the chests…Dammit, I knew there had to be a time limit."

And they'd thought the door was showing them mercy for once. Who'd have thought it had been lying in wait right here?

There was indeed a bug in this game. If players didn't open any chests, then the Hako Onna couldn't make her moves. With enough time, they could use one item on every single chest. They could even amass a lot of useful items.

For the Hako Onna to kill, after all, there was the necessary condition.

But the door was blockading off that potential path right now. It was also giving them a multiple choice problem: they could either get grabbed by the Hako Onna, or they could starve to death inside the mansion.

Xiao Ji had also understood his own peculiar position. He grabbed a bowl in a hurry and shoveled in a few mouthfuls of rice, mumbling, "I'm gonna eat first then, if you guys don't mind…"

Everybody's eyes on him were like they couldn't wait to eat him alive.

Liang Miye let out one long exhale before looking at Ruan Nanzhu.

"What do we do, Zhu Meng?"

Ruan Nanzhu, "what can we do? We're not eating then." Dropping the chopsticks, he got to his feet. "Let's go."

Lin Qiushi and Lin Qiushi followed him out the dining room. The other veterans gradually left as well. Somberness painted everybody's faces.

Xiao Ji also knew he was just begging to be resented, so after scarfing down all the rice in his bowl, he also quickly took off.

Lin Qiushi's group returned to their room. The three sat down in intense quiet.

"We don't eat today," Ruan Nanzhu spoke placidly. "We wait until Linlin gives some chests a listen tomorrow, and then eat."

Starving for one day wouldn't kill you, but opening up just one wrong box could mean your life.

"Didn't think there'd be this kind of limitation," Liang Miye said. "It's practically forcing us to suicide."

In the tabletop, there was no such issue of forcing players to open chests. It was only a game, after all, and to win the game, players would certainly go looking for and opening chests.

But it was different now that the game had become reality. What they would lose wasn't that tiny unimportant character role, but their own lives. If they had the option, who would put their own lives on the line? They'd all rather stay in the mansion for longer than take this kind of risk.

Now, however, with such a restriction, the door was forcing the players into activity.

All the veteran readily accepted this reality, but to the newbies, this was too cruel of a development.

Even on the second floor, Lin Qiushi could hear their wailing from the first. In between the wails were terrible cries: "I don't want to open the chests, I don't want to open them—I want to leave, let me out!!"

Somebody began to batter at the door, trying to escape from the mansion.

"Wei Xiude, Wei Xiude! You said you'd protect us!" Someone else had gone to find Wei Xiude, and spoke with a shaky voice. "What are we meant to do now!"

Wei Xiude calmed them down with some superficial comfort, saying things like there would definitely be a solution. As for what that solution could be, he wasn't likely to know himself.

But Lin Qiushi could tell he indeed wasn't in a rush. Xiao Ji was in his group and was in possession of a key item. They could open two chests per day, so he and Xiao Ji at least were saved.

This sudden rule plunged the entire mansion into chaos. By the time the dust settled, it was already evening.

Sun Yuanzhou gathered everyone on the first floor and called for a group meeting.

Everybody sat in dead silence around the table, listening to Sun Yuanzhou speak. "We've already come to this point. Does everybody understand now that this is a team effort?"

He slammed his hand onto the table.

"We have to work together, or we're all dying inside this door!"

Afte a long beat of silence, somebody spoke: "How do we work together?"

"We'll start by opening chests," Sun Yuanzhou said. "I won't force you. You can starve to death if you'd like."

But, after opening a chest, please stick a slip of paper on the chest to prevent repeats. They should also write what they found inside the chests on the paper.

"Okay," Ruan Nanzhu agreed, hands on his elbows. "But what happens if somebody lies?"

"Then we kick the liar out of the group," Sun Yuanzhou answered coldly. "The Hako Onna is annoying enough, we don't have the energy for infighting. I hope every single one of us can be dead clear on this point."

Translator’s Note:

I’ve always been on the liberal side when it comes to translating curses, but if someone who knows—is it Chongqing? Sichuan?—dialect wants to give me an English equivalent for “撒子錘子門哦，寶批龍胎的” I’d love to know it ("This dick shite of a door, son of a cunt"). It’s just vibes rn skdjfnkds

[Ch. 108] | [Ch. 110]