#tahitiwoke

[romanva]

it only goes as far as we need it to. @tahitiwoke

scenes from a marriage (2021) / plantain, anna akhmatova / scenes from a marriage (2021) / black bear (2020) / naomi and ely's no kiss list, david levithan / altered carbon (2018) / transit (2018) / around town, the kooks / darling, zach bryan / the americans (2013) / isaac grünewald / night, ferdinand hodler / the americans (2013)

[halechief]

@tahitiwoke.

To: Phil Coulson. Can I speak to you in your office.

she’s already there, of course, and does not bother to feel guilty for it. it’s true to form - another mile taken for every inch he’s ever given her. although the thought takes on a sickly shade in her mind, she does not dwell on it. it simply registers as evidentiary of her character. and his, she thinks, when he replies back hardly a moment later. 

Phil Coulson: Of course.  

they’ve not spoken beyond what is required by necessity of the job for weeks, not even to torment, apart from the first few days, wherein she’d taken to sharpening the growing point of her irritation against the immovable stone of him, but that had become unsatisfying much more quickly than she’d anticipated. nothing satisfied. nothing seemed to lessen the incessant gnawing of guilt and resentment festering in her. it was unlike her, to be unable to channel uncomfortable emotions into some petty pursuit until it became possible to swallow it down completely, and recommit herself to ignoring realities she’d rather not face.

she’s seated in his office chair, legs crossed, leaning back with a finger tracing the rim of the scotch glass she’d procured from his cabinet, where it sits sweating on the desk. the record had long since played to its end ; bobby vinton: the best of. another flicker of nostalgic selfishness, another casual undermining of her own intent. rather than seeing him, she feels him enter the room. it’s only a beat that passes, but it feels longer, and at the same time not long enough. the chair turns, and there’s a smile that comes to her face, the same one she’d been giving him for days now, one that does not reach her eyes, one that feels painstakingly, perhaps even punishingly polite. 

❝  i would apologize for helping myself, ❞  there’s a pause, during which she glances down toward the glass, recently refilled after the latest draining. ❝  but you would know i didn’t mean it.  ❞

[fakedsciences-a]

@tahitiwoke @ruinaa​ @withbeasts​

Juniper and Phil approach the restaurant from one side; Roman and Josephine approach from the other.

“Jo! Hi!”

Juniper runs up to Josephine and envelops her in a tight hug. She wants Phil to see that they’re close, that she does actually have friends. All she ever talks about is work and her online courses, (really, all she ever does is listen to Phil; she's a good listener) and all they ever do is spend time together (a scattered burst of dates in a quick timeframe; to Juniper, it’s a whirlwind romance) — she wants him to see that she’s normal, sociable.

Juniper offers Roman a smile and a wave, hesitant to hug him — unsure if they’re there yet. He has always just been Josephine’s partner; they haven’t had the chance to form a separate friendship. Maybe this is why she cannot read the expression on Roman’s face, why she is still so absolutely elated when she turns around to face Phil and make introductions.

“I’m so glad everyone could come. I feel like, um — I feel so weird, introducing everyone. Can you all just say hi, say your name, or something?”

She looks around expectantly, the only smiling face.

[blemishezarchive]

𝙸 𝙶𝙾𝚃 𝙰 𝙵𝚄𝙽𝙽𝚈 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙽𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶. PHILLIP COULSON / @tahitiwoke

[brutlist]

     "     𝐧𝐨 𝐧𝐨 , 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 .     "     he says as he settles back .     “     i wanna see how long it takes for you to come up with something .      “ 

@tahitiwoke​ // sc

[mknbrd]

Five times + cameras (CCTV. Polaroids. Phone etc)

one.

the ct machine they'd rigged up is loud. bobbi doesn't mind it — it drowns out her thoughts, the guilt, the wave of nausea rolling over her every time she looks at him for too long. she'd insisted upon it, because sure, she had the maps, the scans, the surgery plans, all of it, but she refuses to trust it any more than she has to.

she doesn't watch his face over the monitor. she really can't bring herself to do it. she'd helped put him here, and, at best, there's a not-insubstantial chance that she'll kill him on the table, too — fifteen point five percent chance of mortality in cases of emergency neurosurgery, she'd told natasha, and that had been in cases where the people performing surgeries had trained for that kind of thing. bobbi had taught herself over the course of weeks on cadavers, and youtube videos, and anything else she'd been able to get her hands on.

the computer beeps at her when the scans start to pull up on her screen, and yeah, if they pull this off, bobbi'll consider putting in for the lottery. she blinks at the scans over her coffee, once, twice, and then turns her head to watch the bed slide out. he's too still. she keeps waiting for him to roll off the bed and ask her to wear adult shoes to work, or ask to see her tits, or whatever. not this. this isn't right.

but then, the ct machine isn't making noise anymore, and the wave of guilt-related nausea comes back, and bobbi turns her whole body away from the setup to puke into a trash can.

two.

natasha is driving, and bobbi's grin is a little sex-drunken when she picks up the phone to dial. " hi phillip, i need you to pull the cctv footage from the saks fifth in midtown, discreetly — . . . because i asked nicely . . . when the video footage of your wife getting fingered in a luxury stores goes live on the nightly news, you'll really only have yourself to blame that you didn't grab it and take it home for yourself . . . that's what i thought. goodbye, phillip. "

three.

he tells her that she went too early over comms — agent nineteen, what the fuck was that ? — and bobbi rolls her eyes back into her skull as she wipes up her bloody nose and steps over a body. " don't tell me i was the only one to catch the height on that bag swinging, boss, " bobbi says, bending down on her heels to reach for the duffel in question. " we got bad intel. whole deal was a setup. " she doesn't need to open it to know it's empty, but she does it anyways, just for the satisfaction of being able to show the camera hidden in her eye glasses that it is. sure, she's a bit of a cowboy, bit of a wild card. a blunt force object, as she's been termed. but reckless — stupid ? hardly.

" am i done here ? " bobbi asks when she gets to her feet, hands scrubbed down the tops of her aching thighs. " these heels are killing me, and i'm fucking starving. "

there's a long sigh down her earpiece — yeah. we'll figure this out tomorrow — and by the time she gets back to her hotel room, there's room service and a bottle of tylenol waiting for her inside.

four.

you're late, he says, like she's not well aware of the time. bobbi rolls her eyes, mutters something along the lines of is there nothing you can do on your own ? and drops into the nearest chair like either one of them is really going to pay more attention than necessary in a meeting full of department heads and secretaries that hate them.

" what, you want a doctor's note ? " bobbi asks sarcastically, to which the corner of phil's mouth twitches. she can't help appointments running long, nor is she going to apologize for the twenty minute puke fest she'd had between the ob's office and the capitol. instead, she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a pair of sonogram scans and passes them both over the corner of the table. " before i forget, your wife said you have to put one on the fridge and make sure one gets into her office. "

five.

he's stopped pouting as much when she puts him through the ct machine. maybe it's because he's resigned himself to the fact that it's happening whether he likes it or not — she'd shouted at him once, i'm not a fucking neurosurgeon phil, excuse me for being careful, and that had put an end to that argument — maybe it's because he likes her better after several months of back-and-forth awkward bonding. whatever it is, she's fine with it, just waits until he lays himself down — she's proud, even though she won't say it — and calmly runs the machine.

and the x-rays come up as usual, and the guilt's subsided a bit. bobbi hits the button that rolls the bed out from the machine and waits for the scans to show up. they do, like clockwork, and they look better than what she'd have otherwise expected. still, bobbi leans over the microphone, and tells him bad news — his broca's area has shrunk to make room for his massive fucking ego — and he flips her off from the side of the bed, and they both grin at each other.

[illwriteatragedy]

@tahitiwoke​. 

          there are five,  almost six months until roman finds enough courage to go and see him. 

          there are still the regular updates.  natasha is good about them;  a progress chart of where he should be at all these points,  which he seems to be meeting just fine.  it was good;  of course he was happy that it was going well,  but there was still an itch in the back of his head he could not get rid of since the beginning.  (  was he sorry?  had he changed?  was he going to get better in those kinds of ways?  ) 

          enough time has passed for him to see,  enough time for him to sit on it.  for him to walk out the door when shilah and josephine are busy,  and for him to take the bike up to the rehab center and to finally,  finally look his father in the face since that night.  

          “  hi.  “  

[ovalbound]

condescension oozes in his glare,        or perhaps is it disgust,        but underwood has patience for neither,        leg crossing as he looks up,        AWAITS THE UPCOMING JUDGMENT he smells from across the room,        attuned as he is after years in congress playing wolf to whip the herd.

❛    how many more people need to die before you're satisfied ?    /    @tahitiwoke​

and then it falls,        like a hammer,        though it fails to wound as it’s certainly meant to and frank hardly shifts,        eyebrow arching as if the man’s about to deliver a lesson in trickle-down politics,        to coin the phrase.        ❝    oh,        but it’s not about satisfaction,        coulson.        it’s about survival according to the food chain.        eat or be eaten.        i didn’t strive my entire life just to get stuck in second place.        of all people,        i assumed you would appreciate the concept.    ❞

[withbeastsarc]

There’s nobody who enjoys killing phil coulson more then Sam herself

[romanva]

why did you wish me milder ?  would you have me false to my nature ?  rather say I play the man I am.      for @tahitiwoke

[halechief]

@tahitiwoke.

the evening has rounded the bend of midway, the nature of the celebration having become something well - watered, now, for lack of a better term. champagne abounds, plied often and eagerly to most of the lips in attendance - maybe even his own, if she had to guess. claire approaches from behind him, and cannot help but feel a little bit of satisfaction in the act of watching his gaze track the room, searching for something, and she finds that she’d very much like to think it was her. she settles a hand at his shoulder innocently enough, bending slightly at the waist so that he might better hear her over the conversation, and the band. 

❝  phillip . . . could i trouble you for a dance? ❞

[fakedsciences-a]

@tahitiwoke said: i’d never hurt you. i do need you to participate though. that’s fair, right?

She thinks about —

Juniper lowers her gaze, feels sick and small and strange. She is not used to feeling this way; she is healthy and tall and super, super well-adjusted, all things considered. Right? Right? So this feeling here, right now, it must be a total freaking anomaly.

— Harris, how he looks when he —

"I understand."

— her father, Dr. Hayes, always crouching down to meet her eye level, always prepared to say something sterile and stern —

There is a strange buzzing in her head, a ringing in her ears. It sounds like the machines from back home. Home home — the one Harris and Burns destroyed, the one where her parents died. (She spoke about it —their death — so casually with Phil, typed the message like it was nothing. Maybe it is nothing. Maybe she can pretend it was a car crash and Lila was just a baby, we're so lucky she survived, and nothing else happened.)

"But I'd never hurt anyone." Not ever again. "I can't hurt anyone. Is that really so unfair, to want for me? To want for everyone else? — Please, give me back my phone."

[newsworth]

𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍.   aesthetic post for :   @tahitiwoke. 

[thirtean]

somebody named milton has been with us the whole time ?  i don’t think so. i think i would’ve noticed if a guy named milton’s been with us. it’s not a very common name.

" the kid who's been bringing you coffee for the last three weeks, milton ? " jesus christ. and she'd thought the last time barton had been concussed and thought he was still married was bad. sharon curls her hand in her pocket, resists the patronizing urge to ask how many fingers she's holding up. " go home, phil. reports can wait until tomorrow. "

[brutlist]

     𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐜𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 ���𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨     ---     he’s too grateful for the air that dives in to bathe him and his sweat licked hair , filling his mouth with the taste of debris and dirt . it’s the best thing he’s ever had in his lungs , no contest . he grins up at phil . if being three sheets to pulverized for that victory hadn’t killed him , there was many a thing in his evening that just might .     “     hi .     “ 

@tahitiwoke​ // sc

[illwriteatragedy]

I Am going to say five times kissed BC lil bby Roman and forehead kisses???

first.

phil coulson talks, and roman bragin listens. he will not speak unless something is directed to him, and he will not elaborate on anything further, testing the limits of phil's patience. he watches. and he waits. and he listens, because he has always been good at that, even in the midst of violence and chaos.

but phil does not get angry with him. he does not call him stupid, and he does not raise his hand when roman refuses to look at him, does not make a scene when he crosses his arms and doesn't answer his questions.

the first few days go like this. roman waits, expectant that it will come, but it never does. his guard is lowered, his hopes wavering into dangerous territory ( that maybe someone can be like this, after all. ) when phil places the covers over him that night, and presses a kiss to his hair, he calls to him before he leaves the room, voice small.

" goodnight, phil. " it is the first time he has said anything to him without being asked, first.

second.

he has a knack for languages. it is what phil has told him, what the other agent he that is tutoring him has said, but --

" i have to hurt people? " there is hesitation there. phil stands opposite of him, dressed in his gym clothes. they have been training together for months now, building up his strength, working on his body. martial arts was next. they would see which form would fit him best, but mma was where they would start.

you have to be able to defend yourself, no matter the cost. phil circles him as he speaks, forcing roman to spin his head to watch him. there will be people who want to take your life because of who you are. whether it be where you came from, whether it be because of shield, whether it be because of me --

phil stands in front of him now, and crouches down on one knee. he brushes the hair from his face and looks him in the eye. i will always have your back. but you need to survive, roman. that means hurting people. even killing them. do you understand?

there is a heavy gravity here that roman can feel, a pressure that separates his head from his heart. but phil looks at him with such intensity that roman can only nod. " i understand. " phil nods too, kisses his hair, and sends him flat on the floor.

third.

roman sits on the counter so he can see better. this time, he is the one who asks questions, leaning with his palms pressed on the marble. " do you think i'll get tall? " he asks after a barrage of cooking questions, still much shorter than phil's 6'5 height.

phil laughs, ruffles his curls up, nearly knocking him over. twelve is the perfect age for a growth spurt, he says, you've got a foot since eleven.

" a foot is nothing. " roman complains, watching the sauce thicken in the pan. " if you were my real dad i would have -- " he stops, clamps his mouth shut, the tips of his ears turning red. the kitchen goes quiet for a moment. in the other room, he can hear carol move around, painfully aware.

the fire on the pan is turned off. phil turns to him, leans against the counter. before he can say anything, roman is the one who speaks first. " i know -- you're my handler. not my dad. " he exits the kitchen in a hurry, going to his room.

( they have dinner that night. carol keeps looking at phil, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn't. when he goes to bed, he can feel phil sit on the side of the bed, but his back is turned -- the gentle kiss to his hair is ignored, and they both say nothing about it the next morning. )

fourth.

they're at a baseball game. the soda tastes wrong.

that's not right. it's the sharp metallic taste of blood. but -- there's the sun, and it's shining --

that's not right either. it's the fluorescent light fixture overhead. he has to focus, he just has to focus ---

but everything for just a minute is warm, and he's happy, and it might just be better if he stayed this way --

roman !

they're shining lights in his eyes. he can feel his body being moved, can hear them discussing what to do next. it all sounds jumbled in wrong. but amidst it all, he can hear one voice better than the rest, because he knows that voice --

you don't understand, that's my boy, you need to let me --

he realizes, with sudden jolting clarity, that he is in the hospital. a shock of pain rushes through him, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. through whatever they have shoved in his mouth, he tries to speak, voice weak. " i want my dad. " he manages to spit out whatever is in there. " i want my dad -- i want my dad -- "

everything after that is a blur. he knows that phil got to him, that he held his face, that they were able to do what they needed to do after he saw them. that he fell into a coma for a few days after to heal. that they both didn't talk about that, either, because it seemed they were always going to be good at not saying the things they needed to say.

fifth.

he is twenty-two, almost twenty-three, when he tells phil that he met a girl. roman only blushes when phil asks if she's blonde, and laughs when he says yes.

that's my boy, phil says, arm around his shoulder, a kiss to his temple, roman only three inches shorter now, that height he had always wanted to be. just like your old man.