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beigehearts · 3 years

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Multiple requests are fine! Requests are unlimited.

This is a cool idea so hell yeah

Yandere Adult Trio finding you after a few years after escape CW: physical abuse, mentions of kidnapping, blood, needles

Hisoka

This is rather nice actually. A quiet life in the middle of nowhere where no one questions you. It’s somewhat of a farming community you live in. You work at a farmers market, selling fresh fruits and vegetables to the same people every day. Everyone here recognizes you under your fake identity, and treats you as part of the community. As if you didn’t randomly appear one day. As if you aren’t in hiding.

It’s been about three years you would say. Three years since you escaped... him. You dyed your hair, wore colored contacts and completely changed your clothing look. You moved countries, learned a new language, and completely dropped your entire identity and life. It was the only way you could escape him. How you escaped him remains a mystery to you too. He was always attentive but- you escaped that last time. Slipped through his fingers.

Mr. Grady, the oldest farmer in town hobbles over to your stand and smiles with his big loose mouth. He only has a few teeth but you don’t need many when you blend all of your food anyway.

“Oh hello Charlie. How are you today?” He asks with his frail old man voice.

You smile back and begin bagging up the usual for him. “Very good Mr. Grady. How are you?”

Your conversations are never short but it’s almost become a highlight of your day to hear the old man ramble. “Oh you know. The sheep dog are sick, so I tried rounding those cows up with my cat. He practically got trampled!” He throws his arms up as if it’s unbelievable. You somewhat listen as he continues. “... moral of the story is, cats are unreliable and only have two lives.”

As you hand the paper bag over the counter the old man stops to think for a moment. “I saw someone new up by the shops today, he was a real character. Quite tall too.”

You nod and get the change for the money he hands you, “Oh really? Did you talk to him?”

“He wasn’t much interested in me. Though he didn’t seem like a normal traveler. He was much too eccentric for that.” He offers one last toothless smile, “Don’t work too late. It’s time for the foxbears to come out of hibernation soon.”

Before you can further question him, he hobbles off pretty quickly for an old man. Of course you’re overreacting but someone eccentric and tall randomly coming to town? No it couldn’t be. It’s been over three years since then. And he wouldn’t go this far for you would he?

After closing up the shop you grab the keys to your car and head for the ‘parking lot’. It’s a field with white lines spray painted on the grass with a single light to illuminate the whole place. You hop into your car and are just glad to finally go home after a long day. It was rather slow but that’s because it was a tuesday. It is very busy on friday-monday. You start your car, and turn on the air, you plug your phone in and relax some into your seat.

You adjust your rear view mirror and scream when you do. You just barely catch the reflection of someone in the back of your car. He’s sitting in the back seat watching you closely. You decide against turning around to face him.

“Hello y/n. Or is it Charlie?” He asks calmly, as if it were a casual conversation.

You clear your throat and try to control your shaking. “What are you doing here Hisoka?”

He ignores your question completely. “You really know how to choose a nice town. Quiet, friendly, off the grid.”

“I suppose.” Your hands grip on the steering wheel tightens. “How did you find me?”

“Oh, well, it was quite hard really. You did a good job. But once I found the first person who helped you change your identity, it was just a matter of going down the chain.”

You’d rather not think about what happened to those people. “And what are you doing here?” You repeat your question.

“Well there’s only one thing I’m here for of course.” He leans back in the seat, just barely having enough room for his legs. “I’ve come to bring you home.”

“I don’t want to. It’s nice here.” You state as if you have an option.

He leans forward this time, and cranes his head around the drivers seat to whisper in your ear, “It’s really not up to you pet.”

Before you can even react, there’s a rope around your neck, and he’s pulling you hard against your seat. You claw at the rope and gasp for air. You try to turn some but the rope burn hurts too much. You manage to get your fingers under the rope around your neck, and throw yourself forward.

His head smacks the back of your seat but your head smacks the wheel, honking the horn. There’s no doubt that you’re bleeding. You throw the rope over your head and jump out of the car, and run. But he’s much faster.

He jumps out of the car and before you know it, he grabs the back of your shirt, pulling you to him. He holds you against himself with his arms, leaving no room for escape. But you have one more trick up your sleeve. You throw your head back as hard you can and headbutt his face. There’s a loud crack that you can only assume is his nose.

He groans and his nails dig into your skin through your clothes. “You really got feisty while I was away.” His nails begin to pierce your skin, ripping through the cloth of your shirt. “But it’s no matter, it only turns me on more.”

Illumi

To say you’re on the run is an understatement. You’re practically sprinting away even all these years later. You know that if you stop for even a few days that he would find you. You spend no more than three days at a time in the same place. You’ve travelled half of the world by now- and quite honestly it has been somewhat nice. Not just the freedom from the suffocating grasp of your captor Illumi, but being able to see the world. You would never have done this if not for the situation you were in. Maybe things happen for a reason.

It feels like forever since you’ve been travelling. But the reality is that it’s only been two years. Two long years of not stopping. You have a new name and often go days without eating. It’s not easy getting money when you aren’t in the same area for long.

It was late night when you escaped from him. He never let his guard down so you just had to go for it. He wasn’t expecting you to make a mad dash out of the manor, and hide out in the woods for a few days. Slowly but surely you managed to get out of the mountain prison, leaving through the small door next to the office. The man working at the entrance was sipping tea and reading the newspaper when you left much too busy to pay attention to you. You’re more than sure he was punished for missing you leaving. But sometimes you wonder if he chose to ignore you on purpose, and let you escape.

It’s a beautiful morning. You slept on a few blankets and a sweatshirt as a pillow on the ground of a cave. It was hard to get any sleep at first but you managed to get used to the back pain. The sun is shining through the canopy, streams of light illuminating the cave. The grass outside of the cave is wet with dew droplets. It’s only slightly humid but the breeze with the warm weather is heavenly. It’s not every day you get good weather like this.

You sit up and stretch your arms in the air, yawning tiredly. Your usual morning routine was to get a fire started, and put the tiny kettle above it. In your small backpack you have a few essential items. Coffee being one of them. You get out your tin can after jimmying a fire and filling the kettle with water from a nearby stream. You drop some instant coffee grounds in the kettle and bask in the aroma of coffee.

You pour yourself a cup and put some powdered milk packets and splenda in the cup, stirring it with a stick that looked relatively... clean. But you had a feeling that today was the day. You weren’t sure why this morning you knew he would find you. But you did. Almost on cue, you hear footsteps approach behind you.

You bring the tin cup to your lips, taking a long sip of the hot coffee.

“So this is where you’ve been.” You don’t even flinch at his words. You knew this was inevitable.

The coffee burns your tongue. “Yes, I must have stayed here for a day too long. Don’t you agree Illumi?”

“Yes. It was quite stupid.” There’s a silence between the two of you. You continue sitting on the ground with your back facing him. “Are you ready to leave?” He asks as if he’s picking you up from and elementary sleep over.

“May I finish my coffee first?”

“I suppose.” Though he doesn’t move from his spot, his gaze staying firm on your back.

Luckily you haven’t spent all this time just running, but training. In self defense to be specific.

Quickly you jump up and turn around, you move your arm to throw the coffee on him in hopes of burning him. He grabs your wrist, but the coffee does land on his forearm. You bring your leg up to kick him in the side but he grabs it right as you make contact. The only hit you actually manage to land is when you throw a punch with your free hand at his throat. If it were anyone else they would be stunned for at least a few seconds. But this wasn’t anyone. He shows no sign of flinching.

“Are you ready now?” He asks.

You allow your body to relax and he lets go of your limbs. “Go ahead, put a needle in me.”

He doesn’t argue with your point, pressing a needle to your chest and the last thing you hear is “Don’t fight it.”

Chrollo

The very thought that all of these people by his side had no qualms about you being kidnapped makes you sick. All of them had many chances to set you free and yet they stayed loyal to your captor, as if this were normal and okay. So many people witnessing this unhealthy obsession and not even muttering a word about it. Honestly you find it more ridiculous than you do sad. How did he have all these people under his thumb? Was he really just that powerful?

Wherever he went, you went. One day he had what they called, ‘a mission.” You had caught a cargo train out west and jumped on, as stowaways. It’s not as if anyone checked each boxcar. All of you had fallen asleep in the small space of the boxcar. The train was at full speed, with no sign of stopping anytime soon. Cargo trains were much faster than you anticipated. Once you were sure everyone was asleep, you stood up casually as if you were just stretching. In case someone woke up. Which they did. Nobunaga peeled his eyes open and examined you. But he was too slow, you leaped out of the car before anyone could grab you. You went tumbling through a field after hitting your head very hard against the ground. It wasn’t the perfect escape but it was an escape.

After that you found a nearby farm, and while it was still night you stole a horse from a barn. You rode for many miles, until days later you found a very busy city. Somehow you managed to make a life for yourself, becoming a low grade secretary.

Today was a slow day, your employer did not have many clients today. You checked in on your boss to see if she needed anything but she waved you away. You decided to play solitaire on the computer, a perfectly valid way to waste time.

The phone rings and you pick it up while still keeping one hand on the mouse to play solitaire.

“Hello this is the Seedling Lawyer’s Office. How may I help you?” You stick the phone between your ear and shoulder, playing solitaire.

There’s a chuckle from the other side of the phone. “So it is you.”

Your blood runs cold, and the only thing that your head is telling you is ‘run’. “I’m not sure who this is, could you please state your name and purpose for calling?” Playing dumb seems like the only decision right now.

“My darling, there’s no need for the semantics. I’m coming to pick you up right now.” Perfectly on cue, the sliding doors of the building open and you drop the phone, standing up abruptly.

His eyes show affection and kindness, but there’s a glimmer of... rage. You look around but no one is in the waiting room and you know the cameras are fake for security. This is a cheap layer’s business after all.

“There’s no need for the semantics Chrollo.” You try to say mockingly but it comes out more as fearful and unsure.

His smile drops and he begins walking towards your desk. “Do you understand the consequences of your actions y/n?” He scoffs kicks the heavy desk to the side as if it weighed nothing. “I missed you of course.”

“Ah well, maybe I needed a break.” It comes out as a question.

He corners you against the wall and places a rough hand on your cheek. “Oh darling, oh my sweet darling.” His smile reappears, as sweet as it always has been. “I’m going to kill your entire family.” His hand grips the side of your face roughly and he tilts your head back.

“You really are something. I would never hurt you, you know.” He places a gentle kiss against your cheek despite his tight grip on the side of your head. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences for what you’ve done.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and grab his wrist. “Well you’re hurting me right now.”

Immediately he drops his hand and sighs. “I would never hurt you intentionally, or if not necessary.” He grabs your throat, holding it so tightly you wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk again. He’s crushing your air ways and vocal cords. You claw at his wrist but its useless. “Disciplining you does not count as hurting you.” He leans forward, and if you could yelp you would.

He bites your cheek, definitely leaving a mark. After drawing blood, he licks it up. Your vision is going dark but you’re simply not strong enough to fight back. “Do you understand darling?”

#hisoka #hisoka morrow #hisoka x reader #yandere hisoka #illumi #illumi zoldyck #illumi x reader #yandere illumi #chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo #phantom troupe #hxh #hunter x hunter #adult trio #adult trio x reader #yandere adult trio #yandere

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pascalpanic · 3 years

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Here for the sentence starters!! "I can’t get over how a few months ago I wanted to learn your name and now you’re having breakfast with me in my sweater" and "I’m so in love with her/him, I don’t know what do do." Feel free to do both or either or whatever you prefer with either of the Marcuses! I'm in such a fluffy mood rn and these will make my day :)) (PS I adore you and I hope you have a good day xx)

Making Moves (Marcus Moreno x f!Reader)

Summary: Your neighborhood superhero, Marcus Moreno, is being nagged by his daughter to find love. Lucky for him, just the right woman moves in down the street.

W/C: 2.7k

Warnings: language, brief talks of death (just to refer to Marcus’s wife who passed away), brief mentions of sexual stuff. it’s tame.

A/N: THIS WAS SO FUN. I love some good Marcus Moreno. He’s such a cutie and these prompts made it so fun! You can still send me prompts from this list with a character, just mind the taken ones! p.s. my emotional support Brit @maxlordsgf see how I used patio/backyard??

The Moreno household was cozy. You wondered if it was Marcus who’d decorated the beautiful home, or if his late wife. You supposed it didn’t matter. You would’ve liked the former Mrs. Moreno, if Marcus could love her like he did.

He lived a few houses down from you. You’d moved in a couple of months ago, into the nice Craftsman style home you currently rented. The best thing about the house was the beautiful front porch, which exposed the lovely suburban neighborhood. The porch had come with a swing, and you’d decided that it’d have to be your new morning coffee spot. After all, this is California, where the sun was plentiful and the air was just cold enough to be refreshing in the mornings.

The time that you drank your coffee on the porch also happened to be the time that your neighborhood Heroic, Marcus, went for his morning runs. He’d been excited to see that the house was sold, and Missy was too. They planned on bringing over some sweets once you were settled. Several weeks after the sold sign went up, he saw you for the first time.

You looked like an angel, he thought. You wore a fuzzy robe with patterned capri pajama pants peeking from beneath it. Your glasses rested on the bridge of your nose, slightly fogged from the steam of your coffee. You sat on your porch swing, knees pulled to your chest, reading from your tablet. He was immediately caught off-guard. Your new home was at the beginning of his running path, but his breath was already gone from his lungs from your beauty.

Pushing his own glasses up his nose, he gave you a little wave as you looked up. You’d smiled at him, a grin with your teeth visible. The man was handsome, you’d noticed. Dark hair, a little scruff, eyes that scrunched when he smiled at you. He was fit, too, his muscles evident beneath his tight t-shirt and running shorts. He kept running, unsure what he could say to you.

Marcus returned home some thirty minutes later to find Missy awake. “Hey, the new neighbor moved in,” he told her as he walked to the counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Ooh, tell me all about them.”

“Well, we didn’t talk. I still don’t know if it’s a family or anything,” he admitted. “But there was a woman sitting on the porch.”

Missy’s eyes lit up. “How old?”

Marcus shook his head. “I don’t know, muñeca,” he told her and kissed her head as he walked past her to sit at the table.

“Old enough to date?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and stuffing her mouth full of cereal. “Did she seem single?”

“Stay out of it,” he teased her and poked her forehead, right between the eyes.

She flinched back a bit but laughed. “Dad, come on.”

He shook his head. “We can bring over a housewarming gift tonight, huh? Then we can see.” -

Well, it turned out that night was too busy to do so for the Morenos.

You saw him the next morning as he ran past again. You wore different pajamas but sat in the same position. You’d waved back.

That’s how the next couple mornings went for the two of you. Every day, Marcus could swear you looked prettier. With you looking like that in your pajamas, he couldn’t imagine how beautiful you’d be at any other time.

Finally, Friday night, he and Missy put on some music and got to baking.

“What does she look like?” Missy asked curiously as she cracked an egg into the bowl- she’d learned the hard way that her father was not to be trusted with egg duty.

Marcus described you to his daughter, his eyes far off and a small smile on his face. “She’s very pretty.”

“Well, duh. You’re simping over her, of course she is.”

“What’s a simp?” He’d asked, brow furrowing.

The knock came an hour or two later. You’d gotten home from work an hour or so earlier, so you were in relaxed clothing, the remnants of your makeup on your face.

Behind the door stood the handsome runner you saw every morning, and a miniature, carbon-copied version of him with longer hair and more feminine features. “Hi! We’re the Morenos. We live in the blue house down the street. I’m Missy, and this is my dad, Marcus,” she introduced herself cheerfully. She held a tray of brownies. He held a bouquet.

“We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” the man- Marcus- says with a warm smile on his face.

“Oh, thank you!” You grinned and took the tray Missy held out. “Well, come in, please,” you invite them. “Do you drink, Marcus? I was just having some wine. Oh, and Missy, I have some soda if you’d like that.”

The three of you sat in your half-constructed living room for a while and chatted. You learned about the former Mrs. Moreno and how she’d passed a few years ago. You shared that you were living alone and single, due to a bad breakup that led you to move here. The two were good company, you learned quickly, bantering back and forth more like siblings than a father and daughter.

As they stood up to leave, you apologized for the mess. “Sorry. I’ve been trying to hook up my TV lately, and I haven’t done anything else yet. I want to get the TV up first, but I’m practically useless with electronic stuff,” you admitted with a chuckle.

“Oh, Dad is great with electronics,” Missy told you with a grin.

“Not great. Competent would be a better word,” he chuckled. “I could help you set it up, if you’d like that.”

“I would, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Here, we can exchange numbers, you can text me when you’d like me to come over,” he offered and pulled out his phone.

“Sure,” you said and told him your number, which he enters into his phone and sends you a text. “Perfect,” you nodded and saved his phone number. “I’ll see you two soon, hopefully.”

They said goodbye and you heard Missy giggling as the door shut behind him. It’s muffled, but you thought you can hear Missy anyway: “That was smooth, Dad!”

That was months ago now. You’d developed a relationship with the both of them, visiting each others’ houses often for dinner or just to chat.

When summer rolled around, Missy invited you over for days at their pool. You two had enjoyed yourselves, Marcus playing the role of your butler for the day, serving you mocktails and teasing his daughter. It became a common occurrence during the summer. You even had a reverse day on Marcus’s birthday (July 12th) where Missy served the two of you. It was almost like a date. That was the day you both realized you’d fallen hard for the other.

As much as you spent time with Marcus, the girl positively adored you, and always sent you texts from her father’s phone.

We’re having pizza tonight! Wanna come over?

Dad says he sucks at math. Can you help me with my homework?

My friends canceled on me. Are you free to eat Ben and Jerry’s and watch Mamma Mia with me?

You’d become like a mother figure to her, helping her when she got her first period, taking her shopping for middle-school dances, giving her boy advice.

Marcus liked you just as much, if not more. You liked him too. He was a funny man, kindhearted and warm. He’d listen to you talk when you’d had a shitty day, bring over a bottle of wine when he needed some comfort, cook dinner for the two of you when Missy was at Anita’s.

One night, you’re eating dinner with them on their patio. It’s nice, overlooking their backyard and their pool. Missy is going to a friend’s later, to sleep over, but Marcus had cooked food for the three of you on the grill, something you’d learned he was fantastic at, and you’re inside getting more food. The door is slightly cracked, and you can hear the two of them talking.

“Dad. You have to make your move, and you gotta do it tonight! Otherwise, she’ll go for Kent a couple doors down. You don’t want that, do you?” she asks in a hushed voice.

“It’s not that easy, muñeca. I’m so in love with her I don’t know what to do.”

Your heart catches in your chest, fluttering. Marcus likes you. Not only that, he’s in love with you. The past few months race through your head, and you hyper-analyze every little interaction the two of you have had. It’s clear now, in hindsight. You swallow hard, putting back down the skewer of vegetables.

He’s been the only thing on your mind the past few weeks, you have to admit. Your visits to each others’ homes had increased, with you spending more and more nights a week at the Morenos’. His laugh makes your stomach flutter as Missy says something else to him outside. You bite your lip. Tonight’s the night. If he doesn’t make his move like Missy insisted, you’ll do it first.

The conversation is light for the rest of dinner, and you’re a bit detached. Marcus can tell, but he doesn’t comment on it. You simply stare out into their pool, listening to Missy ramble on about the plans that she and her friends have for tonight.

A while later, her friends’ parents pick her up. You stand in the driveway and wave a thank-you to the girl’s parents as they drive off with Missy and her friend in tow. “Love you guys,” she shouts out of the window. You grin and shout it back, in sync with Marcus.

The two of you return to the backyard. You walk a little farther apart from Marcus than normal. “Hey,” he says and stands right next to you, his shoulder nudging yours. “What’s wrong? You’ve been off all night,” he mumbles softly.

You shake your head. “It’s nothing, really,” you chuckle, looking down at your feet.

Marcus is oblivious to the fact that you heard the two of them earlier. You and Marcus have always had a playful relationship, and the idea strikes him to help cheer you up. “Hey, vecina.”

“What- ah!” You squeal as Marcus lifts you in his strong arms. He walks the two of you to the side of the pool as you wriggle in his grip, laughing. “Goddamnit, Marcus! Let go of me!” You screech as he holds you over the pool, though you’re giggling the whole time.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong,” he laughs, your feet kicking as they dangle over the chlorinated water.

“No, you asshole!” You laugh, wriggling. “Put me down, Moreno, or God help your poor soul when I-”

He sets you down on the edge, backing up a bit. “There, fine. Just trying to help,” he teases. He did, he thinks to himself. You’re smiling again.

You’re painfully close to him. Your hands find his hips and he looks down at your hands in confusion as you pat the pockets of his shorts. No phone. Perfect. There’s a devilish grin as you wrap him in a bear hug and fall backwards into the pool, taking him with you.

You let go once you’re underwater, shooting up to the surface from under him and laughing. He comes up moments later, wiping his eyes and pushing his hair back. Your laugh is maniacal and loud, completely content and proud of yourself. “There, I cheered you up at least,” he shakes his head and smiles. He walks to the shallower end of the pool, and you follow.

“I wasn’t in a bad mood,” you shoot back.

“Well, something was off. Will you tell me now?” He asks, your eyes wandering to his- oh, he’s ripped, goddamn- abs beneath his wet t-shirt. His eyes remained trained on yours, ever the gentleman.

Swallowing hard, you nod and walk closer to him with a smile. “I heard you and Missy when I was inside getting more food,” you tell him, biting on your lip to hold back an excited giggle.

His brows furrow in confusion then lift in surprise as it hits him. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you nod, wading a little closer and then even closer. You can hear his heavy breathing and look into those big brown eyes with a grin.

“Well, I-” he starts stammering, unsure of what to say, until you place your hands on his shoulders.

“It’s okay, Marcus,” you mumble soothingly, your arms wrapping around his neck. “I know you said it’s not that easy. Why don’t you let me take the reins then, hm?” You ask teasingly, bringing your face close to his.

He grins, taking the opportunity as he sees it. His lips crash to yours happily, his hands finding your waist over your sopping wet clothing. You smile softly against his lips. They’re so soft and warm, the very lips you’ve been staring at for a long time, imagining this. He’s gentle but loving and you deepen it. He follows immediately, parting his lips against yours and he sighs into your mouth.

The two of you stand there, in his pool, making out, for quite a while. Finally, when he breaks away, looking at you through his water-drop-stained glasses, you grin. “This is your fault, you know. I’m gonna have to go home and change into dry clothing.”

“Or you could borrow some of mine,” he offers with a shy smile, and you grin.

“That works too.”

He kisses you one more time. “Will you stay the night? We don’t even have to… to do anything. I don’t even really want to yet. I just want to keep holding on to you.”

You nod and kiss him softly, for just a moment. “Of course I will.” -

You awaken in the morning to the smell of cooking. You live alone, and it makes your brow furrow in confusion, eyes still shut, until they open and you find yourself in Marcus’ home. His bed, specifically.

You smell like chlorine and your hair is damp still, but you’re wearing a big black sweater that smells like detergent and cologne and sleep. It’s Marcus’s, you realize with a smile.

Last night was truly perfect. No, you didn’t sleep with him yet, but it was still perfectly intimate, the way you held each other and whispered sweet words and pressed soft kisses all over each others’ faces and torsos. You’d made out for a fair amount of time too, just like teenagers again, but it was meaningful.

You pad down the stairs, wearing just your underwear and one of Marcus’s big sweaters. He’s cooking breakfast in the kitchen, and your heart melts as you see him. “Good morning, superhero,” you coo as you wrap your arms around him from behind and press a kiss into his neck.

His body warms and melts into your touch. “Good morning, beautiful. How did you sleep?”

“Amazing. Your bed is insanely comfortable,” you chuckle and snuggle in against him, resting your head against his back.

“I’m glad. Go sit down, breakfast will be ready in a bit.”

You nod and do exactly that, sitting across the kitchen island from him. He puts some pancakes on a plate, drizzles them with syrup, and slides it to you. “Bon appetit.”

“Thank you,” you grin and waste no time in cutting into them with a fork and taking a bite.

You sigh happily and Marcus’s heart can barely take the sight of it. “I can’t get over how a few months ago I wanted to learn your name and now you’re having breakfast with me in my sweater.”

“I can’t get over how cute you are,” you tease and pop another bite in your mouth. “The good news is that you can get over it, because I’m coming over here for breakfast in your clothes every day now.”

“Or you could live here.”

The proposal is so quiet, so sudden and nonchalant that it takes you aback for a minute. “What?”

He shrugs. “I know we’ve only been together for, what, 10 hours now, but Missy and I both adore you. You’re over here all the time anyway. Why don’t you? Save us both some money, too.”

You bite your lip to hold back a grin. “I might have to think about it.”

He nods. “I get that, I-“

“Done thinking. I’ll do it,” you grin happily.

“Really?”

“Really,” you nod, giggling excitedly.

Marcus leans across the kitchen counter and kisses you softly. “Be prepared for a lot of Moreno loving. Missy’s a cuddler.”

“I think I can take it,” you smile and press another kiss to his lips, with all of the love in your heart.

translations:

vecina- neighbor (female)

muñeca- in this context, doll

hey taglist, come get y’all’s juice

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @softly-sad @blo0dangel @luxurybeskar @binarydanvvers @sleep-tight1

#marcus moreno #marcus moreno x reader #we can be heroes #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pascalpanic

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kyloswarstars · 3 years

Text

ROOMMATES • Part 4

Divergent • College AU • Eric x Reader

ROOMMATES masterlist 💫 Divergent masterlist

You escaped your current living situation by moving in with your friend Christina – and five other college students. Little did you know that one of them was the guy who was your ultimate pain in the neck since your first semester. Now, you had to find a way to not strangle him in his sleep out of pure frustration. Also, you had to find a way to get rid of those weird butterfly feelings for him that slowly grew in your stomach.

Words • 2.3k

Warnings • mentions of drug use and unsettling text messages

The enemies to lovers story no one needed.

/////

In the following weeks you noticed Eric’s drive to make your life extra hard, by going against your opinions, decreased. You got along. Occasionally, your thoughts drifted back to that weird moment in the furniture store. Holding hands. And his fingers trying to intertwine with yours. If that was a deliberate action or an automatic reaction – you couldn’t say. All you knew was that the memory of it made your stomach twist and you didn’t like that.

The number of folded papers in your pockets had increased immensely. They were pulled out under the dinner table when you couldn’t endure Eric’s stares anymore. Or while waiting for the shower to be free. Or right after the ‚GN‘ knock at night when that stupid smile on your lips didn’t want to leave.

It was Friday. Friday was the weekly grocery haul day. It was your second time having to fulfil that task. The first time it had been with Tris who patiently showed you what everyone’s favorite snack was – Eric’s were those little pretzels covered in chocolate – and what kind of vegetables were an ultimate must buy.

It was Friday. And this time you had to go shopping with Eric. In the morning he told you to get read for noon. At noon he told you to get ready for five. At five he tried to push it back once more but you grew impatient.

„If we don’t go now, we don’t have to go at all today. All the fresh stuff will be gone,“ you pointed out, grabbed your backpack and didn’t leave him a choice anymore really. You put on your shoes and left the apartment. Eric was rambling something as he came rushing down the stairs after you.

„Where did you park?“

„Left.“

You walked ahead and tried to spot his car without being able. Further down the road you started to cross a street and suddenly felt a hand around your wrist. Eric nodded behind his back. „This way.“

His hand was immediately gone after telling you to change directions. Still, the spots where his fingertips had touched your skin was burning as if they had left marks. I don’t like that at all.

You were well prepared. After all you had the complete day to brace yourself for the struggle you expected. The shopping list was in your pocket, though not the only paper in there, the community money was in your backpack and you took a drag, or five, of Will’s joint earlier.

The store wasn’t that filled as you thought it would be on a Friday. Good. A lot of people made you nervous.

Eric pushed the cart and already at the first stop, fruit section, he remembered that your last discussion had been a few days ago. Too long. Time to settle for a new one.

„Take the blueberries.“ He pointed to the little containers as if you didn’t know what blueberries were.

„I want apples so I’m getting apples,“ you stated.

„Blueberries are super high on antioxidants, you know.“

„Cool but I don’t want to eat thirty tiny things. I want to eat one thing.“

„Fine. But I want blueberries.“

„Then take them yourself. You’re not decoration, Eric. You have hands to use them.“ You shook your head at how ridiculous he was. You weren’t his personal shopping assistant, this was a team work thing.

The veggie section wasn’t any better. You just tried to work your way through the shopping list and directed Eric on what else to pick. Admittedly, since living with your roommates, your eating got a lot healthier because they actually knew how to cook.

You completed the booze area, cheese heaven and dairy aisle without any further debates and turned into a new aisle. Then took a step back out of it again to look down the hallway.

„What now?“ Eric stopped the cart in time before running you over.

„I thought I saw someone I know.“ No one was there though. And if that person, you that had been there, really was there, you were glad they disappeared. Meeting ghosts from the past was under no circumstances something you wanted to happen while Eric was around.

Snack aisle. You grabbed some nuts for you and also the chocolate pretzels without thinking twice. Which caused another awkward moment when you placed them in the cart. Was life to be full of awkward moments now?

Eric looked at you bluntly, then forced a smile on his lips. You picked out the favorite snacks of your other roommates as well to show that his wasn’t the only one you remembered.

Whenever you turned into a new aisle you nervously checked if there was a ghost from the past. You never found one and were incredibly relieved when you made it through check out and had stored all the groceries in Eric’s trunk. And the backseat.

„Smartie waved at me yesterday,“ Eric said as the car rolled from the parking lot onto the street.

„Are you sure you didn’t imagine that?“

„It was close enough to be counted as a wave,“ he admitted. Though, talking about penguins broke the tense atmosphere. You hadn’t even been on the road for a minute and Eric pulled into another parking lot. He stopped at a diner drive thru window. „Milkshake?“

„Doesn’t look like I can say no now that we’re here.“

He rolled down his window and you were greeted by a waitress. She asked what she could serve you.

„Two milkshakes,“ Eric turned to you. „What flavour do you want?“

You leaned over to the window. „Strawberry, please,“ you smiled at the waitress and found yourself – too close to Eric’s face. Half leaning on his chest he mumbled a ‚for me too‘. Yep. Life would be full of awkward moments from now on.

You saved yourself to the passenger side and tried to hide the heat rising in your face by looking out the window. In fact you rolled it down to get a cool breeze. No chance, though. Chicago didn’t want to help you with that today.

„There you go!“ The waitress handed your milkshakes to Eric and you carefully made sure that this time your fingers wouldn’t touch. You sipped on your milkshake all the way back to the apartment.

The more often you took the way up and down the three flights of stairs, the more your muscles grew used to it. On moving day your legs had trembled so bad. Now, that all the groceries were up in the apartment you didn’t notice a single muscle being impressed by the stairs anymore.

Eric kneeled at the fridge, you handed him all the groceries that had to go in there. When you fished his blueberries out of the bag you couldn’t bite back a remark.

„Here, Eric. May they taste as good as my apples.“

He just shook his head and put them away. Once all the food that had to be cooled was put away, you stole away to sit on the balcony and finish your milkshake. He actually joined you.

„Why do you want to become a doctor?“ That question slipped faster than you had thought it to an end in your head.

„The obvious reason. To help people.“ He sipped as loudly on his milkshake as you did. „Why are you studying math out of all terrible things?“

„Same reason as yours,“ you bluntly stated.

„Yeah?“ Eric had stared at you ever since you sat down on the balcony. You had noticed that out of the corner of your eye. Now you looked at him as well.

„Yes.“ A smile grew on your lips. That was what you hoped you would be able to do one day.

/////

The evening atmosphere on the balcony was relaxing. Will came and joined Eric and you at some point. Then Christina got back home as well. One after the other found a spot on the balcony floor to squeeze in and contributed to a growing conversation.

It was warm instead of hot and Four provided everyone with beer. Tris suggested to head out to the beach all together soon. Everyone was all hyped for her plan and you hoped they wouldn’t notice that your excitement for that was just nonexistent. Nevertheless you enjoyed them making plans for everyone together. Christina didn’t exaggerate when she said, all those weeks ago when she suggested for you to move in, that all the roommates were like family.

Eric got out of one of the two lounge chairs. „Who wants pizza?“ And that question was the most rhetorical question he could’ve asked his roommates. Because everyone wanted pizza.

In this house pizza was made all by hand. So far the only pizza you had eaten here were takeouts someone brought home. The thought of completely self-made pizza sounded too good to be true.

Eric navigated his kitchen ‚staff‘. It seemed that when it came to pizza, he was the chef.

„Tris and Chris, you’re slicing the veggies. The guys can prep the tomato sauce.“ You waited to get a task too but so far he didn’t trust you with anything.

Eric grabbed flour from the shelf, oil and some water and yeast from the fridge. He placed it all in front of you on the countertop and fetched a bowl out of the cupboard. Balancing some sugar and salt down from the shelf, he came to stand right next to you.

„Did you ever make pizza dough yourself?“ He lowered his head a little for you to understand him better with the loud bantering about the vegetables that was going on behind your backs.

„Not really.“ You were a little overwhelmed. Not even cookie dough was within the realm of possibility for you.

„Wanna try?“ Eric’s voice sounded encouraging. He must’ve noticed the look of horror on your face.

„Don’t blame me if it’s gonna be a total mess.“

„No worries,“ he stated and he lowered his face a little more. „I’ll teach you step by step.“ His body came closer as well. It actually closed that little gap between your sides as he reached for the yeast. He crumbled it into lukewarm water and told you to add some salt and sugar. It had to set for ten minutes until you could continue with the flour. And during those ten minutes you realised that his body didn’t accidentally close that gap between your sides. Eric did it on purpose and he held it there. You sensed he gave you the chance to bring some space between you again but… you didn’t want to. You physically couldn’t, just couldn’t break the contact. It was way too intriguing, almost electrifying. And for ten minutes straight, he lowered his upper body to shield your nonchalant conversation about penguins – of course – from the others.

When the yeast-water-mix was ready, his following instructions were only whispers, so you had to keep close to him. Why was he doing that?

He added the mix to the flour, along with some oil, and dug his hands in to start kneading. The way his hands applied pressure, provided by his arms, made you… look. To say the least. To be honest, it turned into a very distracting sight. Eric kneading pizza dough? Come on. You had to give in and admit to yourself that this was something you couldn’t deny being totally sexy. The arm muscle escalation, whenever he flipped the dough and kneaded in once again set off a chain of thoughts you really didn’t want to have in a kitchen full of roommates.

„Wanna try?“ Eric asked with a brief glance in your direction, luckily unaware of your current admiration for his arms.

„Nah,“ you mumbled. In hopes to keep watching his arms. You were able to do so for a few more minutes. And were entirely embarrassed when you turned around to find Christina and Tris look at you with a mischievous grin on their lips. You deserved that.

From then on you kept a good distance between Eric and you. While the dough had to rest some. Later during making the pizzas and baking them. Only twice you met eyes with him during dinner. He probably didn’t even notice. After all, why did your brain make such a big deal about it? You were certainly not playing in Eric’s league nor was there even profound reason to think about that.

You were just roommates. Former enemies going onto maybe being some sort of friends.

And then there was a knocking on your wall again. Long, long, short. Long, short. GN. You turned to your wall and foolishly smiled at it. When you didn’t respond right away, the knocking was repeated.

Just as you wanted to knock good night as well your phone buzzed. For a second your pulse quickened, wondered if it was Eric because you didn’t respond soon enough.

You fished for your phone and unlocked it. It wasn’t Eric.

you were seen today

Your heart stopped for a second and then started beating in light speed all of a sudden. You opened the chat.

was that your new lover? already got someone new whose life you can fuck up?

or did you break up because of him?

The text messages didn’t end. Peter still understood very well how to provoke and intimidate you.

ANSWER ME

Do you think I’m just gonna let that sit???

You left the chat and threw it into your sheets. It bounced with a thud up and against the wall but you didn’t care. You searched hectically for a paper but all the clothes you grabbed were empty. The phone buzzed again. First you didn’t pick it up, scared it was Peter again. Then you rummaged around your sheets to find it because maybe it was Eric this time asking what that sound was. It wasn’t Eric. Again.

you’ll regret it. believe me y/n

/////

Taglist • @longlostinanotherworld • @dosentier • @dhunhdchrih • @coryisagee

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purplesurveys · 3 years

Text

1161

survey by pichu4850

What color do you think of when I say...

Anger? Red, or a really bright red-orange.

Confusion? Gray.

Inspiration? Sky blue. Both word and color give off calming vibes to me.

Shy? Something like an off-white shade, and maybe even pastel pink.

Agony? Olive green was the first color to come to mind, though I have no idea why.

Sleep? Dark blue, like the night sky.

Chipper? Yellow.

Beautiful? Red, the way roses are.

Morning? Light blue or yellow.

Would you rather be named...

Andrea or Aimee? Andrea.

Emily or Erica? Emily. I know an Erycka that I’m not too fond of, so this is an easy pass.

Kelsey or Casey? Casey, though I’d mix up my name a bit and have it be pronounced and spelled as Cassie.

Madeleine or Marina? Eh, not really a fan of either but I’d mos likely go for Madeleine.

Alec or Aaron? Alec.

Ryan or Ross? Not a fan of both names as well though I’d probably go with Ryan, but only as a feminine name.

Dylan or Daniel? Dylan.

Jack or Jordan? I guess Jack, if I have to pick.

Gabriel or Gavin? Gabriel.

How often do you...

Brush your teeth? Once or twice a day.

Eat breakfast? Twice a week, during weekends; though sometimes I’ll end up skipping it for an entire week altogether.

Check your email? I literally never check my personal email anymore after having gotten hired, but I know I should quit that habit and check it every once in a while just in case an intriguing opportunity might come my way. My work email is a different story; I have to use it everyday. I open my emails even during weekends so that when I report to my shift on Monday, my Gmail won’t look as clogged.

Go to the mall? When quarantine protocols loosened up a bit I used to go either on Saturdays or Sundays for some me time as well as some much-needed time away from the house, for the sake of my mental health and sanity. But now that we’re going through another surge in cases, no one’s allowed to go out again and malls are back to just keeping the essential stores open.

Go to the beach? A few times a year, at least before the pandemic. I haven’t been to the beach since 2019.

Play card games? Only happens once in a blue moon, when I get together with friends and someone happens to bring a deck of cards. This isn’t a usual occurrence with any of my friend groups, though.

Have at least 20 minute phone calls? Never. I have 20-minute Google Meet and Zoom calls instead.

Paint your nails? They are never painted.

Wish you were happier? Every now and then.

Did you ever want to be...

A veterinarian? Yes, when I was younger. I once stumbled upon an interview with a horse vet on one of my kid’s almanacs and thought what they did was so cool.

An astronaut? Yup, definitely became a big obsession of mine at one point in my childhood. I still think it would be cool to go to outer space and should the opportunity ever become accessible in my lifetime, I wouldn’t want to miss out on it.

An artist? Not really. I knew from the get go I wasn’t meant to be one.

A school teacher? I would guess yes, but I definitely wasn’t as interested in teaching compared to being an astronaut or like a firefighter.

A housewife? Lmfao yeah. This was the answer I would give when I was like 8 up until I was probably 10 and I knew it stressed out my Asian mother big time. My grandpa got a kick out of it, though.

A firefighter? Yes. This was up there with astronaut.

A princess? Not so much.

A lawyer? I definitely considered law for a brief period, but it was already during my latter college years. There wasn’t enough time to mull over it. But hearing all the law school horror stories from my friends kind of made me relieved I didn’t push through with it; I knew I wasn’t passionate enough about law to want to go through all the hardships that come with law school, so I was fine letting that dream go, and still am.

A doctor? This was never a dream of mine.

Would you consider yourself...

Materialistic? Yes.

Pessimistic? It comes out occasionally, but I don’t think it’s a main trait of mine that people would generally see me as.

Avoidant? Not so much. I can be shy and anxious sometimes but I get over it at some point.

Sarcastic? Only occasionally. I wouldn’t say I speak the language.

Talkative? Definitely not. I hate being in the spotlight, and whenever it’s my turn to share a story or talk in a group I usually have the tendency to rush through it or make it as short as possible so as to return the spotlight on someone else. I’ve always been more of a listener.

Strange? Maybe not strange but weird to an extent?

Intelligent? I guess in some ways.

Lucky? In some ways I am, but I also got handed the short end of the stick in other contexts.

In the next twenty-four hours, will you...

Talk to someone you care about? Probably. I talk to at least one friend a day.

Go to work? Yep, I’ll finally be going back to work since the Holy Week break is over. My workaholic self felt kinda unsettled with all the free time, so I’m actually kinda relieved.

Go to school? I’m not in school anymore.

Be in a different city? Nope, it’ll be working from home for me like usual. We were initially allowed to book visits to the office if we really needed to go there to pack some goodies and stuff, but because of re-heightened Covid protocols our admin has once again prohibited anyone to go there for the meantime.

Read a book? I highly doubt it. I haven’t read any in months.

Watch a movie? Nope. It’ll be a Monday coming from a 4-day break, so it will be incredibly busy tomorrow as there would be a lot to catch up on.

Go to a dentist/orthodontist appointment? No, I won’t.

Do your laundry? My parents probably will seeing as our hamper was nearly full the last time I checked.

True or False: Family...

I have two brothers or more. I only have one brother.

My mom lives with me. This is technically true but isn’t phrased right in my case. I’m currently living with my parents.

My grandparent(s) live with me. No, we moved out of our duplex (where I did use to live with my grandparents) well over a decade ago.

I have half-siblings. Don’t have any.

I am the oldest in my family. Eldest child, that is.

I am an only child. I have two other siblings.

I have 15 cousins I can name off the top of my head. Easily. My first cousins are less than 15 in total, but I know a good number of my second and third cousins as well so this is a cakewalk.

The nearest Aunt or Uncle lives less than an hour away from me. The aforementioned duplex we moved out of is just at the next village; we didn’t move too far so that we can continue visiting them.

True or False: Food...

I am allergic to chocolate. I’m not, fortunately. I’m not crazy about chocolate but I’d be pretty miserable if I could never have it either.

I like vegetables more than fruit. Infinitely more, hahaha. I hate fruits.

I have tried pizza dipped in ranch sauce. Ranch isn’t a very common dressing where I’m from, so it’s not usually offered in restaurants. Given the chance, though, I’d definitely try my pizza with ranch at least once.

I've never eaten kiwi fruit. True, but then again I’ve never eaten most fruits and don’t plan to.

I love junk food.

I love to try new food.

Ketchup goes best with fries (chips). I don’t like ketchup and barely put it on anything.

I like fried rice. I haven’t met an Asian who doesn’t like fried rice.

I can prepare dinner for myself (using a stove or oven).

I hate sushi.

How many...

Pairs of shoes do you have? A little over 10, maybe? I don’t feel like counting in my head rn.

Songs do you have on your music player? I don’t have a music player anymore.

Hours of sleep did you get last night? Around 4.

Times have you had alcohol? Like, ever since I started drinking when I was 18? I never kept track lmao but if I would guess, maybe around 50-60 times? I’m not a regular drinker; I drink probably once or twice a month at most.

Books have you read/started reading in the past month? None.

Windows in your house/apartment are open? I know my parents and sister have their windows open at the moment, so that’s 2. Mine are usually open as well, but I’ve turned on my aircon so I’ve closed them for the night.

Pets do you have? 2.

Kids do you have/want to have? I’d cut it off a a maximum of 3 kids, but having just 1 would already be so nice.

Minutes does it take to get from your home to school or work? I work from home, but in the two times I went to the actual office it took anywhere between 45 minutes to an hour.

Have you ever...

Spilled a cup of grape juice on the carpet? I don’t think I’ve ever even encountered grape juice in my entire life.

Played spin the bottle? I don’t think I’ve ever played this. My friends and I usually resort to truth or dare.

Played Twister? Yes, and there are many fond memories that come with it as well. So when I was 7 years old I befriended Katreen, and her mom and mine hit it off instantly so they started this arrangement where every Friday, her mom picked me and my sister up from school along with Katreen and her sisters, and we’d stay for several hours at their place until my mom would pick us up. Her mom was an amazing host and every week we’d play Twister, watch Pokemon, read books together, etc; anything to keep us comfortable and entertained.

Been caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing? It’s bound to happen every now and then.

Walked out of a movie because it was horrible? I’ve gotten this feeling a few times but I always stayed in my seat because I paid for the damn ticket.

Given the finger to someone on the street? Oh most definitely, as well as drivers passing by. And it’s always been towards men that are being disgusting pigs.

Been so sad/angry that you started laughing? Sure.

Been in a wedding? Yes, but I only got invited as a kid since I was usually picked to be one of the flower girls. I haven’t been to a family wedding since 2007.

Been in a situation where you almost died? Probably not died but almost substantially injured, sure.

Misc...

Are you stressing out about anything right now? Just worried about the deluge of tasks that will inevitably come at me tomorrow but knowing how easygoing my bosses are, I know I’ll be able to ease up soon enough.

Do you think before acting or act before thinking? I used to be the latter but I now see the importance of first considering possible consequences of or how others would be affected by my actions.

Do you act upon your emotions and instinct, or logic and reasoning? Again, I used to be one of these, this time the former. Now that I’m at a much more stable and peaceful place in my life I try not to let my emotions get the best of me.

What are some personality traits you find appealing in a potential partner? I had a number of negative experiences in my last relationship so forgive me for scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to my expectations lmaaaao – I’d love for someone to be sensitive to my needs and feelings, and for them to be able to own up to their mistakes or hurtful habits and know how to apologize and be open to changing if it’s for their self-improvement.

How have you changed as a person in the last 5 years? I tolerate less bullshit now. I think I’ve also grown to be happier and a lot more stable, emotionally. I also have a better sense of what I want out of life and where I want to be, and I’ve also learned to be more sociable and open up to people.

If you could do anything you wanted right this moment, what would it be? Order sushi :(

Is there anyone you can totally relax and be yourself around? Yes, that’s what my friends are for. If I can’t feel comfortable around my friends, I’d view that as a problem.

Did you ever wanted to say something to someone, didn't, and regretted it? No.

Are you scared about the future? I’m scared of the idea of not meeting some of my goals, like having a family; but I’m also excited about what the future could bring me.

#survey #surveys

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mchalowitz · 4 years

Text

the process by which time passes

REPOST. you guys. @lilydalexf is the true mvp of this saga. she happened to have the story still open and was kind enough to send it to me. i owe her so much gratitude (as well as the other amazing xf bloggers that reached out to me). although i don’t interact much socially around here, it is amazing to be a part of a fandom that is so kind and supportive! writing xf fic is a creative outlet i enjoy so much and i love sharing it. now back to our regularly scheduled reading. (also if you guys wouldn’t mind boosting this new version so i can see the feedback, i would be so grateful.)

this is something i’ve been writing (at this point) for probably almost a year, which is one reason i’ve been pretty quiet on the fic-posting front. i’m so excited for everyone to finally see it but terrified at the idea that it’s not just an idea that only i know about anymore. it was originally the back half of a wip i abandoned but i couldn’t let this part go. enjoy!!

Mulder gives her a tight hug on the side of a desert highway. Scully presses her forehead to his chest, hoping her thoughts might leave her mind, reach his heart, and convince him to stay. He still gets in the SUV and she never sees him again.

In true Fox Mulder fashion, his physical presence isn’t needed to be a constant reminder. Government officials that she once exchanged pleasantries with at the coffee machine bang down her door and rip apart the life he abandoned.

“Have you heard anything?”

Skinner rifles through papers until the door clicks shut. Her badge feels heavy on her lapel. It feels wrong to be here.

“Only the official warrant,” Skinner answers. That was weeks ago. She has to frequently remind herself that he is doing the best he can. He can’t make it too obvious he’s interested in the hunt. She certainly can’t go digging herself.

“They’re closing the X-files,” he informs her. “There is an appeal process…”

“That’s not necessary,” Scully interrupts. “My assignment was to assess the validity of Mulder’s investigations. There is nothing to assess.”

“You believe in the work.”

“I’m a scientist,” she reminds him, offering nothing else.

Her final report is a jumble of words that states, no matter what she believed, the X-Files should never be reopened.

–

Scully spends idle days breathing in wet air on her mother’s porch. She hopes the sea might soothe her.

A week later, as she plans her return to Washington, she decides emphatically that it did not.

She discovers heart medication in her mother’s bathroom cabinet. Maggie attempts to downplay the circumstances, “It was a blip on a screen, Dana. The doctor said it was just precautionary,” but to Scully, it’s a call to action.

It isn’t difficult to resign. It seemed like it should, after giving the FBI almost a decade of herself, and much, much more than that.

She cries silently in her car after handing over the keys to her dream apartment and saying goodbye to her meticulously curated life.

She reminds herself starting over is the only way to move on. But she isn’t sure she believes it.

–

Scully is a seasoned Special Agent of the FBI, an instructor of pathology, but she struggles to call herself a doctor. After an onslaught of rejected resumes, she begins to believe the medical community of Maryland agrees.

A small hospital outside Baltimore is wowed by her determination alone. At the bottom of the ladder, no one knows the reputation of Agent Scully. She showed promise and expertise in her role, even if her partner was a kook. Dr. Scully has never formally practiced medicine and her bedside manner leaves something to be desired.

Scully hopes for an opening in pathology, where she might be more understood. John From Human Resources hums along with her plight. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he promises.

She begins noticing him behind her in the cafeteria line. On a fall day, she is trying to decide on the best fruit cup when he sides up to her. He is whisper-quiet, conspiratorial in tone when he says, “I wanted to give you a heads up that Dr. Harris may be retiring at the end of the year.”

The may sounds more like an is. A weight inside her lifts.

John assures her she is the first choice when the position officially becomes available. When he leads her to her new office in January, he asks her out to drinks to celebrate, and Scully is surprised, because she forgot people could see her that way.

John is completely unlike anyone else she’s been with. He is endlessly dependable. She never has to worry about where he is because he calls when he’ll be late. He thrives on a fastidious routine and makes safe, informed decisions.

Scully finally moves out of her mother’s house and into a modern three-bedroom she purchases with John. She leads an entirely new life. She climbs the ranks in pathology and is still able to go on real dates, and eat home cooked meals while they’re still hot, and sit in the pew every Sunday. She goes on weekend hikes and uninterrupted trips to the coast and has fine, but not life changing, sex. She accepts John’s proposal on the beach with a beautiful ring.

They have a small wedding. She doesn’t take his last name.

John tries so hard, never asks about her time in the FBI, even tries to adopt a child with her. When it falls through at the last minute, they decide on a dog instead. They get divorced after two years.

In her office one late morning, the phone on her desk lights up. “Dr. Scully, there’s a man on line one asking for you.”

“Thank you,” she says into the speaker. She picks up the receiver with the assumption of a request for a consult. “This is Dr. Scully.”

“Hey, Scully, it’s me.”

She drops the phone.

–

Scully’s stomach is in knots. She is too nervous to order any food. Mulder sits across from her at a diner, looking older and scruffier, and she wonders if this is all a cruel hallucination.

“Where have you been?”

His fingers tap nervously on the table. “Farrs Corner.”

After exploring little towns in the far reaches of nowhere, she remembers that’s Virginia. When she presses for how long, she discovers he’s been within driving distance almost this entire time. Her fingers clench. She wants to strangle him.

“It’s been six years, Mulder. Why now?”

“The FBI dropped the charges against me. I helped them with a case, they wiped the slate clean. I can start my life again, Scully, come back.”

Forget strangle, Scully wants to kill him. He thinks he can just come back? His ignorance to the domino effect of his actions has to be purposeful.

There was a life they wanted to live together that never had the chance to become a reality. She has spent six years trying to fill her life with meaning. Her marriage failed, her career path faltered. They have a child that is no longer theirs.

Scully stands from the booth. She stares down at him, asserts her power.

“I thought you were dead.”

He just nods. He suggests she give him a call, now that she has his number.

She doesn’t.

–

Scully always forgave Mulder too quickly; it was their fatal flaw. She frequently ignored this piece of common knowledge by justifying his more unsavory behavior as residual childhood trauma, or a severe lack of social skills, or plainly being obtuse.

She never found a way to justify him leaving her when she needed him without looking like an emotionally manipulated moron. How could she possibly forgive the embarrassment and isolation she felt after giving up her own child for ostensibly no reason?

Scully bared her soul to him, her body, and gave him everything she had, and she still took a backseat to his quest. There was a brief time where she thought something finally switched in him and the quest would take a backseat to her. In the earliest days of the millenium, working their way up from something undefined to something real.

A month passes. She speaks to no one about her meeting with Mulder, but when she has idle moments, it fills her mind. She tries to remain hot when she begins wondering what Mulder’s life is like now. She attempts to imagine how he filled six years worth of time, because he was never a picture of duality, never able to separate his life from his work, and what can he do after leaving it behind?

It’s a slow burning curiosity. Weeks long. She begins to think he didn’t push during their last meeting because he knew it would happen like this.

She scrolls through recent calls to find the number he left on her office phone. Scully hears the hello in that familiar voice and doesn’t hesitate to respond, “Mulder, it’s me.”

–

Scully sees a dream realized when she pulls up to a little house with a spacious porch on sprawling land. Mulder never liked the city.

He is clearly thrilled to finally present his vegetable garden and his paintings while giving her the grand tour. He recounts putting in the new water heater himself and his plans to replace the roof next spring.

Mulder makes her pasta and gives her the “good chair.” When her stomach is full, they talk about old times. She hasn’t talked about these things in years because she knew there was no one else that can laugh about what she saw instead of instantly recoiling except for the man sitting across from her.

“I have to get back,” she realizes when she sees the sun beginning to set out the window. They spent almost the whole day together. He nods in understanding.

“You see I’m not living in squalor,” he jokes as he walks her to her car.

“It certainly wasn’t the dilapidated hut I was expecting,” she teases. Her tone shifts from silly to serious. “You know, Mulder, after our last meeting, I really didn’t want to come here. I thought…I think you know what I thought. But I’m glad I came.”

“I appreciate any chance you’ll give me, Scully,” he replies.

–

Farrs Corner becomes a regular destination.

Mulder easily becomes the companion she was lacking, the return of the best friend she lost. Even with the passage of time, he still knows her better than anyone else.

She stops offering up her free Friday nights for on-call autopsies and tox screens to watch movies with take-out picked up just before civilization ends.

Without a Saturday shift to spoil their fun, they indulge in the full six pack of their favorite beer. His feet are propped on the coffee table next to their abandoned pizza box, as she folds her legs underneath her on the cushion beside him. She is full-bellied and warm.

“I can’t believe you were married,” he says in disbelief, taking a swig from his bottle. “Considering how many of my proposals you turned down.”

“Maybe I would’ve accepted if any of them had been serious.”

“So you’re saying there was a chance?”

She laughs and nudges his shoulder with the side of her bottle.

When she catches his eye, she sees a person that, yes, she thought she might marry someday. When she was younger, less hard, and had never seen the face of a child that was half him, half her.

She leans forward and presses her lips to his, jerking back as soon as he begins to respond. She tries to find something to say, a reasoning, but she finds his curious gaze, and can’t think of anything to say.

He closes the distance between them and starts where she left off. His kiss is wonderful. It’s hopeful and sexy as all hell.

He nudges her jaw aside with his chin, his mouth seeking out her neck. Her fingers tangle in his hair. “Let’s go upstairs,” he suggests.

–

Standing at the foot of his bed, Scully realizes she’s never been in Mulder’s bedroom before. He has simple furnishings; dark wood and soft blues. His belt clunks when it hits the floor. His bare chest warms her back.

She remembers his warmth, his proclivity to be so tender and gentle, and to let her lead the way. She turns and guides him onto the bed.

Modest kisses quickly turn unrestrained. He breaths in long pants as he shoves her panties down her thighs, letting her kick them over her ankle before hooking them over his hips.

He slips in so easily. Scully explores his changed body; the shifting muscles in his back, his thinner, sweat dampened hair against her hands, his ass clenching as he rocks into her.

Electricity runs through her when his fingers drift to her clit, taking her right to the edge. “Fuck,” he groans, his lips at her ear. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

She moans in utter bliss, deliriously overtaken. When she comes, she shatters. Mulder thrusts two, three times more, before following behind. He spurts hotly into her with growls of satisfaction.

Breathing heavily, they lay bonelessly on their backs. She feels the sweat cooling at her hairline. Her lips break into a big smile and a laugh leaves her lips. His follows and he raises her hand to his lips, feeling his joyous puffs of air against her skin.

“We are still very good at that,” she decides, turning her head toward him.

“You did always bring out the best in me,” he agrees.

Scully finds his boyish nerves when he mentions spending the night charmingly endearing. She wordlessly moves to press herself into his side, clinging to him in answer.

–

Mulder calls their connection cosmic, though Scully doesn’t believe in cosmicity. An otherworldly connect would trivialize their effort so far in their new era.

She worried how they would assimilate into each other’s worlds without the commonality of what easily linked them before. While their forced separation may never be seen as a positive in her eyes, it did allow for the growth to be content in domesticity.

Scully adores the version of Mulder she met over two decades ago. With his unwavering desire for truth and his absolutely brilliant mind. The hours they can spend talking remind her of that man often. They spar as they always did, laugh like no time has passed.

She delights in the side of him that is at peace with the mundane. He likes filling her drawers with clean scrubs, and working in the yard until he returns smelling like freshly cut grass, and giving her drafts of his paranormal mystery novel.

Uncensored honesty is their biggest challenge. It would be so easy to never discuss what plagued them in the past. They finally get to air their fear, their guilt, and their grief. Scully thinks she and Mulder come out better on the other side.

Mulder leads her to the quiet corners of the world, using his freedom to finally venture off his little property. They luxuriate in the Bahamas shortly after their first night together and they start stopping at all the roadside attractions they used to skip. He plans to finally take her to England and show her all the off beaten paths from his youth. She would go anywhere with him.

A beach house in Maine is this weekend’s activity. Scully accidentally leaves her stack of reading on the desk in her office. “I’ll grab them quick and we’ll go,” she promises him, hanging onto the open passenger side window.

“Don’t leave the coast waiting too long,” he teases. “I’m starting to lose my island glow.” She rolls her eyes at him and pushes up on her toes to kiss him briefly.

Though she promises to be quick, Scully still signs into her computer. She printed out the newest articles hastily before an autopsy and notices now that the first ten pages of the article on top are missing. She finds herself drawn to begin reading when she goes to reprint. She pulls out her chair with blind arms, sitting down absently.

She doesn’t realize how long she’s been gone until she sees Mulder enter. “I was starting to think you’d fallen in,” he jokes.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. He brushes off her apology with a wave of his hand, rounding the desk to brace his hand on the back of her chair.

“What are you reading?” he asks.

Case 43-2009. 8-year-old with Brain Scan Abnormalities Presents Potentially Unseen Neurological Disorder.

She breaks her gaze at the screen to bring her eyes up to Mulder.

“We need to find our son.”

#x files #xf fic #fox mulder #dana scully #msr

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9 Professional Athletes Share The Workout and Fitness Tips That Got Them to the Top

As a reader of Men's Health, it would seem a fair assumption that you know what's required to stay healthy, both in body and mind. Less known, however, is how the men and women at an elite level keep themselves at the top of their game for years — sometimes decades — on end, surpassing feats that previously weren't thought possible.

Below, we've compiled nine case studies from our annual Body Issue, an edition of Men's Health that celebrates a tapestry of world-beating champions, each with a body that's built for purpose — whether that's running 26.2 miles in under two hours, hoarding gold medals at the Olympics or being crowned The Fittest Man on Earth consecutively for four years. This is what it takes to reach the top.

Eliud Kipchoge The Greatest Marathon Runner of All Time: 35-Years-Old, 170cm, 56kg

In most sports, the issue of who is the GOAT is a matter of endless contention. In the world of long-distance running, however, there is simply no dispute: Eliud Kipchoge is the most extraordinary athlete over a distance of 26.2 miles that the world has ever seen.

In 2012, the remarkable Kenyan finished his first half-marathon in under an hour, the third-fastest debut ever. A year later, he won his first marathon in Hamburg, beating the field by more than two minutes and setting a course record.

For his first major in Berlin, just a few months on, he came second behind former world-record holder Wilson Kipsang. Even then, he still posted the fifth-fastest time in history. Since that relative disappointment, he has won every marathon he’s run on the world stage, including the gold medal at the Rio Olympics. That’s 11 in a row, including Berlin and London four times.

Then, last October in Vienna, Kipchoge set out to achieve the impossible. The sub-two-hour marathon had been mythologised possibly even more than the four-minute mile. He had trained relentlessly, clocking 140 miles per week, combining punishing speed sessions and strength training, all at high altitudes. But it was perhaps Kipchoge’s mental strength that proved decisive in Austria.“Some people believe it is impossible,” he said before the event. “My team and I believe it is possible. We will prove them wrong.” When Kipchoge broke the tape in Vienna, one hour, 59 minutes and 40 seconds after he started, he not only proved his doubters wrong – he turned a collective dream into reality.

"I believe in a calm, simple and low-profile life. You live simply, you train hard"

“It’s not just the speed at which he runs and the incredible endurance that sustains him,” says Rick Pearson, senior editor of Runner’s World. “It’s the way he does it. Kipchoge’s running style is a thing of beauty – pure poetry in motion. It’s smooth, it’s serene, there’s no wasted effort. And somehow, he tops it all off with a megawatt smile.”

Indeed, what makes Kipchoge’s achievements all the more astounding is his humility. In between running, he works on the family farm, collecting and chopping vegetables. “In life, the idea is to be happy,” he says. “So, I believe in a calm, simple and low-profile life. You live simply, you train hard, and you live an honest life. Then you are free.”

Peaty harnessed his competitiveness to push himself to new lengths

Tom Watkins

Adam Peaty The Leviathan of the Olympic Pool: 25-Years_old, 191cm, 93kg

By Ted Lane

Hitting the pool is a tranquil way to boost fitness and sink stress – at least, it is for ordinary men. Olympic gold medallist Adam Peaty takes a more combative approach. “I love the aggression of racing,” he says. “You have to be very composed when you’re swimming, but I use that composure in an angry way.” If you’ve been following Peaty on Instagram during the lockdown, you will have seen him repping out parallette press-ups in a weighted vest, wearing all black and sporting a quarantine buzz cut. This militant aesthetic only serves to reinforce the brutality of his workouts.

This focused aggression has yielded exceptional results. As well as becoming the first male British swimmer to win the gold medal in the 100m breaststroke for 24 years at the 2016 Olympics in Rio, Peaty has set 11 swimming world records. He became the first man to break the hallowed 58-second mark in the same event. Then he broke the 57-second mark.

“In the water, all of this comes from your core – it powers every stroke.”

“Adam has got reality distortion,” says coach and 2004 Olympian Mel Marshall. “He doesn’t see limits – he just sees opportunities.” Which comes in handy when Marshall floods his week with a staggering workload, both in the pool and on dry land. Peaty swims a breathtaking 50km each week; 5km in the morning, 5km in the afternoon, Monday to Friday. But it’s far from a mind-numbing slog. “Tuesday afternoon is intense,” says Marshall. “He does 40 25m reps – each one in 60 seconds. That’s 12 seconds of sprinting, 50-ish seconds of recovery, 40 times.”

It may lack a barbell, but it’s an EMOM workout to make you wince. “His other high-intensity session is 20 100m reps: four reps at lactate threshold [30bpm below his maximum heart rate], with one recovery, then three reps at his VO max [10bpm below his maximum heart rate], with two recovery, and repeat.” And that’s just his pool work.

Peaty’s gym sessions dovetail with his water-based workouts. On Mondays, he follows up a kick-based pool session with an upper-body shift pumping iron. There’s a lot of core work, too. “On dry land, you have the ground to offer stability and provide leverage for movement,” says Marshall. “In the water, all of this comes from your core – it powers every stroke.”

By his own admission, Peaty is intensely competitive – fiercely, even. But it’s his ability to absorb the workload that sets him apart. “He recovers incredibly quickly and he adapts incredibly quickly,” says Marshall. Curiously, his coach feels that it’s the foundations laid in the gym early on that are ultimately responsible for his success.

“Starting young means he can take advantage of all of those hormones coursing through his body,” says Marshall. “And those benefits then continue. The man is a workhorse.” Which is bad news for those playing catch-up before the next Olympics.

Joshua reclaimed all he had lost by learning to play to his strengths

David Venni

Anthony Joshua Unified Heavyweight Boxing Champion: 30-Years-Old, 198cm, 108kg

By David Morton

Men's Health: Last December, you went into your second fight with Andy Ruiz with a noticeably different game plan to when you lost your titles – WBA, IBF, WBO and IBO – to him earlier in 2019. Was that the key to winning your belts back?

AJ: I think it’s all about adapting. Different circumstances require different preparation. It was the same war, but I had learned a lot from the first battle. Ruiz isn’t the type of fighter that you go head to head with. For the first fight, I was planning on going in there and trading with him. But there’s an old boxing saying: “You don’t hook with a hooker!” So, what did I do? I went in there and hooked with a hooker and the actual hooker came out on top.In the second fight, I went in there and he tried to box with a boxer. And I came out on top. I had to learn what my strengths were and what his weaknesses were, and then I just boxed to those. That’s your basic foundation: never play to someone else’s strengths. In anything you do, everyone has their own strengths. If you play to theirs rather than yours, they are always going to come off better than you in the long run.

This content is imported from YouTube. You may be able to find the same content in another format, or you may be able to find more information, at their web site.

MH: You weighed in almost 5kg lighter for the second fight and were under 108kg for the first time since 2014. How did you adapt your training to come in so visibly leaner?

AJ: Ha, ha! You want me to give away my secrets? You’ve just got to be specific. Training is all about what you’re trying to achieve. To prepare for 12 rounds of boxing, it sounds obvious, but you’ve got to box, box, box. And that’s what we did.

There’s not much point boxing and then spending time in the swimming pool to build endurance, because all you’re doing is building swimming endurance. The same goes for boxing a little bit and then spending hours lifting weights, because that’s for weightlifters. The best boxing stamina work you can do is to hit the heavy bag or shadow box. Everything that involves boxing without getting injured is the best form of training.

It’s a simple thing that’s easy to overlook. If you want to get good at something, do that thing. Focus on it. We try to add this and that, strip it back. But you need to box more if you want to be in shape for boxing.

Joshua found success in stripping back his approach

David Venni

MH: In what way did you change your nutrition? Is it true that Wladimir Klitschko advised you to reduce your salt intake?

AJ: I did cut out salt leading up to that fight. But the food was so bland! You don’t realise how much we depend on salts and sugars. When you remove them, you realise what the true taste of food is like. It had a real benefit, though, because it stripped my body of all the excess sugar and salt I didn’t need, and I managed to lose a shedload of weight.

Chicken and broccoli are tough when you can’t put any spice on them. Someone said to me that it’s not the chicken we like – it’s the spice and the sauces. That’s why I think vegetarians and vegans are onto something. We’re not meant to like chicken. They put the same sauces and spices on vegetables and get that taste and texture.

MH: What’s your diet like coming up to a weigh-in for a fight?

AJ: It’s pretty spot on. Weigh-in is usually about 2pm, so I will have had breakfast and lunch by then. Luckily, I don’t have to “make” weight, so I just continue my preparations like it’s another day. I don’t prepare for the scales; I just use it as an opportunity to showcase my work ethic and how hard I’ve been training.

MH: All boxers come in for criticism on social media. How do you handle negative comments or haters?

AJ: I think that it’s hard to ignore it. I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t pay attention to any of that, because it’s impossible not to see it. I started my social media on my own and, even though it has turned into a business page, I still handle a lot of it myself. I think that it’s fine to have doubters, as long as you don’t believe what they’re saying the whole time. You have to prove your doubters wrong. When they don’t believe, you should always believe.

"You’ve got to be specific: training is all about what you are trying to achieve"

The doubters aren’t always bad, either. You just have to try to find something positive out of it. They might say, “You’re shit, and you’re going to get knocked out because your hands are too low” – and I would think, “That’s a good indication I’ve got to keep my left hand up.” I use the doubters as a positive factor, not as a negative one.

MH: You’ve occasionally been called out for being more of an aesthete than an athlete. What do you think is the most underrated part of a boxer’s physique?

AJ: Their head! That’s where you take the most punishment. Everyone says it’s all about a good chin, but it’s actually your whole head. You get battered: left and right temples, forehead, nose, mouth, ears. The ears always hurt. Everyone looks at my biceps and the abs. But it’s your head that gets forgotten. What’s the best piece of advice that you would give to somebody who is trying to make it in boxing? I would tell them to talk to themselves and mentally prepare themselves.

You can always try to see a meditation specialist or a psychologist, but I think that the only way to test your greatness is to truly be in a position of adversity. You’re never going to find out how great you are by sitting on a beach. Boxers should talk to themselves more in the gym – build up those mental callouses. You’ve got to know that you are tough enough to get through this.

Murray returned to glory by channelling his will to achieve

David Clerihew

Andy Murray The Comeback Kid from Dunblane: 33-Years-Old, 190cm, 84kg

By Paul Wilson

At 5.09am on Saturday 4 August 2018, alone in a hotel bed in Washington, DC, two hours after he sobbed into his towel at the end of his first third-round win for a year, Andy Murray took a long, hard look into the black mirror of his iPhone and pressed record.

“It was a really emotional night for me, because I felt like I’m coming to the end and I’m really sad about that, because…” – his voice breaks, as he wipes tears from his eyes. “I really want to keep going but my body is telling me, ‘No.’ So… It hurts. And, yeah, I’m sorry that I can’t keep going.”

At the end of the 2016 tennis season, Murray was the world’s number one, the reigning Wimbledon champion and entering the imperial phase of his career. The following summer, a chronic hip problem got so bad that he couldn’t put on his shoes and socks. From there, he endured a two-year period during which he barely played, with two major surgeries, in January 2018 and January 2019 – the latter leaving him with a metal cap in his right hip socket.

“I think you look for miracles”

A week before that second op, there were more tears, this time in front of other people’s cameras at a press conference at the Australian Open, as he realised that the Grand Slam might be his last. (He lost his first-round match in five sets.) Tennis experts outside Murray’s circle thought he would never play again. Those inside knew that “never” is not in their man’s vocabulary.

“I think you look for miracles,” said Mark Bender, Murray’s physiotherapist, of competing at the top level with a metal hip. “But when you’ve got somebody who really wants to achieve and is going all-in, everybody buys into the hope that something magical can happen.” And, of course, it did.

Ten months after the DC dawn confessional, five after his second hip operation, Murray won the doubles at Queens in June 2019 and then the European Open in Antwerp in October – his first singles title for 30 months. After that, pelvic injury cut his year short. He hasn’t played in 2020.

Murray’s commitment to not merely return from setbacks but to excel makes him exceptional. He might well be enjoying (if that’s the right word) the current enforced lockdown – after all, there’s no pressure to be match-fit when there are no matches to play. But you can be sure that no one will be more determined to come back ready to play at the absolute best of his abilities.

Lewis Hamilton The Formula 1 Driver in Top Gear: 35-Years-Old, 174cm, 69kg

By Giuliano Donati

MH: Next season, you have the chance to match Michael Schumacher’s record of seven Formula 1 world championships. Nervous?

LH: I honestly don’t think about it much. I don’t want it to be a distraction. I’m currently the world champion but, every year, I start from scratch. I just want to be at the top of my game in a physical sense, just as I want my car to be the best in terms of engineering. How can I make sure I’m ahead of everyone else? How can I be more consistent, meticulous and precise? How can I better understand the technology? That’s what I focus on.

MH: What do you do to stay at the top, physically speaking?

LH: I like lifting weights, but I have to make sure that I don’t overdo it. Formula 1 drivers can’t be too heavy: more muscle means more kilos. It’s also disadvantageous to put too much muscle on your shoulders and arms, because you need to have a low centre of gravity in the car.

It’s important to have a good cardiovascular system as a driver. Over the course of a two-hour race, you might have an average heartbeat of 160-170bpm. During qualifying, it can go up to 190bpm. That’s why I do a lot of running. Sprints are a part of every workout.

MH: How has your training evolved since you started out in F1 almost 15 years ago?

LH: When I was young, I had a lot of energy and felt I could do anything. I didn’t have a strategy, and I didn’t stretch: I just got in the car and drove to win. But over the years, I’ve experimented with a number of different disciplines, like boxing and muay Thai. These days, I do lots of pilates, focusing on the core – the muscles beneath the muscles.

"I’m more mobile and in better shape than I was at 25"

MH: What’s your approach to nutrition?

LH: Three years ago, I decided to follow a plant-based diet. The only thing I regret is not having done it before. My taste buds have learned about things that I never thought I would eat and that I now love: falafel, avocado, beetroot, fresh and dried fruit. I’ve also noticed a marked improvement in my fitness level since I switched, which is motivating.

MH: So, you credit your plant-based diet with helping you stay at your peak?

LH: I was already at the top before changing my approach to food, but I was definitely struggling more and my energy was inconsistent. I had days when I felt strong and others when I was just sapped. When I switched to a plant-based diet, those highs and lows decreased significantly.

I’ve also noticed positive effects on my sleep and on my health in general. The benefits keep coming, and I’ve honestly never felt better. I’m 35 now, and though theoretically I should be less fit than before, I’m more mobile and in better shape than I was at 25.

Smart tweaks to nutrition and training have kept Hamilton in the fast lane

David Clerihew

MH: F1 is high octane, high adrenalin. How do you rest and recharge?

LH: Unplugging is a fundamental part of my routine. It’s so important to decompress after a race, so you can face the next one with a clear mind. I love spending time with my friends and family. Being with them helps me relax and focus my energy. But I can’t live without adrenalin. I love anything that makes my heart beat faster, whether that’s skiing, sky-diving, surfing or training.

MH: What are you most proud of achieving in your career?

LH: I was the first working-class Black F1 champion. I’m proud to have paved the way for others. One of my favourite phrases is: “You can’t be what you don’t see.” Anyone who sees me on the podium, even if it’s a child, can be inspired to follow their dreams. If that happens, I’ll have done my job well. Diversity is a problem that Formula 1 has to face up to. I want to do my part in helping the sport make progress, not only by inspiring others but also by collaborating to create more opportunities for people from different communities.

Mental discipline made Fraser the undisputed king of fitness

Hamish Brown

Mat Fraser Reigning CrossFit Games Champion: 30-Years-Old, 170cm, 88kg

By David Morton

MH: How are you managing to keep up with your training in lockdown?

MF: I’m in Kentucky right now with my friend and training partner [female CrossFit Games champion] Tia-Clair Toomey. With all of the gyms shut down, we thought we’d make the best of it and came out to a buddy’s lodge, which is usually used by rock climbers. We kinda just moved in and brought all our equipment with us. Our partners are here, too, so we’re just congregating as a big unit.

MH: You clearly have a tight network. You share the same agent, and Tia’s husband, Shane Orr, is your coach. How important is that set-up for you?

MF: It’s crucial. You’ve got to be surrounded by good people – people you belong with, who are like-minded. We’re in a unique situation, because we’ve been able to come together during this pandemic and train and hang out and go through this rollercoaster of emotions as a group. But current events aside, I know that I perform better when I’m happy and life is good.

Training with Tia didn’t just come about because we were located in the same place. I’ve been located in the same place as other training partners before, and it didn’t work out quite as well. I started working with Shane not because it was convenient, but because I liked what he was doing. Regardless of the fact that I was around him every day, I saw what he was doing, liked his demeanour, liked his attitude to everything. And most of all, I liked his programming.

The fact that we get along well as friends is just a bonus. The four of us all lived together before the Games last summer. That was a rare situation but it worked, and we had a great time doing it. We woke up every morning excited to put ourselves through what we had to go through. That’s always been the most important thing for me – keeping that good headspace while in training.

MH: Here in the UK, most people are having to train at home without the sort of kit you guys have. What would you do if you only had your bodyweight and a dumbbell or kettlebell?

MF: We actually try to use minimal equipment quite often, because it keeps you thinking outside the box. Yes, we have access to a lot of equipment, but we’ve been making sure that we keep changing it up with burpees, press-ups, air squats.

Whenever I train with bodyweight, I try to set it up as an EMOM [every minute, on the minute]. For me, those longer workouts are more of a mental barrier than a physical one. I know that I’m physically capable of it, but it’s whether it can keep my attention and keep me engaged for long enough to get a good workout in. So, I always put it into an EMOM, where you’re only looking at 40 seconds of work and 20 seconds’ rest before moving onto the next station. I’m only looking 40 seconds ahead, instead of being two or three rounds into a regular workout and thinking, “Oh, my gosh! I’ve still got 30 minutes left. I’m not even halfway!” With an EMOM, the light at the end of the tunnel is only 40 seconds away, and then you can have a sip of water or sit in front of a fan.

"Lifestyle stuff came to the fore: terrible diet, terrible sleep schedule, terrible attitude"

MH: You alluded to mental strength there. You finished second twice at the CrossFit Games, before going on your dominant run. What was it that changed? Do you think it was your mental game?

MF: I’d say it was half-mental and half-lifestyle. The first time I came second at the Games, I had no real idea what I was doing. You know, I was brand new to CrossFit and showing up at the gym when I could. I was a happy-go-lucky youngster, that first year.

The second year was when all of my lifestyle stuff came to the fore: terrible diet, terrible sleep schedule, terrible attitude mentally. I can’t say that my time in the gym wasn’t great. I hit huge PBs that year, but they were spontaneous, sporadic. I would show up at the gym and not know what deck of cards I was dealing with, whether I’d have enough energy to train, whether I’d be too tired, or whatever.

On top of that, I had a terrible attitude at the Games. If something didn’t go well, I would throttle back and just say, ‘This one’s not for me.’ After that, I took some steps. I started eating better; I committed myself to a good sleep schedule; I began doing some recovery work and warm-ups. Basically, everything I was supposed to be doing, I actually started doing.

And in competition, my attitude completely changed – seeing the benefit of a bad situation and managing to find a silver lining in it, instead of just being miserable and stewing.

MH: Now that you’ve won multiple times, you exude a sense of confidence when you compete. Do you still get nervous?

MF: If I wasn’t nervous, I’d be questioning whether I cared about what I was doing. I hate the way it feels, the immediate effect. Before most events, I dry-heave or throw up, because I’m so nervous. It’s not enjoyable. But at the same time, I know that I care and I still have that excitement. Backstage, people will see me dry-heaving and they look at my manager and say, “God, is Mat OK?” And he’s like, “Oh, yeah, he’s good. This is good.”

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For Fraser, maintaining “a good headspace” is paramount – so he keeps his training varied with intense EMOM workouts

MH: Tia says that the reason you’re the world’s fittest man is your work ethic. She says that she’s never seen determination like it and that, in turn, it challenges her to get better every day.

MF: Well, the feeling is mutual. When I started training with Tia, it was immediately apparent that it was going to be different from any partnership I’d had before. She’s incredibly polished when she knows that people are watching, but she also has this aggressiveness that I’ve never seen in a female athlete.

We’re true training partners – gender never comes up. It’s almost like a mirror. I’ve never trained with anyone who has the same aggressiveness going into each and every workout, when it’s time to grind and you’re miserable and you’re not getting a pat on the back. You get to see someone’s true character when the conditions are less than ideal. You see this fight come out of her that you don’t see in many people.

MH: The Games season, as with all sports, is up in the air. At the moment, it seems that there will be a form of CrossFit Games, but on a smaller scale without fans. How do you feel about that?

MF: As long as the top people are there to compete against, it doesn’t matter. I have a soft spot for spectators who look forward to the event, and for sponsors and vendors, it’s their big opportunity, so it’s unfortunate. In the same breath, the whole world is dealing with a situation that we’ve never been in before. Everyone is understanding and everyone is dealing with the same problems. But as far as training goes, it’s business as usual.

Like all great sportsmen, Itoje has a powerful curiosity of mind

Hamish Brown

Maro Itoje The Thinking Man's Battering Ram: 25-Years-Old, 193cm, 155kg

By Ted Lane

Maro Itoje is not your average rugby player. This is the standard way profiles of the Saracens and England lock and flanker begin. Despite his size and talent, the reader is asked to marvel at his brain more than his biceps. It’s well known that his burgeoning rugby career dovetailed with a politics degree. He is revered as a gentle giant with a penchant for poetry. Hell, it’s even a trope we ran with ourselves after he arrived for a previous Men’s Health shoot carrying a book about the Nigerian civil war.

"He ended up having 74kg around his waist and doing a chin-up with ease"

But to gloss over his physique is to miss half the picture – half of what makes him a sporting powerhouse. Talking to the website Rugby Pass last year, Itoje’s Sarries colleague Alex Goode recounted a one-rep max test for chin-ups during one training session: “He came in, first day, and started on 20kg. He proceeded to go up and up and up. He was so unaware. He ended up having 74kg around his waist and doing a chin-up with ease. This is a guy a couple of days out of school.” Goode neglected to mention his own score.

Left to his own devices, Itoje likes beach weights. Training for fun means abs exercises and 21s, the quintessential biceps-building protocol. But disco muscles alone have not propelled him to the top of his sport. At Saracens, Itoje lifts three times a week. Monday is lower body, Tuesday is upper body, while Thursday is total body.

Mondays are most interesting because Andy Edwards, Saracens’ head of strength and conditioning, tweaks Itoje’s routine depending on where they are in the season. “His two main lifts are the trap bar deadlift for strength and the concentric squat for explosive strength,” he says. Low rep ranges are key. “If the priority is building strength, we’ll start with deadlifts. If the priority is being more explosive, it’s the concentric squat.”

Alternatively, if Edwards needs to maintain intensity at the business end of the season but reduce neural fatigue to avoid burnout, “We swap heavy deadlifts for weighted CMJs [counter-movement jumps], where Maro is jumping with a barbell on his back.”

Still, eventually, it’s Itoje’s mind that returns to the fore. “I’ve been at Saracens for 13 seasons and watched Maro develop from a kid,” says Edwards. “He’s always been the one to challenge me and ask: why? That craving for knowledge is unique to top sportsmen, and he’s got it.”

Chris Froome The Fastest (and Hardest) Man on Two Wheels: 35-Years-Old, 186cm, 66kg

By Paul Wilson

Chris Froome makes long-term and short-term targets central to his success. “I’m a forward thinker, always planning, sometimes way too far in advance,” he told Men’s Health in 2015, shortly before the second of his four Tour de France victories. “So, I enjoy reaching the smaller goals, which are motivating to reach the larger goals.” He could not have imagined that such targets would include “learn to walk again”, as they did after a horrific freak crash in June 2019.

On a recon of the time trial course at the Criterium du Dauphiné race in Roanne, France, gusty wind funnelled between buildings and took his front wheel just as he lifted a hand to clear his nostrils. Attempting to recover control, he veered off the road and into a wall, breaking his ribs, right femur, elbow, hip and sternum and the lowest vertebra in his neck. His team had clocked him at 54km per hour.

Such a calamitous accident was atypical in the extreme, and Froome’s rehabilitation came with many uncertainties. “It was progressive, really, because we just didn’t know how long it would take in terms of recovery,” said Froome’s coach, Tim Kerrison. “We had some different plans right at the beginning, but it’s been an ongoing review.” Not least because, despite the extent of his injuries, very quickly Froome began surpassing smaller comeback goals.

Seven weeks after the crash, it was said that he was “ahead of all predictions that were made initially of how long it would take to get to even this point”. In early August 2019, he was having three to four hours of physio every morning, then two hours of exercise after lunch. Afternoon shifts involved pedalling a stationary bike using only his left leg as his right leg healed, propped on a platform.

At the end of August, 10 weeks after the crash, he was doing track sessions on a bike; by the end of October, a team time trial at an exhibition race. In November, he had his final operation, which included removing from his right hip a 10-inch plate with screws as long as his thumb. In January this year, he joined a training camp with his beloved TeamINEOS. By February, he was performing on the UAE Tour –one that was unfortunately cut short by the pandemic – at which his stats were close to top-level.

“From that point on, it felt like everything was so positive.”

Upon reviving in intensive care in France, Froome was told by the surgeon that there was nothing to stop him making a 100% recovery. “That’s all I wanted to hear at that point,” he said later. “From that point on, it felt like everything was so positive.”

He immediately set a larger goal: to win the next Tour de France. At the time of writing this, despite some scepticism, that was scheduled to begin on 29 August. If it isn’t postponed, Froome will be 35 and very possibly in yellow-jersey form, having come back from – no hype, this – one of the worst injuries in his sport.

For Whitlock, playing the long game has meant becoming more strategic

Tom Watkins

Max Whitlock The Most Decorated Gymnast in Britain: 27-Years-Old, 167cm, 62.5kg

By Scarlett Wrench

Despite almost qualifying as a member of Generation Z, Max Whitlock is already a veteran of his sport. “Gymnastics is really demanding,” he says, by way of understatement. “A lot of people are already thinking about retiring by my age, because that’s when they start to struggle.” The lifespan of an Olympic gymnast is short, but while most burn out in their early-to-mid-twenties, Whitlock has no plans to fade away. Already the most decorated athlete in British gymnastics history, he has his sights set on Gold at the delayed Tokyo Games – then Paris 2024, too.

For Whitlock, playing the long game has meant tuning into his body’s signals. As a teenage prodigy, he could handle 35 hours of training per week; now, he has dropped it to a more “moderate” 20 hours of graft, split over six days. Whitlock has observed older gymnasts training like juniors and wearing themselves down. “I’m hoping I’ll never burn out, because I’m careful not to push myself too far,” he says. “I do what I need to – and what I know I can recover from – so the next day is always productive.”

His training is very specific to his sport. What most people consider “cardio” is of little use. He might run once a week in the build-up to a competition, “but it’s just a mile done as quickly as possible. We’re only on the apparatus for a minute and a half to two minutes. So, it’s still targeted.”

He doesn’t lift weights, either – it doesn’t build the sort of strength he needs. Conditioning workouts are purely bodyweight-based, incorporating handstand variations, ring work, triceps dips, wide-arm press-ups and leg lifts. “I also do a lot of joint-strengthening exercises to make sure my wrists and ankles are ready for my session,” he says. “As I’m getting older, my joints need more attention.” Staying leaner and lighter also helps with longevity. Excess muscle mass would hinder his flexibility.

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fanfictrashdump · 4 years

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Queening a Pawn, 1

I am kind of Loki trash. I take pleasure in attempting to write some of the cheesiest/most cliched fanfiction around. Honestly, my policy is that if it makes me “awww” or giggle to myself, it goes in. So enjoy this WIP and let me know what you think!

Summary: During the Time Heist, Loki stole the Tesseract and escaped. He did not expect, however, to be pulled through a Time Loop that delivered him to a Midgard more than a decade older, wiser, and bitterer. Having just lived through his unsuccessful attack in New York, Loki must learn to live in Midgard after the defeat of Thanos (post-Endgame). The question is, who is Loki without a quest for a throne or total domination?

Loki x OC

The air was still and silent, as it had been for the last several hours. The guards had not been around for a few hours to check on him– why would they? He was trapped in a gilded cage with little to no chance of escape. Not with those wretched manacles that stopped even the lightest whiff of his seidr to come alive. It was very early morning, if the light streaming in from the windows was to be believed– he didn't. Not that it mattered. Not that he was anything more than a sitting duck at the mercy of these annoying, useless mortals and his buffoon of a brother. Briefly, he wondered if they were ever going to attempt to torture him for information. Maybe that would liven up his current situation.

Bright, fool-hardy whistling echoed down the concrete halls and made his ears ring uncomfortably. The blessed, unmarred silence that seemed to be soaking up all of his self-pity was now gone, which meant that the hare-brained Midgardians would be back with questions. A single human appeared within the doorway, headphones in their ears, and hands laden with a box of what seemed to be colorful ornaments.

Loki sighed, rolling his eyes much like a petulant child. "What are you, then? Psychic? Super-strength? Power to boil me from the inside? Therapist?"

The sudden noise seemed to startle the newcomer, and they placed the box on a nearby table before turning towards the source. Behind the cardboard box was a woman. Her chocolate brown hair was cropped short, though the messy fringe fell into her eyes as she moved. It made her look messy in a very purposeful manner, like she wanted to look approachable and kind, but also didn't want you to think she didn't put effort into her appearance. The green eyes turned his direction sparkled nearly as bright and excited as the grin perched on her lips as she pulled the buds from her ears and shoved them into her jeans pocket. Loki frowned. This was… different.

"Sorry, didn't hear you. What was that, sir?" Her head tilted sideways like a curious pup at a weird noise, though twice as enthusiastic.

"Are they sending children in to question me now? What, not enough ice-thawed super soldiers to do the job? And Stark? What of him? It's odd he hasn't come to gloat, yet." Loki scoffed, throwing himself into the only chair available in his cell, growing more impatient with every passing moment.

The woman's face fell, if only slightly. "Oh. You don't know, do you?" Green orbs snapped up to her saddened expression, curious. "Mister Stark died with the Titan and Captain Rogers… well, you wouldn't recognize him if you saw him."

"Who are you, then?"

"I manage the Compound. I was just putting up the Christmas ornaments." She gestured over her shoulder at the box with the trinkets, as if it were an obvious response.

Loki frowned further, trying to process the information as it was received. A moment later, he stared back, deadpan. "You realize this is a prison, yes?"

The woman's cheeks darkened as she fidgeted with her jumper sleeves. "To be honest, I couldn't really see over the box, so–"

He rolled his eyes, opting rather to pinch at the bridge of his nose with a groan. "Norns, I am surrounded by idiots. Why am I still here?"

"Well, Sam and Valkyrie have been trying to find your brother for the lon–"

"It was a rhetorical question!" He seethed, and the woman snapped her jaw shut at once.

She awkwardly looked around the room before her eyes stopped on a holographic chess board that was sitting just outside the cell. Clearly, this was some of Tony's sense of humor showing through the AI he left behind, FRIDAY. He would have probably summoned up the board with a how about you think about what you've done, and if not, just play with yourself. She had encountered more than a fair share of these ghosts inside the code in her time, like the nervous Is that a trick question? whenever she asked the smart mirror in her apartment if she looked OK.

There was a single knight in play on the white side of the board. "Are you a chess enthusiast?" There was no response. "Stalking the knight out first is a powerful move." This sentence was accompanied by a huff, but no verbal retort. "FRIDAY, favorite pawn forward." The second to last pawn zoomed gracefully into place a square further and settle there. She looked up at their captive demigod, sneer locked into his lips and eyes staring dead into the wall. She waited several minutes for a move, any move, but came up empty.

"Lilah, there you are!" Sam strode into the prison floor, still clad in his black flightsuit and more than a little on edge. "FRIDAY, tell Valkyrie Lilah's fine." The AI acknowledged the command, immediately. "What are you– are you putting up Christmas ornaments in the prison deck?"

"Just checking in with our guest," she lied, smiling.

Sam turned on his heel to face Loki's cell. A shiver ran past him as if simply gazing upon the Liesmith gave him the heebie jeebies. "How is he, then?"

Lilah shrugged, disinterestedly. "No worse than last time."

"No, not like last time. Last-time-Loki helped save the world and his whole realm from his psycho sister. This Loki just came off trying to enslave New York."

"Tomato, tomahto. Same dude, different day, Sam." With an amused smile, she turned the glaring superhero and nudged him out ahead of her. "Someone should be down with your dinner in a bit, OK?" She assured, as if that cleared up the rest of the questions brewing in Loki's head.

Loki knew was out of sync with the time. He could feel it in the air and with every pulse of his veins. The agents who brought him into the basement gave him a barebones recollection of what had happened– how the Titan known as Thanos, how half the population died, how time had to be altered to change the course of history. Dangerous games played by children who didn't know any better. Once the Stone had been pulled from his timeline, he had jumped, as well.

It took an impressively short amount of time to apprehend him, as they had the benefit of time to adapt to his wily nature. He had found it odd that he was not immediately chained and scrapped for every bit of information he could give, that they didn't bother monitoring him 24/7, that there seemed to be only a handful people employed in the facility. Midgard was different: older, wiser, a little jaded. It had lost many of its heroes in a short time, it seemed. The corner of his eye caught the subtle glow of the chess board, effectively interrupting his internal monologue.

Lilah walked cautiously across the threshold of the prison floor. In her hands she balanced a tray with covered food and a large pitcher of sweet tea. Funnily enough, none of the staff found it a great opportunity to bring their prisoner his dinner, despite the fact that he had been doing nothing but bellyaching at the walls and pout for the week he had been there. That meant it was up to her to slow walk some food and drink over to the prison desk and hope she didn't spill. Lilah wasn't particularly clumsy, but she also never had the need to carry a tray full of food and drinks across a couple of floors before.

"I don't know what you wanted to eat, so I made you a plate with some of everything. Then, I brought sweet tea and then remembered that almost no one outside of the South likes sweet tea, so I brought you some water, but you're free to have some tea if you can tolerate it," Lilah rambled, passing a plate through the hatch on the door along with a bottle of water and a glass of sweet iced tea. Though he tried to seem disinterested, the smell of food made Loki abandon his in-bed lounging and cautiously approach the cell door. He first took the glass of tea and took a tentative sip. His face screwed up unpleasantly a moment after. "Yeah, it's an acquired taste– like watered down cane molasses."

His face turned hard as he swallowed down a few gulps of water to wash out the taste. "Is your intent to poison me?"

"I don't know. Do Asgardians get diabetes?"

"What?"

"That's a no." Glancing over her shoulder, Lilah glanced at a chair by the empty sentry desk. "Mind if I join you?" She gestured the remaining plate on the tray.

For a long moment, he did not reply, instead glaring into her as if his eyes could become lasers and explode her from the inside out (though they probably could if he tried hard enough). "If you wish." A satisfied grin perched itself on her lips as she placed the tray on the floor and jogged over to collect the chair. She carried it right to the cell's side and collected her tray before sinking into it cross-legged.

Loki had not moved from his place in front of the food hatch, quietly watching the mortal woman dig into a plate of vegetables, chicken and rice as if it were the most exquisite of treats. The weight of his gaze pulled her attention, and she glanced upwards. "Eat. I don't want Thor griping about you getting thin. God knows he already has enough going on in his brain. If Valkyrie even finds him."

"You must be mistaken. The Valkyries are dead," Loki says, simply, an observation.

Lilah stopped chewing, putting down her fork back on her plate, speared carrot and all. "I suppose they still are, for you."

"Where is my brother?" Lilah hesitated. "You also said earlier that I saved my people from my sister. I don't have a sister."

"Fuck, Thor. Where the hell are you when I need you?" She muttered to herself. "FRIDAY, can you pull up the records on Asgard and Hela, please?"

"Are you sure you want to show him this, Delilah?"

The woman rolled her eyes at the AI's sass. "Do you know where Thor is?"

"King Brunnhilde has yet to find him, as of ten minutes ago."

"You know the answer, then." The glass of the prison cell lit up with pictorials of Asgard. "Some time ago Odin Allfather disappeared." An image of Odin faded into the ether on the screen. "You, in true Loki fashion, had taken up the throne dressed as his clone. Thor found out and forced you both to find him. Odin died shortly after." The images of Thor, Loki and Odin faded and Hela was left in their wake. "His death caused the release of Hela, Odin's eldest child and death-bringer to all realms. You tried to fight her off, ended up on a trash planet called Sakaar." The images on the screen turned to the bright, metal and pastels of Sakaar, complete with Hulk and Thor fighting while Loki stood in a corner laughing.

"On Sakaar you met Brunnhilde, the last Valkyrie. Thor, Banner, and Valkyrie escaped the planet to rescue Asgard. Surprisingly, so did you." The images of Loki graciously arriving in the giant cruiser ship with Korg and Miek flashed before them, and Loki could not but feel fascinated by this stranger who wore his face. The people of Asgard smiled and thanked him as he ushered them into the ship and jumped into the fray of battle below. "Eventually Hela was defeated and you fled with your people from Asgard. They've made a new colony in Iceland called New Asgard."

"They, not you?" He asked, perceptively, brow furrowed. "I did not survive the trip," he added, matter-of-factly.

"Thanos happened," she quipped with a sigh. She leant a small smile to him knowing full well it was not to be returned. "You died protecting your people."

Loki seemed as surprised as anyone who heard the tale from Thor, afterwards. "I died a hero?"

Lilah now smiled in earnest. "It seems you are capable of amazing things when you want to. You rose to the challenge," she finished, watching the holographic Loki sink his dagger into an undead sentinel and toss another over his shoulder with dangerous precision.

Despite himself, Loki smirked, staring somewhat proudly at the ferocious warrior hopping around the scene. He took his plate to the small desk in his cell and tucked into his meal, seemingly satisfied with her answers thus far. Lilah followed his lead, eating her dinner in silence before picking up the remainder of her dinnerware and preparing to leave Loki, once more. Before she did, she noticed the chess board hds moved. Smiling, she glanced shortly at Loki, who had taken up a book and was quite immersed in it, though she swore she saw him briefly gaze at her while she thought of her next play. With a quick jolt of her fingers, her bishop conquered his knight. She then swore she saw him frown.

"By the way, you can ask FRIDAY for more books, access to the archives, or movies or something. You're not meant to be here to rot in your boredom." She gave a friendly wave. "Good night, Loki."

#fanfic #fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki x oc #loki x ofc #we fucked up the timeline dudes #i do what i want #mcu #mcu fanfiction #fan fiction #Loki

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tbzhours · 5 years

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stay with me

sangyeon x you, roommates to lovers au, fluff

[summary] “can i get (ce)real with you?” [words] 2.1k [a/n] my first sangyeon request! just a warning, it gets pretty hot at the end ;)

It’s been two days since the last day of exams, since being lazy for two days and since Sangyeon had asked you to get more cereal because you were the one who finished it all. You didn’t hear him coming out of his room at 9AM, all dressed up, ready to head out when he found your leg hanging over the back of the couch.

A shake on the head, he walked over to where you were still sleeping on the couch from pulling nights on catching up with your favorite shows. He peeked over the couch, seeing your sleeping face before he rested his closed arms there, wondering how different you look now that the semester was over.

Sangyeon remembered how stressed out you were one night just this past week to the point where you broke down in tears. It broke his head so much that he wanted to cheer you up now that you both were free now (other than your part time jobs, which were on hold until next week).

It seemed like it wasn’t happening when he poked your cheek a few times, your face finally squished together at the annoying touch. You groaned, turning to your side, facing him when his lips beamed widely.

“Wake up, it’s time to go get that overdue cereal.”

“Can you give me a few minutes to wake up?” You asked, yawning after his hand left your face. You eyes were still closed when he heard his sigh.

“Nope, not happening.” Sangyeon shook his head, walking around the couch and grabbed your arms. He pulled you up where your body slumped back, not wanting to get up. “Let’s go, let’s go.”

“Fine.” You soothed when you heard his excited voice, making you giggle with your eyes staying closed until you opened them to see his eyes shining from the sunlight coming through the kitchen window.

You could barely open your eyes as you were pushing the cart while Sangyeon was walking at your side. You stopped when he did so he could look at some of the vegetables that your fridge was lacking for the past week. You turned your head to his back, pouting because he made fun of the way you walked a while ago with that “You didn’t sprain it so you’re fine”. Your back was still hurting from lying down too long for the past two days though, you let him know but he was only stating the fact that it was your choice to take the TV over since Friday night.

When Sangyeon turned around, setting some stuff into the cart, you looked away, quickly changing your expression like you weren’t thinking of anything. He almost laughed, seeing your funny face. “Something wrong?”

“No.” You looked at him, your upper body moving back when he continued to smile, turning away again. You took a deep breath, thinking you got caught staring at him before your eyes jotted open, a gasp getting his attention. “We need wine! The semester’s over, ya know? We gotta celebrate!”

“Wait! Can you grab cereal on the way back?” Sangyeon yelled across the aisle, watching you excitedly run away with your arms up in the air.

“Of course! I’ll be right back!” He heard your voice hidden behind the aisle before he laughed, pushing the cart to grab his surprise for you.

Roaming through the baking section, he was looking at the cookie batter bags, searching for your favorite cookies to make for you tonight to join in your wine of celebration. At the thought of your stressful night, he just wanted to bake something you love so your mind could be at ease, even if it was right now.

You, on the other hand, luckily found him on the aisle next to the one you left him by. Quickly finding him, you walked up and set your listed items into the cart, not noticing the cookie bags at all. There went his sweet smile that couldn’t wait to tell you all about it.

A movie night was decided on the way back for that end-of-the-semester celebration. When you both were setting the bags down in the kitchen, you noticed the cookie batter right away, asking him after. You were surprised when he said he’d bake cookies for you, your heart warming up when he reasoned about your stressful tears. You never thought that kind of gift would make you cry. Kidding but you were touched to the point that you wanted to put an apron on him, calling him Chef Lee because he was always the one to make food during the week. You do it too but not as much as him and you had always enjoyed it whenever he asked you to assist him.

As Sangyeon was getting the cookies started, assuring you that he didn’t need any help because he knew you would somehow spill the batter when you try to mix it. When he walked behind him to get the eggs out of the fridge, he eyes gazed at the notes left all over it since the semester started. Every small letter was written by you and him. He almost couldn't tell who’s handwriting was who as he read some of them because it seemed like they were becoming into one. The notes were about reminding each other about trash days, events, notes about having left the place where you’d be back soon, or just simply motivational notes like, “you have a beautiful smile,” “you’re shining today,” and reminders such as “drink water!” and “hey, did you eat today?”.

He softly smiled; it had been a great semester living with you that he hoped to live another one with you under the same place. He didn’t know if you were going to go back to your hometown for the summer, thought he asked once. You weren’t sure so he never asked you again after he saw your unsettling look. He took a glance at you and sighed, getting back to work with the cookies.

If you could recall every wink of this room, you would collect them all and put them into a jar so you could look back at them. Your shared apartment room held so much memories as you looked around the room, stopping right at Sangyeon, who was working so hard with those dough. You’d laugh if he did his infamous meringue dance that he does for laughs. Though you knew you would still see him dance, your heart raced when he noticed your stare. He smiled at you, a flirty finger pointing at you before you shook your head, turning around with a grin. You started to open the wink bottle to pour them into the two cups. You couldn’t wait to tell him about your stay.

By the time he came over to sit with you after setting the timer for the cookies, you probably had about three cups of wine already, each half-filled. You suddenly remembered the night you both decided to stay together on the couch after watching a horror movie because you were too scared to sleep alone. You thought it would be weird to be sleeping on the same bed as him but Sangyeon had reasoned that it was too small anyway though you secretly wouldn’t mind a close cuddle.

“Don’t tell me you’re drunk already.”

“I’m not.” You giggled, assuring him. He was judging your rising rosy cheeks, assuming that you probably were.

“Okay, good because the last time you did, I had to clean-”

“Sangyeon, don’t go there. Please.” Your hand was up at him, wishing to not see that moment in your mind. He laughed, turning to the TV so he could play the movie that was paused at the beginning.

“I’m just messing with you.” Sangyeon’s eyes stayed at the screen, trying to fix the volume as you pouted at him, grabbing another drink.

When a quiet scene came on in the movie, Sangyeon couldn’t help to think about you even though you’re right next to him. He actually went to the oven to turn it off and taking the cookies out to cool before he came back to you. Having all of the courage all of a sudden, he turned to you slowly, seeing how focused you were at the screen. Maybe it was the best time to ask you again, his eyes moving back to the movie. Your name slipped from his lips as you turned to him in a hum.

“Do you remember when I asked about whether you were going to stay over the summer or even next semester?” You hummed back positively, his lips smiling at the sound before he continued, “Are you deciding to go back home?”

He had already told you that he wasn’t, that he was staying here instead. He wouldn’t admit that he would probably be lonely without you in this shared place. Well, your friends could crash over too but it wouldn’t be the same without you.

Sangyeon turned to you, waiting for your answer as you saw how his eyes sparkled like this morning. Was it because you were already drunk? You couldn’t tell but your lips began to open when you finally told him, “No, I’m staying for a while.”

You had been contemplating about letting him know when it really was that simple. You smirked as he noticed, his lips following after you when the music in the movie made his feet jumped onto the floor, his arms cheering as if he just won the best prize of the night. You giggled at him, a hand hiding your lips and the other still holding onto a cup of wine. He turned around, a grin washing against his face when he took your hand and set your cup onto the table. He pulled you up and made you dance with him like the characters in the movie. He was guiding your hands, leveling them as your legs stomped from side to side and wiggled like his.

There was a shared laugh before a shared moment of just looking into each other’s eyes colliding with the movie where it had a silent scene. As if Sangyeon’s eyes were whispering love to you and his squeeze at your hand sent hesitation through you, you wished he’d hold you in his arms. For him, he wondered if you could feel his heart beating fast for you or his cry of “don’t leave me”.

You both knew that spark when he pulled you to him, his lips touching yours as your eyes closed, your hands gliding up to his hair. His arms were wrapped behind you, locking your body with his as his lips devoured over yours like he had wanted this since forever. It was making you breathless but you didn’t mind because you wanted this.

You wondered if this was what happened when you both woke on the same bed, not knowing what had happened before that because that was when you started to fall for him. The way he looked at you, call for you, knuckling your forehead when you do something dumb; they all felt different after that. For Sangyeon, he probably understood now that this could be the reason why his friends didn’t want to come over because they sensed your feelings for each other.

Suddenly, he stopped and moved back, his lips still opened when you looked at him. You saw how his eyes shook, avoiding your eyes as if he did something wrong. Your fingers rubbed through his hair, your whisper wishing for more.

“Where are you going?” You asked and before you connected your lips back together, ignoring his uttering sorry, you demanded in a soft tone, “Don’t stop.”

It got intense, your lips feeling like they were on fire with his. You loved the way his hands pushed you against him again, his finger pressed at your shirt. It didn’t take long before he pushed you again, making you fall onto the couch with him on top of you. Your lips left each other though they were only centimeters apart while your hand had been holding onto his shoulders at the sudden force. Your breaths were kissing each other as he looked deep into your eyes, trying to find the wonders in them when all you could see was love in his.

“Were you always like this?” Sangyeon asked, his breath hiding his quiet questioning voice.

“Yeah, being in love with you.” Silence other than the dialogue from the movie, his lips began to curve.

Sangyeon didn’t need to say more because you knew he felt the same when he kissed you again, feeling your smile against his.

#the boyz #the boyz scenarios #the boyz imagines #reactions #sangyeon #tbz #tbz scenarios #tbz imagines #tbz reactions #fluff #roommate to lovers au

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kimminstudying · 5 years

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☁ Note: I know it’s kind of late to post what my summer goals were since some of them on the list are pretty much completed already, but I think it’s the perfect time to discuss any goal I have for this upcoming school year! I didn’t want to make two separate posts because they are relatively similar and this way I don’t have to link the posts as a reference.

Here are my goals from last year and how they turned out.

☁ Money Goal #1: Save $1,000 Total

This is my first goal because I am so close to it already! To be more specific, I wish to have achieved this by the end of July, since I started my new job in May and I am getting many more hours here than at my old one. Also, I have received some scholarships already, so this is a goal I am sure to achieve.

Goal #2: Save $2,500 for New Car

This isn’t a highly prioritized goal of mine since I can try to make my car I have now last me another two years. In two years I plan to attend a new college in New York, so I would not need a car there due to public transport and walking. When I come back home or do need a car, it would be better for me to either borrow one from friends or family or to simply rent one.

Goal #3: Change Banks

Since I am 18 now, I can open up my own account and finally change banks. I’m obviously not gonna go into much detail about this but let’s just say that when I lived with my mom I used the bank that was the most convenient for me and her but now that I live with my dad I’m going to switch to the bank most convenient for me and him now.

☁ Life Style Goal #1: 1 Book / Week or 3 Books / Month This school year was really time-consuming so I have not read at all since last summer! Obviously, I am not counting my assigned reading, if I were then I would have read a lot. English this year was no joke! I did really well with reading one book a week when I wasn’t in school but if I find that to be too much of a commitment, I’d be happy with three books in a month. I’m getting tired of seeing so many unread books on my shelves, time to cut that list down! Goal #2: Get Back to Healthy Eating Habits! Where I work, we get an employee discount for food in general, but we get more of a discount on healthy food options to encourage better eating habits. This will help me eat right while I am not home, but the challenge is when I’m off of work or going out to eat with my friends.

Last summer I bought most of my groceries online since they have a lot of gluten-free options there and simply because I don’t feel like leaving my house to go grocery shopping. For those who don’t know or are wondering, I eat gluten-free because I have Celiac Disease, so I kind of have to or else I’ll get really really sick. When school started again, I wasn’t working enough hours to be able to buy my special food so I had to stop and eat what my family bought from the store, which wasn’t many fruits and vegetables and more like microwave dinners and eggs.

☁ Blogs Goal #1: Post one grammar lesson per week to @kimminstudying

I’m going to start out small for now with vocab lists or some grammar posts but I hope when the school year rolls around I’ll have more structure to my day and be able to be more productive.

Goal #2: Post to @chanzicoup and @clemsbaseballcap once a week

I haven’t been ignoring my main blogs, but I have focused more on studying and less on my love for writing over the last few months. I want writing to be a part of my life now and in the future, so I want to try and incorporate it more into my daily routine.

Not to mention, I lowkey wanted to promote my other blogs here, so please check them out and feel free to request anything ;) Or send me some advice! I love learning new things that’ll help me with running other blogs.

☁ Languages

Goal #1: DuoLingo and LingoDeer once a day

I’ve never had more than a 7-day streak on any of these language apps so I really want to change that for when the school year comes around. It takes at the most ten minutes to complete one session and I know I can make time for that, I just don’t.

What I should do is instead of scrolling through social media first thing in the morning, I should open up one of these apps and complete a session to help me wake up and to review my skills.

☁ Money

Goal #1: Continue Saving for Car

All in all, if I don’t save up the money for my car in the summer I hope to continue trying to do so during the school year. Even though I don’t plan on buying a new car, I would like to be prepared for if I get into an accident or if it breaks down to the point where it would be cheaper for me to just get a new car.

☁ Life Style

Goal #1: Work out at least three days a week

My college, like many others, have a gym that the students can use free of charge. With how I scheduled my classes, I have about an hour and a half break in between them, which gives me plenty of time to study, eat, or to hang out before my day is even over. My last class ends at about 3pm so I can work out for an hour before I go home, with at least most of my coursework for that evening completed.

Goal #2: Have one day to yourself.

I go to school Monday - Thursday so that leaves me to have Friday - Sunday to myself or to work. When the school year starts my manager told me I would be switching to overnight shifts, so what I hope to do is work overnights Thursday - Saturday and have Sunday to myself. This way I can take extra shifts on days I have classes if anyone calls out or if my boss needs an extra hand or to have a day to relax, reset, or get last-minute work done.

My boss is also really considerate of her employees who are in college. During finals season, she gives us gift cards that she buys herself and tells us to buy energy drinks or snacks! She even finds other workers from other stores to cover out shifts if we really need to study.

☁ Blogs

Goal #1: Keep up with posting schedules

I might slip up on this from time to time but with my breaks in between classes, I hope to get at least 15 minutes dedicated to writing, even if that’s all I get to do in one day I think that’s way better than not writing at all.

☁ Languages

Goal #1: Change Minor to French Language

Currently, my college does offer French classes but there are no teachers for said classes. My advisor and I hope that while my college is merging with another school new teachers will be hired and I can take French classes in my second semester of freshman year.

Goal #2: Listen to Talk to me in Korean and other podcasts when possible

Whether its’s walking to class or on the treadmill, I would like to listen to something other than music. I’m looking at some podcasts right now about case studies or interviews with forensic psychologists that seem interesting.

☁ School

Goal #1: Find clubs to join in

I did quite a few clubs in high school and stuck with some of them all four years. I want to join any organizations that focus on community service and volunteer work but since that’s also what I focused on in high school, I would love to find clubs more centered around my interests.

If my school has a writing club, I would definitely join it along with an ASL club or any form of LGBTQA+ organization.

I didn’t do sports in high school since on my second day of basketball practice I messed up my ankle and was out for the rest of the season due to surgeries I had to get. I would like to find something that I love to do that would also kind of force me to work out. I like to play sports but I hate the competition and big time commitment that goes along with joining a team, I feel like a club would be perfect since clubs are less mandatory attendance-wise in some cases.

Also, I could keep going through clubs until I find one I like. It’s not that easy with sports teams.

Goal #2: Become a tutor and get a tutor.

I am strong in some fields, but not others. I want to find my strong suit early on so I can tutor, which I also did in high school and met so many awesome people doing. I also know that I am weak in other fields (math cough cough) so I want to get a tutor for them if my grades begin to slip.

Goal #3: Make the Dean’s List

I don’t really have much of an explanation for this. I’d just really like to make the list since it’s based on performance, extracurricular activities, and attendance.

#studyblr #studygram #new studyblr #college #college goals #school goals #school #langblr #new langblr #french langblr #italian langblr #korean langblr

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octuscle · 9 months

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Working everyday sucks. I mean is this the life we dreamt of when we were young? I mean I had the choice between knowledge and sports. I chose the academic way but there are days I wish for another chance to decide. Working with my body instead of my brain would be cool. Is there a Chronivac program to solve this problem?

Dude, I understand you so well. I mean, you're in-house counsel at your company, 48 years old…. Got 20 more years to work. The peak of your career is probably right now. Damn it! If you would have made the right decision at the right time… I'll choose the setting "Become younger with simultaneous modification of the past". Means in clear language, you become now each hour a year younger. And at the same time you have dedicated yourself one year more to a career as an athlete. Whether you end up as a gold medal winner, Formula 1 champion or coach of a soccer team in the district league, I can't tell you yet. But I'm keeping my fingers crossed for you.

Friday morning, 6:00 a.m. At this time you feel like an old man. Your back has been better. But trust me, in a few minutes you will feel better. Your mind is already off the weekly meeting in the shower. They're on the runs you're planning for the weekend. By the time you sit down to breakfast at 7:00 a.m. (raw vegetables, sugar-free muesli, low-fat quark), you already feel considerably fitter. You sold your car a year ago. Your new bike was almost as expensive. And now you ride it to the office like every morning.

09:00 a.m., weekly meeting of the department heads. Since you've been doing more sports, you love Casual Friday. Your tight suit pants fit snugly and your rolled-up arms show off your tanned, wiry forearms. Three years of hard training are having an effect. It's certainly helped your career, too. Most of the other department heads are not only fatter than you, they are also much older.

The morning goes well, at lunchtime you can convince your colleagues to have sushi. Normally, they always go out for schnitzel at the brewery on Fridays. Then you would have had to take a salad again. And a non-alcoholic beer. Okay, that would have worked, too. But in the meantime it causes you physical pain to watch how some people maltreat their bodies. As you brush your teeth in the office after lunch, you grin very contentedly in the mirror. You are now 40 years old. But as a rule, everyone thinks you're younger. Triathlon and soccer have gotten you out of your post-college slump over the past eight years. And now you're the departmental Adonis. One of the youngest department heads in the entire group. And an absolute winning smile!

The building empties out at 3:00 pm. But you don't just give your all in sports. When you shut down the computer at 6:00 p.m., all the e-mails have been processed. Yes, you are considered an absolute nerd. And you are. Ever since you graduated with your bachelor's degree 12 years ago, you've been working hard. In sports as well as in your job. Your promotion is only a matter of time. But that doesn't matter. You hang up your suit in your closet, stuff your shirt, shoes and knee socks into your backpack, put on your racing bike outfit and start cycling. You'd like to do another 100 kilometers tonight. Two and a half hours would be a good time… Sometime between 20:00 o'clock and 21:00 o'clock it makes click. You almost lost control of the bike. You are now just under 24 years old. And after graduating from high school, you decided to become a carpenter. The alternative would have been to study law. Like your father, like your grandmother, like your brother. But even though you weren't particularly talented at handicrafts, you wanted to do something completely different. Something physical. And fuck, that was the right decision. Today, at 33, you have your own business, plenty of time for sports, and certainly a much more relaxed life than your brother….

Now the changes come one after the other. The beginning of the transformation quickly reaches your 17th and 16th birthday. And the younger you are at the time of onset, the more serious the effects.

At 11:00 p.m. you lie in bed showered. It was a hard day. But you love your job. In the past, you would have dreamed of a different life. When you started playing soccer at the age of 14, you were already too old for the big career. Well, you were active in the second Bundesliga for a while. But now, as a physiotherapist and fitness trainer at a first league club, you're not dissatisfied. It pays pretty good money. And a bit of the boys' glamour falls on you, too. At least you get around a lot… You fall asleep at the thought.

Alarm clock rings like every day at 06:00 o'clock. You don't give a shit that it's Saturday. Could also be Sunday or Christmas. Drink a liter of water to detox, then run ten kilometers. At 07:30 your physiotherapist comes to the hotel room, 08:30 breakfast with the team. Kickoff for the soccer game is today at 8:30 p.m. Until then, light training, a yoga session and coaching with your social media consultant are scheduled.

Let the haters make fun of the soccer millionaires. You've been fighting for your career since your foot first touched a ball. And you work a hell of a lot harder for success than any armchair farter who studied business, law or mechanical engineering. And that's why you will win today!

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #chronivac #age reduction #male transformation #muscle transformation

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jernal · 6 years

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A Day in Inpatient Eating Disorder Treatment

It’s Monday, weekday 1/5 (unless you’re still new or untrustworthy because then you’re here all weekend too; no leave), breakfast is at 08:00 but we have to be in the lounge at 07:00 for bloodwork. I set my alarm for 06:30. I need this. My alarm starts quiet and gets louder but my brain jolts awake at the first tone; I’m so worried my roommate Miranda is growing to resent me and my alarm. I shower at night so I can get up and out quietly. I’m always tip-toeing. I’m tired though so it takes me a minute to peel myself off of my starchy hospital sheets. I didn’t sleep well because overnight every 20 minutes a nurse walks into our room with her iPhone flashlight on, shining it in our faces and whispering “checks” as if I might not know why she’s here. Sometimes I hold my eyes wide-open, staring, just to unnerve the night nurses. There were two Code-Whites last night too. Alarms and screaming. In Ottawa, the Regional Centre for the Treatment of Eating Disorders (AKA: your only option) is made up of just six beds on the locked general psych ward. Fourth floor, north wing. Code White, Four North. Code Blanc, Quatre Nord. So I get up and tip toe out of my room and into the half-lit hallway. I no longer care about how socially unacceptable it is to walk around a place full of people in my sleep clothes and bare feet. I’m wearing a purple nightgown with thin straps and a low open back; it’s cute. I walk to the nurses station and stand by the reinforced glass window waiting to be noticed by the clerk. It’s Bruno. He never fails to have a positive attitude and light sense of humour - it must not be easy to do in a place like this. He knows that I’m here to ask for my curling iron or straightener. I switch it up every morning. He waves it in front of the glass like a treat in front of a dog. I am the dog. I have no power. He means it as a joke though and I do appreciate him. I have to say please and thank you to him - he doesn’t tolerate my teenager attitude; I’m 24, but living in an environment where I have no rights and am at the mercy of a wide variety of older-adults has made my sass-control regress a bit. While I wait for Bruno there’s a man with long dreadlocks wearing a hospital gown, spinning circles and popping wheelies in a wheelchair close by. I usually avoid interacting with general psych patients but he talks to me a bit. He tells me he killed someone and he’s here until he can be assessed, then he’s probably going back to jail. He seems more sane than the majority of gen psych patients and I’ve never see him before so I talk to him till I have my curling iron. I have to return it once it’s cooled, I’m not allowed to have cords.

I sneak into our bathroom and close the door before I turn on the light. I’m really concerned with people potentially hating me, letting a stream of blinding light escape from the bathroom would make me easily hate-able. I do my hair and then sit on my bed to do my makeup. Miranda is up by now and I can turn on a light. I take time to do my makeup and my hair, I pick out an outfit and I don’t outfit-repeat for as long as possible. This seems stupid but looking like myself is the one of the few things I have control over. I will not become a sweatpant-wearing, dirty hair, slipper-footed hospital patient. I’m here for a long time and I’m going to gain weight and struggle with that - I don’t need to struggle with feeling ugly and frumpy too. I apply my usual false lashes.

It’s 06:50 now. The six of us have an unspoken arrangement when it comes to bloodwork: first come, first serve, first leave. The two smokers, Nate and Amy are usually first. We meet in one of the two lounges. There are a couple psych patients in there too. One is an old man in his hospital gown going hard on the elliptical in the corner. There’s just the one exercise machine, it’s pretty random and for some of us it’s very hard to ignore; we could risk being discharged on the spot for getting on that thing. The room otherwise has a TV encased in plexiglass on the wall, a variety of leatherish couches, chairs, some tables, two vending machines and a small shelving unit with mushy ancient puzzles and boardgames. None of them have all their pieces, that’s a guarantee. The nurse is 15 minutes late, pushing her cart in casually like we haven’t been waiting anxiously to do bloodwork and get the fuck out. I don’t mind needles. I watch. Once I’m done I head to the set of double doors of 4 North. I have to have Bruno buzz the first set unlocked, walk into the vestibule, wait for it to close behind me and have him unlock the second set. I’m going to Critical Care; it’s a huge open space with the Tim Hortons (not the Second Cup that’s closer but yuckier) and giant windows and couches. I bring a book and sit with my coffee as long as possible. I won’t be alone again all day.

I come back up at 07:55 and wait in the hall outside our special EDP kitchen. The gen psych population eats in the lounge or in their rooms. Some of them are aware that we have our own special room but not aware enough to understand why. Sometimes they yell about it. Once, a non-verbal man came in and took the glass base out of our microwave and we had to pull an alarm because our nurse had left briefly. Our nurse this morning is a bitch. I can’t put it any nicer. Her name is Brenda and we got off on the most wrongest foot ever. There’s a general belief that people with eating disorders are sneaky, manipulative liars. I fancy myself a rational adult and choosing to recover in this way was hard enough; it makes no sense to me at all that I’d voluntarily leave my job and move onto this ward just to lie and sneak around and try to lose weight and be symptomatic. She didn’t talk to me or get to know who I am before deciding I was bad. Seeing her walk down the hall, realizing she was our nurse for the 7-3 shift, makes my stomach flip. It causes me more anxiety than the meal itself. I spoke with the ward manager a few weeks ago though, Brenda apologized to me. She was wrong and treating me unfairly, for no reason evident to me. She still makes me anxious though. She’s late but she doesn’t apologize. If we’re late we’re actually punished with having to eat more at snack time. Punishing an unrelated infraction with food - now that’s logical. During Breakfast, we turn a radio on so it’s not silent. Brenda talks though - she’s famous for it. She’ll keep talking even though no one responds. She’ll keep talking even after we’re finished and waiting for her to start check-out. Breakfast is one of the worst meals in the day. In the wise words of Nate, my best friend in this hell-hole, “this meal makes no sense”, and they’ll chastise us saying meals don’t have to ‘make sense’ but having toast, a muffin with cream cheese on it, an apple and a glass of milk is a lot. But wait, cause if you’ve ordered a bran muffin with cream cheese too often (‘too often’ is completely based on the opinion of the power-tripping dietician, Shelley) you might get a bran muffin and…. a piece of plastic-wrapped, room-temperature cheddar cheese. This meal makes NO sense. So you down each piece as quick as possible because, that’s totally normal and not disordered eating, right? Yuck. When we start passing our plates to the person closest to the dish cart Brenda wraps up her latest anecdote, sighs, then turns to her side and asks the nearest one of us how their breakfast was. We have to say something positive - how this helps our recovery, (lying when necessary to come up with an acceptable response) I’m not sure. I say “I liked the muffin.”. Nate raises his eyebrows a tiny bit, tilts his head sharply and says “my omelette was the same temperature as my milk” and I stifle a laugh. He is a barista in the real world and he has a chalkboard-painted travel mug. Every day he writes something on it, every day I look forward to it. Today he’s written “Day 42: one lump, or two? “‘six’” - Shelley”. Last Friday's mug said “Day 39: to have your pancake and eat it too”.

The day is spent in groups. There’s CBT group, led by a Nurse Practitioner, Simin, who is almost like a psychologist… except not at all. There’s family and relationships groups: open-circle groups led by Stephanie, an actual psychologist who can only speak in that whispery therapeutic tone shrinks develop. These groups drive me insane because it’s completely unstructured and we might spend the hour listening to some rambly, whiney story about someone’s mom. I’m a bitch though. It helps that person to talk, but hearing about five other people’s problems doesn’t benefit me at all. I have a therapist in the real world, I want to exempt myself from these groups. There’s body image, the ONLY group led by the psychiatrist who runs the inpatient program. There’s DBT where we just watch one patient draw a chain of events and we analyze the shit out of it for an hour. There’s ‘take charge’ group led by Jodie, a social worker, where we made resumes…. (most of us are adults with jobs), There’s medical education run by Simin again, the NP, possibly the only valid group although she chooses a topic at random and it’s very basic information, I truly appreciated the group where she explained that ‘gluten-free’ diets are a bullshit trend. There’s a group led by Shelley the dietician where we learn about the food pyramid and how milk is good for you.

Lunch is at noon. 2 starches, 2 protein, 1 vegetable, 1 fat, 1 fruit, 2 dairy. Afterwards we do menu marking. We sit together and circle the meals on wide menu sheets that we’ll have for the next five days. It’s so stressful I know ahead of time to ask for a PRN. I request clonazepam. In my pre-treatment life, I used this med as a sleep aid. Now it doesn’t affect my wakefulness in the slightest. I’m so anxious it barely does anything at all. I struggle immensely writing out my future five days. Trying to do it ‘right’. Trying to pick the ‘right’ things. Trying not to forget any portions. I hand over the sheets of marked menus to Brenda or Shelley and they skim it and accept it or point out flaws. I don’t trust the acceptance anyway, Shelley might make changes later without my consent. Why bother giving us this ‘responsibility’ and ‘control’ and ‘choice’ if you’re going to make changes later without warning and our food comes up with something senseless and surprising that we’re forced to consume anyway? Mixing food & eating with a sense of insecurity and distrust. Excellent. Oh, did I mention that if we’re late to group, chewing gum etc, we might also be punished by having one menu taken away, meaning one of our days meals will be totally redone by whoever is in charge at the time. It’s no wonder that this task and these people are actually giving me bigger trust issues and general anxiety than I probably came in here with.

We also meet with the psychiatrist, Dr. Proulx, on Mondays. This is the only time we see her besides Body Image group, DBT sometimes, and Feedback (which is Tuesdays, a long table with all staff and all 6 of us) and it is the only time we see anyone on EDP staff one-on-one… and even then, Simin The NP is usually present as well. Throughout my time in program I won’t ever understand the purpose of this ‘one-on-one’ meeting besides to discuss medication. When I was admitted Dr. Proulx questioned the medication I’m on and suggested going off of it and trying something more fitting. I’m on Limotrigine, an anti-convulsant used off-label as a mood stabilizer for bipolar and schizophrenia. She didn’t know me or my history, decided it was the wrong medication, but then didn’t do anything to change it.

At 3pm, the nurses switch shifts. It’s a gamble, there are a few nurses who are true gems and a few who are new and/or unfamiliar with the psych ward. None of the nurses are specialized in eating disorders, they’re just trained nurses who happened to end up on the psych ward and then happened to end up assigned to us. Despite the clear lack of formal training or understanding, some try to psychoanalyze or offer impromptu therapy sessions. On one of my first days, a filipino nurse with broken english came in to ask me how my first shower was. I wanted to tell her it was worse than the public pool showers I remember vaguely from my childhood swimming lessons but I figured she wouldn’t get my dark sense of humour and just nod along knowingly, supportively, ahh yes, I see. But does she see? My bathroom comes equipped with two milk crates stacked sideways forming a sort of shelving unit for us to store tiny hospital towels. I have my razor hidden between a few of them, I just can’t stand having to ask for it every second day and I am not a self-harm risk. None of us are; self-harm = automatic discharge. The bathroom has a stand up shower, no shower curtain, just an open doorway beside a metal shower head protruding from the wall. Our bathroom door has no locks and our room’s door has a towel wrapped around the handles, preventing it from closing fully. My roommate has a huge problem with the lack of security and lack of privacy. She sleeps in a sleeping bag on top of her bed. The filipino nurse asked me if I had any urges and on my first day I was naive enough to not know what the hell she meant, asking nervously knowing my roommate was on her bed behind our divider curtain, certainly hearing this exchange, and the nurse clarified by miming cutting her wrists. Yep, definitely not a mental health professional. At 3pm I’m overjoyed to see our nurse is Barb. Colleen is a close second best-case-scenario, a warm, smiley woman with a kind voice and a motherly demeanour. Barb is funny and also very kind. She holds one of us back at random after dinner to check-in and unlike every other nurses attempts at therapeutic conversations, I do enjoy chatting with Barb. She believes me when I tell her I didn’t mean to cut my meat up into ‘too-small’ pieces, she believes me when I tell her that’s not an ED behaviour I have. She believes me when I say I know what I’m doing here, what I mean to accomplish, what my goal is; I mean to spend my 8 weeks (that’s the max, I had decided right away) eating well-rounded meals and gaining some weight. I know I’m sick, I know I have an eating disorder and I know I’m doing serious damage to myself, she hears me when I say this. She believes me, and more importantly, she respects my decision, when I tell her I’m not looking to work on issues relating to past relationships, family, self. I’ve worked with half a dozen therapists by now, I know that 8 weeks in an artificial environment made up of 90% group therapy sessions is not the place for me to open up about any and all issues, I know it won’t help and could actually hurt. Barb hears me and believes me. I respect her for respecting me and treating me like a rational adult. Dr. Proulx tells me that anorexia is not rational, therefore I am not rational. It’s like she doesn’t think that eating disorders are mental illnesses, and I can be level-headed and rational about any other area of my life. I feel distrust and scrutiny from almost every direction. I’m a perfectionist and feeling like I am failing constantly is extremely distressing. Not feeling approval from those in charge of my care and recovery is really hard for me.

Dinner with Barb is nice though, and often times meals are ok. The food isn’t all terrible. I did make a dire mistake of selecting a ‘salisbury steak’ not actually knowing what it was but knowing what steak was and knowing I was in The Red Meat Club (low iron) so I didn’t have a lot of choice anyway. Salisbury steak, the hospital kind at least, is something I don’t ever wanna see or smell .. or taste.. again. Imagine how hard it was finding a positive to share with the group after that surprise. I also tried my very first Shawarma here in the EDP kitchen. It was pretty good. We’re a bit lucky because EDP gets extra menu options and they’re good ones like Stir Fry of the Day, different sometimes but good almost always. Barb is nice but she’s just as strict as the rest of the team, things can still go bad real quick - like someone throwing a pudding cup across the table, scattering silverware and cups everywhere. I leave the kitchen when Barb said “ok you all can go except….” and she chooses someone she’s been wanting to chat with, hasn’t seen around much, etc. It’s not me today.

What’s difficult about the routine after dinner is that unless it’s the one day a week where we have our glorified arts and crafts group (therapeutic creative expression?) we have 2+ hours to kill. We have visitors or we hang out or just hide behind our curtains watching Netflix on our laptops. If we have arts and crafts, whichever nurse happens to be on shift that night picks an activity at random, I think they must google it 20 minutes prior, and we’re expected to do the activity as if it’s crucial to our progress and recovery. The only example I can even think of is when Brenda told us to “draw what having a life looks like” and in her better-than-thee way, left it at that. So poetic and profound and intentional. I basically regressed back to my oppositional high school self, took her directions exactly literally and sketched a perfect anatomical fetus in utero. That’s what it looks like when someone “has a life” inside them. Everyone else did what I knew she wanted; smiley faces and playing outside and friends and family and food and stuff. No. I’m an artist. I won’t conform.

Since dinner is at 5pm, night snack feels miles away at 8pm and that’s great except then we’ve eaten (sometimes several things) so late before bed it makes relaxing enough to sleep really difficult. I have graduated to a meal plan where even at snacks I have to consume what feels (to my body) like a LOT of food. Because I’m still not gaining weight as fast as they think I should be, I’ve had an Ensure Plus Calories added to my meal plan. I have a Chocolate Ensure Plus Calories with a pack of 4 two-bite brownies. At 8:00pm, after a solid dinner and a solid day of solid meals. I regret immensely choosing this too-chocolatey snack combo. No point wishing it wasn’t so, I sit down with my things. We all scan across the table to see what everyone else has. No one is jealous of me. We came in on our own and are waiting for Barb but she’s actually taking her dinner so Nurse Will comes in. Nurse Will is a hottie, or at least.. the hottie. There aren’t a lot to choose from (although, pro-tip: set your Tinder location settings to as narrow as possible and you’ll pick up a lot of nurses and doctors in here). Nurse Will has helped out with EDP nurses on occasion but never on snack with us. He seems a little uncomfortable, not sure what routine we follow. I open my brownie packet and discover there are 5 and not 4. I panic. I look around wildly trying to catch someone’s attention. Amy sees me first, sigh of relief, Mom might help me. My voice cracks and I tell Will there’s an extra brownie it’s only supposed to be 4. I know this is not an anorexia thing, but I know normal people would be delighted by an extra brownie, but normal people don’t also have to down the 400 calories of chocolate ensure I do. I’m already challenging myself so much and oh jesus god if he makes me eat the 5th one that I was never supposed to have I’ll throw a proper fit. I’ll get myself discharged. But he makes one joke about how ‘oh I guess you have to eat it!” but my look of terror had him quiet down and say it’s all good if they say so? Confirmation from my team that it’s ok if I don’t eat the 5th brownie. We do that too, sometimes someone has an issue and the team weighs in and says well I had that food too so it’s ok for you to, or maybe hmmm that is a lot of rice if you’re not ‘challenging’ this meal. My life was in their hands but they unanimously agreed that 4 is the normal in those bags. Safe. Well, still very full of heavy, rich, chocolatey calories. Camille gives me a shy smile and thumbs up from across the table. I remember the first time she did this to me, my first day here and I was pushed into lunch with 5 people I didn’t know, a room I’d never been in, a sandwich I didn’t like. And I cried. And cried and cried. Quietly as possible, because surely the other 5 people were uncomfortable. But I looked up and Camille was waiting for me to look up, her hand clenched in a thumbs-up of encouragement. I wanted to cry and run away and I was so embarrassed and this stranger was being more kind than she needed to be.

After snack I jump in the shower. As quickly as human possible because as I’ve mentioned, our shower is drafty, the shower head is such a little nub on the wall that you have to press your back flush with the cringey tiles to be under the shower head’s spray zone. I don’t stop thinking about what I’d do if the bathroom door suddenly flew open. After, I dry off using 3 scratchy little hospital towels and walk down the hall to drop em in a laundry bin. I grab new ones cause I need to rebury my razor in them. My MacBook and it’s charger are under my mattress.

At night I usually hang out with Nate. We might go down so he can smoke and for my last dose of fresh air for the night. Back on the ward, we sit up on the counter outside my room and watch the nightly traffic go by. We read IKEA catalogues, make up backstories for patients. We watch this NBA sized guy pacing slowly, dragging his catatonic feet but managing to have feverish conversations with the people in his head. Otherwise, the hallway traffic tour slows and we have some quiet. We sit in the lounge watching the other nurses all doing checks together and chatting. Eventually Nurse Jillian will firmly encourage us to go to our rooms. It’s probably 1am but I’ll be up at 6:30am and tip toe out of bed to start this all over again.

Except tomorrow is Tuesday, We’ll have Feedback at a round table with the whole EDP staff, all 6 of us, and go round the table one-by-one one staff delivering the feedback of all to the one patient. Feedback is maybe more stressful than Menu Marking but not usually for me. I go into Feedback having faith that these professionals discussed and shared their thoughts, that I can’t get bad feedback because I’ve done nothing but try to do everything right. Feedback can change everything for some… not for me….. until the time that it does.

But that’s another Day in Inpatient Eating Disorders Treatment. A Tuesday

#words #edp #anorexia #eatingdisorder #inpatient #ed inpatient #ed treatment

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kriskebob-blog · 6 years

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Day 4: Rainy Saturdays are for cooking (and Netflix)

Hi all. As I write this, it’s the winding down of a gorgeous (and HOT) sunny Sunday here in CT but when I woke up yesterday, I actually thought it still had to be 6am or earlier because it was so dark in our room. Turns out it was actually 8:30am and just pouring buckets outside. Good day to stay inside and cook some comfort food items.

My second breakfast recipe from Dr. G’s cookbook was definitely simpler than the burrito bake: French toast with a berry drizzle. I also wanted to make a fruit compote for an extra topping. The cookbook’s recipe is titled as a pear compote, but pears are out of season right now, and honestly why would you put a few sad-looking Bartletts in your grocery basket when there are farmstand peaches just up the road? To my delight, when I flipped open the cookbook on Saturday morning I read a line I hadn’t noticed before: you could vary it up by using apples, peaches, or plums in place of the pears. Perfect!

Sam was still sleeping (he tends to be a bit more of a late riser compared to me on most days). I enjoyed the solitude for a bit and diced up four peaches as I listened to the rain. The compote was honestly super easy to throw together once the peaches were chopped. I threw them in a pot with some water, blended lemon, raisins, date sugar, vanilla extract, and some spices. I left that to simmer while I prepped the plant-based version of a dipping mixture for the toast. And in case you’re wondering, no, I did NOT find salt-free bread at the grocery store. I found the whole wheat bread that had the lowest amount of sugar/sodium and least amount of funky-sounding ingredients on the label and called it a day. (As an aside, Sam had thought he’d be required to give up toast completely during these two weeks and was really excited when he came home on Friday and saw a loaf of bread sitting on the counter, it was kind of cute.)

I had to make my own almond milk for the French toast dipping mixture. Dr. G. doesn’t approve of store-brought almond milk, too many chemicals or whatever. Not a whole food! Luckily, I already had almond butter from my first grocery shopping extravaganza of the week. All you had to do by Dr. G’s standard was blend a couple tablespoons of almond butter with some water and ta-da, you’ve got almond milk that’s apparently less likely to kill you. For the French toast, Dr. G. instructed that I needed to mix some ground flaxseed with a bit of warm water and then add it in with the almond milk. More date sugar, vanilla extract, a bit of turmeric and cinnamon, and boom.

Sam was awake by now and I immediately put him on toasting duty. He’s become the defacto breakfast-cooking king in our household over the past 5 years, which is odd really when he’s less the morning person of the two of us. But he genuinely enjoys whipping up eggs, bacon, French toast, etc. on the weekends, and I’ve certainly never been about to stop him. He got out our griddle and began dipping the bread while I set about making the “berry drizzle.” Dr. G advised I use this as a condiment for the French toast in place of maple syrup. It has two ingredients: 1 cup of fresh or frozen berries and a couple of tablespoons of date syrup.

The date syrup became yet another case of my assuming I’d be able to throw together a Dr. G. sauce or condiment quickly in my blender, only to discover I actually needed to soak a key ingredient in hot water for an hour or more. Oops. Oh well. I’d use a tablespoon of agave nectar in its place and that would just have to do.

Here’s the berry drizzle in a super cute pitcher our family friend Kelly gave us as an engagement gift years ago:

Adorable, right? Ignore whatever that spot is on our table. Anywho, I can report that Sam didn’t love toasting the bread on our griddle without using any oil spray. The slices did stick a little but we salvaged most of it. The peach compote had reduced nicely by then and we were in business.

It was super delicious. The peach compote is definitely what made the dish, although the berry drizzle was tasty as well. Both were made with local and in-season fruit so it’s pretty hard to go wrong there.

Sam and I settled in for a lazy morning of Netflix (we’re watching Stranger Things - second watch for me, first time for Sam!). By 11 I had to admit to myself that I really needed to get my ass to the gym, even though it was still miserable outside. I moaned and groaned at Sam (he had gone the night before and wouldn’t be accompanying me) but eventually got my ass into gear. I was curious: I’ve been eating plant-based for, you know, a whole two and a half days now. Would I have more energy at the gym? Would I just be able to sense the power of a thousand vegetables coursing through my veins on the treadmill?

The answer: NOPE. I actually felt a bit more winded than usual which, of course, set off an anxiety thought spiral in my brain. Damn it. Maybe this diet isn’t actually good for me. Am I not getting enough protein? People always harass vegans about their protein, maybe it’s a legitimate concern!

I made it through my workout perfectly fine, though, just a little more tired than usual. I trudged home and showered, and then Sam and I had leftover spinach-mushroom burritos and salad for lunch. The weather still sucked and we didn’t have any plans, so we watched some more Netflix but eventually split up to do our own things. I wanted to read more of Dr. G’s How Not to Die book. It was a huge book, after all, and the clock was ticking on my library loan. I settled in but was having some trouble focusing. I just felt tired. Again I had the thought that maybe this diet wasn’t actually for me. That I wasn’t getting enough or x or y since making this switch a few days ago. I stood up and eyed our pantry shelves. I grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds and ate them, but that didn’t feel quite satisfying (go figure). I noticed the giant container of unsalted roasted almonds I’d bought the day before and decided to take the plunge and open them up. I’m used to eating nuts from those giant mixed nuts containers you get at the grocery store, the ones where even the “33% LESS sodium!!!” version is still salty as hell. So I wasn’t sure what to expect exactly when I tried these unsalted almonds, but I was pleasantly surprised to realize that I actually like the taste of almonds when it’s not completely masked by salt. I grabbed a handful and then went to the fridge and got a handful of blueberries. They tasted amazing together. I happily settled back into my chair and felt myself perking up like a wilted plant that had been watered. By the time Sam came upstairs maybe half an hour later, the clouds had lifted outside and in my brain. We went for a walk. I suddenly felt more energetic than I’d felt all day. Maybe it had just been the dreary weather bringing me down.

We returned home and decided that for the first time, we would try the Monster expansion pack of our beloved Harry Potter tabletop game. It took a long time just to set it up and try to figure out all of the new rules. We then decided to get dinner prepped because it would need some simmering time on the stove: it was gumbo night, y’all! I was excited because I love the flavor profile of Cajun/Creole cuisine. It was pretty easy to prep. Some chopped onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic went into our Dutch oven with one cup of the homemade veggie broth I’d made the other day. I quickly thawed out the frozen okra in a separate small saucepot and eventually that went into the Dutch oven too with some diced tomatoes (BPA-free, thank you very much~), diced zucchini, and lots of delicious seasoning. We then added quite a bit of broth - everything that was left of the batch I’d made. It was a really nice, thick broth since I had pulverized all of the veggies the water had steeped in. We brought everything to a boil, threw in a can of red kidney beans (not BPA-free, alas), and simmered the gumbo for about half an hour. When it was done, we served it over brown rice, per Dr. G’s suggestion.

Here’s a little pot action before we added in all of the broth and the beans:

And here’s the finished product:

The verdict?? SO GOOD! I loved it and actually got seconds. Sam liked it too; I don’t think he loved it quite as much as I did but then I’ve always been a bigger lover of Cajun food. Dr. G. claims his recipe makes four 1.25 cup servings, but it honestly made WAY more than that for us. I feel like his math was off... like, he accounted for the 6 cups of broth but not the fact that there were a ton of veggies and beans added in to the pot as well?? Not to mention the brown rice. But I’m not complaining, because I love the way it turned out, and it’ll be lunch for the next couple of days now. Oh, and I did salt the veggies a little bit when they were first steaming in the Dutch oven, and our Cajun-free seasoning was definitely NOT salt-free (salt is actually the first ingredient, lawl ¯\_(ツ)_/¯), so I’m sure that helped a bit.

I think that’s really all there is to report! Other than the fact that we went back to our Harry Potter game after dinner and failed miserably. The creatures/villains completely murdered us on round 1. Oh well. Another day maybe...

Cheers to what I think might be my shortest blog post yet. See you tomorrow!

Gadget rec of the day: an electric griddle! We use it almost every weekend. Definitely had to wipe a trace coating of bacon grease from it today though... It’s a lifesaver for us especially since we have such a lousy stove.

Music rec of the day: (Nothing But) Flowers by the Talking Heads

#food #foodblog #foodblogging #veganfood #plantbased #wholefoods #eatingplants

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juniorformulamotorsport · 5 years

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Friday, 13th/Saturday, 14th September 2019 – Home to Boppard and Oberwesel, Germany

Early in the afternoon, after handing off some outstanding work to a colleague, we set off across country to Hull to catch the overnight P&O ferry to Rotterdam, stopping on the outskirts of Hull to buy a flat (please don’t ask; the short version is it got complicated and our vendors suddenly insisted on the Wednesday that we really had to exchange contracts that week – and no bank will let you transfer that amount of money over the phone or online, you have to go in)!

Despite hanging around the bank for some time, we made it onto the boat good and early and promptly found that P&O’s website had once again sold me two cabins instead of just the one I wanted, which didn’t become obvious until we went to what was supposed to be a premier cabin and found it wasn’t. A trip to the reception desk and it turned out we had two keys, for two cabins, and it was the other one that was the one I thought I’d booked. The charming man who sorted it all out gave me the HQ contact details and a short phone call later they agreed to refund the standard cabins. The ease with which this was agreed suggests it’s a regular thing… maybe someone needs to reprogramme the UI sometime soon so that when you opt for an upgraded cabin it removed the one you started out with, rather than requiring you to backtrack and actually physically clear the field yourself!

As we usually do, we had dinner booked in the Brasserie rather than dealing with the scrum that is the “all you can eat” buffet on the grounds that we don’t need that much food. It’s fair to say that the menu in the Brasserie seems to have been dumbed down yet again, so we struggled to find anything that appealed apart from the fish options. I really don’t want a 16oz steak thank you! Even between us we’d struggle to get through that amount of meat, and burgers hold little appeal at the best of times, so we opted to share a charcuterie plate, and then ordered the sea bream and the salmon. By the time we’d worked through that, we couldn’t manage dessert so we ordered the cheese and packed it up to take away with us. It would be useful on the nights we were self catering, and we weren’t going to get a refund if we didn’t eat all three courses, so we figured we might as well!

The following morning’s breakfast was very limited in terms of options, so we went for the continental basket of rolls and pastries and made sandwiches for later in the day out of the rolls we didn’t want to eat straight away. And then we went to the car when called only to find it wouldn’t start. Dead as a dodo. This is obviously something else P&O are used to, because a young deckhand was sent off to fetch a heavy-duty jump starter, and withing seconds had fired the thing up. We weren’t sure of the cause, though I had a suspicion that I’d left the portable fridge plugged in and over the course of 14 hours on the boat it had drained the car battery, but just in case we decided not to stop until we reached the hotel. That way, if it was anything more sinister we’d be better placed to get it dealt with. So four and a half hours flat out through the Netherlands and down into Germany, not stopping for anything at all. I really wouldn’t want to do that again, is all I’m saying.

When we parked up, I switched the engine off, waited ten seconds, and tried to switch it on again. It promptly started, so it looked like it had been an own goal, though not a serious one. We happily unloaded the appropriate bags at the lovely, quiet, modern and very comfortable Landgasthof Eiserner Ritter, just on the outskirts of the town of Boppard, within sight of the Rhine, though not on it. The restaurant was highly rated, and looked delightful, but we had a booking to participate in the annual “Rhein in Flammen” event starting from Oberwesel that night. In effect this is a light and fireworks extravaganza, held in several locations on the Rhine throughout the year. A number of tourist boats proceed in convoy up and down the river, all their lights turned on, and the scenery on the side of the river is also lit up, and then they all moor up and a massive firework display entertains everyone, accompanied by music. It’s something I’d wanted to do for some time, and realising we were going to be in the right place at the right time, had managed to get tickets for a seated dinner onboard the “Rheingold”.

As all of this coincided with the annual wine festival in Oberwesel as well, so we got ourselves cleaned up, organised, and headed out to look around the town and have a glass or two of local wine (this is the Mittelrhein wine region by the way). It helps that the Upper Rhine Valley is a UNESCO World Heritage site (the 65km stretch between Bingen, Rüdesheim und Koblenz) packed with gorgeous towns full of medieval half timbered buildings, old city walls, and dramatic castles. Oberwesel didn’t disappoint in that respect, with towers, walls and a massive hospital that dates from some time around the 1300s originally but is now apparently a specialist musculo-skeletal clinic that stretches over several blocks and still has its original chapel attached.

Having snagged what appeared to be the last car parking space in Oberwesel, we set off on foot to find the Tourist Information office to collect our boat tickets and our free wine glasses (needed for the wine festival). It was a glorious day, the weather warm and the skies a brilliant blue, so stopping for a glass of chilled white wine seemed like a brilliant idea. The main street was packed with stalls, and we soon found one we liked the look of, round the corner from the market square where a traditional brass band was playing less-than-traditional music with great enthusiasm. we didn’t see any sign of the 2019 Weinhex (wine witch) which Oberwesel has instead of the more usual Wine Princess or Wine Queen, though I’m sure she was around somewhere.

After that we decided that rather than be saddled with carrying the glasses around all afternoon and evening we’d drop them off at the car and then take a wander through the streets to see what there was to see. The town itself has a long history. Many towns along the Rhine started out as celtic settlements, and Oberwesel is no exception, and of course it was then taken over by the Romans, who set up a horse-changing station and a hostel. It later became a Frankish royal holding with a royal estate, passing from Emperor Otto I to the Archbishopric of Magdeburg in 966. In 1220, Emperor Frederick II made Oberwesel a free imperial city, and it eventually joined the Rhenish League of Towns (Rheinischer Städtebund), before being handed over to the lordship of the Electorate of Trier in 1309, a situation that continued until secularization after the French Revolutionary Wars in 1802. As has so much of the region, it’s had a lively history. In 1689, in the Nine Years’ War, it was destroyed by soldiers of the First French Empire. In 1794 it was occupied by French Revolutionary troops and in 1802 was annexed by France. After the Congress of Vienna, Oberwesel became, along with the rest of the Rhine’s left bank, Prussian.

The walls were started in 1220, work that was concluded in the mid 14th century, and included 16 towers, of which several are still in existence. A clamber on the walls, despite wearing wildly unsuitable shoes for such behaviour, was pretty satisfying, but we skipped the museum as there was only 20 minutes left till closing time, and that would have just been unsatisfying. And then it was time to go and find the landing stage for our boat. On the way we stopped for a second glass of wine, only to find we had to buy two more wine glasses as well! So now we had 4 and we were still carrying 2 of them around. Luckily, I had a large bag with me, so we slipped them in there and I hoped I wouldn’t break them during the evening.

There was a massive scrum on the landing stage, so we hung back but somehow still ended up getting on board well ahead of most people, just by not pushing but sidling… it didn’t matter because our tables were pre-designated anyway, and so Lynne and I got the window seats. We ended up sitting with a lovely Indian family who had come up from Frankfurt, and a less than lovely trio of grumpy Russians, who didn’t seem to be enjoying anything about the event. The boat left pretty promptly at 6pm, and glided up river and then down a couple of times, while we had the dinner that was included in the price (a place of pork fillet, in a mushroom sauce, with some potatoes and “seasonal vegetables” which was actually just romesco cauliflower – it was less than inspiring but the food really wasn’t what we were there for so I guess it was alright – the vegetarian option the Indian family had looked a lot better though).

If you wanted dessert you had to pay extra for it, so we settled for a local rose wine, and drank that while the scenery drifted past, castle after castle, vineyard after vineyard.

As dusk fell, the ships all lit up although sadly due to a technical issue the lights along the riverside didn’t work, so there was no spectacular illumination there. There was a very dramatic moonrise though, the beginnings of which can be seen here just behind the ridge in the middle of the photo. It took scant minutes to rise, but was really special as it did.

There followed a mad rush onto the top deck as the boat moored up, the music started, and the fireworks kicked off in fine style. It was a bit of a scrum up there, and one or two people refused to let anyone past them, even if there was space beyond, which was mildly annoying for a few seconds. However, the real interest was in the sky and it was a really fine display, accompanied by 1990s soft rock music for some reason!

Afterwards we finished our wine as the boat (one of 35 taking part) returned to the landing stage, and then walked back to the car to find we’d got really lucky, because the road was blocked off by the fire brigade for some reason, but our car was the right side of the barriers. It was back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep, happy and entertained. Would I play €65 a head again? Maybe, maybe not. I think you could probably see the fireworks just as well from the river bank, but it was an experience and it was fun.

Travel 2019 – Alsace and Baden, Days 1 and 2, Home – Hull – Rotterdam – Boppard – Oberwesel Friday, 13th/Saturday, 14th September 2019 - Home to Boppard and Oberwesel, Germany Early in the afternoon, after handing off some outstanding work to a colleague, we set off across country to Hull to catch the overnight P&O ferry to Rotterdam, stopping on the outskirts of Hull to buy a flat (please don't ask; the short version is it got complicated and our vendors suddenly insisted on the Wednesday that we really had to exchange contracts that week - and no bank will let you transfer that amount of money over the phone or online, you have to go in)!

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thepunisher · 7 years

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A Bottle Marked ‘Poison’

Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes | E | 14765 words | 2/? |

ao3 link

Summary: The headstones are clean and well preserved and surrounded by fresh, colorful flowers when he reaches them. Not lilies, never lilies. But roses and sunflowers and violets. Someone has been taking care of them for years. (Not him. He can’t even take care of himself.) There’s names and dates and pictures. There’s quotes. Beloved mother. He has a split lip, his eye is a nasty shade of purple and he’s still nursing three bruised ribs. Somehow this hurts more. OR On the anniversary of their deaths, Tony visits his parents’ graves. He has an unexpected encounter. Things go downhill from there.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Haunting TW: Panic Attack

8. I came home on Tuesday and found all of the chairs that I own stacked in a tower in the center of my kitchen. I don’t know how long they had been like that but it can only be me that did it. It’s the kind of thing a ghost might do to prove to the living that he is still there. I am haunting my own apartment.

Doc Luben, 14 lines from love letters or suicide notes

He jolts awake, a scream on his lips, gasping for breath, heart pounding inside his chest.

He's disoriented at first, frantic, not making any sense of the bed, the room, the ceiling. It takes a few seconds to place where he is, but the realization does nothing to quiet the roar in his ears.

(He's still falling. Falling, falling, falling. There's no stopping, there's no ground beneath him, there's no air. He's surrounded by darkness.)

He struggles to free himself from the covers, their weight, their texture impossibly unbearable for his too sensitive skin. He only manages to tumble off the bed, sheets still tangled around his legs and his movements are too frenzied and uncoordinated, it takes him a minute to get them off. And then he's crawling a few paces away, throwing them off of himself as if they were on fire.

(He is on fire.)

He folds himself in half on the floor, head between his legs, arms hugging his knees, wheezing.

The taste of ozone lingers on his mouth each time he sucks in a breath.

He can hear Friday's soothing voice over the loud buzzing of his brain, but he can't make out the words she's saying. He squeezes his eyes shut.

(He's in a cave. He's in space. He's in a bunker.)

It'll pass.

(He's dead. They're all dead. He killed them. They killed him.)

Panic attacks can only last for so long. The body cannot withstand that kind of pressure for over a certain amount of time.

It's not helpful knowledge when a minute lasts a lifetime. When his hands shake so hard he has to force them into tight fists. When even breathing is a task he fails at.

He rocks himself back and forth, eyes wet.

(It'll pass.)

When it's gone, when his muscles stop spasming and he lets himself fall backwards, head dropping to the floor with a thud, each nerve ending almost fried - when it's done, and Tony is a person again and not a bundle of white noise, he lets out a long exhale and closes his eyes.

Centuries later, he becomes aware of the cold sweat drying on his skin, his threadbare tank top clinging to him like a second skin, wet and uncomfortable; the glass of water he knocked off the bedside table, shards everywhere; the digital clock blinking 2:34am in angry red. The exhaustion a dead weight on his soul.

He stands up on wobbly legs, and waits a few seconds to make sure he won't topple over before putting one foot in front of the other with uttermost care. He dumps his shirt on the floor along with his boxers as he walks to the bathroom unsteadily, the marble cold under his bare feet.

He doesn't bother with the lights, doesn't pause at the mirror. He hops in the shower and he doesn't wait for the water to reach a comfortable temperature before throwing himself under its spray. It's freezing at first, but he doesn't really register it. Soon it's so hot it's scalding, but Tony doesn't move. He stands there, water pouring over his head, pasting his hair to his forehead, and down his body, painting his skin red. He braces one hand on the wall, the contact the only thing keeping him upright and for the longest time he just watches the water drains, not really seeing it.

He's used to nightmares and he's used to panic attacks. He's good at neither.

(He's not good at much these days.)

There's no light at the end of some tunnels. No getting out of some locked rooms. Some tunnels you start to decorate. Some rooms you settle in.

Some darkness, you feel at home in.

There's no way in hell he's going to go back to sleep, nor face the mess he left in the room. The mess inside his head. So Tony gets out of the shower and grabs a fluffy white towel, doing a poor job of patting himself dry, its soft fibres still too harsh on his skin.

He bypasses the bed and goes straight for the closet, grabbing a graphic shirt at random and putting on a pair of well worn jeans over clean underwear.

Lights still off, he heads down to the workshop.

Time to tinker.

Dum-E stirs from his charging station when he enters, and greets him with a whirring sound. Tony pats him on the head, ignoring the countless cardboard boxes scattered all over, covering most worktables and moves towards one of the few free spots, sitting on a bench.

“Give me some music, Fri,” he says, and as Friday complies, the room is filled with too loud hard rock. Loud enough that he can't hear himself think.

With a flick of his wrist a project appears in a flash of blue light. He takes apart something irrelevant, something of no consequence. He just needs to keep his hands busy, his brain on stand by.

It's not long before one of the monitors that takes up an entire wall bleeps an alert. The algorithms are always running in the background and, every once in awhile, a false positive throws him off, but more often than not, though not as often as he would like, something very real pops up.

He spends some time sorting through the incoming data, analysing blueprints, confronting stats to form a half coherent plan of action, and even longer debating whether he should wait for a day in which he's not in such turmoil - why bother? - or for a moment in which his hands won't tremble anymore - a waste of time.

Fourteen missions, four months, hundreds of files, dozens of junk and memorabilia.

He put together crumbs bit by bit, and yet something is always missing. He doesn't know what will take to complete his puzzle, or if there's no closure to be had and he's just deluding himself and what he's searching for are not facts and pieces, but just a reason wake up in the morning.

But there's no choice to make, not really. He only spares a second to strip and put on the underarmor, the black fabric fitting him like a glove.

It's gonna take him a little less than two hours to reach Oregon, if he pushes it. Plenty of time to catch his breath.

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

The building is massive and block-like, a monstrous thing that seems to sprout from the ground, and it's the only form of civilization hidden between miles and miles of vegetation. An iron fence circles its perimeter, with old cameras mounted every hundred yard or so, most of them busted.

Nothing looks particularly recent in terms of tech, but Tony takes no chances, Friday running every scan, keeping an eye out for silent alarms and explosives. Three of the five Hydra bases he raided between December and January had been burned down to a crisp quite recently. One was still smoking when he got there.

Tony doesn't know if Hydra is just covering its tracks, aware that someone is targeting their old hideouts, or if he needs to look out for a new player, but there's no harm in being overly cautious.

It's a child's game getting past the fence and the main gate. Getting inside the grid and looping the security cameras feed, just in case, is a couple of minutes’ job and after that he easily makes his way to the subterranean floors, quiet as a mouse, his black and golden armor almost invisible in the dark.

Nothing jumps out of the shadows and no guards appear out of thin air to attack him. The place reeks of abandonment.

Level -1 is a labyrinth he can navigate only thanks to the blueprints he acquired, each hallway the same as the one before, a long stretch of dust and concrete, the air stale.

His reactors light the way as Friday doesn't detect any heat signature in proximity, close or otherwise. The place has been deserted for at least a decade. Everything is silent except for the mute mechanical whirring of the armor joints as he moves.

The doors are big and heavy, and it'd be satisfying to blow them up with a small well placed missile, but he's not 100% sure of what's on the other side.

Tony discovered the wrong way Hydra's predilection for booby traps.

The security system is old but solid, and it takes him a good five minutes to hack into the panel controlling the lock and work his way around it. The doors slide open with a loud screeching sound of metal striding, and he holds his breath, but no alarm breeches the night.

He detects a strong smell of mold even through the faceplate filters as soon as he steps over the threshold. The room spacious, its surface almost entirely occupied by cabinets.

“Jackpot,” Tony says, using a gauntlet to lighten the place enough to see.

Some cabinets are sideways, a few on the floor, gutted, drawers spilling their contents like entrails. Most have faded labels, and he can't find any logical sorting system as he looks around.

“Friday?” he calls.

“All clear, boss.”

He lets the suit disassemble behind him. He's gonna need patience and his dexterity to find anything remotely useful in this mess.

“Sentry mode,” he says, and the armor takes its place behind him, ever vigilant.

He takes a small torchlight from one of the suit’s compartments and puts it in his mouth, teeth clicking, opening a drawer at random from the cabinet nearest to him.

All the folders are pretty much irrelevant. Contracts, properties, business transactions, some over fifty years old, paper turned yellow with age. Some corporate names look familiar, and he takes pictures, making a mental note to check on their current status. It's tedious but necessary work, and with a sigh, he moves on to another drawer, another cabinet.

He's not even sure what he's looking for, not really, but he knows he's gonna find something. Hacking his way online has been pretty much useless so far. Hydra is good at what it does, always has been. But this is one of the bases where they kept him , and if experience taught him anything, it’s that they always left something behind.

Forty minutes later, neck sore and eyes dry, he stiffens, shoulders going tight, stomach dropping under his feet, as he recognises the first name in hundreds he must have read so far.

Stane.

A large sum of money addressed to one Obadiah Stane, May 12th, 1987.

When his heart starts beating again, Tony hurries through the pages, paper whistling between his fingers. Schematics for weapons, guns, bombs. Stark Industries prototypes. More checks. 1985, 1989. 1990.

It's ridiculous how a strip of black ink has the power to turn his insides into molten lava. How a string of words and numbers can turn him into stone.

He has come to terms with Stane’s corruption a long time ago, or at least he thought he had.

But then he sees it, December 16th, 1991.

He sees it and he stops breathing, pain gripping his chest in a vice. He stumbles back, torchlight falling to the floor.

His back hits a cabinet, and the metal rattles loudly in the silence, almost as loud as his heart.

He made a working version of the serum. Barnes’ words echo in his mind. Hydra wanted it and they wanted him dead. That's why.

It has drilled a hole inside his brain for over two months cause how, how had Hydra known about the serum, when Howard was so secretive about his projects? And how could they have known when and where to attack and to take it? Howard was a lot of things, but he was not careless.

Deep down he had known. Deep down Tony had always known, the thought like a virus nagging at the back of his mind, corrupting his memories.

Was he thinking about the money when he hugged Tony in the middle of the night, whispering soothing words to a son who had just lost his parents? Did he go home twirling his moustache in glee because he had taken a threat out of the equation? A rival? A pawn.

One he had used as long as it suited him, just like he had Tony.

It’s just another betrayal he expected and yet is not prepared for. All these months hunting Hydra down, carrying his one man crusade, trying to understand, trying to erase. Trying to move forward.

(There's no moving forward. There's only the past coming full circle, eating its own tail.)

He pushes himself upright, hoping to find more files in some other folders, but the cabinet he was leaning on falls backward and finds the floor with a loud bang.

Nothing happens for the longest second, and his shoulders drop in relief, when all the lights turn on suddenly, bathing the room in white-blue neon.

Tony barely even flinches, retinas burning, before something flies over his head and starts shooting. The drawer where his hand just was, covered in holes, shredded papers exploding in the air like confetti.

The suit engages immediately as Tony runs to take cover, repulsors blasting several times, their target moving swiftly in a zigzag motion before getting hit and falling to the floor heavily.

“Fuck,” Tony mutters, as two more flying robots enter the room, spraying bullets.

“Friday!” he yells, and the armor tries to dodge and attack, several cabinets bursting in flames when it misses its mark.

Tony holds his breath and crawls his way out of the line of fire, clutching the Stane folder in one hand, so tightly he's creasing the sheets.

Two gun shots resonate loudly in the room, and a moment later he hears something hit the ground. He turns to see both robots on the floor, unmoving.

When he looks towards the doorway it's to see the snout of a rifle, gunmetal still smoking.

“What the fuck,” Tony finds himself saying in disbelief, as his gaze runs past the weapon and finds metal fingers on the trigger and one intense blue eyed stare.

Barnes advances with sure strides, swinging his rifle left and right, checking the perimeter. He's wearing his tactical gear, black from head to toe, combat boots silent as he shortens the distance between them.

For a second, Tony is half afraid he's facing Hydra’s executioner again, but Barnes doesn't shoot again.

“Take what you came here for, and hurry. We gotta go,” he says instead, voice quiet and commanding when he's a few steps away.

“What the fuck,” Tony repeats a little less breathy but no less stunned.

“They know someone's here. You tripped an alarm,” Barnes says. “There's more incoming.”

What the fuck, he refrains to say for a third time, knowing it would not be enough to convey his stupor.

“So, you are following me,” Tony manages when he finds his voice again, pointing an accusing finger.

“So not the time, Stark,” Barnes replies, eyes darting across the room with focused precision, searching for threats.

“Oh, I think it's the perfect time. What the hell is going on? Why are you here? How did you know I was here?

Barnes sighs, takes advantage of the moment of relative peace, no psychotic drones attacking. “Rhodes was worried about you.”

Tony sputters. “Rhodey asked you to follow me?”

The cabinet on his left rattles, bullets piercing it in rapid succession and turning it into a colander, the sound so loud Tony’s ears ring. He doesn't have time to react before Barnes is on him, pushing Tony behind him with enough force Tony's sure Barnes must have left a handprint on his chest. With Tony behind him, Barnes raises his left arm like a shield, bullets bouncing off of it.

Tony sees Barnes grunt and stagger back a couple of steps before pointing his rifle so fast it's a blur and shooting the bot off with perfect accuracy.

He doesn't have time to protest nor to process the fact that Bucky fucking Barnes apparently just saved his life, before five more bots appear.

Tony wastes no time and hops into the suit, taking care of one with a couple of well placed hits.

When he finishes disposing the second one, he turns just in time to see Barnes shooting one off, arm steady, aim never wavering before leaping high enough to grab another one off the air and pulling it apart with his bare hands. He throws a knife across the room at the third and last bot. It hits it dead centre, and the bot falls noisily, while Tony is hovering uselessly.

He’s grateful for his faceplate cause he's quite sure his mouth has been hanging open for the past minute at least.

There's no point in denying even to himself that it's almost fascinating watching Barnes fight, the calibrated precision with which he moves, each blow hitting its target perfectly, no wastes. Something about it reminds him of Natasha.

He heard from Rhodey that the two spar quite often together.

(He hears from Rhodey more than he would care to know.)

He's still staring when an increasingly faster beeping noise fills the room. He looks around frantic and his eyes fall on the angry red lights flashing in all the bots.

“Fuck,” he mutters, throwing himself on Barnes, with no hesitation, lifting him off his feet and flying as fast as he can, hoping to get away in time.

He's not fast enough. The explosion finds them when they’re almost out of the building, propelling them both forward and throwing them violently against a wall.

Tony barely has time to flip their positions to catch the worst of the impact, thinking his armor surely is better protection than combat gears.

His head hurts and the hud flickers, making him dizzier. He groans, managing to sit on all fours.

Plaster falls all around them, but the fire doesn't consume the upper levels.

Barnes grunts, gets up on unsure legs. He pauses for a handful of heartbeats, hand on the wall to steady himself, eyes closed.

When he opens them again he stands straighter. “We need to leave,” he says, already walking towards the gates. “The bots activated when you tripped the alarm. Hydra would have been alerted. They're probably on their way already.”

“See, you keep saying that,” Tony says, prissy. “But how do I know it wasn't you who tripped the alarm, Mr. Brooding Stalker.”

Barnes levels him with a stare. “I'm the Winter Soldier, Stark. I don't trip alarms. Beside, I know this base. I was kept here for a while.”

Tony doesn't say, I know. He doesn't say, that's one of the reasons I'm here. He doesn't mention the stasis room he found when he explored the building earlier. Doesn't say he got claustrophobic just by looking at the cryo chamber.

He clears his throat instead. “You still haven't said why you're here,” he says, and his left boot keeps sputtering, hud marking it in angry red.

“Flying system compromised,” Friday informs him, and he could compensate with his other boot and his repulsors. It would be an uncomfortable flight, but he could make it. He drops to the ground instead and starts walking, falling two steps behind Barnes.

“Rhodes was concerned about you. But he doesn't know I'm here. I’d like to keep it that way.” He's pensive for a moment. “He doesn't know you're here either.”

“So why are you here?” Tony asks.

“This may come as a huge surprise to you, but believe it or not, you're not the only one with a grudge against Hydra.”

Too many thoughts go through his mind too fast to grasp, too inconsistent to follow through. There's a lot he feels he should say and even more he knows he shouldn't.

In the end, Tony says nothing, and they keep on walking away from the building at a brisk pace, vegetation getting tighter around them.

“It still doesn't explain why you're following me,” he says, some time later.

“I'm not.”

Tony snorts.

“We got more in common than you think,” Barnes says cryptically, before abruptly turning left.

(He knows.)

“That's my ride,” Barnes says, and he doesn't wait for a reply.

Tony follows.

Amidst a clearing in the mass of trees, he can see some flickering, the tell tale sign of retro reflective panels.

They both board the Quinjet in silence, automatic door closing behind them.

“I'm probably gonna pass out soon,” Barnes says, as soon as they do, tone almost conversational.

Tony whips around in time to see him stumble and lean heavily against the wall.

“What?” Tony asks. “What do you mean ‘pass out’? Why would you pass out?”

Barnes is breathing heavily, both arms clutching his middle. It's eerily terrifying how wholly different he seems from the focused machine he was while fighting, he was until now. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut off. When he takes one hand away, the flesh one, it comes away crimson.

For a moment, Tony can't make sense of it. “Why the hell are you bleeding?” he almost yells, getting out of the suit and coming to Barnes fast, slapping his hands away to take a look himself.

There's several holes in the fabric of his vest.

Bullet holes.

He never noticed the blood in the dark, the black of Barnes’ uniform masking it. Barnes had never wavered inside the archive. Never stumbled once.

Tony’s mind reviews the entire fight in a matter of seconds. Barnes shooting bots, Barnes taking them apart with brute force. Barnes shielding him.

He falters, heart fluttering inside his chest like a hummingbird’s wings.

He must have been hit protecting him.

“Why the fuck is this not bulletproof?” Tony asks, distress making his voice higher than he would like.

“It is,” Barnes says, through gritted teeth.

“Does this look bulletproof to you?”

“I'll be fine. It's just superficial. The kevlar must have absorbed most of the impact.”

“Oh, sure. You look totally fine.”

“Stark,” Barnes tries, but Tony is not really listening.

“Oh my god, Steve is gonna kill me.” He runs his hands through his hair, pacing the length of the plane.

How could he explain that he never even knew Barnes was with him? That it wasn't him who shot him? How can he take him back to the compound when, according to Barnes, no one even knew he left? Would anyone listen?

He knows how it would look, no matter the truth. Steve's concerned stare back at the Christmas party is still too fresh in his mind.

“Stark,” repeats Barnes, a little more forcefully.

Tony doesn't hear him. “Scratch that! Rhodey is gonna kill me first.”

He's been working so hard trying to build a bridge between all of them, trying to build a team again. How to tell him that he's been working on his own behind his back for months and he got Barnes hurt in the process?

He's not ready to give up his hunt.

“I'm gonna kill you, if you don't pull yourself together,” Barnes mutters.

It gets Tony’s attention, grounding him. He turns to Barnes.

“Yeah, you already tried that. Didn't really work out for you, did it,” he says, and it comes out harsher than he intended. None of this would be happening if Barnes had just minded his own business.

Barnes is quiet for a while. “I never tried to kill you,” he says, dead serious.

“Right,” Tony says drily.

“I never tried to kill you,” Barnes repeats. “If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead.”

Something in the flatness of his tone bothers Tony.

His breathing is labored, his left hand leaning on the wall denting the metal.

“We need to take off,” Tony says, letting go. They wasted too much time already. Barnes needs medical attention and he doesn't want to be here when Hydra shows up.

“Can you fly this thing?” Barnes ask. “I'd rather not, but I will if you can't.”

Tony scoffs. “I designed this thing.”

He reaches for Barnes again, putting one arm under his, supporting him as they advance towards the seats of the cockpit, Barnes’ long hair tickling his cheek.

It's the closest they've ever been, no murderous rage between them, no armor.

For a fleeting second he thinks he can smell a whiff of coconut. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, good for you. But can you fly it?” Barnes asks, through gritted teeth. Tony has no idea how he's still standing, let alone talking.

“Put pressure on the wounds,” he says as Barnes sits heavily in the chair next to the pilot’s. Tony helps him strap himself in before heading over to the pilot seat and starting a fast flight check.

“I can fly anything,” he says distractedly, when he's satisfied.

Barnes makes a sound that resembles a snort. He coughs after. “I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board.”

Tony stops mid motion, he’s so stunned he turns around, mouth hanging open. “Did you just-- was that a Star Wars reference?”

“Stark. For fuck's sake,” Barnes says, but there's something that looks like a small smile on his lips. It soften his features.

“Right. Priorities. Friday?”

“All set up, boss,” comes from the speakers.

“Then takes us home, Fri. To the Mansion. Maximum stealth,” he orders, and they take off smoothly, the engines a soft humming under their feet.

Five minutes in, the Big Empty already a dot behind them, he engages the autopilot and walks to Barnes.

He's sitting with his eyes closed, brows furrowed, hands tightly gripping the armrests.

“Alright. Take your top off,” Tony says, gesturing to the uniform. He needs to assess the gravity of the situation.

Barnes opens one eye, looks at Tony up and down. “I usually require a little more romancing than this, before putting out.”

Tony blinks stupidly a couple of times, caught off guard, brain stuttering. He swallows. It's probably the blood loss, he figures. He clears his throat. “Yeah, well,” he says, lamely, but Barnes is already freeing himself from the safety belts and he's unfastening his tac vest.

He barely flinches when he lifts his arms over his head to take the black thermal off, but he doesn't make a sound even though he must be in incredible pain.

“I'll be fine,” he repeats as Tony takes in the state of his abdomen, where four tiny holes mar his skin, rivulets of blood flowing slowly, soaking the top of his pants, though not as copiously as he would have imagined. “I've had worse. I'll take care of it myself once we land.”

“How would you like ‘moron died of shock’ on your gravestone?” Tony asks. “You started healing around the bullets already,” he adds, inspecting the wounds, trying really hard not to pay attention to anything else, definitely not eyeing the angry looking scarring on his left shoulder, where the vibranium arm meets his flesh. “We need to take them out.”

His fingers hover lightly over Barnes stomach without him even noticing. Barnes’ muscles contract when he goes to touch it and Tony halts himself mid motion, hurriedly withdrawing his hand. When he looks up, Barnes has an expression he can't read on his face.

Tony clears his throat again.

“I'm gonna get the first aid kit,” he says, and gets away as fast as he can, his heart skipping a beat inside his chest.

He doesn't know what's wrong with him.

(Too many things to choose from.)

It's been a long day, he tells himself.

(The sun is just rising.)

He comes back with the medical box and sets himself comfortably, pushing his seat next to Barnes’. He cleans his hands as best as he can with the hand sanitizer before putting on sterile gloves. He disinfects a pair of surgical tweezers before pouring antiseptic over Barnes’ middle. Barnes goes rigid under him, abs tensing, but once again, he makes no sound.

Tony doesn't like it. He wants to shake him, he wants to tell him to scream, to show some emotion, to react. That he's allowed to.

It's not his place though, so he says nothing.

“My hands are not very steady,” is the only warning he gives before he starts working.

One bullet is easy enough to extract, and within a few minutes, he places it into a container near the kit, where it hits the bottom with a clicking sound.

“I wasn't trying to kill you,” Barnes says, some time later, when Tony is struggling to grab the second bullet.

Tony stops what he's doing and looks at Barnes, confused. Was he so concentrated on his task that he missed the conversation?

“In Siberia,” Barnes clarifies. “I was just trying to stop you from doing something you would regret.”

He makes a sound, shakes his head. He doesn't look at Tony. “No, that's not entirely true. I was also trying not to die. I guess my sense of self preservation is something I can't turn off.”

Tony says nothing.

After a long moment he goes back to the bullet.

“Not so sure I would have regretted it,” he hears himself say, not taking his eyes off that strip of skin.

There's a fragile thing between them, a truce that feels like a glass bubble, and he knows that it would break if he were to look him in the eyes.

“I'm the killer, not you.”

Tony snorts. “Hate to break this to you, but I'm pretty sure my body count is a tad bigger than even yours.”

He drops the second bullet with the first. Dive in for the third one.

“I was a sniper. Before Hydra. I was a sniper in the army,” Barnes says adamantly. Like it's important for him to prove that he has always been a monster.

Take a number, Tony thinks.

“And I was a weapon manufacturer,” he says, a bit more forcefully than he intends, voice dripping venom.

“And how many of those weapons did you fire?” comes softly, almost gently.

Tony doesn't reply, because that never mattered. Anything he ever created is his responsibility. Has always been. He wasted decades drinking and partying, trying to fill a black hole that just kept on sucking the life out of him, uncaring of the world, of his work, of his legacy. And that legacy had only brought death, with his name stamped on, while he was too busy trying to have a good time to notice.

Tony clears his throat a third time.

“I think this is beyond my medical knowledge.”

The two remaining bullets are lodged too deep inside and he doesn't want to risk doing more damage by probing blindly. The wounds are clear, no ragged edges, no broken parts. He doesn't like leaving him with a job half done, but he'd rather not turn something seemingly easily fixed into a mess.

At least they don't seem to have hit any major organ. Even the bleeding has stopped.

He cleans the wounds as best as he can and covers them with gauze.

“You're gonna need someone more qualified to take a look,” he says.

Barnes shrugs, turns away.

The moment is over.

“Friday, call Dr Cho.”

“Calling,” Friday says, and the dial tone fills the cabin.

“Hello?” comes sleepily from the other end.

“Helen, hey,” Tony says, getting up, putting some distance between him and Barnes, tone jovial. “I'm gonna need a favor.”

#winteriron #buckytony #tonybucky #starkbucks #bucky x tony #mcu #winteriron fic #fic**#my fic**

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