#edit: three files actually

[egginfroggin]

A small look at a work in progress that I've been chipping away at for a while.

It'll be a while before it's done, but I felt like adding some cuteness to the submas tag.

Look at how smol they are. So tiny. Itty-bitty boys.

[kirisclangen]

Zelda

She/her, 65 moons, cis molly

[theworldisabrokenbonebutitishome]

Kang Yo Han is the walking embodiment of I'm Not Okay (I Promise) and relates to Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge far more than is healthy. In this essay I will-

[inaris-mage-of-storms]

For a kingdom that worshiped the sun, Dawn was strangely beautiful in the moonlight.

Standing on the balcony overlooking the city, with music and chatter spilling out from the ballroom behind him, Scott could almost pretend this was a perfectly normal social event, like all the other events each empire took turns hosting. But lately it was harder and harder to pretend anything was normal. There was nothing jovial about the atmosphere inside. Gem and Fwhip stood off in a corner, faces serious as they whispered together. Shelby and Katherine stood on opposite ends of the room, glancing over when they thought the other wasn't looking, with downturned lips and forlorn expressions. No one had seen False in months. No one seemed concerned about it.

Scott saw movement along the shoreline, and leaned over the railing a little further to get a better look. His breath caught in his throat - was that sculk? Darkness crept over the pier, a tendril snaking its way across the boards. He needed to find Pix -

A hand clapped down on his shoulder, and Scott resisted the urge to yell even as he flinched away from the touch. "Whoa, easy there," said Sausage, sounding amused. "What's got you so on edge?"

Scott wanted to move away, but the hand on his shoulder kept him in place with a firm grip. "Hi Sausage," he said warily, and tried to tell himself the unusual glow he saw was simply the lights behind them. "You just...startled me, that's all." He looked back at the shoreline, but saw nothing but starlight reflected in the waves. Everything was normal.

"Sorry about that." Sausage didn't sound sorry at all. "Why don't you come back and dance some more?"

Scott let Sausage lead him back into the ballroom, fixing a polite smile on his face even as his skin crawled when Sausage put one hand on his waist and gripped the other hand firmly. "Weren't you dancing with the sheriff earlier?" he asked as they swayed together across the dance floor. Seeing Sausage sweep Jimmy into his arms and spin him around was one of the reasons he'd stepped outside in the first place. Sausage had once reassured him that he and Jimmy were only friends, but lately he seemed to take delight in making it obvious just how close their friendship was.

Sausage laughed. "I sure was! But he's mad at me, so it didn't last very long." He dipped Scott low without warning, his hold loose, and for a split second Scott felt like he was about hit the floor. Sausage's eyes glittered when Scott's grip on his arm tightened in fear, but he pulled him back upright, and Scott breathed a sigh of relief.

"Why is he mad at you?" asked Scott.

Sausage spun him around before pulling him close again. "We played a little joke on him the other day, and he didn't take it well." He smirked, and Scott frowned. Sausage was always the first to apologize when a joke accidentally went too far, always rueful when he overstepped a boundary and eager to make up for it. But now, he sounded like making Jimmy upset only amused him more.

Scott wanted to shake him, demand to know why he was acting so strange lately, but he settled for a disapproving look. "Did you apologize?" He was sure he knew the answer, but felt the need to ask anyway. "If he's upset, you should - "

Sausage snickered. "Whatever for? We were just joking, and he overreacted. It was Gem who did it anyway. I was just there." He looked at something over Scott's shoulder and grinned. "Oh, there he is! He's perfectly fine. Check for yourself if you're so worried."

He spun Scott around as he let go, a little harder than necessary, and just as Scott thought he might lose his balance he found himself wrapped securely in Jimmy's arms and swept smoothly into the next steps of the dance.

"Are you all right?" asked Jimmy, shooting a glare in Sausage's direction. He looked out of place in the ballroom. Everyone else was dressed in elegant finery, whether it was their usual look or not, but Jimmy looked like he'd walked straight out of the fields and put no more effort into his appearance than a quick washing up. A simple farmboy in a room full of royalty and divinity. Scott thought he looked incredible.

"I'm fine," said Scott. "He's just a little high-energy for me tonight, that's all." It wasn't entirely a lie. The steps Jimmy led him through were part of the same dance, but slower and steadier, and it gave Scott's pounding heart a chance to calm down. But, Scott realized as he noted the tension in the arm beneath his hand, there was a difference between 'steady' and 'relaxed.' A muscle tensed in Jimmy's jaw as he clenched his teeth. Scott wanted to run his fingers over Jimmy's stubble and massage away the stress.

"He's an ass," said Jimmy, and spun him around. "Everyone is lately."

"Everyone? Even me?" Scott's lips quirked up, intending his comment to be lighthearted and teasing, but his smile faded when Jimmy didn't return it. "I'm sorry. You've been having a hard time. I shouldn't tease."

"It never stopped you before." Something painful flickered through the closed-off look in the sheriff's eyes. "You've been right there with them all, laughing at me too. Why be sorry now?"

He dipped Scott down low, his hold secure. Scott's hand rested softly on Jimmy's arm, and he knew if he let go entirely he still wouldn't fall. Even angry and hurt, Jimmy wasn't going to let him fall.

Trusting in the grip that held him, Scott moved his hand up to touch Jimmy's cheek. "I haven't been good to you," he said quietly. "You deserve more. I'm sorry."

Jimmy stared at him, a wary look on his face, like he was waiting for Scott to laugh at him and turn it all into another big joke. He swept him upright again and resumed their dance. "It's a little late for regret, I think."

"It's a lot late for regret," said Scott. "But I'm full of it all the same."

Jimmy sighed and shook his head. "You and me both." They drifted to a stop in front of the balcony as the music dwindled down, and remained still when the next song began. But Jimmy's fingers were still entwined with Scott's, and his other hand still rested on Scott's waist, like he was ready to join the dance again on a moment's notice.

Jimmy leaned a little closer. A gentle breeze blew in, and on the night air Scott could swear he smelled a distant note of honeysuckle. "You?" said Scott. "What do you have to regret?"

Jimmy laughed. "There's an old general store in Tumble Town," he said. "Do you know the one I mean?"

"I do." Scott looked at him curiously. "Why do you ask?"

Jimmy finally let go of his hand, but only to pull him close. "I feel a lot like that store," he said against Scott's ear. "Fun and exciting for some people, at first. But then the novelty wears off, and I'm just...ragged and dirty on the inside."

Scott wanted to cry. His own words were being used against him, and now he knew how Jimmy must have felt that night under the stars hearing those same words. Jimmy tightened his hold, and Scott closed his eyes and leaned into him. So many words burned on his tongue. You're wrong, you're wonderful. Did you say that on purpose, to see what I would say? Does it mean you remember us? It feels like you remember us. You're in pain; how do I make it stop? But they all tangled up with one another, jumbled up so much that none of them would come out. How do I make it stop?

Could he make it stop?

"There you are! Sausage said you might be out here." Fwhip's voice cut through his messy thoughts like a knife. The chill when Jimmy stepped away from him felt even sharper.

"Oh? Were you looking for me?" said Scott as Fwhip took his arm. "I'm sorry I didn't say hello sooner. You looked preoccupied."

"It wasn't anything super important," said Fwhip. "I've always got time for you." He looked Jimmy up and down. "Wow, you sure put a lot of effort in tonight," he said snarkily. "Gem must be thrilled to see how much you care."

Jimmy scowled at him. "Gem's lucky I even bothered to show up," he snapped. "Seeing as how she hasn't cared enough to apologize for almost killing me on the bridge with Sausage's sword."

"It was just a little cut. You're so dramatic," said Fwhip.

"Gem did what?" said Scott at the same time. "That doesn't sound like her."

"Oh, like you don't know?" snapped Jimmy. "Fwhip and Sausage thought it was hilarious. I'm sure they told you all about how I almost bled out and drowned."

"No, I didn't know!" said Scott desperately. "Fwhip, what on earth - "

"You know what, I've had enough of this," said Jimmy. "No one cares what I have to say anyway. I'm leaving." He shoved his way through the crowd and disappeared, leaving Scott staring after him and Fwhip rolling his eyes.

"Fwhip," said Scott slowly, "what did you do?"

Fwhip only grinned. "Come dance!" he said, and Scott allowed himself to be tugged back into the ballroom. "Told you, he's just dramatic. And mad about the new gunpowder farm Lizzie and I built."

Scott sighed, only half listening as he and Fwhip danced and Fwhip told him all about the new business agreements between Gobland and Animalia. He needed to go to Tumble Town tomorrow, he decided. It was time they sat down and had a very long and - as much as the thought frightened him - a very honest discussion.

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[shxwmaster]

👄 + varian

send a ‘👄 + character name’ and my muse will talk about that character

—

“ Varian... ”

It's funny, how Shaw prides himself in his discipline and control over his impulses and vices. How he can steel himself and his nerves, and yet, just the very mention of the man's name can have his chest tighten, his throat threaten to close, and his mouth crave a drink or that of a cigarette just to lessen the pain, just to take the edge off, just to make it easier, just to... just to...

He closes his eyes.

“ It was the utmost honor to serve him, ” He says slowly, each word carefully selected with such precision and caution, as if one wrong move would bring the city to ruin. “ High King Varian Wrynn was an honorable man. He demonstrated true strength, and he cared deeply for the people of Stormwind. He was... brave, intelligent, charismatic, he was confident and heroic, he was... ”

He trails off before his voice can betray him. No matter how much time passes, it doesn't make the pain any more bearable. Forever, Stormwind will feel his absence. Forever, Mathias will look to the statues of Varian, feel his echo in the city, and know he will never get to see him again.

He doesn't move from where he stands, propped against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. The breeze is pleasant, and brushes past his hair. The sun is warm, a loving embrace. The day is beautiful. Somewhere in the distance, Varian's memorial sticks out the side of Stormwind like a tumor.

“ Stormwind loved him, ” Mathias says, staring out into nothing. “ We feel his absence. I... feel his absence. ”

He shifts somewhat, looking away from the horizon. “ My connection to the throne is different than the normal guard or soldier. I have a bloodbound oath to the crown. The Shaws only existed because of Stormwind. I am only alive because of the mercy this kingdom spared upon Pathonia Shaw; since then, it became our responsibility to pay it back. Were it not for that day, I would not have been born. My existence is a privilege, and I trained my whole life to bring service to the crown. It gave me life. It is my duty to return the favor. ”

He stays quiet. His gaze is trained in the direction that he knows Lion's Rest is. A grand memorial. There was no body to bury.

“ And I failed him. ”

His voice breaks there, and he lifts his head, making an effort to clear his throat and correct the slip. Even years later, his body aches from the horrors inflicted upon him by Detheroc and his minions. There are injuries he will never fully recover from, ways he can't move anymore without being reminded. The body, the scars, these don't bother him. These are insignificant, they mean nothing. The greatest failure on the Broken Shore was not what happened to him, but what Shaw failed to do.

They had seen the trap. It was a death sentence. If only they had been quicker, if only they could have gotten out, if only he hadn't been captured, then... then...

“ Sometimes, I worried that perhaps I didn't actually care for the Wrynns, ” He suddenly rambles. “ That I was only doing it because it was my duty. That it was merely obligation. I couldn't tell my duty and my emotion apart. That always worried me.

“ But there were days where we would just... talk. Varian cared deeply for everyone, and even... hah, even made efforts to alleviate my own burdens, as if that was his responsibility. As if I wasn't there for him to do that exact thing. We would talk, we would laugh, I would witness him and Anduin at their gatherings and smile bright as their favorite people surrounded them or they got to partake in a royal feast — just... I would just witness their humanity, and I would think, 'Why, yes of course, how could I question it? I do care. I do love them. This is real. It's real to me.' ”

He thinks about Varian, how he carried himself in battle, in gatherings. How he held himself with confidence. How he was always outspoken about his beliefs. How he loved Tiffin, how he loved Anduin. He thinks of the massive statue of him near the Keep and how Varian would hate it, because he always found a way to stay humble. He thinks about his strong voice, his bark of laughter, long warrior's hair, he thinks of his strength and his qualities that Shaw envied, he thinks of Varian, and there's a hole in his chest. He thinks of Varian, and knows there was never a goodbye, that their last conversation was strategizing. That both of them knew there was a chance no one would survive, but still held onto the hope that wouldn't be true. He thinks of Varian, and remembers that he had a chance to save him. His whole life had one purpose, and he failed it.

“ I loved him. ” His voice is filled with conviction, laden with emotion, and hissed through grit teeth. “ How could I not? He was our king. The world is worse without him. All... I wish... is to do right by him. I could not save him. I lived, where he should have. Men like me in this profession don't make it this old. The least I can do is take care of what he's left behind. This... is my bloodbound oath. ”

[yesokayiknow]

they try, honestly they do, but the doctor isn't a stationary creature and never has been, especially not when they know there's something they could help with. which is to say, it takes a week of soft quiet life before he starts begging kate for a job. kate in turn withstands three weeks of the doctor's incessant begging and big puppy dog eyes while donna noble stands right behind him and mouths don't you fucking dare before she makes a counteroffer: he can work in a lab (the 'very far away from active duty' is implied) as long as he meets with unit's therapist.

and he refuses, of course, loudly and profusely, right up until donna very gently but very firmly tells him that it really could help, actually.

so. therapy. the doctor assumes it won't do anything. the unit therapist is no nonsense and unflinching and very very bright, and twenty minutes later the doctor sits outside the room hyperventilating while kate finishes paperwork and kindly doesn't mention the way he's all but curled into her.

the second session ends much like the first, and the third, and then the fourth he walks out with dry eyes and a tremulous smile. the fifth, kate calls donna and she takes him home and they drink hot chocolate and he doesn't start talking again until the next day. it takes him seven sessions to be able to stay in the room for the full hour; kate pats him on the back and then finally allows him to build a shield for her office as a reward. she sits outside the therapist's office every time he has a session, even though she has to have better things to do. they don't talk about it.

unit only has files on things the doctor's done on earth, and even then, only sometimes, which means that when the doctor talks about some things he just. edits, a little. talks about two weeks in a confession dial and a month in prison, because maybe then he doesn't have to think about the enormity of it all. and every single time he does this, the therapist looks at him and very kindly calls bullshit. it's weird, being known. it's different with donna. he is donna and donna is him, in ways they will probably never talk about. but he sits in that cluttered little office for an hour a week (sometimes two or three times, if he's doing particularly badly) and he feels seen.

after four months, there are memories he can touch without flinching, and people he can talk about without crying. he starts spending a couple of hours just sitting in the vortex, not because he's hiding or running but just because he likes the way it feels against his skin. he cooks dinner every other night and washes up when he doesn't. he takes out the bin every week even though it's rose's job, because he loves her. and he can say that now, and he doesn't think about her short lifespan or about all the other people they've loved and lost. he can say that and just mean it.

part of his contract is an agreement to never offer a trip to a member of unit unless it's actual life or death (the small chemical leak in the lab doesn't count; he takes shirley to new mars anyway) but he finds himself toying with the idea of asking for a session in the tardis. just once, just to see. the therapist looks at him and sees him and it is monstrous and they keep looking anyway and now the doctor can sit through a family dinner without wanting to tear his skin off and he doesn't know any other way to say thank you.

it's funny, almost, how quickly he grows attached to this person who picks through his hurts and rifles through his traumas and holds direct eye contact while doing so. the doctor talks about their deaths and their crimes and their cowardice and the therapist nods and asks him how he feels and it's. it's terrifying. it's beautiful. it's the worst thing he's ever ever been through, and the best. he feels ripped apart and put back together in a way that few people have ever been able to— huh.

after his sixty eighth session (he's unable to not keep count) the doctor walks outside to where kate is annotating a schematic and says, thoughtfully, they're the master in disguise, aren't they. and kate says oh 100% and please don't let them know that you know because they will definitely go to the second stage of whatever long con they've been hatching and they're too good at this for us to let them go

[cup-of-starlight-waters]

Okay, let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, there was a prose translation of the Pearl Poet’s Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It was wonderfully charming and lyrical and perfect for use in a high school, and so a clever English teacher (as one did in the 70s) made a scan of the book for her students, saved it as a pdf, and printed copies off for her students every year. In true teacher tradition, she shared the file with her colleagues, and so for many years the students of the high school all studied Sir Gawain and the Green Knight from the same (very badly scanned) version of this wonderful prose translation.

In time, a new teacher became head of the English Department, and while he agreed that the prose translation was very wonderful he felt that the quality of the scan was much less so. Also in true teacher tradition, he then spent hours typing up the scan into a word processor, with a few typos here and there and a few places where he was genuinely just guessing wildly at what the scan actually said. This completed word document was much cleaner and easier for the students to read, and so of course he shared it with his colleagues, including his very new wide-eyed faculty member who was teaching British Literature for the first time (this was me).

As teachers sometimes do, he moved on for greener (ie, better paying) pastures, leaving behind the word document, but not the original pdf scan. This of course meant that as I was attempting to verify whether a weird word was a typo or a genuine artifact of the original translation, I had no other version to compare it to. Being a good card-holding gen zillenial I of course turned to google, making good use of the super secret plagiarism-checking teacher technique “Quotation Marks”, with an astonishing result:

By which I mean literally one result.

For my purposes, this was precisely what I needed: a very clean and crisp scan that allowed me to make corrections to my typed edition: a happily ever after, amen.

But beware, for deep within my soul a terrible Monster was stirring. Bane of procrastinators everywhere, my Curiosity had found a likely looking rabbit hole. See, this wonderfully clear and crisp scan was lacking in two rather important pieces of identifying information: the title of the book from which the scan was taken, and the name of the translator. The only identifying features were the section title “Precursors” (and no, that is not the title of the book, believe me I looked) and this little leaf-like motif by the page numbers:

(Remember the leaf. This will be important later.)

We shall not dwell at length on the hours of internet research that ensued—how the sun slowly dipped behind the horizon, grading abandoned in shadows half-lit by the the blue glow of the computer screen—how google search after search racked up, until an email warning of “unusual activity on your account” flashed into momentary existence before being consigned immediately and with some prejudice to the digital void—how one third of the way through a “comprehensive but not exhaustive” list of Sir Gawain translators despair crept in until I was left in utter darkness, screen black and eyes staring dully at the wall.

Above all, let us not admit to the fact that such an afternoon occurred not once, not twice, but three times.

Suffice to say, many hours had been spent in fruitless pursuit before a new thought crept in: if this book was so mysterious, so obscure as to defeat the modern search engine, perhaps the answer lay not in the technologies of today, but the wisdom of the past. Fingers trembling, I pulled up the last blast email that had been sent to current and former faculty and staff, and began to compose an email to the timeless and indomitable woman who had taught English to me when I was a student, and who had, after nearly fifty years, retired from teaching just before I returned to my alma mater.

After staring at the email for approximately five or so minutes, I winced, pressed send, and let my plea sail out into the void. I cannot adequately describe for you the instinctive reverence I possess towards this teacher; suffice to say that Ms English was and is a woman of remarkable character, as much a legend as an institution as a woman of flesh and blood whose enduring influence inspired countless students. There is not a student taught by Ms. English who does not have a story to tell about her, and her decline in her last years of teaching and eventual retirement in the face of COVID was the end of an era. She still remembers me, and every couple months one of her contemporaries and dear friends who still works as a guidance counsellor stops me in the hall to tell me that Ms. English says hello and that she is thrilled that I am teaching here—thrilled that I am teaching honors students—thrilled that I am now teaching the AP students. “Tell her I said hello back,” I always say, and smile.

Ms. English is a legend, and one does not expect legends to respond to you immediately. Who knows when a woman of her generation would next think to check her email? Who knows if she would remember?

The day after I sent the email I got this response:

My friends, I was shaken. I was stunned. Imagine asking God a question and he turns to you and says, “Hold on one moment, let me check with my predecessor.”

The idea that even Ms. English had inherited this mysterious translation had never even occurred to me as a possibility, not when Ms. English had been a faculty member since the early days of the school. How wonderful, I thought to myself. What a great thing, that this translation is so obscure and mysterious that it defeats even Ms. English.

A few days later, Ms. English emailed me again:

(I had, in fact searched through both the English office and the Annex—a dark, weirdly shaped concrete storage area containing a great deal of dust and many aging copies of various books—a few days prior. I had no luck, sadly.)

At last, though, I had a title and a description! I returned to my internet search, only to find to my dismay that there was no book that exactly matched the title. I found THE BRITISH TRADITION: POETRY, PROSE, AND DRAMA (which was not black and the table of contents I found did not include Sir Gawain) and THE ENGLISH TRADITION, a super early edition of the Prentice Hall textbooks we use today, which did have a black cover but there were absolutely zero images I could find of the table of contents or the interior and so I had no way of determining if it was the correct book short of laying out an unfortunate amount of cold hard cash for a potential dead end.

So I sighed, and relinquished my dreams of solving the mystery. Perhaps someday 30 years from now, I thought, I’ll be wandering through one of those mysterious bookshops filled with out of print books and I’ll pick up a book and there will be the translation, found out last!

So I sighed, and told the whole story to my colleagues for a laugh. I sent screenshots of Ms. English’s emails to my siblings who were also taught by her. I told the story to my Dad over dinner as my Great Adventure of the Week.

…my friends. I come by my rabbit-hole curiosity honestly, but my Dad is of a different generation of computer literacy and knows a few Deep Secrets that I have never learned. He asked me the title that Ms. English gave me, pulled up some mysterious catalogue site, and within ten minutes found a title card. There are apparently two copies available in libraries worldwide, one in Philadelphia and the other in British Columbia. I said, “sure, Dad,” and went upstairs. He texted me a link. Rolling my eyes, I opened it and looked at the description.

Huh, I thought. Four volumes, just like Ms. English said. I wonder…

Armed with a slightly different title and a publisher, I looked up “The English Tradition: Fiction macmillan” and the first entry is an eBay sale that had picture of the interior and LO AND BEHOLD:

THE LEAF. LOOK AT THE LEAF.

My dad found it! He found the book!!

Except for one teensy tiny problem which is that the cover of the book is uh a very bright green and not at all black like Ms. English said. Alas, it was a case of mistaken identity, because The English Tradition: Poetry does have a black cover, although it is the fiction volume which contains Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

And so having found the book at last, I have decided to purchase it for the sum of $8, that ever after the origins of this translation may once more be known.

In this year of 2022 this adventure took place, as this post bears witness, the end, amen.

(Edit: See here for part 2!)

[mellowsaturns]

in losing grip, on sinking ships (you showed up just in time)

BUCKY BARNES X FEM!READER

summary: when the avengers pick up unusual activity, they realize that not all of hydra was destroyed. one unidentifiable face sends the team into a frenzy but bucky knows it. he could recognize those eyes anywhere.

warnings: heavy angst, one sided enemies-to-lovers-ish, hydra!assassin!reader, hurt/comfort, happy ending, brainwashing, trauma, guns & knives, fighting, implied kidnapping of reader when young, all the feels, misunderstandings, poor attempt at writing action

wc: 4.7k

a/n: sorry it’s been forever but i hope my fellow buckyluvrs are still here <3 i actually wrote this a long time ago but never got around to editing until recently so i guess you can say this is (from the vault) ? inspired by the idea: what-if there was another winter soldier and bucky finds himself in steve’s position this time trying to get you back to him. anyways, i hope you enjoy this one :)

Bucky’s life was a never ending montage of gunfire and bloodshed. It didn’t matter if he was under the clutches of someone else, he still lived through the wars—the lingering smell of smoke and tang of metallic forever ingrained in his senses.

And just when he thought it was finally over—a glimmer of peace at last—it comes and steals that dream away from him.

Like deja-vu, he’s looking at faces that were once responsible for his pain.

On the screen, three Hydra officers stare back at him. All faces identified by Tony’s system. Alive. Last seen in the outskirts of some small country in Europe. Irrelevant low ranking officials that had managed to survive the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D and have been hiding and secretly continuing Hydra’s mission underground ever since. Low officials or not, it was one too many.

Bucky freezes in his spot when Tony swipes the screen. The billionaire goes on a rant saying this particular face cannot be identified, which was according to Tony, bullshit because his face recognition system is the best in the world. The rest of the team is arguing and flipping through countless files and internet archives. But Bucky knows. He knows that face and those haunting eyes that he still sees in his dreams.

“Buck,” a voice calls out. “You know her, don’t you?”

He looks up at Steve from his spot, his best friend's face worried and all knowing.

One thing about Hydra was that they were always prepared. They had backups and multiple plans ready, or else how would two heads take its place when one was cut off? Unfortunately for the world, Hydra managed to make another deadly assassin, one whose work was so discreet and nimble that even intelligence didn't know they existed.

You were a ghost story that lived in the shadows of the Winter Soldier. You were another one of Hydra’s prize possessions—less known, but just as deadly.

With Steve’s comment, all eyes are now on Bucky. A pregnant pause fills the air and he gulps before he confesses, “I wasn’t the only one.”

The room becomes tense. The war that they thought was over suddenly looms over like an unpredicted oncoming storm. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You couldn’t have informed us about her earlier?” says Tony.

“I thought,” he says, shifting his eyes onto the ground, “I thought she fell with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Bucky couldn’t find you anywhere after he escaped their grasp. After he joined the Avengers, he tried once again secretly using Tony’s technology but it was to no avail—it always ended up being a dead end. And for that, he assumed Hydra had put you out of your misery the day they were caught.

But the face on the screen says otherwise. And suddenly, Bucky feels very guilty.

Steve clears his throat, “Well, they were picked up not too long ago heading north. If we leave now, we might be able to find them and stop them once and for all.”

Everyone looks at each other, debating on his proposal. “What the Captain said. Everybody, suit up. Quinjet leaves in ten,” says Tony.

On the jet, Bucky stares off into space but countless questions run through his mind.

Steve walks over and sits beside him. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, voice quiet.

Bucky sighs, “I just… I thought she was gone.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

He looks up, wondering if he should tell Steve the truth. That he’s not brooding about the fact that he concealed you to them. After a moment, Bucky speaks up. “When we get there, let me handle her. Please.”

Steve didn’t know what kind of history Bucky had with you. But judging from the look his best-friend is giving, it’s more than what Steve could understand or even comprehend but he trusts Bucky and so, he gives him a nod. “She’s all yours.”

After scouting the area and tracing the location to a very hidden underground warehouse in the middle of nowhere, they split up. The warehouse was dark and dusty, surely abandoned, but Bucky knew better—it was their facade behind the most sinister of activities. Through the comms, Natasha announces that she has already taken care of all the troops in the West wing. Moments later, Sam reports that he has eliminated one of the Hydra officers. They wouldn’t last long. Hydra didn’t have much resources or time to rebuild—their current empire was weak, they were no match for the Avengers this time.

The only person Bucky’s truly worried about is you. The fact that he trained you, made you into what you were today already gave him the chills. He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore, but he was certain that you were still in that killer mindset that Hydra forced upon you.

Step by step, Bucky walks through the quiet hallway, the echoes of his footsteps the only noise. It’s cold here, he notices, which gives him flashbacks to those days in his dirty cell and the cryostasis chamber. Down a hallway to the next, round a corner and another, there wasn’t a single soul in the eerily Eastern wing.

But he spoke too soon, because seconds later, a garrote wire was around his neck. The swift invisible steps and the perfect pressure that was being used to quickly cut off his air supply was all too familiar. He knows this move, he taught this move. You’re here, and you’re dragging him backwards.

Before all oxygen gets cut off to his brain, he jabs his elbow backwards and hits you hard on the rib which releases the hold you have on him and sends you stumbling back. Bucky takes a moment to regain his breath but you’re on your feet again. He looks at you and for a moment he freezes, then you let out a sinister grin. “Nice to see you again, Soldat,” you taunt, before running towards him.

Bucky’s deflecting your punches one after another. Maybe he’s glad he was the one who taught you everything you know because your moves were predictable—if it were another person, there is no doubt they would’ve been on the ground with multiple concussions bleeding out already. You’re ruthless when you do a triple roundhouse kick on him. On the fourth one, he manages to catch your leg and twists it, sending you to the ground with a groan.

How familiar this scene was, Bucky thinks.

Some forty-years ago, Hydra brought a woman into the training room. There was no further instruction than to train you and that’s what he did. He could tell you were well trained already—compliant and pliable. You were good. And you were just like him, injected with a serum that made you a hundred times more efficient and stronger. In just under a year, Hydra would start sending you on missions. Sometimes with him, sometimes alone.

During training, the both of you would spar for hours, leaving each other bloody and bruised, but it didn’t matter to the overlookers, the both of you would heal in a few hours anyways.

Once you pick yourself back up, he pulls a gun out on you. “Stop this,” he commands.

You smirk, “You going to shoot me, Soldat? I want to see you try.”

He clenches his jaw. You continue to look at him, a dark look on your face that shows no sign of true recognition.

His thoughts are disrupted when you tackle him onto the ground. You kick his gun away and pin his arms down as you straddle him. “I’m going to kill you,” you declare, “I’m going to put a bullet through your head.”

When he looks up at you, your eyes are full of rage. Bucky doesn’t know whether that’s the brainwashed version of you talking or the actual you talking—maybe both.

“What are you going to do after you kill me?” he says, irritated. C’mon, please recognize me. “This is all that remains of Hydra. Half the troops are already dead. One of your new leaders is dead. In a few hours, Hydra will be no more. What will you do after that? What are you going to do after you kill me?”

“What does it matter? You’re my mission. I’m going to finish it.”

He groans at your stubbornness that was identical to his Soldier persona.

He says your name slowly. “Get off. You can walk away from this.”

You frown, but he continues, “I know how you feel. You’re feeling helpless.” He clears his throat, “There’s someone behind this version of you. I want to talk to her.”

“What are you talking about?” you utter in annoyance. “Stop stalling.”

He says that name again, with calamity and care. You want to rip out his tongue.

“Let me talk to her. Please.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!” you shout, grabbing for the gun that’s strapped onto your waist. “Stop talkin–”

“I was in the cell next to yours. You liked the colour green. You were wearing white when we first met. You always wanted to visit Bucharest. You hated the leaky cold showers in the Siberian facility,” he rambles, trying to remember every single thing about you in a desperate attempt to get your attention so this version of you won’t shoot him in the face.

And for a moment, it works because your hand freezes on the grip of your gun. He takes that moment to flip you over, so you’re under him now, hands pinned above your head. He takes your gun and throws it behind him.

You snarl at him while trying to escape his grasp. “I know you’re under there,” he says. “Please, come through. Please talk to me.”

Your face scrunches in pain, not from him—he would never hurt you—but from the mental warfare that’s currently going on in your mind. You close your eyes as he speaks again. “Listen to my voice, you know me, don’t you? мой милая.”

My darling.

For a moment, your entire body tenses up and then you let out a painful breath. When your eyelids start to flutter open, he finally sees the eyes he came to know and rely on—eyes he came to love.

The both of you are looking at each other unblinking. A scene neither of you expected but always dreamt about.

You break the silence with a whisper of, “James?”

Bucky slowly nods at your disbelief. Finally, he thinks. But such respite doesn’t last long, because seconds later, you hook your foot under his and flip him over and escape his grasp.

There's darkness in your eyes and he can tell that the Soldate is back and the fighting resumes.

You’re chasing him down the twisting hallway and when you catch up, you grab his shoulder and throw a punch to his jaw. He stumbles back and then a voice comes through the comms.

“Just took down the second one.” Steve. “Bucky, how are you holding up? You’ve been quiet ever since we split up.”

He’s trying his best to block your hand, which now has a damn pocket knife. Your quick movements are starting to tire him out. Maybe he taught you too well, he thinks.

“Buck? Bucky. Confirm your status, right now.”

Groaning in frustration, he taps his earpiece. “I’m fine,” he grunts. A second later, “Shit!” he huffs out as you nearly slice his face.

“You don’t sound fine. Is she with you? I’m sending back up.”

“No!” he says, “Don’t send anyone. I can handle her.”

In truth, he’s struggling right now—your stamina has always been better than his—but he’s worried that you’re going to accidentally get hurt and even more agitated when people appear. His main priority was keeping you safe. Fuck the mission statement they talked about back on the Quinjet.

You’re angry—no, you’re extremely angry at him. It doesn’t take a genius to tell. It’s a mixture of pure rage from both the brainwashed and actual you.

He supposed he deserved it. You should be angry. Because for the longest time, it was you and him.

Other than turning you into a ruthless assassin just like him, an unexpected companionship also formed during those hazy in-between moments when the two of you weren’t frozen or on the metal chair getting fried by those machines—during the times when he was just Bucky and you were just you, two unfortunate innocent souls that shared the same suffering.

They weren’t pleasant moments. It was dehumanising. It was getting shoved into draughty cells with nothing but a blanket until it was time to train or time to embark on a mission. Luckily, your cells were next to each other and it made the endless nights a little more bearable. He was a little off-putting at first, but when he yelled at you to stop crying because they would torture you even more for it, you knew he meant well.

During your shared time together, glimpses of your true selves would seldom come up and you would tell each other about the little bits and pieces of a life once known. And the both of you would hold onto each other's memories and stories in case the other forgets.

And whenever they prep the two of you for the chamber due to there being no current missions for the time being, the two of you would look at each other—a look of longing with the secret squeezing of each other's hand before going under.

Despite the absolute awful situation the two of you were in at the time, the both of you were hopeful for the next shared moments together. Because even when all hope was gone, you had each other. And that was good enough for the two of you.

He misses you. So damn much.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

He didn’t even realise he said it outloud. “Well, I do,” he admits, his back hitting a wall.

“You talk too much, Soldat,” you say, creeping up on him. “I ought to cut your throat.”

“I’m sorry I left you with them.”

You halt in your steps and your jaw ticks. In a second, you pounce on him, your knife against his throat. He’s gripping your hand to stop you from continuing your job.

He says your name again. You’re pushing but he’s pushing back just as hard. “I’m sorry…” he repeats, “I’m so sorry.”

The desperation in his voice… You glance up at him slowly and he sees the pink forming in your eyes and your trembling lips. “What are you doing? What are you doing to me?” you whisper.

He sees the internal war behind your eyes once again. Bucky gulps for a moment before letting go of your hand, trusting that you won’t do any actual harm, and moves his hands so he’s cupping your face, firm enough so you’re forced to look at him. You look into his eyes for a second, then a minute, and for a moment, everything stops. Your breath hitches, because those eyes… those arctic blues… you know them. You fell in love with them many years ago.

A realisation washes over your face, one that Bucky doesn’t miss. You’re back.

The first tear falls. Then the second. “Bucky.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers.

You let out a small cry before you press the blade harder against his neck, your grip a vice from his betrayal. He could feel the sharp cold metal pierce through his skin ever so slightly, but he doesn’t try and stop you.

“Give me a reason to not kill you right now,” you grit through tears. “You left me. You left me behind to rot alone. You promised me. You fucking promised,” you say, voice laced with venom and so much hurt.

Bucky’s heart breaks at the sadness of your voice. Because he did promise. There wasn’t much to do in the cells other than throw around false hope. But whenever he told you he was going to escape one day and that he was going to take you with him—it didn’t feel like false promises at all because it wasn’t, and you knew it too.

Until he broke that promise and left you all alone.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to leave you there with them.”

“I waited for you,” you cry. “Day and night I waited for you to come back. Even when they relocated, I waited for you because I knew you’d find me.”

You remember that day clearly. Everyone was in a frenzy when the death of Alexander Pierce broke out and that they could not locate the Soldat. For a moment, you could taste your own freedom because government officials would come anytime now and finally arrest all these criminals. But right when they came, a few Hydra officers managed to escape and took you with them, and when you woke up, you didn’t know where the hell you were. But even then you didn’t lose hope because James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, the name you committed to memory, was going to come for you just like he promised.

Until days, months, and eventually, a year came with no sign of him.

You were angry at first, but it slowly turned into worry because what if something bad had happened to him? But what do you know? You were stuck in this building and only went out whenever they spoke those trigger words to you. And you were always under their watchful eyes, giving you no chance to even attempt an escape. Surely he would never break his promise to you so something must’ve happened to him, you told yourself multiple times.

But he was standing here right in front of you. Alive. We’re under attack, your handler said to you moments ago, Kill the Soldat before he kills you.

“You’re a liar. You never cared about me,” you hiss.

Sometimes, it got too much. But whenever reality was a bit too hard to endure, Bucky was there, always reaching his hand out to you through the metal cage, which you took and held tight. And it meant the world to you, that someone cared.

“All those moments, did it even mean anything to you?”

He uses this opportunity to pull your arms down slightly, knife finally away from his neck and his eyes start to sting from his own tears. “They meant everything to me. I care about you.”

You look up at him with a defeated expression and Bucky never wanted to punch himself in the face more. “Then why? Why didn’t you come back for me?”

“I did,” he chokes out. “When I escaped, the first thing I did was go back for you, but the facility had already been raided and there was no one there. I checked every inch of the building.”

Bucky had never felt so scared, because what if the government took you too? They would never understand—framing you as a villain even though that was far from the truth. But there was no news of your capture, so with a breath of relief, Bucky continued to look through other known Hydra facilities.

“I tried my best looking for you, but I also had to be careful because I was a wanted man at the time. When months passed by and there were no clues, I thought that maybe you had escaped. I was in Bucharest waiting for you. Remember how you said you always wanted to go there? I knew that if you escaped, you’d find me there. Even when you didn’t show, I never gave up. Steve… I think I told you about him once—he found me, he helped me and cleared my name. After that, I still searched for you but it all ended up being dead ends. And…” he pauses for a moment, “and so I thought you were dead. I should’ve tried harder. I’m sorry.”

He had mourned you and blamed himself endlessly for it.

He knows he should’ve asked for help, but instead, he took this task upon himself until it got too much—because that was the one thing he struggled with the most, asking for help.

When his side of the story finally comes to light, you break into a sob. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says, “but please, drop the weapon and let me help you.”

You swallow hard at his confession. He never stopped looking for you. You didn’t even consider how hard it must’ve been for him after everything and yet you’re lashing out on him.

“How are you going to help me?” you say. “I’m a mess. All you have to do is say those words and I turn into a weapon.”

Twelve. Ember. Fragment. Nine. Academy. Order. Frigid. Yearning. Blue.

Those were your trigger words.

“I got you out of your trance, didn’t I?” he says with a gentle smile.

Hydra needed you to rebuild their empire and they relied on those nine words to do so. To them, those nine words were your greatest weakness but one of them, the last one, the one they liked to spit out in vexation, was also your greatest strength—your salvation.

Blue.

You think back, moments prior, when all he had to do was use his voice and all you had to do was look into the blues of his eyes. Hydra can repeat those words all they want, but Bucky would always be able to bring you back.

At that, your grip relaxes and the knife finally drops onto the floor, it’s noise ricocheting off the walls.

“There’s a place called Wakanda and I know someone there who can help you. Her name’s Ayo and she’s amazing. She helped me overcome my words.”

He brings his hands back up to cradle your face and you shutter at the familiar touch—at the calluses on his palms. “And I think you’ll like it there. It’s quiet and there’s so much… green.”

You let out a small laugh through your tears but doubt still fills your mind. “But… all the things I did,” you whimper, “I did such terrible unforgivable things. There’s… there’s so much blood on my hands.”

Sadness flares around his heart. It was all so familiar. He knows the feeling.

“It’s not going to be easy. God knows how long it took for me to believe that none of it was my fault. But let me be the first one to tell you,” he says, wiping your tears away with his thumb. “None of what you did was your fault. You were a victim.” He swallows a deep breath, “There are going to be days where it’ll be too much too bear and there are going to be nights where all those casualties will haunt you,” he admits. “But… but you’ll get there. Someday, you’ll learn to stop punishing yourself for something you didn’t do.”

And he vows that he’ll help you every step of the way.

You breathe out slowly, digesting all his words. “You can trust me,” he tells you, “I won’t let you down this time. I’ll be here.”

Blinking up at him, the small hesitant part of you so desperately wanted to say, “How can I trust you?” but his eyes were telling you everything you needed to know. Because it was filled with nothing but honour and truth.

He breaks away from you and reaches out his hand. An invitation. You stare at it for a while, then you slowly lift yours and brush your fingers amongst his before grabbing it tightly—a truce of sorts, a promise. He squeezes back in return, a loving smile on his face, just like all those nights many moonlights ago.

Your breath hitches when he pulls you into his embrace, your face burying perfectly into the valley of his chest. He wraps his arms around you in urgency, in fear, almost afraid you’ll slip out if he doesn’t.

“It’s over,” he mumbles into your hair.

Because two floors down an explosion erupts, finishing off the last remaining garrison of troops. Three hallways down, Natasha sets fire to a room that contained the other small red leather book that held those nine suffocating words written in Russian. Outside, the last Hydra officer attempting to flee falls to his knees from an arrow to the chest. And the only hope they had left to rebuild their regime was safely in Bucky’s arms.

He pulls away and uses his thumb to rub gently across your cheek, “It’s over. The war is finally over.”

Now that the worst is over, Bucky’s hopeful. There will be other conflicts to come, that was just how it worked, but this one, the one that held you and him underwater for years was finally over. War always took too much, but this time, it gave something back. Because among the ashes and ruins you came back to him, no more oceans in between.

“What do we do now?” you press nervously. You were taken at a young age and spent years in the Red Room before you were sold off to Hydra. Like Bucky, you’re in the wrong time period, there’s no one to go back to.

There’s so many things you could do, Bucky thinks. You can finally start living the life you deserved, the life that was taken from you too early. He’ll have to explain all this to his teammates but he knows they’ll understand. They treated him so well, there’s no doubt they’ll show the same kindness for you. Then, he’ll go with you to Wakanda, get rid of the words, maybe stay there for a while so you could heal—maybe show you the goats he took care of during his time there.

You’ll probably adjust to the 21st century better than him—you won’t need to start off with a flip phone, that’s for sure. He’ll make you listen to all the great records and watch all the movies you missed out on. There’s so many things he wanted to do with you. He knows you have no memories, no recollection. It didn’t matter, Bucky thinks, he would make new memories with you, ones worth cherishing and remembering. If you’ll have him, of course.

But first and most importantly, “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Then we can talk about it,” he says, rubbing the grime off your nose.

He grabs your hand and heads for the exit. But before he does, you pick up your knife from the floor and in one quick motion, you spin around and throw it. The knife embeds itself into the wall a few metres away, right next to a prying face. You stand in front of Bucky and stare at the intruder with a murderous gaze and Bucky’s heart races at the thought of you still wanting to protect him after everything.

The blond raises his arms up in surrender.

“Steve,” Bucky says from behind and you briefly recognize that name. You turn around to look at him and he meets your eyes, nodding. You relax your stance.

“Hi,” Steve says, voice slightly hoarse. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Bucky scoffs at him, as if he wasn’t eavesdropping the whole time.

Steve looks at the both of you, then a gentle smile adorns his face. “C’mon, the rest are waiting outside for you both.”

You step forward. This is it. Freedom. A new life. Bucky notices your hesitation as you suddenly stop in your tracks. Intertwining his fingers with yours, he squeezes with reassurance. You take a deep breath, then the two of you follow Steve to the exit, leaving behind the smoke and memories of your old life.

Outside, the sun comes up slowly but surely on the horizon, painting the awakening sky a gentle warm hue of oranges and pinks.

A new beginning awaits.

[prokopetz]

When I say I love shitty RPG Maker games, I don't just mean low-rent graphics or goofy sound design. I mean jank. Give me a player character where half of your abilities don't do what they say they do, and the other half don't work at all. Give me impossibly snarled dialogue trees that loop back on themselves and sprawl haphazardly across three different revisions of the game's story, none of which correspond to the version that was actually published. Give me side quests that can't be accessed without glitches or save file editing because somebody fucked up the event triggers. Give me an ostensibly nonlinear world that breaks hilariously the moment you do anything in an order the developer didn't anticipate. And most importantly, give me a game where all of this is true not due to lack of care, but because the scope of the developer's ambitions vastly exceeded their ability. Like, yeah, most of the time I want my games to, you know, work, but there's something in playing through the wreckage of an artistic effort doomed by its own hubris that no amount of too-clever deconstructionist posturing can replicate.

[sunflower-lilac42]

𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 ; 𝘭𝘩43 ୨୧

➪ summary: luke is all but tired when him and jack arrive home from a game, but luckily for him, y/n's there to help

➪ warnings: the one rags v. devils game where everyone decided to fight, tired luke. broken plate, luke thinking reader and jack is mad at him, hate comments, jack thinking he's a shitty big brother

➪ word count: 1.8k

➪ file type: fic - reupload

➪ sunny's notes: literally crying because i decided to edit this, negative feelings, and chicken noodle soup all in a row. i chose violence, be glad i'm not uploading them three days in a row. this was rough. but no i actually like how this fic turned out so yeah

© sunflower-lilac42 ; do not copy, repost, or translate my work and designs on any other website or here

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She had let herself into their apartment halfway through the second period. She had been watching from her dorm and when the first fight broke out, two seconds into the game, she knew the team was in for a wild night. As the game went on and they showed the bench and the players, she knew both her boyfriend and his brother were tired. 

That’s when she made the executive decision to “break in” to their apartment and make them dinner. She was grateful that their fridge was fully stocked and she didn’t have to run back out to the grocery store. She got to work quickly, making something easy but also filling for both of them. While spaghetti and meatballs weren’t any of their favorite meals, not that she was hungry anyway, she knew they would appreciate the effort nonetheless. 

When the game was over she sighed at the final score, after what they had been through tonight, they deserved the win. Worried about Luke and being one of only four defensemen on the ice, she looked to see how much time he was actually on the ice and was appalled when it read 32:49. She knew he had been tired these past few weeks, this team felt like it was on a never-ending cycle of bad luck. 

She was setting the plates down moments before they walked in the door, but when she was in the bathroom, that’s when she heard them. She heard the clatter of keys and shoes and walked out immediately. Luke was attempting to stand upright, slightly leaning on his older brother. Jack looked equally tired, attempting to support both him and Luke. 

She frowned as she made her way over to them, lightly grabbing onto Luke to lessen the weight on Jack’s body. He sighed in relief as he kicked his shoes off and made his way to sit down on the couch. Y/n stayed with Luke in the kitchen, walking him over to one of the chairs. With one hand she reached for his head and took the beanie he had been wearing off, using her other one to run her fingers through his damp curls. 

“Why don’t you go take a shower, both of you,” Jack whined from the couch while Luke just buried his head into her shoulder.

She felt like she could cry from the exhaustion they were displaying. She knew how they got, both of them. She had been dating Luke since their freshman year of high school. She knew the ins and outs of all three Hughes brothers if she was honest, never finding it weird or alarming. His family loved her, that she knew, but when Jack came home drunk one night and threw up on her shoes, she accepted her role in the family.

“Jack you first, come on.”

She continued running a hand through her boyfriend’s curls as she gazed at the older boy on the couch. He finally sat up, giving her an annoyed look, but she only rolled her eyes and pointed to the bathroom. She could keep Luke occupied for another 20 minutes, “Hi baby.”

Luke’s eyes were closed as his head laid on her shoulder, he mumbled something incoherently and he just sighed. She untangled her fingers from his hair and started to pull off his jacket, he whined at the loss of contact but allowed her to continue her actions. She took his jacket to his room and hung it up before walking back into the kitchen and checking on the pasta. 

Luke, despite being tired and his body being worn, he got up and made his way over to her in order to wrap his arms around her waist and dig his head into the crook of her neck, inhaling her fading scent. She smiled slightly, removing her one hand from the side of the pan to place on top of Luke’s, continuing to stir with the other. 

It was silent up until Jack came back, who plopped onto the chair his brother had previously sat in. She looked over at him and smiled, “Do you guys want to eat in the kitchen or in the living room? We could put a movie on?”

The two nodded and made their way over to the living room as she finished plating the food and bringing it over to them, placing the plates into their laps. They each let out simultaneous soft thank yous before eating. They chose a random movie and watched it as y/n cleaned the kitchen and finished doing some laundry that had been pushed to the side.  

She felt bad for both of them, both for different reasons but some the same. Mostly because of how the team was performing this year, the way that they couldn’t keep everyone off injured reserve. Yet, for Luke, it felt different. She felt more or less worried about him than bad for him. He had expectations to live up to, people to live up to, and she knew his mind all too well. She knew what he was thinking, that he wasn’t good enough.

And it wasn’t just him that thought that. They both knew about the tweets that were in response to people's comments under articles, the articles themselves about how Luke wasn’t as good as his brothers, wasn’t as good as he should be, wasn’t as good as people made him out to be. It was what Luke thought about the most.

There was clanging from the living room and then a crash. She immediately made her way out of the bedroom and looked in between Jack, who was still on the couch, the shattered plate on the floor, and Luke, who was standing in the hallway. His face looked conflicted but it morphed into one of fear and sadness. 

“Hey, hey, what happened?”

“I-” Luke couldn’t bring himself to talk, both terrified and still exhausted from the game. 

On the other hand, y/n’s face was calm and Jack’s face was sad with a hint of anger in his eyes. Anger towards John and Kevin for leaving the team with four defensemen, anger towards Travis for making Luke play that long, anger towards himself for not checking in on his brother enough, and anger towards the Rangers. 

“Luke, it’s okay. No one’s mad at you for dropping the plate.” Jack’s voice was soft as he stood up, slightly wobbling from his lack of balance. 

The younger boy only shook his head, reaching a hand out to lean against the wall. Y/n moved forward and wrapped her arms around Luke who then slowly sank to the ground. Her left hand was placed against his head, keeping it against her chest as her right arm wrapped around him. Luke started crying, soft sobs escaping his mouth.

She looked at Jack who took the hint to walk back into his bedroom. As soon as he left, Luke voiced his thoughts, “I’m tired. I’m so tired, y/n.”

The way his voice broke almost made her choke on a sob. She bit her lip to keep her tears at bay, refusing to let Luke know how she was feeling right now. She tangled her fingers in his hair, Luke allowing the movement to calm him down a little. His harsh sobs turned into soft sniffles in a matter of minutes. She was the only one who could soothe him like this besides his mom.

Lifting his head, he dug it back into the crook of her neck. She kissed his head and continued to run her fingers through his curls like she had done earlier, using her other hand to rub circles on his back. Ten minutes had passed and she looked over at the shattered glass a few feet away from her. Her legs had started to cramp from being in the position for so long and the added weight of Luke on them made it a little worse.

“How about you go take a shower while I clean the plate, okay?”

He pulled away from her and nodded his head slightly. She aided him in standing up and watched as he made his way to the bathroom to shower. Once the door closed, she made quick work of cleaning up the mess. After she was done, she went over and knocked on Jack’s bedroom door, “Hey.”

Jack snapped his head up in surprise, “Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” 

“Jack, I’ve known you for 7 years. What’s wrong?” She sat on the edge of his bed, her hands underneath her. 

“I feel bad. I mean I was so excited for Luke to come to play with me but for some reason, I feel guilty. I don’t know. It just feels like I should do more for him. I didn’t want to bring up the comments, I see them too, you know.”

Her heart warmed at the words, at Jack being so worried about his little brother. She smiled a little before looking at him, “He loves you, Jack. More than you know. I cannot tell you the number of times he calls me and is like ‘Jack this’ and ‘Jack that’. You and Quinn are his idols, it’s hard to not notice that. He is so appreciative of you. And he knows there is nothing you can do about the comments that people make, it’s not your fault.”

Jack teared up a little but smiled at her, “Thank you.”

“Of course. Now come on, give me a hug.”

Jack leaned over from his spot on the bed and hugged her, “Can I say I love you or is that too weird?” 

“Considering, I am betting on you becoming my sister-in-law, it’s not weird. I love you too, y/n/n.”

She heard a door close from down the hall and she pulled away and waved goodbye to Jack, making her way to her boyfriend’s room. When she walked in, Luke was lying on his bed, cuddling a pillow on his phone. She smiled at him and walked over to sit down, “Hi baby.”

He looked up at her and for the first time that night, he smiled. He reached out for her and she made herself comfortable on the bed, Luke wrapping his arms around her. In that moment, Luke was so grateful for her and all that she had done for him not only tonight but in the past seven years. She had been there for him through everything and that meant the absolute world to him. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Luke. And I am so so so so proud of you for tonight.”

His smile was small but genuine, “Now go to bed.” 

She kissed his forehead and the two wasted no time in falling asleep.

𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗝𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗘𝗬 𝗗𝗘𝗩𝗜𝗟𝗦 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 ୨୧

@blakesbearsblog @toasttt11 @chiblackhawks @prettyjoseph @nicole01-23 @auriesphantom @pucks-goals-penalties @dancerbailey3 @quinnylouhughesx43 @petite-potato4 @thehuggybearslover @absolutelyhugh3s @kei943 @dyslecticdutchman

© sunflower-lilac42 ; do not copy, repost, or translate my work and designs on any other website or here

[forzaferraris]

PUPPY LOVE — po5

pairing: patricio o'ward x stella! reader summary: in which the dog got your attention first but the boy keeps you forever. warnings: tooth rotting fluff, sexual innuendos, inaccurate timeline of events, reader doesn't know much about indycar, arrow mclaren when i catch you arrow mclaren, pato and his fascination with calling reader hermosa, references to the art that is bax lurmans romeo + juliet film, love blooms in abu dhabi and blossoms further in miami. style: social media file faceclaim: isabllemathersx on instagram, however you can picture her as whoever you please authors note: trying a new formatting approach for fics with this one. this is fic number 2/3 of my 3 fanfic options i posted earlier. sorry if this is a little ooc for pato, i also original had thi based this instead of meeting at indycar but instead they meet at the 2023 abu dhabi grand prix instead ! add yourself to my taglist !

WELCOME TO YOU'VE GOT MAIL . . . find a match today !

would you like to send a message? YES / NO

you: what's your dogs name, right now >:( pato: his name is norbi why are you on a dating app? surely finding love isn't all that difficult for you? you: originally i did it to entertain my girls' group chat, but after every loser i've tried to meet "naturally" ultimately fumbling the bad so disrespectfully, why not take this dating app stuff a bit more seriously 🤷🏻‍♀️ pato: what are you even doing in abu dhabi anyway? you: how do you know im in abu dhabi? pato: this app is location-based, you wouldn't have been able to match with me if you weren't in the same location as me, plus you just confirmed it with that question. . . . seen 3 minutes ago

ynstella just posted to their story . . .

seen by racerbia, francisca.cgomes and 12,3009 others [ caption one: why did i say yes to coming to abu dhabi, shit is fucking hot ] [ caption two: abu dhabi gp, i'm here to make you my bitch ] [ caption three: your favourite duo back to cause trouble @/racerbia ] view more story replies . . . landonorris baby stella in the building ! ⤷ ynstella baby? lando norris i'm older than you ⤷ landonorris by like three whole months >:( ⤷ ynstella L + ratio + wrong + get a job + unfunny + you fell off + never liked you anyway + cope ⤷ ynstella im gonna curse the race, are we prepared for max verstappen 3x wdc ! ⤷ landonorris i'm literally going to to dob on you, you're being so mean rn >:( ⤷ ynstella you dirty little dibber dobber cindy !

alexandrasaintmleux prettiest girl <3 ⤷ ynstella says you i'm gonna smooch your face on that podium cmere mwah mwah mwah kissy kissy ⤷ alexandrasaintmleux stop got me blushing, charles it looking at me weird ⤷ ynstella he doesn't have to know baby girl x

francisca.cgomes you're so hot, if dating app hottie doesn't pull you i might ! ⤷ ynstella i'm blushing, flirting with the enemy, whatever will my dad think ⤷ francisca.cgomes babe it's a modern day romeo + juliet, but the baz lurhman edition. ⤷ ynstella who is who in this situation? oscarpiastri lando said stop being mean to him on social media ⤷ ynstella lando give oscar his phone back

racerbia we r so cute, i luv us !

pooknation groupchat . . .

instagram dms between ynstella and patriciooward . . .

ynstella has posted . . .

liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri, francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux and 88,340 others ynstella abu dhabi, i came i saw and max verstappen concurred !

view more . . mclaren our own resident mclaren girl will always post about redbull and not mclaren ⤷ ynstella i'd post oscar but lando is somehow always in the background of the pictures i take, i'm not having lando on my account 🙅🏻‍♀️ ⤷ landonorris can i go one day without you publicly hating me ⤷ ynstella when you get a race win next season pooh bear x username pooh bear? is lando the man she's trying to soft launch? not actually enemies but enemies to lovers?? ⤷ ynstella good lord no. lando norris wishes he could have a chance with me ⤷ landonorris disgusting don't put words in my mouth. you wish you're the one wishing you could have a chance with me ⤷ oscarpiastri nurse, they're back at it again francisca.cgomes i need more of this soft launch shit. it's like a drug to me post more. im foaming at the mouth. ⤷ ynstella can i hard launch our relationship instead ⤷ pierregasly nah bc i am literally right here man ⤷ ynstella get out of my comments with my gf pear

username are we ignoring that y/n is soft launching a man, rue, when was this? ⤷ username recently it seems ⤷ username shocked. i wonder what her dad thinks ?? ⤷ ynstella not that its any of your business, but my dad's actually quite charmed with him x

patriciooward has posted . . . 📍 abu dhabi , united arab emirates

liked by arrowmclaren, elbaoward, racerbia and 63,001 others patriciooward what a weekend, cya next year !

view more. . .

username there's one too many soft launch pictures in this race weekend dump ⤷ username ladies we've lost another one ⤷ username all men are the same. breaking my heart elbaoward since when did "have a good time in abu dhabi" mean somehow get someone to soft launch? ⤷ patriciooward the just a silly lil guy rizz worked unfortunately ⤷ elbaoward i doubt that, so much.

ynstella just posted to their story . . .

seen by alexandrasaintmleux, landonorris, charles_leclerc and 10,817 others

[ caption one: where to next 🛫 ] [ caption two: mother hood looks good on me ] [ caption three: boyfriend reveal ]

francisca.cgomes i can't believe i'm in love with a MILF ! ⤷ ynstella i want you so bad 😩 ⤷ francisca.cgomes lets kiss rn before our boyfriends see

alexandrasaintmleux i think norbi is cute enough to convince charles that we need to get a dog ⤷ ynstella ugh i hate when you mention that man >:( how come WE can't get a dog together ⤷ alexandrasaintmleux my love because you are a capulet and i am a montague </3 ⤷ ynstella as long as lando is the character that dies first i'd happily performe shakespeare with y'all

landonorris this is insane, my brain can't keep up with the events that are unfolding right in front of me ⤷ ynstella pook i think that's both a you issue and a skill issue, double homicide. ⤷ landonorris oh so you hate me again ⤷ ynstella i never stopped, if you have 0 haters i've died <3

patriciooward te mo hermosa ⤷ ynstella shut up, don't tell me you love me over text, that's so foul ⤷ patriciooward i've been telling you i love you for two months now </3 ⤷ ynstella oh shit, i forgot to buy you an anniversary gift </3 ⤷ patriciooward oh hermosa, what am i going to do with you ⤷ ynstella well when you word it like that . . . i could think of a few things

patriciooward and ynstella just posted to their stories . . .

seen by arrowmclaren, racerbia, francisca.cgomes and 22,010 others [ caption one: feliz aniversario (happy anniversary) ] [ caption two: happy 2 months ! feliz aniversario ] [ caption three: came for the dog. stayed for the owner <3 ]

mclaren happy anniversary ! ⤷ ynstella thanks admin, love u so big x

ynstella i adore you, ⤷ patriciooward te adoro mas, hermosa ⤷ ynstella happiest with you in my life i fear ⤷ patriciooward good, i don't plan on going anywhere

authors note: abu dhabi 2023, you are so special to me <3 please enjoy this little pato o'ward fanfic. praying, manifesting the tags let me post this and doesn't shadowban me sobbing crying throwing up

[imnameimswrld]

ⵌ ׄ ۪ 𝐀 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 ⁴⁴ ׄ ⑅ LH44 ‌˖ ֺ ᰮ

— DESCRIPTION ੭ in which getting stuck in an elevator brings you to a truth that had been hiding and eating away at your heart.

— PAIRING ੭ lewis hamilton x fem!ready.

— FILE ੭ imagine.

— DISCLAIMERS ੭ angsty with fluff at the end and a little in between, not (currently) edited.

❪ main masterlist | f1 masterlist | lewis hamilton masterlist ❫

━━━━━━━━━━❪ 🖤 ❫━━━━━━━━━━

"Fuck !"

Lewis delivers a rattling kick to the sealed shut elevator doors, and the action pulls an eyeroll from you.

"Oh yeah, kick it some more maybe the stainless steel doors will open on Sir Lewis Hamilton's command !" your words drip in sarcasm, you tone causing your boyfriend to turn and face you in the corner you're slumped back in.

You hands rub at your arms that your knitted sweater is failing to block the cold from, and despite the tension between the two of you, Lewis can't stand the site of you cold. So, he rips his jacket off with a huff, walks over to the corner you wish could swallow you whole if it meant giving space from him, and tucks the jacket so carefully and neatly around your front that you almost regret your thought about the corner of the elevator snatching you away from him – almost.

The atmosphere in the broken down elevator becomes even more chilly with the tension that settles between the two of you. Half of you wants to hobble closer and cling to his natural body heat, and the other half wants to firmly plant your hands on his shoulders just to shove him further away.

His presence right now is simultaneously making you beg for space and wallow in guilt, and the only way things could get worse is if he starts talking-

"I just don't understand it, Y/n."

A groan of annoyance echoes loudly in the square space. "Seriously Lewis ? You're gonna make me feel bad about declining your proposal ?".

He rounds on you, facing you fully with anger simmering in his gaze; but it's mixed eith another emotion. Hurt.

"Of course not, but what I want is an apology."

Matching his defensive stance, the jacket slips from your shoulders as you turn so quickly to face him. "An apology ? You want me to apologize for saying "no Lewis, I'm not ready for another marriage yet" ?"

Lewis shakes his head, his eyes dead set on yours. "That's exactly it actually. But not for declining me, but for lying to me, Y/n."

A silence blankets the two of you, but unlike the purpose of the item, it doesn't enclose you in warmth and comfort; no, it suffocates you with a so deeply embedded feeling of guilt, that your breathing halts for just a moment.

You and Lewis have been dating for three years now. Before him, the thought of committing yourself to another after the disloyalty of your last, made you shudder and almost feel sick to the stomach. You minded your business and kept in your own bubble for the good part of a year, and then Lewis so calmly squeezed himself into your life with a charming accent and a dashing smile, and with how he made you feel, you knew that he was here to stay. You love him, more than you've ever loved anyone before. He would make the perfect husband; he's loyal, kind, loving, uplifting – but, in the midst of those thoughts, and the wonderful adventures you experienced together, you failed to mention that you just weren't ready.

Your throat bobs sorely with the harsh gulp you take, and with how Lewis follows the action action closely, he knows exactly how you feel. He knows he's right. He knows he deserves an apology, and he's not stopping until he gets it. Breaking up isn't an option for him; he's chosen you to spend forever with, and that's not going to change. What has to change for him, however, is the treatment in this relationship.

If you expect honesty and loyalty from him, then he expects the exact same in return.

"You lied," he states softly, his brows losing the angry knot they were in as he remembers that night. "You said you were ready. You know you said it, and yet...".

The second the tears start welling up in his coffee brown eyes, yours immediately respond in the same way.

"You lied."

"I know." you whisper, even your voice facing the aftermath of your dishonesty.

"Why, Y/n ?" he shakes his head slowly now, hand coming up on pure instinct just to swipe your falling tears away quickly, before returning to his sides. "It's not fair, and you know it."

You sniffle, your gaze failing to continue it's silent words with his and you drop it, eyes staring down at his Tommy H sneakers instead. This whole thing is the effect of your dishonesty back then, so it's best if you're honest now.

"I was scared."

"Scared ?" he repeats, before tucking your chin in between his forefinger and thumb to gently lift your chin, resetting your gaze with his. "Scared of what, love ?"

Lewis inches closer, and with each step your confidence in yourself breaks.

"I was scares that, if I said that I wasn't ready to be married again, you'd...you'd..." the words can't even leave your mouth, let alone formulate in your brain properly with the pain the bring you.

"Talk to me, my love."

And with his arms enveloping you to eliminate the remaining space separating you from him, you break in his warmth.

"I was scared that you'd leave me, Lewis."

The truth is here, revealed, and she's rattling your entire being with cries and guilt. Lewis rubs a hand on your back while the other holds you close, your tear-stained face buried deep into his chest where his heart beats in your ear. You don't understand why he's trying to soothe you when you're totally in the wrong here.

Still, you will never refuse anything he offers you. He just means that much to you.

"If that was ever a fear for you Y/n, then I haven't been doing my duty in loving you like I truly do." he says ever so softly in your ear, and you immediately pull away to stare up at him with reddening eyes.

"No, Lewis," you shake your head as he wipes more of your tears sway. "I am in the wrong. You have shown me what it is like to be loved wholly and with passion."

"So then why have such an irrational fear, my love ? I love you with my entire being, and I want to spend forever with you," he says, cradling your pink cheeks in his hands with the utmost amount of care.

"Now that doesn't mean we have to get married any time soon, because of course I want us both to be ready for a step like that. But I would appreciate your honesty where it is vitally needed."

You nod in, your hands going numb from the death grip that have on the material of his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Lew," you state. "Right now, I'm not ready for the step of marriage, however, I am positive that I do, want to spend my forever, with you."

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he places a blossoming kiss to your forehead. "Perfect."

"What ? My apology ?" you snort, peering up at him with glassy eyes.

He nods as he begins to help you into his jacket. "That, and just you in general."

You slip your arms in as you shake your head in disagreement. "Perfect people don't make mistakes."

Tucked warmly into his jacket, Lewis pulls you close once again to thread his finger into your hair as you close your arms around his waist.

"Call me insane or hopelessly in love," his gaze is filled with every passionate emotion unde under the sun as he stares into your eyes.

"But you'll always be perfect to me, my love."

[erosology]

i'm going to be so honest with you: this was supposed to be a drabble about being soap's wife that he likes to share with 141 but it has spiraled into a monster of its own. idk what to even call this anymore. it's 3,100 words of debauchery and sin and thirst and reader being a whore and soap being head over heels for her because of it.

if you guys want an actual fic with plot any everything, pls do let me know! i'll more than likely write a part two to this (whatever the fuck it is lol) if you're interested enough :3

❀ cw/tw: NSFT, AFAB reader (femme pronouns and pet names), drinking, smut, fingering, oral (f!receiving), voyeurism, threesome (? kinda?), perceived cheating, price being a nosy bitch, possible OOC as it's been A While since i've written anything let alone anything for the COD men, minimal editing because the more i edit the more i add and it's enough of a monster as is, cliffhanger >:)

It starts how most debauchery in the 141 starts: with you, Johnny, and Gaz having a little too much to drink and not enough good judgment to say no. A night out on the town drinking just about anything that’s handed to you after a particularly long and hard deployment has left the three of you with blurred vision and blurred minds. Somewhere along the way Gaz ends up in yours and Johnny’s house under the impression of sobering up before calling a cab back to base, but rather than ending up in the back of a cab with radio chatter and uncomfortable small talk with a stranger, Gaz ends up in yours and Johnny’s bed, his hand up your skirt while Johnny watches, giving instructions here and there, directing him on where to touch you and how to kiss you properly.

“C’mon, Gaz,” Johnny tuts as Gaz’s hands linger over your still-clothed breasts. “She’s beggin’ for ye’, and yer takin’ yer sweet time. Torturin’ the poor hen, makin’ her wait. Do I have to show ye’ how it’s done?”

“Be a little nice, yeah?” Gaz shoots back with a grin. “‘s my first time doing something like this. And she’s too fuckin’ gorgeous for me to think straight.”

“Scooch o’er, then. I’ll help ye’, poor bastard. Show ye’ show to fuck my bonnie proper.”

And does Johnny show him. With Johnny guiding his hands where he needs to go, the Scottish timbre low in his ear as he gives clear directions, Kyle is able to make you cum on his fingers in record timing, his palm coated in your juices and his eyes full of stars. Then you cum on his tongue, his chin just as soaked as his palm and his tongue lapping up every drop spilling from you. Then, finally, you cum on his cock, with a condom on, of course. Kyle might be allowed to fuck you, but Johnny is the only one allowed to properly fill you up. All the while, Johnny is telling him exactly what to do, humming his approval when he gets something right, tutting when he fumbles and does something he knows you’re not fond of.

”Ye’ know this isn’t gonnae be a one-time thing, right?” Johnny murmurs in your ear after you’re properly cleaned up and Kyle finally gets that cab ride back to the barracks.

You smile up at him sweetly and nuzzle your face into his neck. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

And it happens again. And again. And again. And with each time, Kyle learns exactly how to please you and where to touch you, how to kiss you and where you like his fingers to be as he does so, praises dancing from his tongue and onto yours as he slips into your mouth. And you learn his body just as well, learn how he likes his back scratched up as if he’s your own personal nail file, learn how he’s more of a romantic and foreplay-focused lover rather than a hot and heavy one, learn how vocal he gets and how sweet his words are as they drip from his mouth and echo around your bedroom as you please him.

“Fuck, sweetheart, s’tight, squeezing on my fingers. Must really like it when I curl ‘em like this.”

“Feels so fucking good, love. So perfect. Just like that. Fuck. ‘m close!”

“Best pussy I’ve ever had. Prettiest one, too. Look at you, all spread out, ready for me to eat.”

In combination with Johnny’s low voice complimenting you from his spot in the room, it causes your head to spin and your heart to flutter every damn time, heaven a pathetic excuse of a paradise compared to this.

”Fuckin’ beautiful, bonnie, keep ridin’ him like that. That’s a good girl.”

”Go on, leannan, I know ye’ can take him deeper than that. Do that breathin’ technique I taught you. There ye’ go. Good girl.”

”Givin’ me a show, lass. Gonnae blow my load before I even get a chance to touch myself. Fuckin’ perfect, my bonnie.”

The only ground rule is: nothing happens without Johnny there. He is, after all, your husband, the one who’s kind enough to allow one of his closest friends to fuck you, the one who owns your body and your heart. Gaz is more than happy to comply as long as he still gets what little pieces Johnny allows him. And so, it continues. Not an every night thing, of course, or even a weekly one. But maybe Gaz has had a particularly rough day and no amount of running is shaking the stress off. Or maybe Price has him working twice as hard as his fellow servicemen for half of the reward, and his patience is beginning to wane. Or maybe you just look too fucking irresistible to stop himself from giving Johnny The Look, and the three of you sneak off to your house for your debauchery that ends with Gaz glowing, you spent, and Johnny as smug as ever.

But, of course, when you work as closely as the 141 do and have a Captain as sharp as John Price, there’s only so many things that slip through the cracks before they’re caught in his grasp and closely inspected.

The captain begins to catch on after he’s up late one night smoking a cigar, the English air cold and crisp as he shakes off the remnants of his latest night terror. He doesn’t normally stay at the barracks so late, much preferring his own bed in his own home located just a few kilometers off base, but the stack of paperwork on his desk has him burning the midnight oil well into the night, and he still has a sizeable stack to go through after he rests up a bit. The cot he keeps in his office specially for nights like these is nothing more than a padded piece of cardboard, and he’s beginning to suspect he’s getting too old to be pulling this stuff anymore without risking throwing his back out. He should really ask for a pay raise…

Price thinks he must still be half asleep when he spots Gaz walking over to the barracks, his hands stuffed in his pockets, a grin on his face and a suspicious pep to his step, but then he and the man in question make eye contact, and the shock in Gaz’s eyes tells him everything he needs to know.

“Up late, Sergeant?” Price asks from the shadows he’s lingering in, and his sensitive ears don’t miss the curse that quietly slips from Gaz’s lips.

“Yessir,” Gaz answers with a bashful hue to his words, as if he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and his spine automatically straightens in his superior’s presence. “Had some trouble sleeping so I went out for a walk.”

The captain quickly spots the shake to Gaz’s shoulders, illustrating just how underprepared the younger man was for his midnight stroll. “Without a jacket on this chilly night?”

Gaz noncommittally shrugs, but the twitch of his lips tells Price everything he needs to know. “Didn’t need one. Walking around kept me warm enough.”

Price hums in response, then extinguishes the cigar butt out on the sole of his boot before shoving it into his pocket to dispose of in a proper garbage can. He turns to leave, but not before tossing over his shoulder, “‘fraid that pink isn’t quite your shade, Sergeant. Might want to go for a more copper tone.”

He softly chuckles as he hears Gaz swear and the telltale ruffling of him swiping at his face.

As observant as Price is, however, it took him a little while longer to realize just who that shade of pink suits very well.

Soap is as reckless as Price is cautious, so it’s no surprise that the other three members of the 141 are in the infirmary waiting for your arrival while Johnny sits in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his arm casted and his head bandaged from his latest stunt during their mission.

”Where’s mah bonnie?” Johnny slurs out, the pain killers’s effect thick in his voice, and Gaz softly smiles—a smile he quickly drops when he feels Price’s eyes on him. “I wan’ mah bonnie.”

“She’s on her way, Soap,” Price replies, his tone mild, as if dealing with a petulant child. “She can’t just drop everything the second you do something stupid, or else she’d never get anything done.”

”I wan’ mah bonnie…,” Soap repeats with a pout but stays quiet, much to everyone’s surprise.

The bubble of relief Price feels upon seeing you locate them quickly pops when he spots a familiar shade of pink on your lips, and he struggles to keep his composure as you walk up to him with an anxious expression on your sweet face. 

“How bad is it?” you ask.

And goddammit, you sound so genuinely worried, such the dedicated, love wife of  one of his best sergeants that he almost thinks it’s just the lighting of the fluorescent hospital bulbs that’s giving your lips the same color he spotted on Gaz just weeks ago. Hell, he wants to think one too many blows to the head is finally starting to fuck with his memory and there’s no way in hell it’s the same color, but the way Gaz’s shoulders relax as soon as you make eye contact with him is the final nail in the coffin. 

Something is going on between you and Gaz, and he needs to find out before the whole damn thing explodes.

It takes him a few weeks, but Price is nothing but a patient man when the situation calls for it. Violence and timing is his motto for a reason. Well, hopefully no violence on his end this time, but he can’t make any promises for Gaz and Soap’s end considering just how over-the-moon the Scotsman is for you. He hopes and prays to whatever entity is up there that he’s just being overly cautious, that he’s overthinking things, that his paranoia has reached an all-time high and he needs to finally take that vacation Laswell has been pestering to take, but yours and Gaz’s subtly flirtatious behavior around each other at a bar the four of you piled into together makes the sour feelings in his stomach twist and churn. Goddamn Simon for being so elusive and forcing him to deal with this on his own…

All night, he watches the three of you, how handsy Soap is with you and how familiar the rare touches Gaz gives you are. That goddamn shade of pink on your lips shining under the bar lights. The giggles that leave your lips at a joke Gaz makes and how your hand presses into his chest. How he lopsidedly grins until he remembers where he’s at and schools his features. How he and Soap keep exchanging knowing glances over your shoulders when they think Price isn’t looking. But he’s looking alright. Looking and waiting for the perfect moment to get you alone to confront you.

Violence and timing.

Luckily, after a few drinks, Soap and Gaz decide to go outside to share a cigarette and you stay behind. You’ve always detested the smell of cigarettes, and Soap’s habit of having a few cigarettes while out and drinking is one of the rare bickerments you two have. But right now, it’s Price’s saving grace.

“Enjoying yourself tonight, Mactavish?” Price asks.

You perk up on your side of the booth as if you had forgotten he’s there (he wouldn’t blame you if you had—he’s been awfully quiet tonight) and flash him a polite, if slightly detached, smile. The military wife smile. The one all of the commanding officers get from the spouses. It feels particularly deceitful tonight, and he almost feels bad for thinking so. Might have too, if the bar lights didn’t shine perfectly on your wedding rings and he’s reminded of what he has to do.

You finger traces the rim of your empty glass, and you nod. “You can just call me by my name, sir.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Is Mactavish not your name?”

You chuckle in response and your posture eases a bit, legs stretching until he feels your foot graze against his, your eyes darting unmistakably from his lips up to his eyes. “It is, but I have a first name too, you know.”

Are you flirting with him? Your husband is outside sharing a cigarette with a man he suspects you of sleeping with, and you’re flirting with him? His fingers clutch his glass as his temper spikes a bit, but he remains levelheaded. Innocent until proven guilty, right? “We’ll stick with Mactavish for now. Don’t want the boys thinking I’m giving you any special treatment, do we?” he replies with a hint of flirtation, just to see if you take the bait.

The subtle way you bite your bottom lip tells him you not only take the bait, but you’re going down hook, line, and sinker. Your foot bumps against his again, but rather than pulling away this time, it gently caresses him, lingering around so there’s no mistaking the feeling of your heel grazing against his ankle and causing an involuntary shiver to wrack his spine. And fucking hell, it’s either been too long since he’s gotten laid or his tolerance has gone down and two glasses of whiskey is suddenly too much for his metabolism, but he can feel himself wanting to respond to your touch. It doesn’t help that the dress you’ve chosen to wear tonight has a halter neckline and a draped skirt—two of Price’s personal weaknesses—and the necklace you donne does wonders for your cleavage. You’re absolutely dressed to kill tonight, and if Price were half as scummy as Nikola thinks him to be, he would’ve scooped you right up and take you straight to the grimy stall to fuck your brains out. But, alas, his conscious is still intact and working very well tonight, no matter how much his dick is pleading for him to not listen to it for once.

A captain, wanting to fuck his sergeant’s wife? No amount of under-the-table favors and chest candy could ever clean up that mess.

“No, we don’t,” you finally reply after a tense moment, your eyes still resting on his. “Even if I do deserve it.”

What an interesting choice of words… He takes a sip of his drink to mull over his next words, and when you mimic the action, there’s no mistaking your intentions. Goddamn Soap and his love of dangerous women. “Oh? Bit confident, are we?” He leans into the table more, determined to invade your space and make you squirm. “What makes you so sure you deserve it?”

You nod, and the politely detached smile on your face slowly melts into a more seductive one, a knowing quirk curling at the edge of your lips, and suddenly, Price is no longer sure who’s caught in whose web. Matching his energy, you lean in as well, until there’s nothing but a few centimeters between you two, his blue eyes boring into yours, your minty breath mixing with his whiskey. “You’ve been staring down at my tits all night, Captain, and I hate to say, but it isn’t the first time I’ve caught you doing so. Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t tend to stare at my sergeant's wife's tits. So either, I’m getting special treatment or you’re just a pervert. Which one is it, Captain?”

His mouth immediately opens to reply, but before any words can form, he spots Soap’s familiar mohawk moving over to your table, and he quickly pulls away and even leans back into the cushion, as if to prove a point. Soap slips in next to you, the smell of cigarettes causing your nose to wrinkle, and Gaz slips in next to Price, a low chuckle on his lips as if still laughing about a joke Soap said while the two were outside. The dopey, lovesick grin Soap gives you is enough to make guilt nip at Price’s insides (he was thinking about fucking you just moments ago, goddammit), but the way you lean in to kiss Soap while still making eye contact with the captain makes his temper boil all over again. Normally, you’d fuss over allowing Soap to kiss you so soon after a cigarette, playfully shoving him aside and making him at least chew a stick of gum before pressing his mouth to yours. But right now, sitting across from Captain John Price in that goddamn dress with that goddamn necklace and that goddamn shade of pink swiped over your lips, you sensually, borderline pornographically, slot your lips against your husband’s (his sergeant). The kiss goes on long enough that even Gaz is unabashedly gawking, his eyes darting from your hand on Soap’s chest to your mouths tangled together to your breasts and how they squish and form against Soap’s body.

And maybe Soap is too drunk to notice just how close you two had been when he walked in, or notice the way you had looked at Price before losing yourself in him, but Price is all too painfully aware of everything that’s currently going on at the table, especially all of the things you aren’t saying. It can’t be more clear than the love that Soap has for you, that you want to fuck Captain John Price and that you’ve, at the very least, kissed Gaz well enough that he follows you around almost as your own husband does.

Soap might be the demolition’s expert, but you seem to love to play with fire, and Price isn’t sure who’s going to get burned.

Price goes home that night more sexually and emotionally frustrated than he’s been in the last fifteen years. 

You, Kyle, and Johnny go home to your place to fuck until none of you can see straight and your appetites for pleasure and pain are satiated.

And somewhere out there, Simon Riley snores away in his room, completely unaware of the turmoil that’s currently brewing in the 141.

—

“Johnny, I want to fuck your captain,” you announce the next morning over a cup of fresh tea.

The grin that spreads across Johnny’s lips is nothing less than utterly wolfish, and he barks out a laugh before kissing the crown of your head. “If ye’ can get that bastard in our bedroom, ye’ can fuck him until yer heart’s content.”

“Sounds easy enough.” 

[gummilutt]

Age & Pet option for Teleporters

Have you ever spent forever and a half flipping through teleport categories to find that one specific townie teen you want for some reason? Rachums at @kashmiresims has, @chocolatecitysim has, and so have I! Sometimes when you are a story-driven player, you just need to port in some kids or teens and the teleporters with their family-oriented menus are not helpful. It's high time these beloved modding objects get an update to better fit the needs of those of us that use them! :)

Three teleporter options have been modified to provide age-filtered selections. Inge's Teleporter Cat, Paladin's Visual Teleporter, and Twojeffs Simblender. UPDATE July 2024: I have now added pet options as well, and a YA category, as further use suggested those too would be useful to have :) Menus have also been tidied up to be less cluttered and hopefully easier to use. Only the cat and the blender have been altered.

Inge's Cat options

Visual teleporter options

Simblender options

The menus past the point below is identical to the Teleporter Cat :) Please note it uses a modified version of Simblender as the base, for more information about that and more information on how it has been edited, please see the txt file in the zip.

I did my best to break it down in the possible categories that I think one might need. The all-category helps if you aren't sure what the Sim you are after is, and the specific ones are more narrowed down for the times where you do know it's a townie or an NPC or something :)

Download Cat & Teleporter

Download Simblender (uses picknmix version as base, please see the original upload for more information on those functions)

Have fun playing kids pool parties, staging school photos, and finding your Sims new friends in their age group to socialize with on a Sunday!

Credits: Inge/simlogical for the Teleporter Cat, Paladin/simwardrobe for the Visual Teleporter, Twojeffs for the Simblender, picknixmix for the specific version of Simblender used, @kashmiresims for the inspiration, @chocolatecitysim for reminding me last week and getting me motivated to actually get it done

[joseigamer]

Interview with the Vampire Manga Adaptation (Yoake no Vampire) by Udoh Shinohara + DL Link

DL LINK HERE

Happy new episode of IWTV AMC day! Today though, I want to share something I've teased earlier on my blog, which is the Japanese manga adaptation of the Interview with the Vampire gothic horror novel. See under the cut for more details!

It came out in 1994, a bit after the movie, but it only referenced the book itself. It consisted of a single volume made up of three chapters, so events are condensed and abridged, and it skips Part II in Eastern Europe. The first two chapters were scanlated into English by a group named Trine and distributed on the aarinfantasy forums in 2007, but the third chapter was kind of lost to time, especially after all the links to the raw Japanese scans went down years ago. However, I discovered that a now defunct Portuguese scanlation group did the whole thing (individual credits included in the .zip), and I was able to recover chapter three, use heavily cross-checked and edited MTL (PT-ENG), and deliver the final product to you all. See more notes about this process or where to read the PT version in the readme file included in the .zip! It's not 100% perfect and I would not call it true 'scanlation' obviously, so if anyone can do a better job I welcome them to! I hope more visibility on this manga makes the raws become available again so a true JPN-ENG translation can be done on the last chapter!

This manga obviously has major IWTV book spoilers, but it does NOT include anything from later books in the series and is honestly quite faithful overall. It even includes Lestat's father. I might actually call it slightly gayer than the book, since Louis and Armand become more obviously in love. I would recommend it to anyone who's watching the series and hasn't read the book yet, as well as to anyone who enjoys the books alone! The art style is very 90s, but it has some really beautiful visuals sometimes, especially with Claudia. I hope everyone enjoys reading it!

[sexhaver]

definitely one of the most difficult moments of my professional career was when i was doing tech support for [REDACTED]'s automated biomed research lab and like. hang on lemme greentext this

>tell them i can fix this issue in half an hour with a remote support session (aka Teamviewer)

>"you want to... control our computers???? over the internet????? like some kind of HACKER???????"

>their IT submits my request to upper management and after two weeks they reluctantly allow me to get remote access to their systems

>by logging into a virtual machine using a 20-digit password and then using a specific program inside of that virtual machine

>while sharing my screen with someone from their IT team the entire time

>finally get remote access to the PC with the issue

>go to open log files to start troubleshooting

>ERROR: User does not have read permissions.

>what the fuck

>ask their IT guy why it's saying that

>"...because we don't want you looking at our stuff, duh?"

>take deep breath before calmly explaining that i need to open files in order to fix their problem

>IT guy submits my request to upper management

>after another week i go through the whole process again but can actually open the log file this time

>cool, it's exactly the issue i thought it was and i know exactly how to solve it

>open the relevant settings file, change a single number, hit Save

>ERROR: User does not have write permissions.

>what the FUCK

>ask IT guy how i'm supposed to fix their system if i can't change literally anything on it

>takes 20 minutes of arguing to get him to admit that maybe i need write access

>he submits the request to upper management

>a week goes by

>upper management denies it

>says i can just verbally tell the IT guy on the call what to type and he'll do it for me

>deep breaths. deep breaths.

>start third remote session

>go to open the relevant .log file in notepad, which isn't the default program it opens with for some reason

>they fucking disabled right clicking

>[REDACTED] has a $118 billion market cap btw

>manage to walk the IT guy through using the command line (which he had never seen before and was scared of) to edit the relevant file

>three weeks go by

>new support ticket in my inbox

>"why didn't your fix fix this completely unrelated issue?"

>they still won't give me write access

>VP of [REDACTED] yells at me in our weekly meeting for taking so long to fix a third unrelated issue they never submitted a ticket for and is also not actually an "issue" but an intended feature of our software that they don't like

>i went to college for this