#it turns out that a good time to toss an old metal water bottle is when the seals all break and it starts leaking on leather car seats

[dawnstarranger]

Today I bought a floral and skull print water bottle that would have made my 16 year old goth self jump for joy. This is what having adult money is all about

[shotmrmiller]

https://x.com/babyboat22/status/1819915483795050893?s=46 dont look at me sideways but i see amateur thief reader and “victim” soap who let you rob his ass just to keep your hands on him. he couldnt stop humming and chuckling and grinning while you pinned him to the grimy brick alley wall, patting him down and trying to search for anything good. you nick the gold rosary chain his mother gave to him, but he’s hardly worried. just keeps talking, trying to hear your voice, like he isn’t being violently accosted at the moment. besides, he likes being manhandled by a pretty thing like you.

its a wonder why someone so bitty could grow the balls to do something like this. to someone like him, of all people. its the opposite of a power trip. kind of a rush, knowing that you have no idea that he’s entirely in control of the situation you put the both of you in. that if he wanted, he could reverse this little game of yours, have you struggling and crying just for him.

but he denies himself, lets you have your fun.

when you take his wallet (not a big deal, just a couple 20s worth) he asks if you could hand him some of the trojans in there as well, wonders aloud if he’ll need them. he hears you suck in a scandalized breath and shivers in pleasure when your movements grow more shaky as you keep trying to ignore him.

“no need ta take ‘em from me, bonnie. in a plenty givin’ mood, ye can just ask,” he huffs against the wall, looking back at you the best he can with his face smushed against the brick, dark and honeyed eyes. he bargains, in a deeper, more enticing voice, “could take ye ‘ome and let ye ransack the ‘ole place if ye decide ta play a ‘lil nice—“

you yank his head back sharply before smashing his cheek into the brick, earning a groan from the man in your clutches. “shut the fuck up!”

he can taste the blood on his lips, staining his teeth. it hurts but the pain has his boner throbbing hard and unignorable. he’s missed this type of violence. usually the only way he can get it off the field is from simon, but this will do. this will more than do.

perhaps him chuckling despite being mortally injured freaked you out finally because you hastily pocket your ill-gotten gains before turning tail and running off into the night. soap’s not worried. what type of mercenary would he be if he doesn’t keep track of what’s his? it’s not hard to find you after that, where you live, go to work, which movies you like to see in your free time.

so when you spot him just as he sits down next to you in the theater, you can’t help the paralytic feeling of realizing you recognize this man. can barely move when he smirks all pretty at you, split lip and all, as he wraps an arm around your seat and spreads his thighs so wide that they crush against yours, his big calloused hand squeezing your shoulder, pulling you into him like you’re old friends.

“sorry ‘m late,” he murmurs, leaning close to your ear, letting his breath hit hot on your lobe. “traffic ‘n all.”

you try to turn towards him, “you—“

“shh, shh—“ he tightens his grip on your shoulder, keeping you from moving away from him. his sudden strength is frightening. “dinnae distract from the movie, aye? paid good money for it, ah bet.” soap licks his lips and hums before smiling, his hand pushes under your arm to grab your tit. “let’s enjoy it together, then ah’ll take ye ‘ome with me. how’s that sound?”

okay okay i'm listeningggg

popcorn cold and soggy from the butter sits on your lap, the flavored water that was once an icee on your left. his hand is firm around your thigh after fighting through the previews to get him off your tits and arse.

a compromise. sure. but then you've got to go to the bathroom (curious because you've never gone anywhere while the movie is rolling, soap thinks) but okay. when you've gotta go, you've gotta go. the piss bottles he's had to toss in the bin after flying for hours in nikolai's metal stallion can attest to that.

and this, you think, clammy hands fisting the brand new secondhand shirt you got from goodwill, is your way out. away from him. maybe even to the police. you've only ever done this shit out of necessity. hoping to get enough out of the privileged to soothe the pang of gnawing hunger in your stomach (and that of the other street urchins)

whatever you thought could've happened doesn't because he's breathing down your neck from the moment you rise from your seat. his paw is in your back pocket while he walks you to the bathroom.

his hand stays in your pocket as he, with a chivalrous gesture, opens the door to said bathroom. he also aids you in getting in the stall. and no, not the bigger one at the end. he crams you into the very first one that's available, him following right behind. he fits in there like a rubber stopper. shoulders broad enough to touch both walls. arms like trunks cross over the breadth of his chest as he looks down at you expectantly.

"needed to piss, aye? go on. cannae 'ave you runnin' off again."

it's only when he leans down, his nose touching yours as he tells you to, "go 'fore ah make ye," that has your trembling fingers fumbling with the front button of your jeans.

[formulaforza]

oh, simple thing— c.sainz

"the earth laughs in flowers" pairing: carlos sainz x female reader wc: 4.1k notes: guys remember when i used to write? back in january? crazy times. anyways.

You were five years old the first time you proclaimed that you were going to marry Carlos. It came, of course, after the implication that you would also be marrying Prince Charming (as long as he didn’t keep your glass slipper–shoes are a woman’s best friend, your mom had told you once and you never forgot it) and the gym teacher at your primary school, whose crush you’d never admit to anyone but your mom. Can you imagine the teasing? Thinking a grown-up is cute? It’s completely preposterous… or, when you were five, super-duper silly. 

All three of the loves of your life were completely coincidental, coming to your brain while your mom read you a bedtime story completely coincidentally. You’d had gym class that day, of course. Played with the rolling scooters and argued with the older kids about getting a turn on the tube slide. Scooter day was always your favorite, so it was no surprise your teacher was in your good graces that evening. A

After dinner, while flipping lazily through channels on the big square television in the family room, your dad had clicked on the Disney Channel by mistake. Cinderella was halfway through and you threw a fit every time he tried to change the channel. You just thought she looked so pretty, in her big princess dress dancing at the ball. 

Carlos, what had Carlos done to be in your good graces that day…? He wasn’t in your class, so you couldn’t enlist him in the war of the slides or crash into him on the scooters. He definitely wasn’t running around your house after dinner. If he was, your Mom would still be cleaning up after him somewhere in the house. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos… what had he–oh! That’s right! The flower on the way home from school. How could you ever forget the first flower? He’ll give you shit for it later. 

Your mom and Carlos’ mom had been best friends long before you and Carlos burst into the scene. They liked each other more than just about anyone, and you never did understand how Reyes never tired of your Mother’s antics. She was always bossing you around, forcing you to clean up your toys and read your books. Carlos got away with whatever he wanted, his parents would even lie for him on his reading logs. Anyways, stay focused. Because your parents were such good friends, you and Carlos grew up side by side. Parallel play or bust, since neither of you were particularly apt at sharing. Everyday on the walk home from school, your moms would catch up on the gossip from the night before while you and Carlos tried to kill each other with various objects found on the sidewalk. This day, there had been eleven pebbles, two rocks, a stick, and Carlos’ metal water bottle (the one with the HotWheels logo on the side). Now, Carlos was charging at you with… a flower? A bluebell, one he’d picked straight from the ground, root and all hanging from his fist. When he held it out to you, you scowled. There wasn’t anything wrong with it. In fact, it was about as perfect as a bluebell from the sidewalk can get, but, you’re a little shit. 

“It’s dead,” you said, took it from him and tossed it aside. “It’s not nice to pick flowers, Carlito. It kills them.” He burst into tears and your mother scolded you the rest of the way home, even though it was her who always told you to leave the wildflowers wild. After some time and consideration (a plate of dinosaur nuggets, half of Cinderella, and a bedtime story) you’d decided maybe Carlos was right to cry about the dead flower. 

Carlos, it seemed, had gotten over the dead flower incident pretty quickly because, the very next day, he was already making a joke of it. He’d held up the walk home for fifteen minutes while he searched through a field in the park. Both of your mothers and Blanca had already shown him what had to be a hundred or so healthy, perky flowers. Carlos shook his head at each one of them, typical. You sat on the curb of the garden and played with the ants that had built a sandy hill beside your foot. You resisted the urge to stomp it, only because you knew you’d be lectured about leaving the bugs alone in the same way you were about leaving the flowers alone. After a lifetime–or enough time to have an after school snack–Carlos finally settled on the ugliest, most wilted flower you’d ever laid your eyes on. He presented it to you with a laugh and, because you’re just as stubborn as he is, you accepted the gift graciously and let it sit vaseless on your dresser for three days before someone threw it away. 

Truthfully, though, the real reason you probably proclaimed your intent to marry him that night wasn’t some flower. It was that Blanca had defended you from his water bottle strike with a pebble to the back of his head, and you thought that would be a good kind of person to have as a sister. 

Carlos was seventeen when he figured he’d probably end up with you eventually for the first time. There wasn’t anything romantic about it. It was more of an ah, fuck. It’s gonna be her, isn’t it? 

Your families were in Mallorca, touring some vineyard–well, your parents were touring the vineyard. You, Carlos, and all of the siblings had snuck off from the group one by one and met up in the grove just outside the property. Carlos was bumming a cigarette from Blana when Ana finally turned up, stomping her way through the grass and wildflowers annoyedly. Carlos takes a puff of the cigarette and passes it over to you. 

“You’re going to start a wildfire, you know?” Ana says, crosses her arms over her chest and pops out a hip all bratty. 

“Ana,” Carlos groans, “shut the fuck up.” You exhale a puff of smoke through a laugh. 

“If you’re going to be mean, I’m going back to Mom and Dad.”

“Okay,” he says, “have fun.”

“I will,” she proclaims, visibly annoyed that she isn’t drawing a reaction from her big brother. She loves to piss him off, everyone does, because it’s just so easy. “I’ll have sooo much fun telling them about how you’re all in the woods smoking. I’m sure Dad will love that, don’t you think, Carlos?” Blanca rolls her eyes. Sometimes it’s fun to mess with Ana, and sometimes keeping her humble becomes more of a chore than anything else. 

Ana stomps away, her whole sneaky journey wasted, the group’s entire smoke session ruined by the pesky baby sister who can’t decide if she wants more to be included or to be a tattletale. “Don’t kill any more flowers on the way back!” Carlos calls after her, passes the cigarette to you again for one last puff before the lot of you have to make your way back to the winery, to the bathroom you’d all claimed to need to use over the past hour. Ana turns on her heels to make sure Carlos can see her eye roll. He just smiles, and you think if Carlos was your brother you probably would have killed him with your bare hands a long time ago. 

You squat down to put the cigarette out in the dirt and Carlos digs a hole with his heel for you to drop it into, kicks the dirt back over it and stomps on it a couple times. “Fuckin’ snitch,” he mutters under his breath. 

He snatches up one of the stomped on flowers, pulls it from the ground–root and all–and presents it to you. “You really are such an ass,” you say, take the flower and link your arm through his for the remainder of the walk back. “I love you,” you add, “but you’re an ass.”

You were twenty the first time your friendship with Carlos became a threat to one of your relationships. It wouldn’t be the last time. You’d been together for seven months, you and Mateo, Mateo and you. Met at a club in Barcelona and the rest was history. It was a simple conflict of interest, a scheduling woe. You were forced to make a decision. Your boyfriend’s grandma’s birthday party… or Carlos’ debut in Australia. To you, it seemed like the easiest decision in the world. His grandmother isn’t even that old–she’s got plenty of birthdays ahead of her, ones that you’d be happy to celebrate. But Carlos’ debut? Really? That’s once in a lifetime. It’s the shit you just don’t miss, even if you’re in the hospital or literally on your deathbed (which Mateo’s grandma is NOT, by the way. She lived seven more years according to recent Facebook posts). 

“You’re going to Australia?” He’d scoffed when you told him, mentioned it so nonchalantly over dinner. When I’m in Australia, don’t forget to water the plants, or something along those trivial lines. He was just as offended as you were utterly confused. There’s no way he thought– “What about my abuela’s birthday?”

You’d laughed. The wrong thing to do, you know, but it was an action done without thought, without intention. “What about it?”

“You’re supposed to come with me.”

“I never said that,” you shake your head and he pulls a face. You set your silverware down and prepare for the coming argument. Normally, you’d just back down, but this is Carlos we’re talking about. Carlos, and his dream. Carlos, and his reality. “I didn’t,” you reaffirm. 

He leans forward onto the table, elbows shaking the entire thing, rattling the wine glasses and ceramic against the wood. “I assumed you–”

“–I don’t know why you would assume I‘d be doing anything except supporting Carlos,” you say, more defensive than you intend to be. It’s just, you can already see where this is going, even if it’s never gone there before. You’ve watched the girls Carlos brings home look at him the same way Mateo is looking at you right now, or more importantly, how he doesn’t look at you. 

“You know, I don’t either.” He nods, but it’s more of a full body movement, like he’s rocking forward, lips pursed and jaw tight. His eyebrows raise like he’s going to shrug, like he’s surprised with himself. You doubt you read the emotion right. “It’s always about Carlos, isn’t it?”

You lean back in your seat, cross your arms over your chest, close your eyes just long enough to hide the eye roll, and then you’re piling the silverware and the napkin onto the plate and moving the party to the kitchen sink. “I’m not doing this right now,” you say when you grab the wine glass carelessly. 

“Oh, so you know what this is about, then?” He calls after you, gathers his things sloppily and follows you into the kitchen. 

“You just said it’s about Carlos,” you say, slamming the sink on and clattering the plates into the bowl. Carlos had told you about these fights, about the ones he’s had with his girlfriends. You’d laughed about them, always thought it was so funny–the idea of someone left fuming by your friendship. The crazy assumptions, they couldn’t be more wrong if they tried. You and Carlos are nothing but platonic, you’ve always been platonic, you’ll always be platonic. When you know someone as long as you’ve known Carlos, they just become a part of you, build this little home in your soul that blends in so perfectly you could never cut it out with clean margins. It’s not just Carlos, either. It’s Blanca and Ana, too. Hell, it’s even Carlos Sr. and Reyes, but nobody ever seems to understand that. 

“It’s my Abuela,” he says, like you’re supposed to be moved or something, and he sets his dishes in the sink on top of yours. “It’s her birthday, and you’re supposed to come with me. I told my family you were coming.”

“I don’t understand why you would do that,” you start scrubbing the first plate with far more aggression than required. You’re not a good fighter, you get mean, and you get mean quick. “I was never not going to Australia.”

He laughs, leans against the counter with his arms crossed, staring at the ground, at the crumbs waiting to be swept up. “Because you’re never going to choose me over Carlos, right?”

“Mateo.”

“Answer the question.”

You freeze, squeeze the soapy sponge in a fist until there’s nothing left to ring out of it. “I’m certainly not going to choose your Abuela over my friend. Over my brother.”

“He’s not your brother.”

You sigh, go back to cleaning. “He’s like my brother.”

“Yeah, if you wanted to fuck your brother,” he says, and meets your eyes with wide, proud eyes like he’d done something, caught you in some illicit love affair. You resist the urge to grab the wand from the sink and spray him with a jet of water. 

Instead, coldly, you’d replied, “get out,” and pointed to the door. 

His hands shot up in some great defense. Or maybe it was offense, you really never could read him that well. “I see how you look at him.”

In. Out. In, and then out. Deep breaths. “I said leave, Mateo.”

“Because you know I’m right.” In, then out. “You know how fucked up it is that there’s three people in our relationship,” in, out. “Four, if you count Carlos’ girlfriend! What do you think she thinks about all this? You looking at her boyfriend like your favorite candy?” In, then. In, then–in, and then you slap him with a wet hand, the contact reverberating into a splash, coating the walls and the ceiling and the entire fucking room in anger. Anger, and dirty dish water. 

The anger is deafening, the room so quiet that the sink makes the kitchen sound like it’s directly behind a waterfall. 

He storms off into the living room. You return to the dishes, hear the jingle of his keys, the door opening. “Fuck you!” You call after him, but what you really mean is Fuck Carlos. 

When you get the breakup text a few days later, you’re not surprised. You put on your best face and pretend you never read it because while your boyfriend did just break up with you in a seven word text, you’re sitting out the back of the Toro Rosso motorhome watching Carlos pace.

You’ll tell him later, you think, after the race. And then, you don’t dare ruin the celebration, ride the high out until it can’t be ridden any longer. By the time you do get around to telling him, you’re all but moved on, mentioning it nonchalantly amongst the chaos of his first season. It falls away to the backburner, into irrelevancy, and Carlos never does ask what happened to sour the relationship. He does, however, have a wilted arrangement of flowers delivered to your front door with a handwritten note–ugly and dead, just like your relationship. You’d laughed for maybe twenty straight minutes. 

Carlos was twenty-four when he realized he was in love with you, that maybe he always had been. He’d just broken up with a girlfriend, one whose name he hardly remembers now. Alessandra… Alena… Adrianna–oh, screw it. It was definitely an “A,” and if it wasn’t, he’s sure it was a vowel. Not the point. He was twenty-four and had just dumped whatever her name was because it just didn’t feel right. (What does right feel like at twenty-four? And how do you know it when you see it? The world may never know). 

It was three races into the 2019 season, and he’d been having a particularly unlucky start with his new team. He’d spent the offseason relatively alone in Woking, finding his footing in a new place, a new team, a new car. Everything is gray, you’d told him the night he announced his impending move, scrolling through your phone at Google search results for the town. “It’s not gray,” he said, and without needing to say anything or flash him a look, he backtracked. “Okay, it’s a little gray.”

Three races in–an engine fire and two first lap collisions–in, and everything is feeling pretty gray, not just his rainy apartment (flat, he’s been taught to call it) in Woking. The cards felt stacked against him, and reluctantly, he’d called in reinforcements to Baku, a couple of good luck charms in the form of the people he loved. You, Ana, and Blanca flew in together and made Carlos come pick you up from the airport himself. 

You climbed into the backseat and were anything but gray. You were glowing, completely and utterly sunkissed, and your hair was messy from travel but it reminded him of what you’re like after a good nap. Groggy and sleepy and desperate to stretch out like a cat. He hates that he knows how you like to stretch after a nap, the exact pattern of movements you do. Do you know how much time you have to spend with someone to memorize their post-nap stretch routine? Too much time, that’s how much. 

You got into his car, all bright and sunny, and sure, his sisters were there and he loves them so much. But, you’re here, and you’re bright and sunny and everything feels just a little less gray. He pulls out from the airport and while he doesn’t realize that he loves you just yet, he knows something in him has been chemically altered by your smile, irrevocably so.

It’s Sunday when he realizes, somewhere between the checkered flag and the team debrief when you and the girls appear, practically crash into him like you’d been dropped down into the garage right from the sky. He hugs you, and you smell like sunshine. He wants to bash his head into the wall of his driver's room, to lay in front of Lando’s car and ask him to run him over because he’s not supposed to take note of the way you smell (unless it’s to call you out for smelling like shit). 

You kiss his cheek and shove his shoulder because you’re so happy for him, because you’re always so happy for him. He doesn’t think it’s fair for someone like him to always have someone this happy for him. He loves that about you. He loves everything about you. He loves you. Fuck, he’s in love with you. 

Lando nearly pees his pants over a tweet the next day. Carlos has reached a new level of Carlos-ing, it read, with a picture of him visibility distracted while being fed to the media pen. He can’t tell his teammate that the reason he’s so distracted is because he’s internally debating the pros and cons of ruining your friendship forever. 

You’re twenty-four when you and Carlos start dating. The two of you drag it out for as long as humanly possible, stretch the patience of everyone around you so thin they won’t be surprised (or concerned) at the idea of you and him getting together. It’s scary. Really, really scary to admit your feelings for each other, to tell the rest of the world about it, but Carlos keeps bringing you these mis-shapen flowers, ones where the dye is soaked up poorly or they’re a couple days too wilted. It’s our thing, he would always say, and kiss you while you cut the stems to fit in your favorite vase. 

He was right, it was something that was just yours. There was nobody else actively searching out dying flowers in the shops or carefully picking the dirtiest wildflower from its root on an evening walk through the city. That was just the two of you, and nobody else understood it. 

“It’s gross,” a friend told you, twiddling one of the half-dead flower stems between her fingers while you shared gossip over glasses of wine. “You got these today and they’re ready to be thrown in the bin.”

“You don’t get it,” you’d swatted her words away. The dead flowers weren’t understood, and they didn’t need to be. They were special to you and Carlos, and when it came down to it, nothing else mattered to you. 

“Seriously, though,” she’d continued, “It’s… I don’t know. Dead flowers, it’s just weird.”

Carlos is twenty-six when you break up. It’s mutual, it is. Even when it doesn’t feel like it’s mutual, when either one of you desperately searches to blame the other for the pitfalls, it’s still mutual, still two people who love each other. Who just aren’t in love with each other anymore. 

There’s a lot of reasons if you want to get into it, but his new drive is the catalyst for pretty much all of them. Carlos is with Ferrari now, which is the dream, but it's also the nightmare. McLaren is iconic and historic but Ferrari… well. Everyone knows the Vettel quote, everyone knows the kid’s car is red. Ferrari’s Ferrari and you’re just… you. Time runs out, patience runs thin, and that’s the end of it. 

You’re twenty-seven when you see him for the first time post-breakup. It’s a setup by your parents. Mallorca and the vineyard, again. You don’t think anything of it, so much has happened in the last decade and Mallorca is half of Spain’s favorite vacation destination. 

He’s sitting with his family at the bar, the whole clan of them sipping from a wine-tasting tray. His eyes shoot up to meet yours with the loud creak of the old, heavy doors. He does a double take, and your stomach turns into a ball of knotted necklaces. 

During the same tour you’d been on all those years ago, you sneak off with the same excuse you’d used. Blanca and Ana don’t follow after you to debate the environmental damages of bumming a cigarette in the grove or to threaten to snitch on you to your parents. They stay behind and listen and you stomp through the wildflowers to get some air. You’re already outside, Carlos would say if he were there. You’re my dirty air, you’d tell him, and he would roll his eyes, shove his hands deep in his pockets and rock on his heels. 

He knows you’re not in the bathroom, there isn’t a single nerve in your mind that thinks he doesn’t know exactly where you are. He doesn’t sneak off behind you. You gather your thoughts in the grove by yourself, leant against a tree older than you’ll dream of being. You pick a wildflower, one that looks picture perfect, snap it carefully from the root and stick the stem behind your ear. 

When you return to your party, they don’t notice you’ve been gone for far too long to use the bathroom or that you’ve got a flower in your hair. Well, all of them except Carlos, who slows his walking pace to drop to the back of the group next to you. “Nice flower,” he comments quietly. 

You nod, watch your feet as they move in synchronized steps with him on the grassy path. “Thanks.”

“It’s dead,” he adds, and you smile dimly. “It’s not nice to kill the flowers.”

Carlos is twenty-eight when he’s perusing the birthday card section at the local gift shop. He’s trying to find one that perfectly sums up his birthday wishes for you. It has to be sunny and happy and so, so sorry for everything (even when it’s nobody’s fault). It has to say, I’ll always love you without saying I am still terribly in love with you. It has to be subtle and obvious and endearing and serious and funny. It has to be everything his words can’t be. 

He eventually settles on one, tucks it into the yellow envelope and licks it shut. He handwrites your name on it messily, like you could get confused about who it’s for and need a label, or like he has a stack of yellow envelopes for dozens of other people sitting sealed on his kitchen counter. He goes to the florist next, picks out a stock arrangement from the fridge and a package of flower seeds. The final stop on his city tour is your apartment. Three knocks on your door, and then you’re undoing the deadbolt. 

“Hi,” you say, confused by his presence on your welcome mat. 

“Happy Birthday,” he smiles. “This is the last time I get you dead flowers.”

You and Carlos are thirty at your wedding. He cries when you walk down the aisle and there isn’t a single real flower in your bouquet. It’s all fake, and one of your friends asks if you’re worried it might look tacky or cheap. Anyone who thinks that shouldn’t be at our wedding, you’d told them. 

[nvrcmplt]

Camp in the early hours was a sight for nothing but greatness, tidy and dry for once, even though it was freezing. Einri was miffed at the cold taking aside his beddings warmth but he couldn't complain too much. As he settled upon saddled trunk and tossed a flame arrow head into the center of brush and sticks of the central fire. The blaze was quick, instantly reaching to his shoulder in height and the warmth that emitted with it was all consuming niceness.

As he yawned into the dawning light, his shoulders rolled and nose was unblocked by a finger pressing on the other and a hard huff. A repeated action before he stood from where he sat and used the butt of the serving spoon to shatter the thin layer of ice from the barrel of water. Noting the low amount he'll head on out after he washes himself up in its surface. Scrubbing sleep sand from his eyes, behind the ears and rinsing his mouth out before tossing in some sharp mint-nettle to chew and brush his teeth proper.

A lazy running of fingers through his hair and ridding of the sleepy messiness, Einri huffed with alert senses as he waddled back to the fire to warm and dry himself off with a cloth over the shoulders to rub aside any droplets on his chin. The camp was starting to wake, he could hear a few bodies rolling and sleeping breathe turns shorter. As he welcomed the plume of smoke as his lungs hater for the day, he took off to take three of the barrels of water to pour out the last remnants and took off to the fresh lake half a mile away. He took his time, washing the basins twice, checking for leakage before refilling them up to carry back. Settling them into place and tossing a bag of mint nettle on the side for teeth cleaning, he spat his own into the fire after his trip.

Yeah, he felt good. He had his new uniform on today too, he needed to clean his old lot for once, so he was about to do that until he spotted Beorn's return from the successful morning hunt. He didn't need to worry about that then - so he headed back to this tent to tug out the filth bag of clothes to take with him towards the river again with a couple of bottles of his peoples extracts of nature. He may be a nomad, but he never was to smell like a barbarian. "Toss ya clothes over here if they need a clean." He'll set up the drying rack nearby, he could feel the warmth creeping through the cold, so he hoped they'd be dried naturally if not, it wasn't like they couldn't use some mana trainees on it to help out.

For now though, he sniffed and hummed a the scent of fresh pork being butchered and set on pans, sticks and more around the fireplace. Einri yawned only a couple of more times as he dunked clothing into the waters surface, and held them in place with a net as he got to work in cleaning the stains of blood, piss, mud, shit and more from everything he owned. The life of a forest dweller. Rubbing fabric together, against ribbed metal sheets, suds from the semi-sudsy ointments, a divine scent of wildflowers… His favourite. Things will be going well today, that's for sure.

[shywhumpauthor]

The Merry Whump of May—Day Twenty Three

"Good things come to those who wait."

Nine-inch-nails | Isolation | Creepy basement

Part two to this || Merry Whump of May Masterlist

Cw: past torture, isolation, starvation, neglect, mentioned drugging/poisoning

Patience is a virtue, is it not?

It was a lesson Whumpee had learned time and time again. Patience.

Waiting.

Whumpee had never been known for their ability to remain composed. If they knew something was coming, they couldn’t bear to wait longer than a few minutes, until their knee was bouncing and their hands were twisting and they were so caught up in the thoughts of what was to come that they forgot what was happening around them.

It was a lesson they kept learning.

With Whumper, they never knew what was going to come. When they walked down the basement stairs, Whumpee didn’t know until they could see their face whether Whumper was pissed or calm. They never when the door would open—if the door would open. There had been times where Whumper had just left them alone, for days on end, with nothing to occupy them but a plastic water bottle and their thoughts.

This time, it was worse.

The anxiety ate away at them every waking moment. It twisted their stomach, not allowing them to even sip at the water Whumper left on the bottom of the stairs without getting sick.

They hadn’t spoken to them since that day. It had to have been over a week ago by now. Hell, Whumpee hadn’t even seen them since then. Whumper left everything at the bottom of the steps, water and scattered meals.

Whumper didn’t used to feed them regularly, whenever they remembered really, but now it seemed like they had fallen into a loose pattern. They always came when Whumpee was asleep, left a bowl filled with oatmeal or soup, or even one time some porridge with some slices of bananas on top. Whumpee had been a bit suspicious then—well, more than a bit. It was Whumper after all—that it was poisoned, but they were hungry and had thought damned if it was. The fruit hadn’t settled right in their stomach, not after so long surviving on the most bland mush, but it hadn’t been laced with anything except a bit of honey.

They thought the fear would get better with time, but it didn’t. The anxiety worsened every hour, until they found themself sitting leaned against the support by the stairs, as far as the chain wrapped around their ankle allowed them to stretch, watching the door.

That was where Whumper found them, an indeterminable amount of time later, the only change in their position being how they had shifted from sitting to laying, head propped on their elbow as a makeshift pillow.

Whumper’s face was an expressionless mask as they bent down, picking up the old empty bowl. Instead of turning on their heel and marching back up the stairs like they usually did, they hesitated.

Whumpee startled as Whumper prodded them in the ribs with the toe of their shoe, jolting back before they had even opened their eyes, chain rattling with them.

They stared up, lips parted slightly as they drew in a trembling breath, fear sparking to life in their eyes. Whumper didn’t make any move to follow them as they slid back.

Whumper reached into their back pocket with one hand, fishing out a ring with a single key on it. They tossed it to Whumpee, or more accurately, dropped it in front of them, letting the metal clatter against the concrete floor.

“You can come upstairs and wash off.” Was all they mumbled, returning back up the stairs before Whumpee could register what they had said, leaving their captive alone in the empty basement with the key to their shackles.

———————————————

@themerrywhumpofmay

[cadking455]

Okay so you all voted yesterday for the one that i dont have a good and solid backstory for , so prepare for some half baked ramblings.

NEW NAME ALERT

Instead of Boy Leviathan, i’ve decided to switch it to Boy Proteus as it more accurately reflects the character and it sounds better overall.

Boy Proteus is a 19 year old who was raised off the southern/only coast of Rhode Island on a small fishing town called Point Beirne. (Name subject to change as i see fit)

The boy’s name is Calvin Anders, his father was the lighthouse keeper for years, as was his grandfather, and his father before him.

When Calvin was only 15, his father went missing for 2 weeks, and his body was later found washed ashore 300 miles away. Calvin and his mother moved back to the mainland after his father’s funeral, and ever since then Calvin’s mother has been distant. She remarried 3 years later and has since drowned all thoughts of Calvin’s father in countless bottles of whiskey.

On the day of his 19th birthday, per his father’s will, he inherited the Lighthouse and promptly moved back into the home he was raised in. Every night he turns the lamp on, and every morning he turns the lamp off.

One might while turning the lamp on, he feels the lighthouse shake, and after he regains his footing and grasps the gallery railing, he notices the water underneath him bubbling in a certain spot near the rocks around the base of the lighthouse.

Inspecting the dock and foundations arises no significant issues, and almost no sign of any earthquake or other activity that would have caused the lighthouse to rock like that, and he begins to head inside and make a nice cup of tea to clear his head. Until he hears knocking among the sounds of cresting waves.

Running back to the edge of the dock, he finds a sizable piece of metal, with symbols that could only be characters from some foreign language. As well as a few numbers cut off by the shearing of the sides. It looks as though a piece of a ships bow was ripped off and tossed to the ocean. He heaves it onto the dock and lugs it to the basement, planning on finding out where it came from.

That night, after a fruitless search online, he goes to sleep and has visions of boats being torn in two, lightning and thunder erupting from the sea and searing the flesh of poor sailors who jump from their rapidly capsizing vessels, and captains who shoot at a massive behemoth cloaked in shadow, rain and sea spray.

He is awoken the next morning by a sound like the cracking of an oar next to his ear, followed by rumblings like an ancient stone being rolled down a hill. When he goes to turn the lamp off, he sees from the lantern room that one of his dock’s supports has been broken, and the entire structure is not tilted around and mangled…

And thats all i’ve got the time for today, now if anyone would like to hear more of this seaside saga and find out what is happening to Mr. Calvin Anders, feel free to message me or reply/reblog/comment, etc. and I’ll continue on with this tale or terror or whatever, lmao. Til tomorrow tumblr!

[throughtrialbyfire]

TESFest, Day 5 - Forgotten/Devotion

a piece on the fate of the Brinehammer wreck in The Pale. takes place post-Oblivion, pre-Skyrim. inspired by this song from Beyond Skyrim: Bruma word count - 2,374 content warnings - death, injury

The ship was called the Brinehammer, though most have forgotten its name by now. Even the sailor himself had almost forgotten, often simply referring to it as the damned boat. Some say the way the boards creaked and groaned beneath their feet was a warning, jokes spouted here and there of how her temper must be a nasty one that none could spend time aboard her without feeling at best, watched, and at worst, loathed. Perhaps it was haunted, or it was the haunting, wrapped in wood, adorned with metal and gowned in high sails. Sailors were a superstitious lot, anyone knew, and when the ship itself seemed to hate the presence of the crew, that's when it was time to return to land.

He shouldn't have been surprised when it crashed. He knew the captain had a habit for skooma and strong mead, and the two seldom mixed well. The crew had been thinking of leaving him behind entirely, or whispering of mutiny whenever there was a spare moment. But not even the best laid plans were foolproof, and if the gods wanted a laugh, who were they - this damned crew - to deny them?

Morning cast an iron-soft light upon the seas, turbulent with an oncoming storm. He'd warned the captain, the Dunmer had, many times. He was an experienced sailor. This captain was new to the sea, though aged and weathered by his time on the front lines during the Oblivion Crisis. He drove them through waters none should have traversed. He'd been good at the start, or else the Dunmer would never have set foot on his vessel. But the sea challenged this. The hard conditions, the nights pacing the deck in case of pirates, the sleeplessness and the tossing and turning. The old Khajiit aboard cursed and muttered often of Hermorah, of the god that could tear a mind asunder. Perhaps their captain, then, had fallen into the clutches of the writhing beneath the seas.

There had been a crew of twenty-five when they began, but by this point in the voyage, seven were left. Too many got off the ship at ports, had seen too much of the abyss. The Brinehammer became a curse on their lips.

Ice sharpened like spears along the distant horizons, waves slashing through the frigid sheets. The captain, his hands shaking as they always seemed to, sipped at the bottle he clutched with hawk-tight fingers. The Dunmer watched him, red eyes examining every motion the captain made. He'd seen this madness creeping up over time, but today, something darkened in the wind. The Dunmer eyed the sweeping of the high winds, the cold air bashing against the figures aboard the deck, all shivering in it's breath.

"Are you sure we're on the right course?" He asked, words coming out much harsher than intended. The captain grunted. "Shouldn't we be-"

"We'll get to Solitude when we get there," the captain barked as he gazed down at his compass. The old Khajiit listened, ears twitching as he swept at the deck. It was a futile thing, salt and melted snow turned to sludge that none could hope to banish. But the Khajiit didn't care of that. He did it to listen, as the Dunmer knew from their endless conversations.

The crew was comprised of two Imperials, a Breton, an Orc, a Dunmer, a Nord, and the old Khajiit, whom the Dunmer respected. He was a sea-hardened, wise old man, a Cathay from a small family that lost some members during the Oblivion Crisis. He'd grown weary of trade and commerce in the Imperial City, and by the time the Dunmer joined the crew's ranks, he'd seen enough sea to last several lifetimes. Took the Dunmer under his wing. Taught him how to keep level-headed, even in the most dire of situations.

The Sea of Ghosts, they called it. Ferocious thing. Named well. The Dunmer looked out along the endless expanse of sky, the thousands of miles of nothingness, blotches of shadow indicating land just beyond their reach. The sky threatened more snow, or a storm. He peered into it, silent prayers on his lips for fair weather, but he'd stopped expecting answers. He'd long since given up the idea of anything beyond what he could see with his eyes, break with his hands, yet he still whispered to Azura to be good to them. To guide his fate.

He watched as the captain, stone-eyed, guided the ship forward, between the sharp and impending ice, between the rocking waters, the Brinehammer sliding along the surface even as the sea sloshed and churned beneath them. The boat had once been a sturdier thing, the Dunmer heard the old Khajiit tell him, but years in harsh condition and little time for repairs had done its damage. Sometimes the Brinehammer would creak under their feet as though confirming the old Cathay's tales. He seemed the only one that the vessel tolerated, or at least didn't loathe.

The captain ordered the Dunmer to head below deck, check on some cargo, "and by the gods, don't take anything," the older man added sharply. He knew of the Dunmer's past, something that he often regretted mentioning off-handedly when he'd joined the crew. The idea of a former thief on board tended to make the captain give him shifting glances, quick eyes that shuffled to and from his own ruby gaze. His cold hands clenched the helm, the aged Imperial keeping his sights set for land. Everyone was anxious to get to Solitude, unload their cargo, and spend some nights at the local inn getting hammered beyond fathom.

The Dunmer passed the Orc, a burly man from a small city in High Rock, who spent most of his time helping the captain keep an eye out for anything on the waters, for land. They spoke quick greetings to one another, a small bit of conversation before he climbed below deck, his grey hands working to steady him as he descended. He'd never liked the rocking of the sea.

All went well, for the next hour or so. He organized and reorganized and catalogued their cargo, ensuring everything was marked as neatly as possible. The Dunmer hummed and made idle comments to himself as he continued his work, keen eyes scanning bottles and trinkets and wondering just how much he would be paid from all of this when they finished their work in Solitude.

He was about to head up to inform the captain, when the world rattled beneath him. A noise, puncturing through his ears, loud as thunder and cracking like bone, and a force that sent him tumbling. The boat went sideways against something. Before he could scramble to his feet, a crate came scraping down towards him. He had no time to act, the wood crashing into his knee.

Seering hot pain scorched through him, burning every sense. His eyes squeezed shut. He cursed loudly, shrieking and shoving his palm over his mouth to mute the sound. A blast of cold air threw his senses off, his face tickled by something spraying at him, and when he finally opened his eyes, he saw why.

The hole in the side of the ship. Sharp rocks, jutting against it, and snow pelting inside unlike he'd seen in a very long time.

The old Khajiit came rushing down into the cargo hold, as though he'd overheard the cacophany. From beyond the door, the Dunmer could hear the captain cursing, shrill, barking like a mad animal at some god or other, a snowstorm, as sudden as the sun is bright. The Cathay knelt beside the Dunmer, examining his leg, grave expression digging into his fur.

"What happened?" The Dunmer demanded, but he already knew. He knew this ship was cursed, haunted, whatever one called it, the Brinehammer was too damned strange not to be.

"Snow," the Cathay breathed, words forming clouds as they left his mouth, "this one tried to warn the captain, but the Imperial would not listen, this one-"

"Oh, gods," the Dunmer groaned in pain, head lolling back as his vision blackened. The Khajiit rested a warm, clawed hand to his face, trying to keep the younger of the pair awake, "oh, gods."

The Orc ran in next, shouting at the captain, the pair back-and-forth arguing as he made it down the steps, clinging to the walls for balance. He spotted the Dunmer and the Khajiit, and in a hush that poured ice into everyone's veins, he whispered, "Where's Titus?"

The crew had long lost use for names. They didn't care, most of them were never aboard the Brinehammer long enough to use them, but Titus was the newest member. Youngest of the crew. Wiry limbs, wiry red hair. The only Imperial aside from the captain. Everyone else had been on deck or in their room. The boy snuck off to nap in the captains quarters sometimes, said the bed was more comfortable, the captain would never know since he hardly slept anyways, the boy hadn't been on the deck or in his room…

"Oh, by the Nine," the Breton sailor clutched a hand over his mouth as he pushed the door to the captains quarters open, apprehensive, "my gods, Titus…"

"What is it?" the Dunmer groaned. The Breton turned back, eyes shadowed by his heavy brow.

Beyond him, he could see blood.

The captain, finally, stormed down to see where everyone was and what was happening, the Nord behind him, her fists balled as though ready to throw the bastard off the ship herself.

"If you would just listen," she urged gravely, "then we wouldn't be in this mess!"

"I couldn't have foreseen the weather, girl," the captain sneered, "that storm blew in so fast it nearly took us into the water!"

"Onto the rocks is not much better."

He watched them bicker for a while as the Orc stepped slowly over, resting his large palm over the Dunmer's knee. "I can't…" he shook out, "I don't know Restoration, but there's got to be some potions here somewhere,"

"We unloaded all our healing potions last port," he grimaced.

The Khajiit stroked at his chin, thinking. "How far are we from Dawnstar?"

The question was enough to silence the crew. After a moment, the Breton made the awkward clamor up to the deck, staring out into the horizon. When he returned, he still looked grim, but there was a tinge of hope in his eyes. "I don't know, but I can see the Blue Palace."

"Our friend needs medical attention," the Cathay noted, gesturing to the Dunmer's broken leg. Shattered, probably. He couldn't move it, and all he could feel was enough pain to make the room spin if he so much as moved his eyes. "If we go looking for someone, a way to town, perhaps…"

The captain glanced around at his crew. "Alright."

The room fell quiet, aside from the whipping of the wind and snow, the high shrill of sound.

"If we make it to Dawnstar, we'll be able to bring a rescue party, get you patched up," he pointed a wrinkled finger to the Dunmer, "and get us to Solitude."

"Shouldn't someone stay behind?" The Nord asked. The Orc held up a hand, but lowered it when the Khajiit said that he would.

It was settled, then. The others would go to Dawnstar. They would get help, and return to rescue him. He watched them leave, and the Khajiit set to work creating a space for them to rest, to keep warm. He pulled a couple of bedrolls from a crate - grinning as he did, knowing full well the captain would toss him off the crew for it - and pulling a lantern, igniting it. He brought in some books, a quill, and the pair sat there together.

The Dunmer knew by the third day that all hope was lost. The Cathay had said all he was going to do was try to light a fire outside, maybe attempt to boil some water, but the look in his eye… The Dunmer knew.

He waited. And waited, as the hours ticked by in the dark. He was lucky to have not frozen, but dehydration had set in long ago. He could barely think. He reached for his chest, as though fumbling for something, and murmured to himself of an amulet he'd long tossed in the sea. He'd once been devoted to Azura, in his youth. And in this moment, he had nothing to remind himself of home, of her. And to die here, near Dawnstar, where rumor circulated of a shrine being built in her honor, seemed nothing short of fate.

He flipped open the pages of the book he'd been reading and re-reading. Father of the Niben. He grasped his quill, dipping it in the half-frozen ink. One final plea, one final prayer. In the back of the book, scribbled down, the sailor's last request. That Azura end his suffering. That his soul may find peace.

He had no idea what may become of it. Perhaps, like himself, it would be forgotten. Another shipwreck and damned crew. Perhaps, he added bitterly, his crew had gotten piss drunk off in Dawnstar and forgotten all about the two sailors back at the ship, and the rotting remains of Titus. The cold had prevented him from stenching up the entire cargo hold. The old Khajiit had said he'd been crushed by a chest, and the Dunmer was glad he hadn't been able to see it. Still, he wrote, and used his strength for one last moment.

One day, maybe someone would stumble upon the wreck. They would find the skeleton of the elf, and his last prayer. They would find the bones of Titus. What would become of the words scribbled on the inner back of the book, he would not live to know, but the words would live on in his stead.

As the Dunmer allowed his strength to pass, laying back and closing his eyes, he swore he heard a voice, and felt the warmth of arms around him one last time.

[cloudbattrolls]

Unburied

Jastes Verdan | Outskirts of Civitrecce

Jastes dug at the grave, dirt-flecked face set in a grimace as he carefully shoveled chunks of soil away from the hole he was making. It was midnight - the moons shone brightly above, neither full, but both more than half and uncovered by clouds. A gentle breeze sometimes tossed his curls, providing a bit of respite from the heat. 

Good weather for a grim task.

Abbeth and Uthern helped him, the young yellowblood passing him a water bottle or climbing down to take a turn sometimes, the adult maroon keeping watch for any undue interest in their activities.

He was tempted to wipe the sweat off his forehead, but he knew he’d just get more dirt on it if he did. He kept at it, glad his muscles were enhanced by internal biotech fibers, though he still had the physical needs of any troll.

“Jas, do you want to take a break?” Abbeth asked with concern, the one-eyed six sweep old looking at him curiously.

“No.” He grunted. “I want this settled. I - “

His shovel hit something more solid than dark brown earth and he immediately stopped.

He took in a sharp breath and handed it up to Abbeth. The goose troll took it and put it aside, his gray eye wide. 

Jastes knelt down and brushed dirt aside, hurling clumps up and away from the two trolls accompanying him.

There it was, inches under him. 

First’s body. Exactly as he’d left it.

He sucked in a breath. He had to be sure.

The cyborg took out a small, aged hand broom and brushed more dirt aside.

Yes…it had definitely been down there. The fleshy parts showed obvious signs of decay, eaten away at by subterranean insects, though understandably not as much as a regular body would have. The hair was caked with dirt, and the…the metallic hands were dull.

He couldn’t stand to uncover any more. He’d seen enough, his breath coming in uneven gasps as he remembered what had happened that night.

He remembered how it had died in his arms. 

“It’s dead.” He called up, a quaver in his voice, though he hated himself for sounding so weak in front of his resistance members.

“It’s dead, so I have no idea what Takami is talking about.” He spat bitterly. “It’s been down here the whole time.”

Abbeth and Uthern exchanged looks.

“You don’t…think the other one got out too, somehow?” Abbeth asked hesitantly.

Jastes’s eyes flashed psiionic green.

“First is the only one I took out. There weren’t any other bodies - “

He stopped.

But that wasn’t quite true, was it?

The bugs…

“No.” He whispered, his hands shaking. “No.”

Had he been tricked? Had he been conned the whole time?

Process had warned him, and he’d still…

Green sparks crackled around his hair, sourced from his horns hidden within it as the rebel gritted his teeth, dirty hands clenched.

He forced himself to take deep breaths as Abbeth and Uthern both looked at him with concern. He let the analytic tech part of his brain take over, filing away his emotions for later.

“We don’t tell Takami everything at first.” He said coldly. “Let’s see what he knows too. I might be jumping to conclusions. This could also be a trap. We ask for…insane as it is to say it, magical aid in exchange for our information. If he can get all of you new lives, without the empire breathing down your necks, I will wring this for all it’s worth.” 

He looked up at the waxing moons, feeling his heart and resolve hardening again.

Torvah Verdan had lovingly created the guardian artifice, over four hundred long sweeps ago.

Here stood their descendant, hatred literally sparking green in his eyes, for he was so, so tired of being tricked, trapped, and betrayed.

“And if the most recent version of the artifice did survive…nowhere on this planet will be safe from me.” 

--

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES HAS FALLEN.

NOW IS A TIME OF INFERNAL DEVICES.

[starchaserbaby]

WOW ACCOMMODATING MYSELF YIPEEEE

One of the more important parts of how I accommodate myself in my everyday life is making changes to mealtimes. Meals have been hard for me for a very long time, so I’ve spent a good amount of time trying to figure out how to make them easier on me mentally and physically. I’m gonna lay them all out and maybe someone will have some advice on how to improve.

Issue 1: Tables. I dont own a dining table, my dining room is used to store things and occasionally hide from the 9yo. I rarely (if ever) have the energy to sit at a table to eat a meal, and on the off chance I do, im in too much pain to do it, so there’s no point in owning a table. I’ve spent a lot of time making sure my bed can easily be turned into an area where I can eat without worrying about getting food all over my good blankets. -I keep an old couch  cushion under the edge of my bed. It’s the perfect size and firmness to act like a table while still being okay for me sensory wise. I can put my dish, a couple napkins, and my laptop on it and no matter how much I move around in my bed it almost never tips enough for things to fall. 

-also under my bed is a roll of paper towel and a spray bottle of water just in case. 

-I also usually keep a trash bag next to the bed in case I cant get out of it to deal with the garbage.

Issue 2: dishes

Due to my muscle spasms, I frequently break dishes. I also almost never have the motivation to get up and wash and put away the dishes once im done a meal. Plastic plates. Theyre so helpful. They dont break when I spasm and drop them, they dont get slick when something oily touches them, and they dont make that godawful screeching noise when a metal utensil touches them too firmly. I am able to just toss it on the ground or onto the nearest surface and not worry about it shattering into 2000 pieces. 10/10 would recommend. 

Issue 3: cooking

Actually making the meal might be the hardest part, not only do I have to figure out what I want, I also have to stand for 10+ minutes to make it. To help me with that, I’ve made sure theres always a way to sit (although frequently uncomfortable) while I work, and I’ve gotten reallly really good at cutting things on an uneven and slightly squishy surface.

Issue 4: the stuff I still dont know how to deal with. I haven’t figured out how to make it so I dont have to pick meals, and I dont know how to have the motivation to eat. right now I only eat when im hungry instead of at set times. The main issue with that is that I only notice im hungry when it gets painful. So any tips would be helpful lol. 

[rufusdawes]

Dough Nuts

I am not a cook. There is not the faintest tingle of an itch that needs scratching when it comes to the kitchen. Mine is a place where a kettle is boiled and only the occasional, reluctant dalliances with the gas hob, mostly as a way to curb the expense of dining out too often. However, I am supremely fortunate that many of my good friends are not just adept in the culinary department but masters and mistresses of their respective domains.

For a few years, I would be a regular at the home of Aaron and Kate, he the finest barbecuer of steak in all the land and she, a black belt in the world of sourdough. Sunday dinners chez A & K were akin to some of Australia's greatest grill houses except with an Italian grandmother's attention to serving sizes. However, since their move to Western Australia, the closest I now get to wagyu and sourdough is a pub’s own McBurger.

At Walker Street, Laura, Thalia, and Madura would often present multi plated feasts using pots and pans that carried fancy French names, herbs and spices sourced beyond the Coles and Woolworth staples, and ingredients that had to be explained to me like I was five years old. But then Thalia moved to Adelaide and Madura got a girlfriend. It's been several months since a Walker Street dine in.

Fortunately, the void has been oft filled. Not by me, obviously. I'm good for bringing a bottle of red just expensive enough to not be cheap, but nothing more. Instead, it is AJ who has assumed the crown, expert as he is in the art of the homemade pizza.

I don't know if making dough is easy or hard, or even how to do it. Both Kate and AJ make it look second nature. There's an aura watching people in their element. Latterly, watching AJ turn out his pizza base creations is not dissimilar to watching some Olympic gymnast twirl across the floor, what with all those spins, tosses, and flicks. He's just a backflip shy of tens across the board. Toppings are sourced, created, and combined beyond those that I could and would conceive of. If I was ever to shop for a pizza night, I'd be returning with frozen bases, grated cheddar, a squeezy tomato based sauce, some processed meat and, if I was feeling really fancy, maybe some rocket. After all, it's important to eat your veggies. Actually, let's be honest, if I was ever to shop for a pizza I'd be coming home with a frozen McCain.

AJ, on the other hand, is prepping for his toppings by bringing out knives and their sharpeners. At arm's length, the blade is drawn down against the tool's edge and up again ensuring both sides are equally keen. The sound of a dozen Death Star doors opening and closing is made as the swoosh, swish of metal gliding against metal occurs. Once satisfied with the honing of the steels, it's time to put them to action.

Apparently, there's a technique for slicing and dicing with a knife. As with every other time, AJ takes time out to show me the position of the fingers on the non-wielding hand, the pivoting of the knife as it moves swiftly up the object of its laceration. The lesson ends, as always, with recognition of my feigned interest, especially since the only time I might practice my knife skills are for help on opening up a box of cereal.

Garlic, prosciutto, mozzarella, capsicum, chilli, and potatoes are among the ingredients brought out for preparation. Olive oils with a particular provenance may be favoured. I'm watching, still trying to work out how the dough is made. Is it just flour and water?

Eventually, flavour combinations are created, and the pizzas are ready for their brief repose in the crematorium that has been assuming its high temperature throughout the evening. Each will see just a couple of minutes inside, enough to crisp that base up to perfection, the briefest of chars mottling the fluffy edging. Half a dozen or more pizzas will go through this process, each offering infinitely more thoughtfulness and flavour than any local options.

The chatter subsides as we fortunate recipients that have been crowding the workbench get our chops around our first slice, replaced instead by the satisfied moans on behalf of our contented gullets. Once sated, we can return to our inexpensive reds and, if like me, contemplate how flour and water can be made to taste so good.

As with ever other occasion when I am so fully fed and inspired, I return home full of an eagerness to perhaps crack open one of the handful of cook books that sit in my kitchen. I think of what it is I might one day be able to adequately bring to a table. I've always felt I should eat more fish so perhaps this should be my entree into the culinary world. I'd wow my guests with my filleting skills and they'd go home and write about my inventive marinades. Or, more likely and as has always been, the inspiration will run dry. I'll wake up the next morning, put the kettle on, get some bread out the freezer to warm before adorning it with a raspberry conserve. Coffee, and jam on toast. You know, in my own limited way, I too can make flour and water taste good.

[riotkayla]

Finding the Truth: part four

Synopsis: Christmas is around the corner, and Eddie is trying to ask a very important question. The Wiggles are metal. 

TW/Warnings: none, just fluff and domestic shit

Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are welcome! Please do not copy my work for your own or I will hunt you down :)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

did i edit this? a lil but not a lot

tagging: @luceneraium @xxhospital-for-soulsxx @marvelforlife2008 @ali-r3n @shenevertricks1831 @luv4fandoms  @waitlalice​

“Will y’gotta hold still,” Eddie sat on the bed wrangling Willow attempting to tame the chaos of curls she inherited from him. “Willow Joan if you don’t sit still-“

“Sowwey daddy,” the girl finally settled between his knees, a Barbie in hand. Eddie took the spray bottle to her hair, the fine mist dampening the copper locks. Another hand gathered the ringlets and attempted to create a ponytail. Every time he thought it would look good, a chunk of hair would fall out of the hair band. Willow enjoyed having her hair played with and didn’t mind it taking ten times longer than when you fixed it.

“God, how does your mom do this,” Eddie huffed, taking the hair bow out of her hair. You turned the water off in the shower and stepped out into the steamed room, Eddie hearing you and calling out “Baby! Can you help?” You let out a laugh. “Jesus Christ you need like three hands to do this.”

You wrapped your robe around you, tying the sash tight while pushing the door open and allowing the steam to drift into the bedroom where the Munson duo sat. Eddie looked relieved to see you. He had tried to help out the best he could but that Munson hair was just hard to tame.

Things had moved fast, faster than you anticipated. After an eventful night of trick or treating, Willow and Eddie had fallen asleep on the couch. You couldn’t bear to tear them apart and instead covered them up in their spot. You thought that would be the only time but slowly Eddie started spending the night. After bath time and stories, you and Eddie would sit on the back porch sipping on something a little stronger than Willow’s apple juice and talk about your day, it was only natural that eventually he would follow you upstairs and fall asleep. “Just like old times,” he would mumble when his head hit the pillow. The few nights in mid-November he had to go to Indianapolis to talk with the record company about the next album, you tossed and turned all night. You couldn’t sleep without him next to you. Definitely just like old times. By Thanksgiving, Eddie had a drawer in your room and with Christmas rolling around he was almost completely moved into the house.

You shooed Eddie from the spot on the bed, spritzing her hair a few times and gathering the hair into a ponytail, setting down the spritzer, and grabbing the comb. You raked the teeth through her roots, gathering every strand into your grasp. Finally, you wound the pink elastic around the curls a few times until it was secure. Eddie stared, his mouth hanging open in disbelief at how easy it was for you.

“Why can’t my hair look like daddy,” Willow patted at her smoothed-out mane, pouting at you.

“When you get back from gramps house today I’ll take it down and show you how to headbang, ‘Kay?” Eddie crouched down to her level, offering her his fist. Willow butted her tiny fist against his with an enthusiastic head-bob.

——-

“What about this?” Eddie held up a little denim jacket with a grin. “I can put patches on it. Start her own little punk jacket.”

“Yes because the Wiggles are so punk rock,” you rolled your eyes as he placed the jacket in the buggy. “Seriously Ed. What are we getting her for Christmas this year?”

The two of you had been to every toy store in the area. Searched high and low for a toy she didn’t already have, or a type of clothing article she would wear. At the moment she was very into trying to look like her dad. It was adorable.

“I dunno,” he shrugged, moving to another clothing rack to look through the pink frills. “We could give her a brother or sister.” He offered with a smirk.

“Oh no, she just got potty trained. I am not about to start changing diapers again so soon Munson,” you lightly shoved the shopping cart into his leg. “Besides, I’m going to be married the next time I have a kid.”

“S’that so?”

“Plus, I am not about to go through another pregnancy in the god-awful Indiana summer,” you hadn’t been paying attention to Eddie as you rambled. All you could think about were dirty diapers and the exhaustion that came with being heavily pregnant during the hottest months of the year. “It’s pure torture, absolute- what the hell are you doing?”

Eddie was caught, emerald stone in the palm of his hand when you turned to face him. He had his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth trying to concentrate on holding the ring and clasping the necklace around his neck. “Give me a minute,” he struggled and eventually got the clasp fixed. He extended his hand, your old ring sparkling. “Y’said so yourself- you wanna be married before we have our next one.”

“So you thought it would be a great idea to propose to me in the Walmart toddler section?”

“I figured I’d give it a shot.”

“You are unbelievable Eddie,” you shook your head, leaning back and gazing at your ring. “I’m not accepting, you’re gonna have to do better than this.”

“Oh c’mon bug, you know you wanna,” he taunted you, pushing the stone closer to you. “Pretty sure everyone already thinks we’re married anyway.”

You pushed his hand away, frowning. “Seriously Eddie. I want you to propose to me for real. Not just offering me my ring randomly. Make it count this time…”

You watched him frown, lips turning into a pout as he placed the ring on his pinky finger. All you could do was roll your eyes, pulling him in for s tiny peck on the lips. “Don’t propose on Christmas either, you’ve already done that one.”

“Jesus Christ, why are you making this so hard?”

——-

Multicolored lights wrapped around the tiny front porch banister, reflecting in the eyes of Willow and Dustin as they sat outside watching Eddie shovel the driveway. Dustin was supposed to be helping but of course, the minute Will laid eyes on him he couldn’t do anything else.

“Y’know I would appreciate it if you would, I dunno, grab a shovel and help out,” Eddie barked, leaning against the Station Wagon.

“Who’s gonna watch the little princess?”

“Her mother, who happens to be inside.”

“I wanna be out hewe with you,” Willow shifts in Dustin’s lap, trying to look at her dad. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, princess?”

“Awe you almost done?”

“Almost baby, I gotta few more feet to go. Y’wanna go inside where it’s warm?” He could see the pink creeping up her nose as she shook her head. Recently she had become clingy to both of you, you weren’t sure what it was. This week it was Eddie’s turn, she only wanted him to cuddle and play with. Sighing Eddie put back the shovel where he found out, bounded up the stairs and scooped his kid out of Dustin’s lap. “C’mon kiddo let’s get you some hot chocolate.”

You were curled up in the chair, a fluffy blanket pulled into your lap delving into a book when the front door burst open, bringing in wintery air. “Fair maiden, would you be so kind to make a hot beverage for us wearily travelers?” Eddie called from the doorway, stepping out of his boots. You glanced up smiling at the sight. Willow was wrapped in different blankets, only her fave could be seen. Eddie had snow in his hair and all over his jacket. Dustin looked fine, just a little cold.

“There’s some ready in the kitchen with some marshmallows ready for you.”

Willow yelled out what you assumed is a “huzzah” as the trio trampled into the tiny space. You turned your attention back to the book in your hand and tried to reinvest yourself into the story.

“So how’re you gonna propose to her?” Dustin asked, looking at the calendar on the wall. It had started to fill up with dates, December 31st circled in red and in Eddie’s sloppy handwriting ‘Corroded Coffin playing @ Hideout 4 NYE show’

“Well I was going to do it on Christmas morning but she shot that idea down real fast,” he sighed, watching Willow sip her drink. “I dunno, maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I should wai-“

“Do it New Year’s Eve, at the Hideout. See if Wayne or her mom will watch Willow for the rest of the night and when the countdown starts to happen, propose.” Dustin shrugged finally peeling his eyes from the calendar on the wall.

Eddie turned to Willow, eyes bright with the idea. “You can’t tell mommy what you heard, ‘kay?”

“Okay daddy,” she nodded her head, curls bouncing everywhere.

[yourheartonfire]

The hero woke to the smell of smoke. Swearing, they scrambled out of bed and down the hall to their guest bedroom.

The blankets were smoldering as the villain thrashed in their sleep. The room glowed an angry scarlet from power suppression cuffs struggling to bear the full load of the villain's unconscious mind. And worst of all were the noises, that high pitched wail over and over again: "Don't leave me no don't don't please no don't don't leave-"

"Wake up!" the hero yelled and flung the safety bucket of cold water across the villain's face.

The villain jolted up with a gasp and a sputter. The power surge collapsed. The cuffs cycled down to dull metal again and the two were left panting in the pale blue moonlight.

"Oh," said the villain, surveying the soggy ash that had been their bedding. "Happened again, did it?"

The hero slumped against the wall, wiped their face. The adrenaline pulse was long gone and they were left with nothing but the bone deep exhaustion of being woken yet again out of their REM sleep. From the drawn look on the villain’s face, they weren’t feeling much better. And they were starting to shake.

"Okay. Okay.” Break it down into steps, do the steps one at a time. The hero pushed themselves up. “You strip the bed, I'll find some new blankets - oh shit!" they couldn’t help blurting out as they caught a glimpse of the villain’s wrists under the cuffs. The villain turned a mottled red, flinching from the hero’s gaze. The hero was too tired to figure out how they were supposed to respond to that. “Okay. First aid, then bedding, then - “ 

Their phone went off like an air raid alarm, shrill and insistent. The hero closed their eyes. “Shit.”

“You swear a lot when you’re tired,” the villain observed with a forced smirk, their jaw clenched to keep their teeth from chattering.

“Stand by,” the hero snapped. “I mean, just... wait here.”

With an angry twist of their hand, the hero yanked the water from the mattress, flinging the ball of now filthy liquid back into the bucket. They slammed the door behind them and stomped down the hall, fumbling the phone from their pajama pants pocket.

“Power surge at your location. Status?” snipped out the voice on the other end without greeting.

“I’m fine. All fine. Everything’s fine.” The hero tucked the phone under their shoulder as they yanked open the bathroom cabinets, trying to remember how to treat a burn. “Another, ah, involuntary nighttime trigger.”

There was a sigh, the sound of keyboard tapping. “That’s the third one this week. And this one nearly overloaded the cuffs.”

“What do you want me to do, not let them sleep?” The hero dug out their medical supplies from under the sink, grabbed a bottle of painkillers too. "[Villain] had a dream, the cuffs did their job, end of story. We are not sending them to SuperMax!” they added as they heard the intake of breath. “We need their cooperation. I have the situation under control!"

The Agency operator sniffed. “That’s not what these power readings say.”

“Good night.” The hero jabbed the red ‘hang up’ button viciously. Not for the first time, they wished there was some digital equivalent of an old-fashioned phone being slammed down into the cradle. They took a breath, grabbed their supplies, and left their phone in the medicine cabinet.

In the guest bedroom the villain was humming tunelessly as they stared up at the ceiling, pretending they hadn’t heard every word. They'd managed to kick the ruined blankets to the floor and get their normal leering mask solidly in place as the hero tossed the last unburnt comforter across them, sat at the edge of the mattress to smear aloe vera across the blistered skin under the cuffs.

“I have to admit, this is definitely not how I was hoping to get you in bed with me,” the villain drawled in a mostly steady voice. They plucked at the sleeve of the hero’s buttoned up shirt. “And that definitely isn’t the nightwear I was hoping for. Only you could make pajamas stuffy.”

“My pajamas are not stuffy,” the hero said evenly, catching the villain’s hands. “They are one hundred percent cotton and extremely breathable.”

The villain for once didn’t have a witty comeback. Their gaze dropped to their hands entwined with the hero’s, all different shades of blue in the moonlight. The hero paused as well, let the villain take their time.

“Are you going to ask me?” they asked with a bitter smile. “About the nightmares?”

The hero took a breath. “Do you want me to?”

“No,” the villain said without hesitation.

“Okay.” The hero pulled loose, tied off the last bit of bandage so they’d lie smoothly under the cuffs. “Budge over then.”

The villain blinked. “What?”

The hero smoothed out the quilt. “We’re out of options. Can’t leave you alone, can’t let you set my house on fire. So. Looks like you get me in bed after all.” And before they could think better of it, the hero swung themselves under the blanket.

The villain was rigid with surprise beside them. And warm, so so warm. God, why had they cheaped out and gone with a full for the guest bedroom instead of a queen? Or a king. Or maybe bunk beds. 

“Is this torture?” the villain said in that flat, toneless voice. “Your toes are freezing.”

"You need to cool down,” the hero grumbled. “You’re always burning up.” They rested a hand over the villain’s forehead. 

The hero didn’t mean anything by it, anything other than a simple temperature check. But they were too close to each other not to see the shudder that went through the villain. The way they melted into the touch.

Oh.

“It’s over for you,” the villain whispered hoarsely, eyes shut. “When I burn through these cuffs.”

“Mmm.” the hero said. They dared to tug the villain closer - just an invitation, not a demand. The villain immediately cozied up to the hero side. Nuzzling into the hero's neck. “Do your worst,” they whispered back, wrapping their arm around the villain and rubbing circles into the hot skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

There were no more nightmares. There were a whole other set of problems. But that was a problem for the day time.

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Die for you

Pairings | Thomas (tmr) x f!reader

Warnings | smut, swearing, hate sex, death/violence, vaginal fingering, handjob, vaginal sex, slapping (once), degradation (slut)

Word count | 2.5k

Summary | you and Thomas would never die for each other

A/n | the plot is switched up a bit in this

Masterlist

"You just had to come and ruin everything!" You exclaimed, hands balled into fists as you chided Thomas.

You both met in the Scorch. The gladers bumped into you - a lonely immune - whilst they escaped WICKED. Figuring that you'd stand a better chance in a group, you accepted their offer to join them in looking for the safe haven.

It was only once you got to know Thomas, and his irrational behaviour that only ever clashed with your own stubborn mind, that you regretted that decision.

"Oh really? And where would you be without me, huh? Still fighting off those shank cranks I reckon." Thomas glared at you, "you should be thanking me." He added in a mutter.

You scoffed, before saying, "Thanking you? Well that's a load of shit if I've ever heard it."

"Well that's what you should be doing." Thomas stood by his statement and crossed his arms across his chest defensively. You made a sound of anger before storming off.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" Minho snickered as you stomped over to where he rested against some empty food crates. "Is it your boyfriend again?" The boy teased.

You smacked his arm. Hard.

"Ow, that hurt." He whined, rubbing the spot you hit, and you rolled your eyes.

"He's not my boyfriend." You scoffed.

"Whatever you say." Minho hummed with an innocent whistle. You groaned and rested your head back against the crate.

"You're insufferable." Minho only chuckled in response.

You both sat in a comfortable silence for a while, heads lolled back against the wooden crate as you picked at your nails and Minho kicked at the tiny rocks and stones littered in the gravel under your feet.

In the week you'd been travelling with the gladers and Jorge and Brenda, you and Minho had grown close due to your similar sense of humour and snarky attitudes that drove everyone else insane.

By the time you two were heading off to find somewhere to sleep in the run-down building you'd all searched, there was no sign of Thomas around.

Signing in relief, you rolled out your coat so it would cushion your body when you slept, and tucked your pack up close so you could use it as a makeshift pillow.

But before you could attempt sleep, you needed to refill your water canteen; you may as well make the most of having an unlimited, running water supply for the next 12 hours.

You stood up, canteen in one hand and torch in the other, before heading out of the main room where the others - Newt, Frypan, Teresa, Jorge, Minho, Brenda - were all setting up their own 'beds' for the night and into the adjoining room; you all assumed it must've been a public bathroom from the rows of sinks and lines of toilet cubicles.

"Night, y/n." Newt mumbled as you passed him, and you tossed him in unconvincing smile.

"Night." You all stopped saying 'good' a day into your time with them, when you all realised that the only good thing that could happen now would be to reach the safe haven, unharmed.

You huffed a heavy breath as you filled the bottle, tapping your foot against the cracked concrete.

"Finally." You muttered under your breath when it was full. You screwed the cap back on after taking a long swig and shut the tap off. "What the fuck, Thomas!" You exclaimed as you turned around, coming face to face with the boy.

"I'm fed up of this." He whispered, eyes searching yours.

"Of what? Can you move? I want to try and get some rest." You dismissed, moving to step around him. He grabbed your arm, keeping you locked in between him and the old sinks.

You gasped sharply as he pressed you against them, your metal canteen slipping from your grasp. It hit the floor with a resounding clank.

"Y/n? Thomas? Are you two okay?" Brenda called from the next room. Thomas gave you a piercing glare that told you he didn't want anyone to walk in on the scene.

"We're fine!" You called, if a little shakily.

"Y/n's water just slipped from her hand, you know how clumsy she is. Get some sleep, Brenda." Thomas added.

"Okay. Night." Brenda's reply came, although you couldn't find yourself looking away from Thomas's raging eyes.

"We need to sort this out, y/n." Thomas stated simply and you sighed in relief.

"We do. It's impacting on the others. Bringing moral down." All facts.

"Exactly. Now, it's not like I'm going to die for you or anything-"

"Definitely not." You nodded in agreement.

"And I absolutely wouldn't hold your hand if you were scared-"

"Or if you were injured."

"Exactly. But, I think we should shuck it out." You were stunned by his words. Sure, he was hot, but did he really want to fuck with all your companions in the next room?

"What's in it for me?" You asked, all business. Thomas huffed a sarcastic chuckle.

"I'll make it worth you while." He murmured, dropping his head to nip at your neck. You held back a breathy moan, fingers wrapping themselves in his brown locks. "What do you say?" He whispered into your ear.

"Just fuck me already." You breathed, ripping his head away from your neck to smash your lips to his. The kiss was bruising, more like teeth clashing together.

His hips canted forwards, pressing you back painfully into the sink. You whined against his mouth and Thomas grinned slyly.

"Shut up." You whispered against his lips and he chuckled.

You nearly squeaked when his hands tugged your trousers down your legs, so that they rested around your thighs. He hoisted you onto the lip of the sink, your legs pushed back to expose yourself to him.

"Little slut." Thomas observed, fingers pushing greedily into your cunt. You cringed at the wet sounds of you sucking his digits back into you with every thrust. "Did arguing make you wet? Or are you always this ready to go?"

"Oh, fuck you." You moaned, rolling your hips up into his touch. You still had your hands in his hair, and Thomas' teeth were clenched at how hard you were tugging.

"I think you'll find it's the other way round, sweetheart." Thomas grumbled into the skin of your chest before he was unbuckling his own jeans and ripping them down his thighs.

He hissed as he hard cock made contact with the cool air, and your hand found itself around him as quick as you could manage.

"Fuck. That's it, right there." Thomas moaned as you flicked your thumb over the tip. He bucked into your hand twice before pulling his fingers from your entrance.

He held them up, as if to observe, then shrugged and wiped them on your cheek to dry them off. You could barely find it in yourself to care at this point.

You lined him up with your core, and as soon as you had, Thomas was pushing forwards with a strained groan. You mouthed curses as he began to grind into you, his cock long enough to brush that spot inside you with every stroke.

It didn't take long for Thomas to start pounding into you, and before long your fingers were playing with your clit in order to pull yourself over the edge.

When you did, Thomas covered your mouth with his in another sloppy kiss, muffling your cried as your hips rutted against his.

He pulled out slowly, and didn't even help you as you sunk to your knees. He started to stroke his cock at the same pace he was fucking you.

His free hand tangled into your hair at the roots, and he pulled your head back so that when he came it coated your mouth and chin in long stripes of sticky white.

"Shuck, that was good." He sighed as he tucked himself back into his trousers.

You stood up on trembling legs and turned around. You used the sink to wash the come from your face before pulling your own jeans back up.

"Night, Teresa-" you eyes widened the second Thomas uttered another girl's name. Sure, you hated him, be he just fucked you and didn't have the decency to even say the right name?

"You asshole." You whisper-yelled, conscious that the others were probably asleep, and raised your hand.

The slap left a red mark on his face and a sound bouncing around the room. All Thomas could do was give you a vulgar gesture before trudging off into the other room.

You sighed, leaning down to pick up your discarded canteen before stumbling back into the other room.

You tried to be quiet as you shuffled around, getting yourself situated on the floor before Minho whispered beside you,

"I'm glad you got that out of your system. It was driving the rest of us nuts." He grinned and you merely scoffed, too tired and creeped out at the fact he knew what you had been doing with Thomas to do anything more.

...

The tears that gathered in your eyes when you realised Minho was captured were the most genuine they'd been in weeks.

You and Newt both screamed for the WICKED guards to let go of him, but they didn't budge. And they were even less inclined to listen when Thomas piped up with his own protests.

"Give him bloody back, you shanks!" Newt was growling, and it was down to your quick reactions alone that Newt wasn't sprinting after them as they stuffed Minho into a Berge.

Your own aching arms wrapped around Newt's slender waist, keeping him pinned to you as he thrashed and fought.

You surprised yourself with your own strength - Newt must've been worn down if he was unable to escape your hold.

When the Berges were finally out of sight, you released him. Newt instantly fell to the floor, face in his hands and shoulders shaking as he wept over another lost friend.

You allowed your gaze to drift, landing on Thomas as his face glowed red with anguish. His fists were tucked to his sides and balled so tightly his fingers were going pale, the rage over Teresa's betrayal evident in his entire body language.

You couldn't help but mirror his emotions. You still disrelished him, and the fact that he'd barely spoken three words to you since you two fucked didn't help, but you could finally find something you were sure you could agree on: you all needed revenge.

...

"Newt, watch out!" You called as you sprinted down the halls, the tall, blonde boy only just dodging a bullet as one of the guards pulled a gun on you two.

"We need to find Tommy!" Newt shouted over the chaos, and you held back a scoff at the boy's name. He had been separated from you two during the search for Minho.

"There he is!" You said with a grunt as you shouldered the wall in an attempt to swerved a launcher, sending your own flying back in response. The pained cries let you know you reached your target.

You both turned a corridor, and your breaths were coming out in heavy pants as Newt limped to a stop.

"You good?" You asked, brows furrowed as Newt leant back against a wall. "Newt?" You pushed, watching as the boy scratched at his arm.

"Klunk, it hurts so bad." He muttered, tears clustering in his brown eyes.

"Newt?" You asked again, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. You gasped when you say the dark lines streaked down his wrist. "When did it happen?"

"Weeks ago - this bloody thing kills." Newt groaned before pulling his sleeve further down his arm to cover the streaks of inky black. "We need to find Minho and Tommy." He said matter-of-factory before breaking away from the wall and continuing in a sprint.

You grimaced at what you'd just witnessed, but continued after him nonetheless.

"Tommy!" Newt shouted as the brunet came into view, and Thomas' head snapped around to see you running towards him.

"This way!" He called, and both you and Newt gasped in relief to see Minho file out of the door Thomas had been blocking.

"Minho!" You exclaimed, barrelling into him and wrapping him in a hug before quickly parting to follow Thomas and Newt. "It's good to have you back."

Minho winked at you in response before picking up his pace, so you did the same. The four of you darted around corridors, firing your launchers at the attacking guards that filed in from dead ends and other rooms.

"The lift!" Minho exclaimed, pointing ahead, and you all made a break for it, racing across the bridge to reach the glass-covered elevator.

Just as you skidded to a stop before it, Thomas tugging Minho in with him and Newt following closely behind the pair, a familiar voice rang behind you.

Shit.

Janson had found you all, and was stood with a gun to Teresa's head.

"Stop!" He yelled, but you all continued. "Stop or I shoot her!" He added, and you all froze.

Despite her betrayal, Teresa was still very close with Thomas and never said a bad word to you in the short time you were all on the run together.

"That's it." Hanson grinned and Teresa stiffened as he pushed the barrel against her head harder.

"What do you want?" You spat and his eyes seemed to glow as they locked onto Thomas.

"Him."

"No way!" Newt shouted, followed by the protests of Minho. You swallowed the lump in your throat, considering your makeshift plan quickly.

With only one foot in the lift, you could easily pull back and shut the doors before Janson and his crew could reach the boys.

"Come with me, and she's unharmed." Janson bargained, but Teresa shook her head at you. You knew what you had to do.

"I'm sorry." You whispered to Minho, and his eyes bugged in realisation as your foot slid back past the threshold of the elevator.

"Stop moving! Move again and I shoot!" Janson threatened. You took a deep breath, and as quick as you could you slammed the button to close the door.

"What are you doing, y/n?" Thomas shouted through the glass, and Newt's face was one of terror. Minho was already throwing himself against the glass in protest.

"Dying for you." Was your reply as you spun around, smashing your fist into the last button that would send the boys down.

The gunshot was the only sound that followed for a short while.

You screamed at the sight of Teresa's limp body, her blood splattered across the marble floors.

Janson smirked as he lifted his gun to you, and before you could run, he pulled the trigger.

[dccomicsimagines]

Big Bat, Little Bat - Batfamily Imagine

Requested by Anon - Could you do an imagine where the young reader acts as an anchor for Bruce/ Batman when one of the Robins is in critical condition?

***

“Alfred!” Bruce jumped out of the batmobile and scooped Tim up in his arms. Tim’s head fell limply on Bruce’s shoulder. The bandage around his stomach seeped a dark red. “Are you ready?”

“Yes sir.” Alfred pushed a gurney out of the med bay to meet Bruce halfway. “I’m ready for the surgery.” Bruce laid Tim down, patting the top of his head before Alfred rushed Tim into the med bay. 

Bile burned his throat. Bruce swallowed it down, cursing to himself as he ripped  off his cowl. His leg shot out and kicked the batcomputer chair across the cave. It banged loudly, breaking an arm off. 

A little gasp came from the steps. Bruce frowned, stomach dropping. “(Y/N), go back to bed,” he hissed, spinning to pick up the broken arm of the chair and toss it across the cave. The impact echoed throughout the cave, making the bats shriek. Tim’s blood was still all over his suit. He shivered. His breath caught in his throat. 

“Daddy, go clean up,” you said from the steps. Bruce glanced back to find you seated on the bottom step in your pajamas with the blanket you came to him in around your shoulders. “Please.”

Bruce froze before numbly nodding. He stumbled into the showers in his full suit and turned on the water to the coldest setting. The spray hit him right in the face, shocking him and clearing his mind. 

He had underestimated Kite Man. Tim and Bruce caught word that Kite Man was going to break into the Gotham Central Bank. They were successful in stopping him, but one of Kite Man’s new kite weapons malfunctioned and exploded. Metal shards went through Tim’s armor and straight into his stomach.  

Bruce punched the wall of the shower. The tile crumbled beneath his fist. His eyes narrowed. Guilt built up inside of him. He should have stopped it. He should have known, should have move faster. 

“Daddy, you’re not supposed to shower with your clothes on,” you said. Bruce looked up to find you at the entrance of the shower area. The blanket still around you as you watched him with wide eyes that looked so much like his. 

“Go to bed.” Bruce turned away, hitting the water off. 

You didn’t move. Bruce felt your eyes still watching him. “It’s not your fault.”

He whipped around. “Of course, it’s my fault!” His hand grabbed a bottle of shampoo and threw it with all his strength against the far wall. It exploded upon impact. Shampoo splattered all over the room. 

To your credit, you didn’t flinch. Bruce noted you were reading his body language. He felt a hint of pride. At six years old, you were almost as good at reading people as he was. “Daddy, you can’t protect everyone. You don’t know everything.”

“But I must!” Bruce panted. The emotions he buried so deep were surfacing. “Someone has to!” He turned away from you to stare at the far wall. “Go to bed, (Y/N).”

“You’re a broken record, Daddy.” Bruce felt a little hand grab his. “Timmy will be fine and you did a good job getting him here in time for Alfred to help him. You saved his life.” You tugged on his hand. Bruce forced himself to look down at you. Tears sparkled in your eyes. “You can’t protect people if you keep saying that you didn’t protect people. Focus on the good and not the bad, that’s what Alfred says.”

Bruce frowned. How were you so...adult? Guilt weighed heavy on his heart. He supposed he was the one making you grow up fast. With a sigh, Bruce fell to his knees and pulled you into his arms. You melted into him and wrapped your arms around his neck. 

He took off his gloves and tossed them to the ground. The blanket you had around you was so soft just like it had been when he held you for the first time. You had grown so much. A lump formed in his throat. “You’re right,” Bruce whispered, rocking you gently.

Bruce smiled when he felt you giggle. “Wow, Timmy won’t believe me when I tell him you said that.” You shivered against him. Bruce realized he was still wet, soaking your pajamas and blanket. 

A hum came from deep in Bruce’s chest. He felt the guilt drain out of him, listening to the sounds coming from the med bay. You buried your face into his neck. Bruce sighed, holding you like you were his last grasp at sanity. In all honesty, you probably were. 

***

“Master Bruce.” Bruce jerked awake, tightening his arms around you before blinking up at Alfred. He was seated in the broken batcomputer chair with you fast asleep in his lap. Alfred gave him a tight smile, drying his hands with a towel. “Master Tim will be fine. I was able to remove the shards. He’ll need to recover, but he will be alright.” 

Bruce sighed in relief, getting to his feet with you in his arms. You stirred and buried your face into his shoulder. “Good.” He went over to the med bay and peeked inside to see Tim sleeping on the bed with monitors around him. The bandage around his torso made Bruce swallow hard. “No permanent damage?” 

“No, the shards missed everything important, thank goodness.” Alfred came to Bruce’s side. He reached over to rub your back. “When did Mx. (Y/N) wake up?”

“They were here when I came in with Tim.” Bruce snorted, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “They always seem to know when I come home.”

Alfred hummed. “Well, I’m going to make some tea. I assume you’ll want coffee, Master Bruce?” Bruce nodded, moving to take the seat next to Tim’s bed. “Then I’ll return shortly.” Alfred left silently. 

The room was quiet except for Tim’s and your breathing. Bruce adjusted you, so you were cradled in one arm. His free hand took Tim’s. He remembered your words. Focus on the good.

***

“Doesn’t it hurt?” you whispered as Bruce felt you crawl out of his lap. Bruce yawned, opening his eyes. He had a crick in his neck from sleep in the chair.

“Yeah, but I’m okay.” Tim laughed. Bruce blinked, smiling when he saw Tim wide awake with you kneeling on the bed beside him. 

You squeaked and hugged Tim tightly. Tim moaned in pain, but patted your back. “Careful.” Bruce put a hand on your shoulder to pull you back. “Tim needs rest.” 

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I knew it was going to blow, but I was stupid and didn’t get away fast enough,” Tim said. Tim’s cheeks colored with shame. You hopped off the bed, almost falling on your face when you tangled your blanket under you. Bruce caught you just in time. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, Tim. It’s my fault.” Bruce sighed, setting you on your feet before focusing on Tim. “I should have gotten to you. Kite Man said it was going to blow. I didn’t move fast enough.”

“So you’re both slow. Big surprise.” You went to the door. Tim chuckled while Bruce held back a smile. All your sass must have came from Alfred. “Hi Alfred. Timmy’s awake.”

“Yes, very good.” Alfred entered with a breakfast cart. He stopped the cart and smoothed out your messy hair. “I have breakfast for everyone, and I expect everyone to eat, even you, Master Tim.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair, watching as Tim negotiated to Alfred for some coffee. He stayed out of it, knowing Tim would lose anyway. “Daddy, here.” You padded over to him and forced a muffin into his hand. “You need to eat too.”

Bruce hummed. “Only if you share with me.” You giggled and climbed back into his lap. He watched you remove the muffin wrapper. You held it up for him to take a bite. Bruce did, his heart warming. His mind only focused on the good.

[starks-hero]

Right a Wrong

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: You, Sam and Bucky get to work repairing Sam’s family boat. Turns out the boat isn’t the only thing in need of fixing. But with help from you and Sam, Bucky figures some stuff out.

Word Count: 3,745

Warnings: a bit of a make-out session but not enough to be classed as smut, tfatws spoilers! 1x05

a/n: This is a direct result of watching episode 5 too many times. Spoilers below!

|| Part Two ||

Small waves lapped gently against the dock and the afternoon sun warmed your back as you worked on the old boat.

You were standing side by side with Bucky, crowbar in hand as you attempted to pry off the old metal cleats from the boats side, whilst he expertly pulled rusted pipes apart and threw them into a pile. As if on queue, one of the pipes on the opposite side of the ship burst, hissing and spurting out white clouds of steam. You marvelled at how quickly Bucky reacted, quickly crossing the deck and sealing the leak with an abrupt upward turn of the pipe with his metal arm.

"Where did you learn so much about fixing boats?" You teased, motioning to the now fixed pipe with your crowbar. Bucky dusted off his hands.

"I used to work on the docks in Brooklyn before the war." He shrugged, rolling up his sleeves to the elbow and taking a seat on a crate next to you. "I picked up a few things."

He furthered his point by leaning over and pulling at the cleat you'd been grappling with. It came away from where it was attached to the boat's side with ease in Buckys iron grip. He smirked as he tossed the scrap aside and you rolled your eyes.

"Show off."

Bucky chuckled, sitting back as Sam stepped onto the boat. He was carrying a crate in one hand and shook his head when he noticed Bucky's smirk and your dismissive smile.

"Alright, you two." He placed the crate down and pulled out two green bottles, throwing one to Bucky and handing you the other. "Beer break."

Sam took a seat across from you both and you sighed as you opened your beer, raising it up to Bucky.

His annoyance was discredited by the fond smile that broke through his expression as he begrudgingly clinked his bottle with yours. You reached over and did the same with Sam as the three of you relaxed under the heat of the Louisiana sun.

"It's starting to look good," you noted as you glanced around the boat and Sam smiled.

"Yeah, it's coming together." He took a swig of his beer. "You know, Sarah and I were talking." He started and both you and Bucky glanced up at him. "And we could use the help. Don't suppose you two would consider staying around a while? Just till we get a lead on Karli."

The offer caused a noticeable smile to pull at your lips whilst Bucky shifted beside you at Sam's words. His agitation grew and he stood.

"I've got my plane to catch tomorrow, a hotel room for the night," he said, raising his bottle to his lips to hide his doubt. He really didn't have that much of a plan beyond that.

"You're just gonna set me up like that, huh?" Sam asked and Bucky shrugged.

"Well, I don't want to make it weird for your family."

"Just stay here," Sam said and you couldn't help but nod subconsciously. The truth was you really didn't really want to leave. There was something about staying with the Wilson's and spending the day fixing up an old run-down family boat that made everything seem so normal. It gave you a sense of home, a sense of normality that you hadn't had in a long time. For a while, it even made you forget about the flag smashers, Walker, all of it. It was a much-needed break.

"The people in this town are the most welcoming in the world. They don't care if you wear small t-shirts or if you've got six toes or if your mom is your aunt-"

You laughed and Bucky barely hid a chuckle behind a huff of breath and a bright smile.

"Okay, I get it. The people are nice."

You placed your bottle aside and turned to Sam.

"You're sure Sarah doesn't mind?" you asked and Sam's smile only widened.

"She's the one that offered."

Grinning, you sat back and nodded. "Then I don't see why not."

"See?" Sam pointed to you and then Bucky. "Just stay, man."

Bucky shuffled his feet for a moment before finally answering with a begrudging, "Okay. Alright." He didn't say anything else as he turned and walked down the boat.

"He'll come around. He probably just wants his space." You said, picking up your beer. Sam nodded, taking a swig of his own drink.

"I hope you're right."

You woke up feeling more refreshed than you had in a while. Your hands and back hurt slightly from the tiring work on the boat, but it was a dull ache compared to the constant throbbing that came after a mission. Your cheeks were warm, surely as a result of the hours spent out in the sun the day before.

Both you and Bucky stayed the night. Sarah had offered you the spare room and after a solid fifteen minutes of bickering, you finally conceded to Bucky and agreed to sleep in the guest bed. He took the couch.

The sun was just beginning to rise up over the water when you and Bucky both headed back out to the boat. Sam joined you not long after. You worked until mid-afternoon, reluctantly taking short breaks. You fell into a quick rhythm as you worked around the boat. Surprisingly, the three of you seemed to make a pretty decent team off of the battlefield.

"Hey, can you pass me a 12-300?" Sam asked from under the boat's control panel. Bucky reached into the toolbox and placed the wrench in Sam's outstretched hand. A few seconds later Sam was rolling out from under the controls and glaring disapprovingly at Bucky.

"What?"

"I asked for a 12-300," Sam stated plainly. "This is a 10-250."

"No, it's not." Bucky bit back.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's not!"

"Hey, geniuses." You cut their bickering short as both men turned to look at you. You held up the grease-slick wrench that had been misplaced and tossed it to Sam. "You left it below deck when you were working on the engine."

Sam muttered a quiet 'thanks' as he got back to work. Silence settled over the three of you for a few minutes until Sam decided it was getting awkward.

"So, are you still planning on leaving tonight?" He asked from under the station and Bucky nodded, before realising Sam couldn't see him.

"Yeah," he said loud enough for Sam to hear. "I'll be out of your way soon."

You could hear Sam's sigh from beneath you as he clambered back to his feet and stood between you and the super-soldier leaning against the wall of the cabin.

"Well, there's no hurry."

Sam didn't say anything else as he cleaned the oil and grease from his hands with a cloth and stepped off the boat. Bucky sighed and let his head fall back behind him.

"Go," you ordered plainly and he looked up at you.

"What?"

"Go," you said again, nodding your head towards where Sam was walking away. "You both need to talk. Bucky, whatever you're not saying, it's getting to you. So go talk to him."

Bucky hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He glared at nothing in particular but his gaze softened when it found you and he muttered a quiet, 'fine.' You stepped aside as he made his way past you and stepped up onto the dock, heading after Sam.

"And don't be a smart ass!" You called after him. He didn't reply, but you could only hope that Sam and Bucky's conversation would be somewhat constructive.

"Nice shot!" You retrieved the football from the back of the goal as Cass, Sam's eldest nephew, celebrated his score.

Once Sam and Bucky had left the boat, you had headed back to the house, helping Sarah with any errands or chores, doing anything you could to help out. Sam and Bucky had been gone a little over an hour and you didn't know if that meant their talk was going very well or very not. You'd been sitting rather uselessly on the couch, waiting in anticipation, when Sam's nephews had invited you to play a game of football. And how could you refuse?

You tossed the ball back to the boys who eagerly pounced at it. You were stood in the small goal, allowing both boys to take as many shots as they wanted. AJ stepped forward and kicked the ball, groaning when it flew off to the left, a few meters away from where you were standing and missed the net entirely. He glanced down at the ground, disheartened.

“Hey, it's alright, AJ.” You smiled as you ran to grab the ball and passed it back to him. “Come on, try again.”

With encouragement from his brother, he took the shot and this time the ball planted itself in the top corner of the goal. Both boys cheered as they celebrated and you smiled. You dusted yourself off, your knees and hands covered in dust from the football game as you turned to head back inside the house. Both boys protested as you left but you promised them you'd be back. The more time you spent with AJ, Cass, Sam and Sarah, the more you didn't want to leave. There was something about staying with the Wilson's that made you feel content. It was homely and offered a sense of normality that the last few weeks had caused you to miss.

You entered the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of water. Sarah had told you over and over again to help yourself to anything in the kitchen. You leaned against the counter, glass in hand and just basked in the feeling of not having to worry about donning a suit and risking your life at a moments notice. It was something you could get used to.

“That was adorable.”

Your head snapped up at the sound of a voice and you found Bucky joining you in the kitchen. He was smirking fondly.

“You and the boys.”

You chuckled softly and shrugged. “They're sweet kids.”

Bucky nodded, pulling a glass of his own from the shelf and filling it with water from the tap. It furthered the sense of domesticity that you were really starting to love. He took a seat at the table across from you.

“So,” you started as you placed your own glass aside. “How did it go? You and Sam.”

Bucky chuckled and you couldn't tell if it was sarcastic or genuine, but something about the grin that lingered on his lips had you banking on the latter.

‘‘Not bad,” he admitted eventually with a shrug. He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “We talked. He said if I'm going to fix anything, if I'm going to get what's left of him out of my mind.” Bucky subconsciously ran his hand across his temple. “I'm going to have to put in the work. Help the people I wronged instead of just saying sorry.”

You nodded, silently making a note to thank Sam later on. He always had a way with words, he could always get through to people. That's why he was given the shield.

“He's got a point.”

Bucky scoffed and hung his head at your words. “I should have known you'd be on his side.” There was no hostility in his words. He just sounded amused, and maybe a little tired.

“I don't think this comes down to whose side I'm on, Bucky. We both want what's best for you.” You answered honestly and Bucky glimpsed up at you. He anxiously toyed with his hands as you spoke, looking vulnerable, and slightly lost despite how hard he tried to hide it. You knew Sam had already spoken to him, but it couldn't hurt for you to say something as well.

“Look Bucky, telling yourself that you're okay and that everything that happened doesn't matter anymore because you've made 'amends' isn't going to help.”

He sighed, shuffling his feet against the tiles of the kitchen floor. “I know,” he admitted quietly.

“And I know you're probably tired of hearing this but, you're not him anymore, Bucky. You're not the winter soldier. Everything you did whilst you were him wasn't your choice. Just because you remember it doesn't mean that it was your fault. It's not your responsibility to fix it.”

Bucky sighed but didn't interrupt. He was listening. This wasn't like the therapist that he was forced to sit in front of and lie to every other week. This was someone he trusted, someone whose words he valued. Someone he honestly believed could help. He sighed but nodded to show that he was still listening.

“I think Sam’s right,” you said. “It might not be your responsibility to fix everything that went wrong but trying could help. It could give you that closure that you keep chasing after. You need to let go, Bucky. You need to forgive yourself. Maybe you just need the people who are hurting to forgive you first. Then you can learn how to do the same.”

Bucky's expression was unreadable. So many emotions flashed across his eyes you found it difficult to pinpoint just one.

“How do I start?” he asked quietly. It just seemed impossible. There were so many people he'd hurt, so many people he'd wronged. He'd left children as orphans, wives as widows and parents childless. How could he possibly start trying to fix or make all those people feel in any way better?

You smiled softly at his question. “Small. One at a time,” you said simply. “Then just keep putting one in front of the other.”

Bucky considered your words, glancing down at his hands as he thought. Before long, a small smirk pulled at his lips.

“I can't decide who'd make a better therapist. You or Sam,” he joked and you laughed, shaking your head dismissively.

“Well, Sam did council veterans so I think he takes that title.”

“I'd say it's pretty tied,” Bucky said, walking across the kitchen and standing next to you as he washed his glass, drying it off and placing it back on the shelf. The room fell into a comfortable silence.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He said after a moment, his tone sincere and his expression genuine as he looked at you. You nodded, gently placing your hand against his shoulder.

“Don't mention it. You know I'm always here if you need to talk.”

The sound of a football colliding with the wall dangerously close to the window followed by two voice's loudly shouting, 'sorry!' in unison drew a quaint laugh from you both.

“Duty calls.” You grinned, patting Bucky on the back as you passed him. “Team Wilson is missing its goalkeeper.”

Bucky chuckled, watching you go. You crossed the kitchen but his voice stopped you just as your hand reached the doors handle.

“Y/N?”

You turned back around to face him and couldn't help but notice that he seemed a little more apprehensive than he had before.

“Yeah?”

He exhaled slowly, willing himself to tell you what was on his mind.

“I was just thinking things over and you know, I’m leaving today,” he hesitated slightly before glancing up at you. “And I guess I was wondering if you’d come with me?”

Your hand slipped from where it was still holding the brass handle of the door. You tilted your head as your mind fully processed his question. The shock must have been evident in your expression as Bucky rushed to continue.

“I know you're planning on staying here and I get why.” He pulled a tattered red book from his pocket which you immediately recognized as Steve’s. He began absentmindedly turning the pages, running his fingers over the paper. “I want to try and start fixing things, making things right. But truth is I have no idea where to start. I thought that maybe you could help me with that?”

“I thought you wanted your space," you admitted after a moment.

“No.” He shook his head. “That's the last thing I want.”

You thought it over, resting your back against the door. Bucky trusted you, evidently a lot more than you thought he did. Not only was he comfortable enough telling you how he felt and admitting he didn't know what to do next. But he also wanted you with him. It was clear he was holding back, not wanting to overwhelm you by admitting just how badly he wanted you to go with him. But the way he eagerly watched you as he waited patiently for your answer was a dead give away.

You wanted to help Bucky, you wanted to be there for him. If that meant helping him right his wrongs and staying with him during that trying time, at least until Sam got a lead on Karli and the Flag Smashers, then you were more than happy to comply.

“You're sure about this?” you asked and Bucky pushed off the counter and crossed the room, stopping just in front of you.

“Absolutely.” His voice dropped down to a hushed whisper. “Come with me.” His hand gently caught your wrist, his fingers running up your arm. His face was inches from yours now, your breaths mingling. “Please?”

His lips pressed to yours before you could answer and you immediately kissed back. Your hand fell against his shoulder, the other laying gently against the nape of his neck. He groaned quietly against you, his arms finding your waist as he gently guided you backwards till your back met the wall. He pressed into you, his hands roaming up your body and you moaned as he deepened the kiss.

“Yes.” You answered when he pulled away slightly and he smiled against you, relieved. Neither of you said anything else as Bucky sighed and pulled you closer, his thigh slipping between your legs as he pinned you to the wall.

God, he'd wanted to do this for so long. Wanted to kiss you, to feel you against him. He wanted you. Your hand slipped into his hair and you pulled him closer, smirking against him. You'd wanted this just as bad. And you both only had your own stubbornness to blame for taking so damn long. It didn't matter now though. Not as he gently bit down on your lower lip and you slipped your hand under his shirt and felt up his chest. It all felt so natural, so right.

“Ten minutes.”

Both your eyes flew open at the all too familiar voice, Bucky pulling away from you so quickly he only barely avoided falling over a nearby chair.

“I left you two alone to talk for ten minutes,” Sam repeated from where he was standing on the other side of the room, his arms crossed. You tried to subtly smoothen out your clothes whilst Bucky ran his hand through his tangled hair.

“We were,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “We were talking. We...talked.”

Sam nodded, entirely unconvinced, and smirked. He reclined against the counter, showing no sign of leaving anytime soon. A painfully awkward silence settled over the kitchen as Sam continued to shift his knowing stare from you to Bucky.

The humiliation of the entire situation seemed to get to Bucky first as he clasped his hands together after less than a minute.

“You know, what? I'm leaving in a few hours and I've got to pack so I better just go-” Bucky rambled as he shot you a subtle apologetic look before turning to Sam, who was nodding along in faux agreement to his pathetic attempt of an excuse.

Bucky quickly crossed the kitchen, Sam harshly patting him on the back as he passed him and left the room. Leaving just you and Sam alone. You turned to your friend and found that he was still grinning at you with that same mischievous look in his eyes. You felt like a deer in headlights. In an attempt to act as though Sam hadn't just walked in on you and Bucky making out, you tried making normal conversation.

“Sam, there was actually something I wanted to tell you. I know I said I was going to stay for a while but I guess there's been a change of plan. I-”

“I know.” He cut you off and his smile only widened when you looked at him in utter confusion. “You honestly think he would have asked you to go with him if I didn't tell him to get his shit together first?”

Your confusion slowly melted away and was replaced with a look of disbelief. You laughed despite yourself. You should have known Sam had something to do with it. ‘‘How long have you been playing cupid?” you asked jokingly and Sam chuckled.

“He needs you, Y/N. More than he wants to admit,” Sam said, tone now more serious than before. “Things will be fine here, I'll call you as soon as Torres finds us something to work with. But right now, he needs your help before that hole he's stuck in gets too deep for him to climb out of.”

You sighed as the weight of Sam's words set in. He was right, Bucky really did need you. That wasn't a responsibility you could afford to take lightly. Not that you planned to.

“Thanks, Sam,” you said genuinely and Sam smirked as he crossed the room and pulled you into a hug. He could tell you needed it.

“Anytime.” He pulled away and offered you a warning glare. “But I swear, if you two making out the minute I turn my back becomes a regular thing I'm going to kick both your asses.”

“Got it,” you nodded, barely stifling a laugh.

Sam's scowl melted into a smile and he motioned towards the stairs. “Go on, get your things together. You've got a plane to catch in a few hours.”

You smiled and headed upstairs after Bucky. Sam leaned against the counter with his arms crossed and a satisfied smile. Getting you two together had taken more work than he'd thought. But he knew it would be worth it, you both needed each other. Whether you were willing to admit it or not. And Sam was confident that if there was anyone that could help Bucky and offer him that sense of home and peace that he was so desperately craving, it was you.

tag list: @bakerstreethound​ @miraclesoflove​ @doozywoozy​ @kealohilani-tepise

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Vampire Chris and jake get stranded in the middle of nowhere one night. Maybe a car crash or something. As they walk back the sun starts to rise.

CW: Car crash, bruising, seatbelt burn, vampire whumpee, caretaker turned whumpee

The moment of the crash is gone.

He opens his eyes to the aftermath.

Jake blinks, the world spinning, and his head drops back against the headrest of the driver's seat. The world is still lurching, sickeningly, in circles around him. Something is ticking, the engine maybe, slowly cooling down and shit, at least it's not on fire.

The air bag has a smear of terrible vibrant red against its pillowy white as it slowly deflates, and all he can do is stare at it until he realizes the blood must be his own.

One hand comes up to touch at his forehead, and his fingers come away wet and red, too. What he'd thought was sweat is a head wound, bleeding down one side, tickling his cheekbone and jaw. It stings, a little.

The pain seems distant, somehow, like it's being held at arm's length. As if he's looking at his pain from a distance further than he can close.

"Ch-... Chris, you okay, buddy?" He turns, and the passenger seat is empty. The air bag deployed on that side, but there's no blood.

The door is standing open, dome light still on. It takes a long few moments of staring before he can understand that the door is open because Chris forced it open, closed his hands on the metal and squeezed until it bent beneath his strength and let him out.

Jake's body aches as he shifts forwards, fumbling to unbuckle his seatbelt. All the pain is filtering into his senses, piece by piece as if he can only understand a wound once he sees it.

He can't remember the crash.

They were at a four-way stop, listening to some of the terrible pop music Chris loves about the modern world, and Jake had pulled through. They were laughing at some lyric that Jake had had to explain, that had made the little vampire boy flush a little at the definition.

Then there were headlights blinding him, overtaking everything. Chris had yelled something and Jake had yelled something and then-

The moment is gone.

So is the entire back half of his car.

He turns around with a hiss to stare right out a giant gaping hole where his backseat should be into the cool, clear night.

Parts of his car are strewn haphazardly across the road and the grassy ditch he's come to a stop in. As he looks, he can see the frame of a door, crumbled metal that must be his trunk, a tire. Another tire. The bumper on the ground. Glass and metal everywhere.

The stop signs at the fourway are all standing totally untouched, except for one bent at a hard angle, leaning like a man fighting a strong wind.

The sweater he'd been wearing when he got in the car - removed and tossed carelessly in the backseat to pick up later - is hanging off the bent stop sign.

It's fucking spotlessly clean still.

He blinks.

Blinks some more.

What the fuck?

He'd driven Chris up into the hills to go star-gazing, making the most of Chris's bubbly energy that only comes out at night and his classes being canceled tomorrow because of some issue with the campus water supply. This is countryside up here, with houses miles and miles apart. Remnants of old orchards and homesteads, still kept by the descendants of the men and women who traveled out here. Nobody drives out this way this late. It could be morning before someone finds him.

His phone. He can call for help.

Jake looks around, but his phone is nowhere to be seen. He digs around the footwell, what he can touch of it, and there's nothing. Nothing nothing nothing.

His windshield is shattered, open to the outside, and he wonders if his phone flew out of it. It was on the dash, wasn't it? On Chris's side...

Shit.

It could be anywhere in the grass, and he's a fucking moron who keeps his phone on silent or vibrate 24 hours a day. He'll never hear it out here.

First things first, then.

He settles for trying to open his door.

It's been crunched, just a little. Enough that it won't swing out, and he has to throw his shoulder against it, grunting in pain, again and again until finally it nudges just enough for him to fall onto shattered tiny squares of safety glass on the ground. A water bottle is lying there. It's Dasani.

He hates Dasani water, but it'd been free at the gas station they'd stopped at if he bought a bag of chips, so...

Oh, right. His car is full of fucking gasoline.

He groans, scrambling away from the vehicle, trying to remember what a safe distance will be if his car catches on fire or fucking explodes in the middle of the night. At least if it explodes it'll get someone's attention, right?

Shit, he's going to throw up.

Jake lays there, waiting for his stomach to settle, and then crawls again. He makes it up to the road, to the rough asphalt and the gravel that lines the side. The little pebbles sting his palms, rub dirt and dust into the cuts, but he ignores it.

He makes it to the road, twenty feet or so from his car, and then... then he just lays down.

"Chris..." He can barely think. Where has the little vampire gone? Why isn't he here, creeping out of the treeline to ask if Jake's all right? Did he run? Maybe he has Jake's phone. Maybe there was no signal and he's gone to try and find some, to make a call.

Maybe...

Fuck, it hurts to think.

Even just taking a deep breath hurts - something's wrong with his ribs. Bruised or broken. When he pulls his shirt up, he can see the seatbelt burn starting to deepen in color, a diagonal stripe from shoulder to hip written in bright red darkening to burgundy bruising, soon to turn purple and black. If he hadn't been wearing a heavy shirt it'd have torn his skin open. One side of his neck is rubbed raw, he can tell when he touches it and has to pull his fingers away at the spike of pain.

There are spots of dark on his pale shirt, blood seeping through or dripping from his forehead.

But, shit. It could be worse. Looking at the back half of his car, it seems like a goddamn miracle that it isn't.

Jake pulls his legs under him and tries to stand up.

His right leg just won't fucking do it.

Rather than take his weight, it buckles with a spike of pain so bad Jake cries out and collapses back onto the road.

As if it were a dam breaking, all the adrenaline holding off the worst of the pain seems to wear away at once.

Everything hurts, suddenly, a sickening wash of pain breaking against him like he's nothing but a shell to be worn to sand. He aches when he breathes, when he doesn't. A cough makes him whimper as his ribs creak and crack. His head throbs, his hands sting, his leg is swelling even as he looks at it, a broken bone. Definitely a broken bone.

"Jesus Christ," He groans, rolling onto his side, his face pressing into gravel and safety glass.

Nat won't notice they're not home until morning.

No one's going to know he's out here until after sunrise, until he's not up to get ready for class and Chris isn't curled up in the closet to sleep in his nest of blankets and pillows. No one's going to know what happened, and where the everloving fuck did his phone go?

Time passes. He doesn't know how much.

Maybe Chris figured they can't protect him and took the fuck off. Maybe he's going to find somewhere new to crash, some new people to care for him. Maybe he's hunting.

Who the fuck knows?

He comes and goes, in and out of consciousness.

He can't stand, and sort of scooting and crawling around does nothing to help him figure out where his cell phone has gone. No one else drives by on this mostly-abandoned country road, and it was a stroke of seriously bad luck the asshole who hit them and ran was there at all.

Asshole was probably drunk, driving back from the bar, trying to use the backroads to avoid the goddamn cops.

Bad. Fucking. Luck.

Jake wonders if the asshole will even remember hitting his car in the morning, or if he'll wake up and discover the front of his vehicle all fucked up and have no idea how it happened.

He thinks he might pass clean out for a while.

That can't be good.

His head hurts worse when he wakes up.

He raises his head slowly at the sound of a distant rumble, an ancient truck engine coming closer. It takes more effort than he ever imagined just to get himself up to sitting, ready to wave down whoever it is - whatever fucking angel is on this road at what has to be 3 or 4 in the morning by now.

"Please," He whispers, dry lips scraping against each other. "Please, please don't run m'over... please..."

Headlights wash over the scene of the crash, fading everything to nearly black-and-white. Jake raises a hand to shield his eyes, blinking rapidly, as the blue-and-white Ford comes to an idling stop.

A door swings open with a creak and then slams shut again, boots crunching on the glass and debris on the road. Jake raises his eyes to see an old man in worn jeans and a grayish t-shirt staring down at him. "Well, I'll be damned," The man says, his voice low, a little rough around the edges. His hair's dark, but speckled with silver that's visible even in the night air. "You all right, son?"

Jake slowly looks back at his wrecked, ruined car, then back up at the man. "I'm pretty clearly not," He answers, then winces at his rudeness. "Sorry. I mean... no."

"That's all right. We all of us get a little more honest when we're bleeding from the skull. I'm gonna bet you aren't a natural brunette and I'm looking at a big old ton of blood there. What happened?"

"Guy ran the stop sign, hit me... drove off."

"Well, damn. What're you doin' up this way this late at night?"

"Would you... y'believe me if I said... star-gazin'?"

The man chuckles, but it's a low sound, and he moves closer. He pulls a heavy old cell phone out of his pocket - one of those goddamn flip phones that never dies or gets destroyed. It's like Captain Fucking America. Jake has to hold back a half-hysterical laugh.

"Hm, I might. It happens from time to time. Y'didn't come with a young lady, did you?" The man looks over the scene of the crash, searching for more people.

"No, no... just... jus'... I'm just here." He thinks of Chris, the open passenger door, the total lack of a vampire nearby. Is he hiding in the woods? If he's seen, or found out, he'll be hauled back off to be locked up somewhere, milked for venom for pharmaceutical drugs, treated like an animal. They can't admit he was here, he can't be seen. He must be hiding.

That's it.

Chris must just be hiding...

"Please, man, I-I can't find my phone to call for help-"

"I got you, son. I'll make the call. Likely your phone's just buried in the grass somewhere, we'll figure it out. You stay put right where you are, you don't want to move around and make any of it worse."

"Yes, sir." Jake stays where he is while the old man makes the call to 911, feeding him details when he asks, staring off into space when he doesn't.

They can pick Chris up when he and Nat come to get his stuff from the wreck tomorrow. They'll get him then. It'll be fine.

It'll be fine.

The old man hangs up and heads back to his truck, pulling out a battered old first aid kit. "You're lucky I believe in ghosts, you know."

"What? Why? Am I dead?" Jake looks down at his hands. They're scratched and bleeding, and he's pretty sure dead people don't bleed like that.

"No, son, no. But I wouldn't be out here if I didn't."

Jake blinks. "I... I don't follow."

"Well, had a little ghost show up at my bedroom window and refuse to shut up until I drove out here. Redheaded boy. Kept calling for a medic. Felt like I was back in the war for a minute before I realized it was him."

"Which... which war?"

The man fixes him with a stare as he crouches, old knees cracking as he does, in front of Jake. He opens the box and takes out some gauze and adhesive, antibiotic cream, something else Jake doesn't recognize. "You need medics in every kind of war there is, son. It doesn't matter which one. I've fought in two. But this boy called for a medic like he's seen the need for 'em before and didn't have time to save someone. Some kind of old ghost walkin' these roads saw you and made sure I knew."

Jake exhales, almost a laugh, and feels tears burn hot in his eyes. He realizes he's going to cry from sheer relief and exhaustion and pain, and he's not sure he can stop.

A ghost in the window means...

Chris left and ran for help.

"Thank you," he whispers, and he's not really talking to the old man at all.

-

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