#mud room off of garage

[timelordoflumpyspace]

Craftsman Entry - Mudroom Example of a large arts and crafts ceramic tile and black floor entryway design with gray walls and a black front door

[bruisedboys]

trouble — jacob black

it’s raining and you’re bored. your boyfriend proves to be an effective distraction (if you can distract him, that is) OR in which jacob is busy and you like to cause trouble. based off this drabble!

jacob black x fem!reader, 2k words. suggestive content 16+ pls!!

The rain is unforgiving today. It’s not uncommon for it to be wet in Forks, the rain a persistent, stubborn thing, but today it’s horrendous. Heavy and icy cold, big fat droplets that seem sure to pierce your skin and freeze you to death. It hasn’t stopped since last night and doesn’t seem like it’ll stop for a good few days.

You’re bored out of your mind. You realise rain just comes with living in Forks, and you’re mostly used to it, but you’d really wanted to go shopping with your friends today and the rain squandered your plans the moment you woke up. Jacob’s busy working on his bike in the shed, and everyone else is rained in. You’re stuck on the couch at Jacob’s while the rain comes down in sheets outside. You flick through channels on the TV until you can’t stand it anymore. There’s nothing good to watch, anyway.

You grab one of Jacob’s jackets from the hook by the door and brave the rain, using the jacket as a makeshift umbrella as you jog your way over to the garage, shoes sloshing in the mud.

You find Jacob sitting on the beat-up wooden bench, hunched over his newest project. It’s a bike he found second hand at a yard sale — when he first got it, it looked to you an unrecognisable hunk of metal, hardly a bike at all. But your boyfriend has a way with his hands, and now it at least has two wheels and a proper seat.

Jacob looks up as you come in, though the sound of the rain completely covers your footsteps.

“Hey, trouble,” he says. Then, at the look on your face, “You okay?”

Your frown deepens. “No,” you shake your head. “I’m bored, Jake.”

Jacob chuckles. Trust him to laugh at you when you’re clearly suffering.

“Yeah?” He asks. “You want to come help me?”

You take one look at the frankly confusing array of tools around his feet, and wrinkle your nose. “No, thanks. Can’t we go for a drive?”

Jacob wrinkles his nose back at you. “I’m busy, babe. And the road’s slippery, it’s dangerous. Maybe later.”

You roll your eyes. He can be such a grandma sometimes. Jacob goes back to his bike and you wander around the shed looking for something to do and moping. After a half assed search for some way to entertain yourself, you find an old novel you or Jake must’ve left in here a few months ago — you remember starting it and getting bored, but you’re already knee deep in boredom with no way out, so you decide to give it another try.

You sit in the bed of Jacob’s truck where it’s parked in the back of the shed, legs swinging over the edge. The rain drums rhythmically above you as you start reading. It takes about ten pages for you to get bored again, and five more for your mind to start wandering.

You think about how you could’ve been out shopping right now. Looking at all the lovely dresses in the new store they opened near the cinema. Sorting through books at the second-hand bookstore. Choosing a pretty new bra that you know Jacob would love seeing on you, and taking off of you. The thought gives you an idea. Unceremoniously, you give up on the book and slide off the truck bed, crossing the room to Jacob.

He doesn’t lift his head as you come up behind him, but acknowledges you with a brush of his knuckle to your thigh. You stand over him for a moment, watching him work. He looks hot when he’s concentrated, eyes trained in on his work, jaw set in concentration, arms muscles straining as he twists a particularly stubborn screw. He’s got big, strong hands, which only fuel your desire even more. What’s the best way to drag him away from his work?

“Did you want to help?” Jacob asks without looking up, interrupting your thoughts. You’re lucky he doesn’t catch you staring, or he’d figure out your plan in an instant.

You shake your head. “No. I’m just watching you.”

Jacob hums and goes back to what he’s doing, which happens to involve a lot of strained muscles as he tightens another loose screw with a wrench. You’re holding your breath as you watch his tanned bicep strain beneath the fabric of his t-shirt, and yeah, you’re a minx, but he’s really hot, and you don’t think anyone would blame you for reaching out and touching him.

Jacob doesn’t startle under your touch nor does he acknowledge it. You play it off casual, like you’re only rubbing his shoulder, palm gliding over the hill of it. You can feel his abnormally high body heat through his t-shirt, a nice change from the cold air. You find yourself pushing your hand down the expanse of his shoulder blade and up again, pressing the heel of your palm into his muscle.

Jacob sighs a little under your touch and rolls his shoulder back, leaning into your hand.

“Feels nice,” he murmurs.

You grin. This far into your relationship you’ve learnt that Jacob is a lot like a puppy when it comes to physical affection — he’s a total sucker for it, he melts for shoulder rubs and back scratches, and he turns to complete putty in your hands when you play with his hair (though you won’t implement that just yet.)

Instead, you just hum softly, smiling to yourself as you press both hands to his shoulders. He’s equally warm and muscled all over, and at this point it would take a hoard of vampires to hold you back from touching him. You get a good grip on his shoulders and push your palms into his muscles, massaging him.

It’s mean, because you know what it’ll do to him, know exactly what kind of mood it gets him into. Still, it’s not until you start to push your hands further up towards his neck that he confronts you.

He turns to face you, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Did you want something, sweetheart?” He asks, and you can tell you’ve begun to unravel him by the way he says it, plus he’s called you sweetheart, which almost certainly means he’ll give in.

You feign innocence, though the look on his face almost unravels you.

“Nope,” you lie. “Just watching.”

Jacob raises his eyebrows at you. “You sure? You’re being awfully touchy.”

“You’re really warm,” you say, shrugging.

Jacob squints at you, then shrugs. “If you say so,” he says, and (looking like he’s exercising quite a bit of restraint) turns back to his bike.

You stay where you are and give him about five minutes of peace before you start being cruel. Keeping one hand at the base of his neck, you slide the other up the back of it, pushing up into his hair. You card your fingers through the short strands at the very nape of his neck, and Jacob goes very still. You think he’s holding his breath. When you push your hand further up into the longer strands, and let your nails drag over his scalp on the way back down, he folds.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he murmurs. He drops his tools, scrubs his hands on his jeans and spins on you, hooking one leg over the wooden bench, straddling it so he can properly face you. He‘s giving you a dangerous look that makes your heart race. Finally.

You blink at him, a picture of innocence. “What’s the matter?” You ask sweetly, though you know your smile gives you away. As if you weren’t caught red handed already.

Jacob huffs and rolls his eyes, before grabbing your hips and pulling you forward roughly. You go tumbling into his lap and he catches you, hands hot on your jeans, adjusting you until you’re properly sitting in his lap. Your legs fall on either side of his hips and you giggle, pleased and flustered at his manhandling.

Jacob gives you a somewhat disapproving look, though his thumb rubs fond circles into the fat of your hip.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” He says in a low voice. His eyes flicker to your lips. He looks a bit like he wants to eat you.

“Sorry,” you say. You are kind of sorry for disturbing him, but the heat building in your chest outweighs the guilt. “I was really bored.”

Jacob laughs through his nose. “Yeah, I know, babe.” He spread his hands over your hips and butt and pulls you closer still. Your hands end up on his shoulders again. “You always know how to get what you want, huh?”

Something about the way he’s talking to you makes you so dizzy you can’t speak. You’re silent as Jacob dips his head to press a kiss to one of your wrists, then takes it in his hand and guides your hand up his neck and back into his hair.

“Keep going?” He asks in a quiet voice, encouraging your hand around the back of his head. “Please?”

Well, when he asks like that, how could you say no? You curl your fingers into his hair and Jacob barely gives you time to breathe before he’s kissing you, mouth landing on yours in the sort of kiss you can only describe as desperate. You’re equal amounts of needy as him, pushing forward in his lap and grabbing at his hair with greedy hands.

The rain thunders overhead. Jacob tilts his head, kissing you until your lips part under the pressure. His tongue slips into your mouth and your stomach swarms with butterflies. You grip Jacob’s hair harder, ensuing a sound from him like an angry dog, half moan half growl. It seems your touching earlier got him in exactly the mood you knew it would.

It’s not long before his hands start to wander. First your ass, then your arms, rubbing up and down as he kisses you hard enough to make you forget where you are. Then back to your hips, and you can feel the scalding heat of his hands through your jeans. He grabs you and tugs you further up his lap, close enough that your legs spread as you press against his bulge.

“Jake,” you whisper.

“Mmm,” he moans back. Then pulls away just an inch, lips swollen and forehead pressed to yours. “What, babe?”

You shake your head, breathless. “Nothing, just feels nice when you do that.”

Jacob ducks in to kiss you again. “Yeah?” He murmurs between hot kisses, sounding both pleased and a bit dangerous.

You nod your head, and it’s all it takes for Jacob to rock you against him again, pushing his hips up into yours as he goes. You moan and Jacob makes a similar sound from the back of his throat, heating you all the way through.

It quickly turns into not just kissing after that. Jacob’s kisses turn sloppy. You push your hands under his shirt to feel along the ridges and planes of his chest and abdomen, his skin like a furnace. Jacob guides your hips forward and back and forward again, grinding you against him slowly and breathing hard into your open mouth.

You forget about the rain, the pounding of your heart much louder than the downpour outside. You forget about the cold, your failed shopping trip, and the boring book abandoned in the bed of the truck.

It’s not long before Jacob’s got his hand on your thigh and a warm ache sweet as honey has bloomed between your legs.

Jacob’s busy kissing at your neck, bullying your skin with his teeth and tongue while you go breathless. His hand trudges further and further up your thigh until it’s high enough to abuse the waistband of your jeans.

His hand roves along the length of it, until he reaches the button. He tugs at it, mumbling into your neck a barely intelligible, “Can I?”

You nod vigorously, and your breath catches as he unfastens the button — his thumb skims over your underwear and you make a needy sound you can’t help.

Jacob emerges from your neck, smirking like mad. You’d say you hate him for it, but his thumb is tracing the hem of your underwear and you can’t speak.

“Not so bored now, huh?” Jacob teases in a low voice, but he’s out of breath too. You’ll tease him later for how quickly you managed to unravel him, but right now you can’t form more than two words.

“Shut up,” you manage, then make sure of it by pressing your mouth to his again.

He shuts up.

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

[be4chywritez]

shot to the heart (and the nose) | luke hughes

luke hughes x fem!reader

You come home from college and Luke is smitten...maybe a little too smitten

beachy’s masterlist🐚

requests are open!

part two!

Growing up next door to the Hughes family meant one thing—hockey was a religion.

It was loud, it was competitive, and it was everywhere. If the Hughes brothers weren’t on the ice, they were playing in the driveway, tracking in mud from the lake, or tossing pucks against the garage door until Ellen threatened to take their sticks away.

And you?

You were the neighbor kid. Not quite in the mix, but not completely out of it either.

Your families were close—vacations together, barbecues in the summer, Christmas parties in the winter. You and the Hughes boys had spent years at each other’s birthday parties, running through sprinklers, roasting marshmallows, and competing over who could eat the most popsicles before Jim made you all go inside.

But if hockey was the Hughes brothers’ thing, quiet was yours.

Luke, in particular, had always been the opposite of quiet. He was the one making up rules for backyard games, the one yelling over everyone else, the one who would get so frustrated when you’d rather sit and watch than dive into the chaos.

He never bullied you for it, not in the way other kids might have, but he pushed—nudging you toward the action, insisting you could keep up, making sure you weren’t left out.

Jack and Quinn weren’t much different. Jack, the natural show-off, would always try to impress you (even if you weren’t watching), and Quinn, forever the responsible older brother, would make sure you didn’t get completely trampled by their energy.

Then, of course, you all grew up.

You spent high school buried in books and extracurriculars, aiming for an Ivy League acceptance letter. Luke spent it on the ice, chasing the NHL dream.

By senior year, your friendship had faded into nothing more than polite nods and see you at Christmas waves across the room.

And then you left for college.

Luke got drafted.

Life moved on.

Coming home after months at school was weird.

The air smelled the same, the roads felt the same, but you didn’t feel the same. Maybe it was the time away, or maybe it was the fact that being home again made you realize just how much things had changed.

The car rumbled up your street, your mom chatting about how good it is to have you back while you stared out the window.

And across the driveway, in the Hughes' kitchen, three heads turned in unison.

Jack was the first to react. He dropped his sandwich. Fully dropped it. “Holy shit.”

Quinn, still chewing, furrowed his brows. “What?”

Luke didn’t say anything, just stared.

Because there you were, climbing out of the car—same face, same features, but different.

College had done something to you. Or maybe you’d just grown into yourself.

Jack nudged Luke’s arm, grinning. “Dude. You seeing this?”

Luke was seeing it. That was the problem.

You were tan, your hair was different, your shorts were short, and fuck, had your legs always looked like that?

“Oh my god,” Quinn muttered, leaning against the counter. “Luke, close your mouth.”

Luke snapped his mouth shut, scowling. “Shut up.”

Jack just smirked. “Bet she still won’t talk to you.”

Luke rolled his eyes, but for once, he didn’t have a comeback.

A few days later, you were walking up your driveway when you spotted Luke in his front yard.

He had his shirt on this time (unfortunately so) wearing a Team USA tee with the sleeves cut off, and ripping shots into the net with a ridiculous amount of force.

You should’ve known better.

Really, you should have known better.

Because one second, he was shooting.

And the next—

Crack.

Right to the face.

“Holy shit!”

Luke dropped his stick so fast it clattered against the pavement. In seconds, he was in front of you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you or not.

“Oh my god, oh my god, I didn’t see you,” he rambled, eyes darting between your nose and your expression. “Are you—holy shit, you’re bleeding.”

You groaned, pressing your fingers to your face. “Luke. What the fuck.”

“I swear I didn’t see you—”

“No shit.”

Luke winced. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair.” He ripped his shirt off in one smooth motion, bunching it up before carefully pressing it against your nose. “Here, hold this.”

You blinked. “Did you just—”

“Sacrificed my shirt for you? Yeah.”

“Oh, so chivalrous.”

Luke huffed out a laugh, tilting your chin up slightly to examine the damage. His hands were warm, calloused from years of hockey, and being this close to him was… distracting.

His eyes flickered over your face, studying you.

“You look… different,” he murmured, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You swallowed. “So do you.”

Luke smirked. “Yeah?”

And that was when you realized—he was still holding your chin.

And smiling at you.

And looking so unfairly good doing it.

You exhaled sharply. “Quit smiling at me.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I feel weird.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything.

And then—

His grin widened, slow and lazy. “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said easily. “Just thinking I should smile at you more often.”

You groaned, shoving his chest. “Oh my god.”

Luke just laughed, but then his expression sobered. “C’mon, let’s go inside. Mom’ll kill me if I leave you out here bleeding.”

Before Luke could even pull you up, the door to the Hughes house slammed open.

Jack and Quinn came speed-walking—borderline running—toward you, eyes bouncing between Luke, you, and the blood dripping down your face.

Jack, of course, spoke first.

“Oh my god, did Luke hit you?”

You groaned, still pressing Luke’s (formerly white) Team USA shirt to your nose. “You say that like he didn’t just slapshot a puck into my face.”

Quinn sighed, looking so unimpressed. “Jesus, Luke.”

Luke, still crouched next to you, lifted his hands in exasperation. “I didn’t see her! I was just—”

Jack cackled, pointing at Luke like he’d just won the lottery. “You obliterated her!”

“Jack,” you deadpanned. “Not helping.”

Jack waved you off. “No, no, because this is insane. You come back from college looking totally different, and the second Luke sees you, he shoots his shot—literally.”

Luke groaned, running a hand down his face. “Jack, I swear to—”

Jack ignored him. “I mean, I knew he was gonna lose it when he saw you again, but this—this is next level.”

Luke shoved him. “Can you shut up?”

Quinn, ever the responsible older brother, rolled his eyes. “Alright, let’s get her inside before she passes out in our driveway.”

Jack smirked. “Or before Luke confesses his love again.”

Luke shoved him harder.

You just sighed.

The moment you stepped into the house, the familiar warmth of the Hughes home hit you—laundry detergent, whatever Quinn had been cooking earlier, and a faint trace of hockey gear.

And then—

“Oh my god!”

Ellen practically flew down the stairs, eyes zeroing in on your face.

Jim followed behind her, frowning. “Jesus, what happened?”

Jack, still very much enjoying the situation, grinned. “Oh, you know. Luke saw her for the first time in, like, a year and immediately tried to take her out.”

Luke groaned. “That is not what happened.”

Ellen, ignoring them, cupped your face as gently as she could, careful not to touch your nose. “Sweetheart, oh my gosh! You’re hurt!”

Jack, ever the instigator, added, “She is hurt, but also—she looks amazing, right?”

Ellen’s eyes flickered over your face—well, the parts of it that weren’t covered in blood—and beamed. “Oh, honey, you are stunning! Look at you! College has done wonders for you.”

You blinked. “Uh—”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Ellen, she’s bleeding.”

Ellen waved him off. “Yes, yes, I see that, but look at how grown up she is!” She turned to Quinn. “Quinn, tell me she doesn’t look gorgeous.”

Quinn, handing Luke an ice pack, huffed out a laugh. “She does.”

Jack smirked. “Luke sure thinks so.”

Luke whipped around. “Jack, I will actually—”

Jim chuckled, finally stepping in. “Alright, El, let’s fix her up before we start matchmaking.”

Luke, still looking like he desperately wanted to disappear, guided you to the kitchen table and sat you down. “Okay, let me—uh—yeah, just—” He fumbled with the ice pack, hands slightly shaky.

You raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Just—quit looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” Luke exhaled sharply. “Like that.”

You smirked. “Why?”

“Because I can’t stop messing up my sentences when you look at me like that.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything.

And then—

Jack howled. Quinn raised his eyebrows.

Ellen gasped like this was the best news she had heard all day.

Jim sighed, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ.”

Luke groaned.

And you?

You just smiled.

It was going to be a great summer.

part two!

[luvvyouforever]

snowed in with joel ⋆⁺₊❅.

content: fluff, sweetness, no other warnings apply, bf joel, short not very beautiful writing. author's note: this is so self indulgent it hurts. i'm stuck in the snow storm rn and my power's been out since yesterday at 6pm and it won't come on till tomorrow and now that i have internet at my family's house, i'm writing this for self comfort. enjoy!

the power to joel's home shut off with a loud click followed by two groans echoing throughout the now quiet living room.

"damn," joel exhaled, pulling himself from the warm spot next to you on the couch. "i thought we'd get lucky this time."

"i did too," you responded, moving to get up from the couch.

joel immediately turned around, hands outstretched to your rising figure. "nuh uh," he grunted. "you stay in here and get the fire going. i'll go fix the pipes up, close off the doors, and bring the mattress in here. both of us don't need to be cold."

"joel, let me help. it's pouring out there," you insisted, still not allowing his strength to push you back on the couch.

it took him one swift movement to push you back down on the plush couch, causing you to bounce upwards. with an almost imperceptible groan, he bent over and placed a warm kiss to the top of your head. "stay inside, doll. i'll be back soon."

with that, he left the cozy living room to head back towards the mud room where his snow boots had only just finished melting from his last foray out to retrieve firewood. he slipped the boots back on, put on his warm coat, and stepped out the door.

you got up from the couch sooner than later, intent on getting the fire started back up to keep the home warm. joel's house in jackson was nice, but it could get drafty quick with the two floors and multiple large windows. you pulled large matches from beside the fireplace, lit up some dry pieces of paper, and set those at the bottom. slowly, you added pieces of wood on top which the fire caught on to quickly. with a few pokes and shoves, the fire was blazing in the stone and instantly, the house felt cozier.

by that point, joel still hadn't returned from keeping the pipes from bursting outside and you felt useless sitting on the couch while he did so. with a sudden resolve, you moved into the guest bedroom to pull the mattress you used for cold nights out into the living room.

it was heavy, that much was true, but the years of surviving an apocalypse and trying to live self-sufficiently in the country had built up your strength enough that dragging the mattress out of its frame, through the hall, and into the living room only built up a little sweat around your brow.

by the time you had positioned the bed between the couches, joel returned to the mud room and shrugged off his coat and boots.

"i thought i'd told you just to light the fire, little lady," joel teased, walking into the living room.

"one less task for you to do, my handy man," you said with a smile. he came over, borderline shivering, and placed his hands in front of the fireplace.

"ellie's set out back with that old kerosene heater. it'll keep that garage warm and then some. pipes are covered so they shouldn't burst any time soon."

"good, i'm glad. you get warm in front of the fire and i'll drag our blankets and quilts down here."

you didn't give him any time to protest as you placed a kiss to his damp shoulder and jogged upstairs to the main bedroom. you started with the blankets on joel's bed, added the thick quilt kept in the closet, and grabbed the pillows too. before you had moved in, joel kept the bare minimum. now, there were more pillows on the bed than you could count and his blanket collection had increased tenfold. you're just supporting local small businesses is all.

with a grunt, you managed to pick up everything from the floor and carry it down the steps. joel had risen from his spot in front of the fireplace and took to covering the outside doors with thick sheets to block some of the wind from the near blizzard happening outside.

"think you got enough, hon?" he teased, taking a break from his nailing.

"can never be too cozy," you said with a shrug. "we'll probably only need the one blanket since you already put off enough body heat to warm a small elephant."

"and that's a bad thing?"

you thought about it for a second. "when it's 95 degrees out and you insist on keeping me wrapped around you, yes."

he chuckled deeply and placed his hammer down to head back towards where you were making up the bed. he took one side of the sheet you were currently fighting with and helped you place it over the end of the bed. "can't help that you're 'bout the size of a teddy bear. i'm asleep. i dunno the difference."

"ya know, now that i'm thinking about it, the garage with ellie sounds pretty nice right about now."

"yeah, right," he said with a laugh. for the next fifteen minutes or so, you worked in comfortable silence, setting up the living room as your main room till he and the others in town can get out to work on the power supply. you fished candles out of the cabinet, he found a battery operated radio with a cd and cassette insert, and you found a few lanterns that would offer some light around the dark house.

eventually, everything was set up and now there was nothing to do but enjoy the quiet peace of the night. joel managed to dig up some cds and cassettes with the player and he had an old country tune quietly playing over the crackling of the fire.

"c'mere, doll," he finally said, offering his arm out to cuddle up with you on the bed. you gratefully took it, eager to finally lay down. joel took the left side (he always did) and you took the right. his back was propped against the couch and you easily curled into his side. his arm wrapped around your frame and within seconds, the cold dissipated from your body.

his lips met your head in a sweet gesture and you smiled at the warm comfort of it all. joel was all you needed, really. the power being out was a frustration, true. you had wanted to bake some cookies that night and you wanted to read another cheesy romance book that joel had found for you in an old store. joel wanted to keep tinkering with the old record player tommy found and he liked to end his nights with a warm shower before crawling into his bed with you.

but this was fine. more than fine. you were warm in front of the fire, his favorite music was echoing through the room, and he had you under his arms, where he liked you to be the most.

[theonottsbxtch]

GOOD LUCK BABE | OP81

an: who doesn't love a bit of karma. me i don't actually, i only like serving it

wc: 3.6k

THE CHAMAGNE SPRAYED HIGH INTO THE NIGHT AIR, glittering under the floodlights that ringed the circuit. Oscar Piastri stood on the podium, his hands gripping the trophy he had chased since he was a boy. The cheers of the crowd, the flashing cameras, and the roaring engines all blurred into a single deafening hum. This was the moment he’d dreamed of—his first Formula One victory. He should have felt invincible.

Instead, as the festivities spilled into the team’s garage, Oscar found himself restless. The attention was unrelenting—mechanics clapped his back, journalists swarmed him for quotes, and the grid girls hovered too close, all perfume and red lipstick. Yet, he felt no desire to bask in it.

He stepped back, seeking a reprieve. That’s when he saw her.

No. Not her.

The woman stood at the edge of the garage, the same dark hair cascading over her shoulders, the same delicate tilt of her chin. His breath caught for a moment, hope flaring unexpectedly in his chest. But then she turned, her face illuminated in the harsh lights, and the illusion shattered.

It wasn’t her.

Oscar exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. His pulse still thudded with the weight of disappointment. Get over it, Oscar, he thought bitterly. She was married now, living the life she always claimed to want. Yet here he was, searching for her in strangers’ faces, a habit he couldn’t seem to break.

He leaned against the wall, allowing his mind to wander where it shouldn’t, to a memory so vivid it might as well have been yesterday.

The English rain had been relentless that spring. At fourteen, Oscar had learned quickly that the drizzle was as much a part of life in this country as tea and school uniforms. He’d hated it at first—hated the cold, the grey skies, and the weight of feeling like an outsider.

But she had made it bearable.

“Come on, Aussie boy,” she’d teased, her hand tugging his as they dashed across the soaked football field. Her laughter was bright, cutting through the dull day. “I thought you were meant to be good at running!”

“I am,” he’d shot back, panting as his trainers sank into the mud. “Just not when it’s like this. How do you people live in this weather?”

She’d grinned, her cheeks flushed. “We just do. You’ll get used to it.”

He’d known even then that he wouldn’t just get used to her. She was sunlight in a world of clouds, the only one who saw past the scruffy kid with a funny accent. She made him feel like he belonged.

“What’re you going to do when you’re famous?” she asked, dropping onto the grass, uncaring of the mud that streaked her skirt.

“Famous?” he echoed, sitting beside her.

“Yeah. You’re going to be a Formula One driver, right?”

He nodded, a rare seriousness settling over his face. “I will be.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You’re so sure.”

“Because it’s going to happen. Just like you’ll...” He hesitated, unsure how to finish. Just like you’ll always be here.

The roar of laughter from his team jolted Oscar back to the present. He blinked, realising he’d been gripping his glass too tightly, the condensation soaking his palm. He loosened his grip and sighed.

It was no use. No matter how many races he won, no matter how far he travelled, the past clung to him like an unshakable shadow. And tonight, even in victory, all he could think about was the one thing he’d lost.

The television flickered to black, plunging the room into silence. She sat for a moment, staring at the darkened screen, the image of Oscar lifting the trophy still seared into her mind. It was a victory she should have celebrated, should have texted him about like she used to, teasing him about how he could barely hold the cup upright.

But that felt like a lifetime ago.

Her husband’s snores drifted from the bedroom, low and steady. With a sigh, she pushed herself off the sofa, one hand instinctively resting on her growing bump as she padded into the kitchen. The sink was piled with plates from dinner, and the faint smell of garlic lingered in the air. She flicked on the tap and began scrubbing, the water scalding against her hands.

This wasn’t how 23 was supposed to feel.

Her friends had told her university would be the time of her life—lectures, late-night study sessions, cheap wine, and big dreams. She’d loved studying economics, felt alive when she debated market theories and solved equations. But it was all for nothing now.

She had a degree she’d never used and a life she’d never wanted.

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, cutting through the quiet like a knife: “A woman’s happiness lies in stability. A good husband, a secure home, and children. Anything else is fleeting.”

Her mother’s voice had been so convincing when she was younger, so certain. It made her doubt herself, doubt Oscar, doubt the possibility of a future with a boy whose dreams didn’t align with her family’s values. And when the proposal came—her parents’ carefully orchestrated arrangement with a man from their social circle—she’d said yes.

Not because she loved him, but because she thought it was what she was supposed to do.

Now, her days were a blur of hosting dull dinners, attending charity galas she didn’t care about, and planning a nursery for a baby she hadn’t been ready for. She didn’t hate her husband, exactly, but there was no love between them. He was kind enough in his own distant, polite way, but he didn’t know her. Not really.

She pressed a hand to her back, wincing at the ache. The baby was only four months along, and already she felt the weight of it in every sense of the word. The weight of motherhood, the weight of expectations, the weight of being trapped.

The dishes were finally done, the kitchen spotless, but she still felt restless. The quiet of the house pressed in on her, too heavy to ignore. With a sigh, she turned off the lights and made her way to the bathroom.

Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, letting the cool wood steady her. The small space was dimly lit by the glow of her phone in her hand. Her thumb hovered over his name in her contacts, her pulse pounding in her ears.

This is a bad idea.

But the memory of him on the podium earlier—his smile, his triumph—played on an endless loop in her mind. She’d watched his victory, felt the familiar ache of longing bloom in her chest, and now, here she was.

She slid down to the cool tiled floor, her back against the bathtub. After a deep, shuddering breath, she pressed the call button.

The line rang, each tone a needle in her chest. She almost hung up, but then his voice broke through.

“Hello?”

Her breath caught. She tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat.

“Hello?” he repeated, a mix of confusion and impatience. “Who’s this?”

“It’s me,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper.

A pause. Then, softly, “Sweetheart.”

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. “I just... I saw the race. Congratulations, Oscar. You were incredible.”

His tone shifted, warmer now. “Thank you. That means a lot.” A beat passed before he added, “And... congratulations to you, too.”

Her brow furrowed. “For what?”

“I heard you’re expecting,” he said gently.

Her stomach tightened, and she felt her throat close. She hadn’t expected him to know, and hearing it from him made it feel all too real. A tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another, until she couldn’t stop them.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softening. “What’s wrong?”

“I hate it,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I hate my life, Oscar.”

There was a pause, heavy with everything unspoken between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady. “I warned you,” he said, not unkindly.

“I know,” she said, her voice trembling. “You were right. About all of it. About him, about this life, about—” Her words dissolved into a quiet sob, her hand pressing against her mouth to stifle the sound.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice filled with concern. “It’s okay. Breathe. I’m here.”

She wiped at her tears, even though they kept falling. “I miss you,” she admitted, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “I miss you so much it hurts.”

For a moment, all she could hear was his breathing, steady but ragged, like he was holding something back. Then, softly, “I miss you too.”

Her chest ached at the sound of his voice, at the depth of longing she heard in those four words. Before she could say more, the muffled sound of her husband stirring in the bedroom made her freeze.

“Who are you talking to?” he called, his voice thick with sleep.

Her heart raced, panic tightening her chest. “My sister,” she called back, hoping her voice didn’t betray her.

There was a pause before he mumbled, “Alright. Don’t be long.”

The sound of him settling back into bed sent a wave of relief through her, but it was short-lived. She turned her attention back to the phone, her voice hushed. “I have to go.”

“I know,” Oscar said, his voice heavy with something that sounded like resignation. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

“I’ll try,” she whispered, tears welling up again. “Goodnight, Oscar.”

“Goodnight,” he replied softly, and the call ended.

She let the phone slip from her hand onto the floor, the silence of the bathroom swallowing her whole. She sat there, her head in her hands, the weight of her choices pressing down like a suffocating blanket. I miss you too. His words echoed in her mind, a bittersweet balm for a wound that refused to heal.

Oscar stared at his phone long after the call ended, his hand still clutching it like it might bring her back. The sound of her voice, raw and broken, echoed in his mind. I miss you.

He swiped a hand over his face, but it was no use. The tears came anyway, hot and fast, falling into the silence of his hotel room. He dropped the phone onto the bed and buried his face in his hands.

He’d spent years trying to move on, convincing himself that she was better off, that she’d chosen the life she wanted. But hearing her like that—so lost, so unhappy—made it impossible to keep pretending.

Oscar leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. The ache in his chest was unbearable. She’d always been the one constant in his chaotic life, the person who believed in him when no one else did. And now, she was trapped in a world that didn’t deserve her, a world he couldn’t save her from.

After a moment, he reached for his phone again, his fingers hovering over another familiar name. He hesitated, unsure if this was the right move, but then he pressed the button.

It rang twice before a warm, familiar voice answered. “Oscar? It’s late, love. Are you alright?”

“Mum,” he said, his voice cracking.

She went quiet for a moment, the concern evident even across the line. “What’s wrong?”

He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, but the words tumbled out in a rush. “I’m a fool, I should have fought for her. She called me. She said she hates her life, Mum. She’s married, and she’s having a baby, and she’s miserable. And there’s nothing I can do. I can’t fix it. I can’t help her.”

“Oh, darling,” his mum said gently. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice breaking again. “I thought I’d moved on, but I haven’t. I still—” He stopped, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes.

“You still love her,” his mum finished for him, her tone soft but certain.

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line before his mum spoke again, her voice calm and steady. “Oscar, sometimes the people we love make choices we can’t understand. And as much as we want to, we can’t live their lives for them. She chose this path, and now she has to find her own way through it.”

“But what if she doesn’t?” he asked, his voice filled with frustration and helplessness.

“She might not,” his mum said honestly. “And that’s the hardest part—accepting that you can’t save her. But you can still be there for her. You can still remind her that she’s not alone, even if it’s from a distance.”

He swallowed hard, her words sinking in. “I just... I don’t know how to let her go.”

“You don’t have to let her go, Oscar. Love doesn’t work like that. It stays with us, whether we want it to or not. But you can choose how you carry it. You can let it weigh you down, or you can use it to be the kind of man she’d be proud of, even if she’s not by your side.”

He closed his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I miss her, Mum.”

“I know you do, love,” she said softly. “And maybe one day, things will be different. But for now, focus on your life. Keep driving. Keep living the dream you worked so hard for. That’s what she’d want for you.”

He nodded, her words a small comfort in the chaos of his emotions. “Thanks, Mum.”

“Anytime, darling. And remember, I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“Yeah,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the tears. “I know.”

After they hung up, Oscar sat in the quiet for a long time, the weight in his chest still there but lighter somehow. His mum was right. He couldn’t save her. But he could be there, even if it was just as a voice on the other end of the phone.

And maybe, someday, that would be enough.

Oscar tossed and turned in the hotel bed, the sheets tangling around him as the night stretched on. No matter how hard he tried, sleep wouldn’t come. Her voice echoed in his mind, raw and broken: “I hate my life.” The helplessness clawed at him, making it impossible to rest.

By the time the first rays of sunlight streaked through the curtains, he’d made up his mind. He grabbed his bag, packed hastily, and called his team to arrange a flight back to England. The logistics were a blur—security checks, boarding, sitting through the long flight while his thoughts raced. When the plane touched down, his nerves buzzed with anticipation and doubt.

As he stepped into the arrivals terminal, his driver, Thomas, was already waiting for him, a familiar presence amidst the chaos.

“Good morning, Mr. Piastri,” Mark greeted, taking Oscar’s bag. “Do you want to head straight back to your place?”

Oscar hesitated, the question lingering in the air. His mind flashed back to her tears, the quiet pain in her voice. He clenched his jaw, his decision solidifying.

“Actually…” He leaned closer to Thomas , lowering his voice as he gave her address.

Thomas raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “Alright then,” he said simply, leading Oscar to the waiting car.

The drive felt endless, every passing street heightening his anticipation. When they finally pulled up outside her house, Oscar’s heart pounded against his ribcage. The house was pristine, tucked neatly into an affluent neighbourhood—exactly the kind of life her parents had envisioned for her. It felt like the last place she belonged.

“Wait here,” Oscar told Thomas as he climbed out of the car.

The walk to the door felt like it stretched for miles. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorbell. What if this is a mistake? But then he thought of her tears, her whispered “I miss you,” and pressed the button.

The chime echoed faintly inside. Moments later, the door opened, and there she was.

Her eyes widened in shock, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oscar?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Before he could say a word, her expression crumpled, and she threw herself into his arms, sobbing against his chest. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as she clung to him like a lifeline.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, her muffled sobs the only sound. When she finally pulled back, her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red and puffy.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice shaky.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted. “I had to make sure you were okay.”

She wiped at her eyes, a fresh wave of tears threatening to fall. “You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered, but the words lacked conviction.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked gently.

Her response was immediate. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Come in. Please.”

She stepped aside, letting him into the house. It was spotless, almost sterile, with an air of perfection that felt suffocating. She led him to the living room, gesturing for him to sit.

“My husband’s at work,” she said, her voice low. “But he’ll be back in three hours.”

Oscar nodded, his jaw tightening at the mention of her husband. “Three hours is enough,” he said softly, his eyes fixed on her.

She sank onto the sofa opposite him, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “I don’t even know where to start,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

“Start wherever you need to,” he said, leaning forward. “I’m here.”

Her eyes met his, a flicker of hope breaking through the storm of pain. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel so alone.

She sat on the edge of the sofa, twisting her hands nervously in her lap. Oscar’s presence was steady, grounding, and yet her thoughts spiraled wildly. She glanced at him, his familiar face etched with concern, the same boy she’d confided in all those years ago—but now a man who had built his dream while hers crumbled into a prison.

“I don’t know what to do, Oscar,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I feel so... trapped. Like no matter what I do, I’ll never be happy.”

“You can do something,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “You don’t have to stay here. You deserve to be happy.”

She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “It’s not that simple. I have a husband. A baby on the way. Responsibilities. Expectations.”

Oscar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes locked on hers, steady and determined. “You’re not a prisoner. If you hate it here, you can leave. You can come stay with me.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“My place. It’s not much—just an apartment near the team’s HQ—but it’s quiet, it’s safe, and it’s yours if you want it. No strings, no expectations. You don’t owe me anything.”

Her throat tightened, the weight of his offer settling on her chest. “Oscar, I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “You’ve always been stronger than you think. I can even get you a job with the team if you want something to do. You have a degree—you’re smart as hell—they’d be lucky to have you.”

Tears welled in her eyes again as she looked around the room, at the pristine furniture and carefully curated decor that felt so foreign, so unlike her. “I could,” she said softly, her voice laced with doubt.

“You can,” he said, his voice steady.

She met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest. “My mum will kill me,” she said, a weak attempt at humour that barely masked the genuine fear behind it.

“You’re killing yourself staying somewhere that makes you unhappy,” Oscar replied, his voice unwavering.

She stared at him, his words cutting through the fog in her mind. Slowly, she nodded, the decision taking shape like a fragile flame in her chest. “Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay?” he asked, his brow lifting slightly.

“I’ll do it,” she said, standing up. “I’ll leave.”

His expression softened, pride and relief flashing in his eyes. “Good.”

She hesitated, looking around the room again as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. “I’m really doing this,” she said, her voice trembling.

“You are,” Oscar said, standing to his feet.

Without another word, she turned and walked upstairs. Oscar followed her, his footsteps soft as they climbed the stairs. She entered the bedroom, its pristine state another reminder of the life she was leaving behind.

She opened the wardrobe and pulled out a small suitcase, her hands trembling as she started to pack. Oscar stood in the doorway, watching her quietly. He wanted to offer help but sensed she needed to do this herself.

Her movements were hesitant at first, but as the suitcase filled, her resolve seemed to grow. By the time she zipped it shut, she looked at him, her cheeks flushed but her eyes brighter than they’d been in years.

“I think that’s everything,” she said, her voice steadier now.

“Then let’s go,” he said, offering her a small, encouraging smile.

They carried her things downstairs, the house eerily quiet. She paused at the door, her hand resting on the handle.

“I’m really doing this,” she said again, more to herself than to him.

“You are,” he said, his voice full of quiet confidence.

She turned to look at him, her expression a mix of fear and determination. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded, stepping aside to let her take the lead. The first step was hers to take, but he’d be there to walk beside her every step of the way.

And while his mother may have told her he can't save her, he damn well proved her wrong.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @driverlando

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Not surprised that this 1912 Craftsman style with-a twist home in Montgomery, AL is under contract. It has 3bds, 2ba, 2,353 sq ft, and is only $234,900 + $1mo. HOA.

It's a Craftsman, but it has a traditional southern Dog Trot center hall.

The sitting room has a magnificent carved fireplace and large traditional enclosed shelf units, plus a Craftsman beamed ceiling.

And, check out the magnificent dining room across the hall. It has a door to the porch and an ornately carved fireplace with built-in hutches.

This home is amazing. In the primary bedroom there's a beautiful green tile fireplace with a built-in cabinet.

Nicely updated ensuite.

Bedroom #2 has this amazing fireplace and a built-in closet.

Bedroom #3 is a large room that is used as a home office, but it also has a completely original fireplace and closet.

You can see another big closet in the hall, too.

Bath #2 is vintage. Love that sink.

Not so keen on their kitchen reno. I don't like the plastic cabinet units, but I love that they kept the magnificent original drainboard sink.

Nice big corner banquette.

Back porch/mud room off the kitchen.

The yard is nice, but the garden needs a cleanup.

The patio bricks are lifting, This could be beautiful, though. I think that's a garage, but I'm not sure.

Back here there's a pond. They didn't really maintain the landscaping too well, but it can be saved. It's a 10,000 sq ft lot.

Bonus little guest cottage or studio.

What a great little building. There's a lot you can do with this.

https://www.zillow.com/homes/10-S-Capitol-Pkwy-Montgomery,-AL-36107_rb/72797288_zpid/

[deliciousangelfestival]

Tears In His Ferrari || Chp 1

Character: Bucky Barnes x Farmer!Reader

Words Count: 2,070

Summary: Bucky Barnes, used to a life of luxury, takes on farm challenges in a bet with his father. Mud-stained Ferraris and a rustic farmhouse lead to unexpected personal growth, guided by the stern mentorship of Y/N, a farmer making his city-boy life difficult.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7 , Chp 8 , Chp 9 , Chp 10 , Chp 11 , Chp 12.

Under the relentless blaze of the scorching sun, Bucky Barnes, the pampered scion of the country's largest retail business, was far removed from the air-conditioned boardrooms of his family's empire. Grumbling incessantly, he swatted away the relentless flies that seemed to thrive in the rural heat. 

"Pick them up gently, Bucky. We don't want scrambled eggs before breakfast," Y/N instructed sternly, her eyes narrowing as Bucky clumsily reached for the first egg. The delicate shell slipped through his fingers, meeting the unforgiving ground with a sharp crack.

"Really, city boy? You gotta treat 'em like they're made of glass," Y/N scolded, her tone unyielding. Bucky, now sporting a mix of irritation and embarrassment, shot back with a sarcastic retort.

"Glass? They're just eggs, not Fabergé. And who knew these chickens were so high-maintenance?"

Bucky, wiping sweat from his brow, replied with a half-smile of his own, “This is absurd. I'm a Barnes, not a farmer.”

How could the sole heir of the country's largest retail company find himself toiling like this? It all stemmed from a bet he made with his father.

2 weeks ago:

Under the glittering Dubai night sky, Bucky, driven by the thrill of rebellion, decided to join a race car event despite his father's explicit warnings. The roar of the engines reverberated through the darkness as Bucky sped along the circuit, the city lights blending into a streak of colors.

As Bucky pulled into the pit garage, the bright lights revealed an unexpected sight – his father, stern-faced and waiting. The realization struck Bucky like a sudden brake, his heart pounding in rhythm with the fading echoes of the race.

His father's disapproval was palpable as he approached, a storm gathering in his gaze.

"Dad!" Bucky exclaimed, but his words were drowned by the tirade that followed. His father, fueled by a mix of anger and concern, chased after him, leaving no room for escape.

The victory that should have been a sweet taste of triumph was overshadowed by the looming storm of his father's wrath.

His father, face etched in a stern expression, strode towards Bucky, a potent mix of anger and disappointment simmering beneath the surface. Bucky's heart sank, realizing that the victory he had just tasted was now tainted by the disapproval in his father's eyes.

"Damn it!" Bucky muttered as he reluctantly shut off the engine and climbed out of the race car. His father's presence loomed over him, a formidable figure casting a shadow on Bucky's moment of recklessness.

His dad, arms crossed, began to unleash a torrent of frustration. "For the whole year, you roamed overseas to live your wildlife. You promised me after graduating that you'd take a year off before entering the company."

Bucky hails from a family that owns the largest retail company in the country, a business empire built over generations. As the sole heir to this colossal enterprise, Bucky enjoys the privileges that come with his family's success. 

Bucky is set to inherit Verve, a retail giant in the country. Despite the family's success, his spoiled and impulsive nature creates a conflict between his privileged upbringing and the responsibilities tied to the business. 

Seated on a nearby bench, Bucky nibbled on his snacks, a subconscious attempt to deflect the gravity of the situation. His eyes, darting between the snacks and his father, conveyed a mix of guilt and defiance.

He heard his father's words but struggled to understand why he, the heir to the family's business empire, should start as an intern when his friends effortlessly landed positions in their family companies.

"Why intern, Dad?" Bucky interjected his tone, a mix of frustration and confusion. "We own the company. Why don't I get the same treatment as my friends?"

The tension in the pit garage hung thick as his father expressed his feelings. "I'm fed up with it!" he declared, his voice a mixture of anger and disappointment.

Bucky, attempting to downplay the situation, replied nonchalantly, "Dad, chill. At least I gained some money from this."

His father responded swiftly and cut, "And you blew it all in a second! How can I trust our company to you?"

He rubbed his chest, a physical manifestation of the stress and disappointment weighing on him. "I feel like our ancestors are judging me. They were never big spenders like you."

A moment of silence followed as both father and son grappled with the underlying issues. Bucky's father couldn't shake the feeling that he had spoiled Bucky too much, especially since the loss of Bucky's mother when he was still young.

Feeling offended, Bucky retorted, "Do you think I can't handle my own money? I could make a million in one week."

"Really?" his father questioned, a skeptical look in his eyes.

Bucky, fueled by pride, affirmed, "Yes."

The challenge was set. Bucky's father nodded, "Alright, if you could make our farm profitable with a million, I will give you any position you want in the company."

"Really?" Bucky's eyes widened, a glimmer of opportunity sparking.

"Yes. If you manage to do it, I will never interfere with your life anymore," his father declared. Both of them shook hands, sealing the deal.

But then came the unexpected twist. "By the way, I'm going to cut all your access to your money," his father dropped the bomb.

"What?" Bucky exclaimed, shock and disbelief etched across his face.

"Your great-grandfather started his business with $100. You need to appreciate money, stop wasting it all in one day," his father explained sternly.

"But how am I going to live without money?" Bucky protested, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

"I've provided everything you need on the farm," his father countered, emphasizing the gravity of the challenge. "You're my only son, and I don't want you to be a wastrel!"

The moment's intensity lingered in the air as the weight of the challenge and the drastic shift in Bucky's circumstances began to sink in.

Bucky couldn't help but roll his eyes at the daunting challenge ahead. "Fine. I'll show that I can do it on my own. How difficult can it be?" he muttered, perhaps more to reassure himself than anything else.

Oh, how he wished he could take those words back as his Ferrari pulled up to the family farm, the only luxury permitted by his father. To his dismay, the farm appeared desolate and barren, a stark contrast to the lavish lifestyle he was accustomed to.

Bucky, sporting his usual city-boy ensemble of expensive leather shoes and a sleek leather jacket, stepped out of the pristine car only to find the uneven terrain immediately wreaking havoc on his attire. Mud splattered on the once-immaculate leather shoes, a cruel irony of the stark contrast between luxury and the rustic farm reality.

As Bucky surveyed the damage to his meticulously polished shoes, his eyes widened with panic. "No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me," he muttered frantically, attempting to wipe away the mud with his hands, only succeeding in making matters worse.

The realization of his Red Ferrari parked amidst the farm's untamed landscape hit him like a ton of bricks.

A look of horror crossed Bucky's face as he surveyed the mud-smeared exterior of his prized possession. "This is not happening," he exclaimed, his voice laced with a mix of disbelief and anxiety.

The once-gleaming Ferrari now stood as a symbol of the clash between opulence and the unyielding demands of rural life, leaving Bucky in a state of mild panic about the fate of his beloved car amid this unexpected farm adventure.

His panic only intensified as he turned his attention to the house assigned to him. It was a far cry from the sleek, modern apartment he was accustomed to. With its weathered exterior and superficial charm, the rustic farmhouse left Bucky in shock. 

"Wait, this is my house?" he stammered, disbelief etched across his face. The reality of the situation sank in, and Bucky grappled with the stark contrast between the urban comfort he knew and the quaint simplicity of his new rural abode.

In sheer disbelief, Bucky scratched his head and pulled at his hair. "How am I going to do this? I'm so dead," he lamented, realizing the task's magnitude.

Just as the weight of the situation began to sink in, a voice disrupted his thoughts. "James Barnes?"

Turning around, Bucky saw a woman seated in a farm truck, wearing a practical flannel grey shirt. She stepped out of the truck, her attire markedly suitable for the farm environment.

Still grappling with the shock of the situation, Bucky mustered a response, "The one and only call me Bucky. And you are?"

Undeterred by his casual attitude, the woman retorted with a smirk, "The one who will make your life miserable."

Bucky's eyes widened in disbelief. "Is this how you introduce yourself when meeting a new person?" he shot back, a mixture of surprise and amusement playing across his face. 

Y/N's face remained stoic, her expression unwavering as she delivered the news to Bucky. "I will be straight to the point; your life won't be easy like in the city," she asserted, leaning down to rest her hands on the wooden rail. "I'll be your mentor."

With a pointed finger, she continued, "We're neighbors. My dad asked me to help you." Her tone hinted at an unspoken determination to ensure Bucky's time in the town would be far from a leisurely escape. She was poised, ready to make him regret ever leaving her domain.

Flashback start

Y/N had returned from the farm two days prior, dropping fresh milk on the kitchen cabinet with plans to make cheese—her mother's favorite. Her family, owners of a dairy farm and several crops, had a livelihood deeply rooted in agriculture. The biggest of their ventures was their dairy farm.

As Y/N washed her hands, her father said their family would assist their new neighbor. Y/N, although accustomed to helping neighbors, Y/N couldn't hide her disdain when she heard the name 'Barnes.' She gritted her teeth at the mere mention of the family.

Her aversion to the 'Barnes' name was reflected in her unyielding body language, a subtle tension in her shoulders, and a clenching of her jaw. The prospect of aiding Bucky, the city boy from the family she held some resentment toward, added an unexpected layer of complexity to her already busy life on the farm.

Years ago, in their relentless pursuit of expanding their retail empire, the Barnes family made a business move that significantly impacted Y/N's family farm. The Barnes Corporation, seeking to acquire more land for development, had set its sights on the quaint farmland owned by Y/N's family.

Despite Y/N's family's resistance and the sentimental value attached to their land, the Barnes Corporation, driven by profit, successfully carried out the acquisition, leaving Y/N's family with no choice but to relinquish the farm that had been in their possession for generations.

The ruthless business dealings and lack of empathy from the Barnes family left a bitter taste in Y/N's mouth.

Despite the Barnes Corporation's relentless pursuit of their farmland, Y/N's family salvaged a small piece of their ancestral land.

But, the memories of losing her family's cherished farm to the corporate giant fueled Y/N's resentment and distaste for the Barnes family. 

Flashback end

Y/N flashed Bucky an assuring smile, though it carried an undercurrent of intimidation. Her expression was a blend of warmth and a silent warning. Bucky, feeling the weight of the unspoken challenge, involuntarily gulped.

It was a realization that, from that moment onward, his life was destined to be anything but easy. The smile that seemed promising also bore the weight of a mentorship that would test his resilience in the unfamiliar terrain of the farm.

Still processing the intensity of Y/N's smile, Bucky mumbled uncertainly, “What have I gotten myself into? ... and I have no clue where this is headed." With a mix of trepidation and curiosity in his eyes, he took a hesitant step forward, realizing that the journey ahead was bound to be far more intricate than he had initially bargained for. 

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7

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[winchesterwild78]

Daddy’s Girl pt 3

Master List

Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader (wife), Dean and Reader’s daughter, other characters from Supernatural

Warnings: Fluff, angst, smutish

A/N: Another collab story with @cheekygirl2309. This chapter starts out a little angsty and has some surprises along the way. 

This is a work of fiction and does not follow the Supernatural storyline. I do not own the rights to the characters used.

All work is my own and @cheekygirl2309, don’t take it or use it as your own. Reblogs and likes are appreciated. 

Minors DNI 18+

Over the next few months Delilah and Bubbles became close. Bubbles was still attached to Dean and would follow him everywhere he went. 

Anytime Dean left she would whimper and sit in the garage waiting for him to return. 

Dean and Sammy left on a hunt. A simple salt and burn. It was local, so Dean wouldn’t be gone long. 

I was washing clothes when I heard the purr of the Impala. 

“Daddy’s home!” Delilah squealed as she and Bubbles ran towards the garage. 

I put the laundry in the dryer and made my way to the garage. 

Dean was just getting out of the car and Delilah leaped in his arms. 

Bubbles was running in circles and barking excitedly at Dean. 

“Hey baby. Welcome back.” I kissed his lips and Delilah said “eww”. 

Dean chuckled. “Dean, what are you covered in?” “The ghost threw me through a wall and I landed in mud. I’m filthy and need a shower. 

I nodded as he put Delilah down. 

Dean grabbed his clothes and headed for the showers. The one in our bedroom wasn’t working great, so he went to the shower room. 

Standing in the kitchen I was getting ready to cook dinner when I heard what sounded like a scream. 

I ran straight to Delilah’s room but she was playing and said it wasn’t her. 

Then I ran to the shower room and found Dean with a washcloth covering himself and backing into the wall. 

I let out a giggle when I saw what the commotion was. 

“Y/N, I swear this is ridiculous. I can’t even take a shower in peace.”

Standing at his feet, soaked was Bubbles. Wagging her tail and playing in the puddle that formed in front of her. 

“Oh Dean, she just loves you and missed you. She doesn’t understand boundaries. I don’t blame her for wanting to see you naked though.” I giggled and wiggled my eyebrows. 

He rolled his eyes, “Sweetheart, can you please get her out of here. I’d like to shower without an audience.” 

I nodded and scooped her up in a towel. “Come on Bubbles, let’s let Dean take a shower all alone.” 

He chuckled, “Well ditch the dog and you’re welcome to join me, sweetheart.” 

I smirked, “Why Mr Winchester, are you trying to seduce me?” 

He stepped closer, “Maybe, is it working?” I kissed his lips, “Always”. 

He pulled me close to him and I was under the water. I squealed, “Dean. I’m getting soaked.” He laughed, “That’s the idea, baby.” 

“Let me take Bubbles out first. I’ll be right back.” I walked her to the door and put her down, closing the door behind her. 

My clothes were soaked. Dean was washing his hair when I walked back over. 

I put my arms around him and put my chest flush with his back. “Sweetheart, your clothes are in the way.” 

I laughed, “Hey, you didn’t say anything about me losing the clothes.” He turned and faced me. Rinsed his hair and as I watched the water and soap run down his body I bit my lip. 

I will never get tired of looking at him. Damn I’m a lucky woman. 

Dean slowly removed my soaked clothes and they landed on the tile floor with a thud. 

Dean began kissing me and his strong, calloused hands held me tight. 

“Dean. I..” my voice trailed off as his fingers slipped between my thighs. 

His lips against my neck and leaving love bites down my skin. 

My fingers ran in his wet hair. My head tilting back as a moan escaped my lips. 

Dean took me against the cold tile walls. Our breath mingled and our pants and moans filled the room. Echoing the sounds of our pleasure. 

When we finished Dean cleaned us both up and turned off the water. He pulled me close and kissed my lips. “Thanks Bubbles for coming in the shower.” He winked and I giggled. 

The two of us dried off. I left the bathroom with a towel around me. Slipping into our bedroom to get dressed. 

Dean came in and put his dirty clothes in the hamper. “I’m gonna finish cooking dinner. You relax. Can you check on Delilah and Bubbles?” 

Dean nodded and left the room. I walked back into the kitchen to start cooking. 

Dean yelled my name. “Y/N! Come quick!” 

I ran down the hallway towards him. “What?! What’s wrong?!” 

“I don’t see Delilah or Bubbles!” 

We searched frantically around the bunker and couldn’t find her. 

Dean and I ran up the stairs and found the door wide open. Dean and I looked at each other and panic filled my chest. 

“Dean, where is she?!” 

We ran outside and started yelling for her and Bubbles. We couldn’t find either of them and I was terrified. 

“Delilah!! Honey, where are you?!” I prayed hard and screamed for Cass and Jack. Within a minute they both appeared. 

“Delilah’s gone! Help me. Please find my baby!” 

Dean was frantically searching. A few minutes later he yells he found her. 

We ran to his side and found Delilah sitting against a tree, knees pulled tight to her chest and crying. Bubbles was laying against her whimpering. 

Dean scooped Delilah up and held her tightly against his chest. 

“Oh god! Baby are you okay? Why did you leave the bunker?” I asked as the tears fell 

Her little lip quivering, “I took Bubbles out to potty and she ran off. I went to get her and I couldn’t find my way back. I’m sorry daddy.” She buried her face in Dean’s chest. His strong arms holding her tight. “Shh, it’s okay baby. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.” He kissed her head and started to walk towards the bunker with her. 

I carried Bubbles, Cass and Jack followed. 

“Thank you both for coming. I’m sorry I panicked and called you both.” Cass touched my shoulder, “It’s okay. We’re family and we will always be there for you.” 

I nodded, hugged them both and they left. 

Back in the bunker Delilah wouldn’t let go of Dean. We sat on the couch and decided to talk to her. 

“Hey, baby girl, we need to talk about what happened.” 

Her big green eyes, wet from tears, looked at Dean and then over at me. 

“Sweetheart, I appreciate you trying to be a big girl and take Bubbles out to potty, but you can’t do that without Mommy or me. It’s not safe. Bubbles is still a baby too and she doesn’t understand she can’t run away. We are so glad you’re safe, but mommy and daddy were really scared.” 

She nodded, “I’m sorry daddy. I promise not to do that again. I was scared too, daddy.” 

He held her tight, “I know baby girl.” 

I pulled her into my lap and held her tightly. 

“Mommy, too tight.” She giggled. “No, never too tight. Baby I was so scared. Mommy is glad you’re safe. Maybe daddy and Uncle Sammy can build a fenced in area for you to take Bubbles outside. What do you think?” 

She nodded enthusiastically, “Yes!” 

“What do you say, Dean?” “Actually I think that’s a great idea. I’ll see if Uncle Sammy can come over this weekend. Until then, no going outside without us. Understood?” 

“Yes, Daddy. I promise.”

She hugged us both and went to her room to play. When she left the room I crumbled. 

Sobs left my body and Dean held me tight. “It’s okay baby. She’s okay. She’s safe.” 

“I know, but Dean it could have been so much worse. It’s my job to teach her and protect her. I failed her today.” 

“Hey, look at me. You didn’t fail her today. We talked to her and we all learned a lesson today.”

“Dean, what if something bad happened? I wouldn’t survive that.” 

“Hey, remember what Jack said. She’s going to live a very long and happy life.” 

I nodded remembering Jack’s words. 

After a few minutes in Dean’s arms I was calm enough to finally cook dinner. 

I was busying myself cooking when I heard Dean and Delilah playing. When dinner was ready I walked down the hallway towards Delilah’s room. I stopped at the door when I heard Delilah talking to Dean. 

“Daddy, I didn’t mean to scare you or mommy. I just wanted to be a big girl. If mommy has a baby in her tummy I’m going to be a big sister so I have to be sposinsible.” 

Dean chucked at her pronunciation of the word “responsible”. 

“Well baby, I love that you want to be responsible, but you have to be safe too. That’s a big part of being responsible.” 

“Yes, daddy. I promise. I’m gonna be safe and sponsible. I’m gonna be the best big sister too.” 

He pulled her in his arms, “Yes you are pumpkin.” 

I walked to the door, “Okay you two. Dinner is ready. Go wash up.” 

Delilah jumped up and ran to me. “Mommy I’m sorry. I’m gonna be more sponsible so I can help with the baby.” I hugged her, “I know baby. All that matters is you’re safe and home. Now you and daddy go wash up so we can eat.” 

I kissed her head and stood up. Dean stood and kissed me. “She’s going to make a great big sister.” He said as he hugged me. 

“Yeah, I just hope we can handle two of them. I can’t imagine what a little you is going to be like.” I chuckled. 

Dean laughed, “Oh you know, charming, devilishly handsome, funny and wrapped around his Mama’s finger.” 

I smirked and brushed my lips against his, “Just like his daddy.” 

When dinner was done, Delilah took her bath and got ready for bed. Dean and I decided we needed to spend some time with her making sure she knew we weren’t mad or upset with her. 

Dean grabbed some blankets and we all sat on the couch, snuggled together. 

I sat beside Dean and Delilah climbed in his lap. 

We turned on the tv and Dean turned on Scooby Doo. Delilah giggled and I smiled looking at her. 

Dean pulled her tight. I knew the events of the day scared him even if he wouldn’t admit it. 

I placed my hand on his arm and he looked over at me. I gave him a knowing smile and he leaned over, placing a soft kiss on my lips. 

“I love you both so much.” “We love you too, Dean.” 

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[mountainsandmayhem]

hey hun!! for your 500 followers celebration could you do 📝, of a scenario in which joel comes home to find you all cramped up and in pain since you began your period and he decides to be the comforting little man and cuddles you to death??

(no pressure!! 🥰🤗)

-vii💗💗

Joel: Period Master

18+, but mostly fluff

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

AN: Thank you sweet Viv for this ask. This is based in the Little Dove universe, but Sarah and Ellie are teenagers and living at home. 💋 also, I 100% did not edit or proof read this. Sorry!

Joel has had a long ass day. A joke of a day really. First the concrete was late, then someone broke the powered wheelbarrow so they were moving gravel by hand. Then it started raining and they scrambled to cover everything, the job site soon became a muddy mess. He’s desperately looking forward to a hot shower and a glass of whiskey.

He pulls into the garage to see your vehicle already parked, which is strange since you had plans with a friend for after work drinks.

He trudges from the truck to the back door, mud still breaking off his work boots along the shiny concrete floor of the garage. He toes them off before heading into the back entry. Your heels are tossed on the floor, work bag and jacket haphazardly placed on the bench.

“Babe?” He calls from the back door, walking around to the family room to find his two daughters curled up on the couches.

“Hi girls. Where’s your mom?”

They both shoot daggers from their eyes, Ellie clutching the blanket tighter around herself and Sarah flipping the ice pack that’s draped across the back of her neck.

Shit, already that time.

The joys of living with all women….they’ve synced up. His usually sweet teenagers daughters turn extra moody, but Joel is the supporter of this family in every way, so he is always prepared for this time each month. Sarah, usually the sweet tooth, needs salt and chocolate milk. Ellie, usually the salty one, needs Diet Coke and green gummy frogs. All things Joel keeps tucked up in a cupboard, or in the back of the beer fridge in the garage.

He sneaks quietly back into the living room, putting the emergency supplies for the girls down on the coffee table as they watch Dirty Dancing.

Ellie looks up at him with sad eyes, tears welling in the corners. “Thanks, dad.”

He crouches down beside her and rubs her lower back through the big fuzzy blanket she’s cocooned in. “You’re welcome, kiddo. Do you need anything else?”

Sarah’s head pops up from her couch, “Mom’s not doing well. You should go be with her.”

He kisses both his daughters on the foreheads, taking a big breath before walking down the hall to your bedroom. Nothing in this world breaks his heart more than seeing you in pain. He knows some months can be worse than others, he knows about the bloating and the large clots you deal with. He knows that you can be insatiably hungry one minute and throwing up the next. He knows that your cramps can have you on the floor in the matter of seconds most of the time.

He opens the door as quietly as possible, finding you curled in a tight ball under the down filled duvet, just your hair peaking out the top. The room is stifling hot, the air almost thick, it feels like being in Phoenix in July as he pads over to the bed.

“Baby?” He whispers, carefully climbing up beside you, trying not to disturb you. A lesson he learned a few years ago when you had finally gotten comfortable, only to be brought to big crocodile tears when he moved a pillow that was tucked against your back.

A sad groaning whine leaves your throat as his large palm dips under the blanket to cup your forehead. “Sweetie, you’re burning up.”

“I’m freezing,” you whine, pulling the big blanket tighter around you.

“Ok, baby girl. I’m here now,” he says, standing and stripping down to his boxers briefs. You peek your eyes over the blanket, watching the way his strong body flexes and relaxes, the muscles ripping as he moves. The summer sun has tanned his arms a beautiful golden brown.

He wanders around to lay behind you. “Let me in, honey.”

You let go of the blanket so he can slip under, his warmth immediately sinking into you, heating your sore and achy body all the way to the bone. “You’re practically naked under here, Little Dove.”

You sink back into his heat. “Don’t look, I’m wearing the worst granny panties and one of those super pads.”

His hands trail around your slides, a large palm resting on the very bottom of your belly where the cramps are, hand sliding under the band of your incredibly unattractive panties. “You’re sexy to me no matter what you wear.”

Joel begins kneading the muscles of your lower abdomen, simulating the contracting of your uterus and the pain begins to ease. You moan and relax more into your perfect man.

“That feel good?” He says in a deep, gravel filled whisper.

“Mm-hmmm,” you hum, closing your eyes and finally feeling relief from the debilitating cramps.

Joel pulls you in tighter and kisses your shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re suffering, baby. I’m going to take care of you. Anything you need, I’ll do it or get it.”

“DAAAAAAD!!” Sarah and Ellie call in unison from the couch. “PIZZAAAA!!!”

You snort a little laugh. Poor Joel, having to deal with all these uterus’s.

“Pizza party?” You ask.

“Anything for my girls.” He hums, stubble grazing the shell of your ear.

“Anything?” You say mischievously.

“You’re not painting my toe nails again”

“Damn. I have this new hot pink that I think would really suit you,” you tease.

Joel’s quiet for a moment, still kneading the muscles absentmindedly, but with incredible care and precision. “I’ll lend you my favourite sweats and t shirt if you stay away from my toes.”

“Deal,” you say with a wince.

“What’s wrong?” Joel says, pulling you onto your back so he can look you over. Concern etching his eyebrows.

You reach up and rub the creases spot with your thumb, his eyes meeting yours. “Butt hole cramp,” you say flatly.

Joel smirks down at you, at this angle your swollen, heavy breasts are on display for him. “Want me to kiss it better?”

“You’re a menace, Joel Miller. And our daughters will riot if we don’t get them pizza soon.”

Joel lends you his clothes and helps you get dressed before sliding on his jeans and t shirt. He kisses your forehead and helps you to the lazy boy chair, brining your king sized duvet with him to wrap you up.

“I’ll be back with pizza,” he says to the group.

As soon as he’s out of ear shot Ellie pipes up, “do you think if we play this up we can get him to let us paint his toe nails again?”

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

meaning upon motion: rosquez [e]

Marc catalogues those things that keep showing up.

The rosé wine he likes—God, Valentino used to give him so much shit for that, him and his girly drinks. Sugar next to the coffee pot. A room for himself, but Valentino’s door is always open. The towels are 100% cotton, silken soft to the touch.

It says—something, maybe, or it’s the heavy roll of all that fucking wine in his stomach.

Marc doesn’t want to look too closely into it, so he doesn’t. Everything is still there.

Valentino makes a noise, that cross between kissing his teeth and clicking his tongue. “Tomorrow, eh?” He says, pointing his chin to the window, to the track outside.

Rain had turned it into a slippery hellslide, all brackish puddles and mud banks. He’d been thinking about that track for ten years now, give or take. Dreading it, picturing it, loving it. If they go to shit tomorrow, if racing does to them what it likes to do, he’ll have gone up on a dirt bike there anyway.

It helps. A little.

“Yeah,” Marc mutters. He goes for another sip, finds his glass empty.

Valentino is right there, though. Their calves are touching. Their knees. He lets out a soft ah, let me and fills it again for him, just a couple of fingers, almost like a fancy restaurant. It’s funny, because a couple of minutes—hours—ago, they were pretty far from each other on this ratty couch.

Marc snorts. Doesn’t want to linger on this either. “Who else is coming?”

“I tell you, no? Just the two of us.”

Valentino’s expression stutters, his baby-fine eyebrows twitching and his mouth pursing. Marc wouldn’t have noticed if they weren’t so close.

“Did you? Sorry, I forgot.” It comes out easy, that harmless little lie.

Problem is, Valentino is bright like a knife between the ribs. “You are alone,” he points out. Then, less sharply: “I think, allora, for sure he brings Álex this time.”

Marc pulls a face, and Valentino breaks into a chuckle. He’d considered it, for a brief, panicky half second, right before he boarded on the plane to Bologna.

But Álex is already unhappy enough with this whole thing.

So Valentino is right—he is here alone. No Ducati mechanics, which he could’ve demanded, back to their usual tune; no Álex, which was expected; none of his branded bikes.

And the Ranch is empty.

“He wouldn’t leave the dogs,” is what Marc settles on saying rather than why don’t you have any of your staff here? Where are your Academy boys? Why are you doing this? Am I being stupid again? Is it funny? Another little harmless lie.

“All the better for me.”

Marc smiles. “Isn’t it usually?”

And that’s how the night goes, the two of them not quite talking, brushing against the heat of each other, edges dulled on rosé wine. Marc allows himself to wonder if tonight, maybe, but nothing happens.

The disappointment only softens the next morning, when Valentino shows up at his door at an insensate hour and drags him to the garage. He shepherds Marc along, a hand splayed on his back, between his shoulder blades, to show him—

“So?”

Valentino is basically bouncing. Trying to play it cool, with another impatient tsch sound, but his eyes are too keen, and there’s something jittery about the sway of his long, spindly arms.

Marc swallows past the tangle in his throat. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

It is an MX Honda, a red and orange 93 emblazoned on the front, two stroke engine. Not his model, but close enough. Everything about it is smooth and new and polished. If he tried, he thinks he would be able to smell the leather, the freshness of undented metal. His stomach rolls, light and airy like a frizz of champagne.

What an odd, expensive thing to do for a one-off guest when you have dozens of bikes around. Marc would’ve ridden any of them.

“It is,” he fishes for a word. Any word. Everything he feels is the hook of affection tangled in his guts, tugging. His mouth might as well be stuffed with cotton. “Good. Tell me the specs?”

“Always the hunt with you,” Valentino says.

It sounds mean—a little. In that way of Valentino’s of prodding bruises. Fond too, with him squeezing his arm, fingers lingering on the crook of his elbow. Marc wants to get on it already. Wants to race. Wants to freeze this instant, Valentino golden in the morning sun, just the two of them, talking about a dirt bike’s innards.

Leathers, gloves, boots, helmets. They hop in, and the track unfurls ahead of him. Dejavu threatens to kick Marc off the first five or so laps, where they aren’t exactly racing yet. It’s not that different—except the angle of a few corners. Too narrow here, too wide there, places where it’s either his memory fumbling or Valentino, shockingly, making changes.

“Still remember it?” Valentino prods, shouting over the engines rumbling. Marc can picture it, the slanted curve of his grin.

He scoffs. “Of course.”

Then they are racing, reckless with it. Valentino slides on a half-dried mud patch when he gets off the usual line to try and overtake him. Marc goes down too low on a corner and loses the front. They kick up dust and dirt, laughing uproariously, and Marc allows himself to think, just once, that Valentino has to be up to something.

It is easy anyway, to have fun, even if he knows that Valentino is shrewd, no stitch without a knot, even if he’s prickling, restless, unkissed. They didn’t come up with rules, so the excuse of racing becomes a graceless overtake fest, round and round and round, until their bikes start to splutter without fuel.

Valentino leads them through a final show, a victory lap on the colosseum, bathed by the infernal midday sun. Leads them to the kitchen after that—chipped plates, an atrocity of a tablecloth, horrendous yellow flowers on a green field. Another world from the track, it looks like.

There’s escabetx. The fish is soggy—reheated—but it tastes good. Familiar. Way, way, way above Valentino’s cooking skills.

Dishes left on the sink for later or tomorrow or whenever, they circle back to the couch. It throws Marc off more than the changes to the track, more than his growing catalogue of things that don’t quite add up. Last time he was here, there wasn’t a moment to think. The Ranch was full of cameras, and events, and eager-hungry Academy kids, and personnel, and PR stuff.

Valentino brandishes a small chocolate bar like a parrying knife. Breaks off a piece for himself, shoves the rest in his hands. Marc can’t pretend to not want it. He’s always liked sweetness.

He can’t pretend to not have something on his mind either. It lingers, red-hot.

Might as well do it. Make it real.

“Valentino,” he starts, gets cut off.

“Are you having fun?”

Marc’s mouth clicks shut. He prods his tongue against his teeth, the chocolate sticking there, to not laugh. The weave of them sitting so close feels like crystal in his grip. Fragile glass. It’s very Valentino. A bit myopic. He’s immortalized moments less gentle than this. Cradled them close and kept them with him forever.

And really, fun.

Was fun ever the issue?

“Of course,” he answers, smiles. The corners of his eyes are crinkling, he knows, but so are Valentino’s.

There’s a suspended beat, Valentino inching closer, about as subtle as his neon merch. “But is it fantastic—the best you’ve ever had?”

Marc does laugh this time. Valentino aims for smug, hits it pretty well.

“Almost.”

And it’s a mindfuck, that he sees the way Valentino straightens up in real time. Now that he isn’t so young anymore, buzzing with the chance of touching a streak of the divine. Now that he can recognize the man in him—which is no less devastating, truth be told. The little frown on his forehead, deepening the wrinkles there.

Tell me, he says without saying, spreading his hand on Marc’s ankle. “You used to be pushier when I was twenty.”

Valentino’s breathing does something funny. A convulsive little wheeze.

“You,” he starts, has to try again. “In Argentina.”

Marc looks off to the side.

Argentina, right. His arm had been hurting, chainsaw teeth to the old wound. Álex had been watching, a worried, unhappy tilt to his lips—one in a sea of pinched-tight faces, going from the jerky seesaw of his shoulder to Valentino standing there, close. Too many cameras, too many eyes, too many points he could win. Did win.

And Marc is as superstitious as he can afford to be.

Nothing good can come out of Termas, of Sepang—like nothing good can come out of Galilee.

Marc doesn’t remember what he said, exactly. Only that he’d been clenching down on a razor blade for the whole weekend and very, very tired of being in pain. If Valentino touched him then, it’d have hurt too. But now he has Marc’s ankle, and a bike for him, and Catalan food, and chocolate, and soft towels, and everything rattling in his mind for the past thirty-something hours is—

Kiss me.

“But it’s fine, now.” It isn’t.

It categorically isn’t, but it’s stupid to worry about that. Why tempt this into breaking? Marc licks chocolate off his fingers, Valentino’s eyes burning on his hands, his mouth. He clambers into his lap with the sugar sharp on his tongue, their knees knocking together.

Careful, mild, it never lasts, not between them. Valentino gets both hands on his waist, thumbs digging on the sliver of skin where his undershirt has ridden up.

The small bite of pain is exquisite. Barely anything, but still.

“Cannot be easy, hm?” Valentino hums, lilting, bemused, closer than they’d been since that odd week between Sepang and Valencia.

“Like you want it easy.”

He spits out the word, and Valentino laughs. Runs his fingers over the jut of his hipbones. “Allora, we can say we try, it is boring.”

It’s that small sway of movement that gets him. His head is spinning. He surges into the kiss he’s been hungry for a humiliating stretch of time, catches the noise Valentino makes ravenously. Marc likes it more than he thought he would, making out like teenagers—nipping at Valentino’s lower lip to make him hiss, licking into his mouth.

The kisses start melting together, one after the other after the other. They’re greedy, unashamed. Marc only realizes they’re grinding against each other when Valentino breaks off, groans, sweat beading on the edge of his thinning hair.

“Do you want—” Valentino skims his hand over the knobs of his spine. Marc wedges them closer together, leaning in to suck a bruise on the hollow of his throat.

“Not yet,” he mumbles there, hidden, safe as it gets. “No. Sorry. I am not—I do not know what—”

“Alright,” Valentino tells him, brusque but not unkind. “Alright.”

Is it, Marc wants to ask, but instead he takes his time pressing his teeth to Valentino’s jaw, leaving a red imprint there. Marc can feel him hard against him, pressing against his belly. There’s a gasping noise, but Valentino shakes his head at his inquisitive look.

It’s exactly as ungainly as the past thirty minutes and thirty hours were, Valentino pulling their cocks out. Takes some shuffling. Marc ends up with his hand on the half-melted candy bar, stumbles over half a dozen curses, and Valentino tugs at wrist to lick it clean before managing to get his underwear down and spitting on his own palm.

His hand is still dry around them both. The callouses there scrape. Marc chokes on a whine, closes his eyes, then forces them open again because he has to watch this.

“Vale,” Marc moans, hips hitching. Valentino’s other hand surges up, grabs his chin tight to force his head back. There’re teeth, his tongue soothing their sting.

Marc jolts, their cocks rubbing together—and God, it’s only everything he wants. After that, they don’t settle into a rhythm as much as they crumble into one. Valentino’s hand hot and tight around them, and his mouth insistent against Marc’s for a kiss, two, ten. The slide gets easier, wetter. There’s the fucking noise it makes, damp, obscene.

And there’s Valentino, looking at him. Softer, maybe, than either of them should risk.

“Are you—wooing me?” Marc asks, halfway to a laugh. He doesn’t stammer. Much.

It’s there, behind his teeth—were you wooing me this whole time? Are you being gentle?

Valentino has the gall to grin, makes his grip a little firmer when Marc tries to pretend to be annoyed. “I am a romantic,” he says, all showmanship that shatters when Marc bucks against him, grinds them together. “Stop that, Christ.”

He doesn’t.

So Valentino clamps down on his nape, wound tight, biting on his throat. There’s zero fucking finesse to any of it, Marc fumbling for air, for the string of his sanity, digging into Valentino’s skinny, sharp shoulders. It’s ugly, too fast. Valentino jerks at the bite of his nails. Marc is so hard his vision that starts to wobble.

Next time, they can get on a bed, they can be sweet—maybe.

Right now, Marc wants to come so much he’s unraveling, drool pooling inside his mouth.

“Good?” Valentino asks, strained. He could make it sound cruel—there was a time when it was the only way he spoke. But it’s plaintive instead. Small.

“Fantastic. Best I’ve ever had.”

God, he tries for a joke, for wryness—it comes out too honest, instead. Marc vows to be ashamed about it later.

Or not at all. Valentino buries whatever he was going to say next in a bite, hard and mean on the swell of his chest. Marc catches a fraction of what his face looks like, shocked, hungry, mouth tight. He comes over his hand, his stomach, shaking with a keening groan.

It’s—Christ. Marc ruts against Valentino and his lax, sloppy grip until he’s twitching and whining with oversensitivity, cock fully soft against his thigh. But those flashes of pain get Valentino back online, have him wrapping his come-streaked fingers properly around Marc.

He doesn’t take that easy, either. Fucks Valentino’s fist, pants heavily. It’s burnt with hot iron in his mind, how Valentino’s expression had turned raw like a bruised nerve ending. Marc chases his own orgasm wildly, babbling—Spanish, Catalan, Italian, whatever. He comes in a kaleidoscopic fritz of color, everything narrowed down to the slack line of Valentino’s mouth.

His bones are loose, liquid. If he tried walking, he thinks his feet would sink in clouds. The minutes tick by around them, a string of flowing, round pearls slipping from his fingers.

Marc blinks—once he feels marginally more human again—and stretches his neck. Smooths his hand over Valentino’s crooked collar, his skinny chest. There’s come on his stomach, drying on a viscous patch over dark gray fabric.

“Your shirt is dirty,” he says, feeling clumsy, feeling golden.

Valentino clicks his tongue. “Ah, who cares.”

“Uhm, okay.” Marc decides against safety, tucks his face into the crook of Valentino’s throat. “It is an ugly shirt anyway.”

There’s laughing, the sound punched out and disbelieving. A hand comes up to cradle the back of his neck. Outside, it’s raining, a soft, gray security blanket over the everything else that they’ll one day be able to say.

[luna-andra]

Domesticated!König Headcanons ✨

Image: @Jispooks (Source)

Some HCS I thought up of for funsies, take it with a grain of salt if you disagree with any of it. And let me know what you would think differently! If this gets any love, I have a couple of more headcanon ideas to post as well, so please support my delusions of grandeur!

Part 2 is out! StepDad!Konig

Adjusting to civilian lifestyle for König proved to be challenging. Thankfully, he had you to help him along the way.

If you're not from Austria, König will compromise with spending summers in Vienna in the vacation home and live full-time with you in your home county (or wherever the hell you decide to choose. As long as he's not a convicted war criminal there.)

König tends to keep his PTSD episodes in check for the most part, except when he has a few drinks. He opts to sleep in the guest room after scaring you one night from the terrors. The years away from his past life helps them fade, but he will always carry that shit with him.

You help him job hunt. Blue-collar work was for him, the less human interaction, the better.

With that being said, König insists on DIY-ing every problem in the house. He tried figuring it out with his own basic knowledge, but became unstoppable when you introduced him to the DIY side if YouTube. Some projects had him at his wits end, and when you hear him cuss up a storm in German, you have to hold your laughter back until you're out of earshot.

The grocery bill. That's all I gotta say.

Add a couple more bills on it if you got a kid(s).

Most days, König is careful with not trekking mud in from the job site, leaving his boots in the garage/on the front porch. If it slips his mind, you know he's tired. It took a couple of scoldings to figure it out, but he does his best to make it up to you.

König had been okay with living where you wanted to, but he doubled down on living somewhere secluded, or at least outside of the city. Meaning longer drives/day trips if you wanted to shop at outlets. Totally fine, you talk his ear off during the drive to catch up on what he's missed out on during his long week of work.

Tons of nature hikes. If you weren't used to the outdoors, König would get you shaped up. He was so damn proud of you when you stopped relying on GPS and used maps/surroundings/cardinal directions, etc.

Dog or cat family, but I also see him being a reptile dad, too.

WANTS KIDS. THE MORE, THE BETTER. He wants to age and be surrounded by his kids & grandkids every holiday.

When you would go out on dates/shopping trips, there was no avoiding the double takes and stares. You man was giant, it wasn't something he could help. It would grind on his nerves when it came from grown ass adults, but he had a soft spot for children. They didn't know better, so he'd flash a friendly smile or wave so they're not afraid. Those moments would bring back the baby fever for him.

Nothing made König more happy than coming back home to the home you two have made after an adventurous day, watching you saunter happily to the kitchen to grab drinks and snacks to settle down into the plush couch next to him to watch some movies. Your choice, always. And if that baby fever was raging, he would toss you over his shoulder to settle that urge in the bedroom 😏

If this does well, I'll consider posting some other headcanons I have been thinking of! Likes & reblogs are always appreciated <3

[slutstachrry]

Harmless Prank

A check-in blurb for Fairway to Heaven 💞

HIIIIII I’ve been wanting to write this since i saw this Tik Tok trend lol.

WARNINGS: Prank, ~Dom Harry~ my beloved, mostly fluff.

_________________________________________________

Briar Barlowe is content with her relationship. She really is. But sometimes she likes to cause some trouble to keep things zesty and interesting.

She’d gotten the idea from Tik Tok; the abominable app that Harry detests, but still will crane his neck to watch while her head is in his lap and have the nerve to ask follow up questions to Reddit story times.

Briar grew up with 4 brothers, so she is no stranger to a harmless prank. So, when this video popped on to her feed one night while Harry snored through the movie they sat down to watch, she set the plan in motion.

Keeping herself busy throughout the day, she ran mini errands to keep up the appearance that she is simply too swamped to answer his messages.

What are you up to today? Didn’t get to say bye.

?

Are you getting a wax? I’m perfectly capable of doing that for you. Landing strip, triangle, polka dots. You name it.

Baby?

Briar smiles to herself. The power she feels from having a 41 year old man eat out of the palm of her hand is unmatched.

She didn’t really go shopping, but earlier she brought some designer paper bags bags she’d collected over the years down from their closet and began throwing old shoes, empty Dunkin’ cups and random dog supplies she’d found in her car to fill them up.

She looks down at her nails — the key to this prank. Her Coca-Cola red, almond shaped nails sparkle back at her. Those she had gotten done today, partially why she couldn’t answer Harry.

She clicks the garage door button to close behind her as she enters the mudroom. The dogs greet her, the bags swinging over their heads, making Gus glare at her.

Harry is at the kitchen island, his new reading glasses on his nose. She can see something boiling on the stove behind him. She begins filming on her phone nonchalantly, placing it against the flower vase on the entry table, pointed perfectly in the room.

He glances up, a tiny bit of relief washing over his features. He was wracking his brain trying to figure out why she’d leave the house without a word and ignore him the whole day.

“Hi Birdie,” he stands up to meet her by the door and places the glasses on the counter. “Started to scare me a little there when I didn’t hear from you. Did you do some shopping?”

He reaches for her hands, rubbing his thumb over her new, shiny, red nails.

“Mhm. Just thought I could use some me-time. I bought some stuff and got my nails done. Niall said I looked a little run down when he saw me at the club, so he treated me.”

Briar tries her damnedest to keep a straight face, but the way she could visibly see her words click in his head had her ready to break character at any moment. His brows furrow deeper than she’d ever seen before his voice deepens to speak. She beats him before he can.

“He told me this color looks nice on me. Makes me look tan.”

“Niall? My Niall? Niall Fucking Horan? Paid for my girl’s clothes and nails? I don’t fuckin’ think so,” he grits out as he rushes to the other side of the island to grab his phone and keys.

“He was just being nice, H, it’s not a big deal.”

“It IS a big deal, Briar. Does he think I don’t take care of you?”

“I don’t know! I thought he was just rewarding me for my hard work. Where are you going?”

Harry’s eyes are bulging out of his head at this point. He storms to the mud room to put on his shoes, to which Briar follows behind to try and stop him. She’s successful for a moment before he is back on his tear to the car.

“Rewarding you for your hard work? He’s a sick fuck is what he is!” Harry throws his hands into the air in disbelief that Briar finds this okay. “I’m gonna go rip his fucking bollocks off is where I’m going!”

“H — H, wait! It’s a prank,” she grabs at his wrist to prevent him from going to the garage while bursting into giggles. “It’s not real! I’m just teasing you.”

Harry stops in his tracks, an incredulous laugh falling from his lips. He looks back at the girl standing in front of him in stitches of laughter.

Instead of storming past her and pouting like a child like she expected of him, a wolfish grin appears on his face.

Briar’s head tilts at him like Wynnie’s does when he whistles at her to come inside. Harry places his hands on her shoulders, slowly walking her backwards towards the steps.

“A prank, hm? Thought that was funny?”

She smiles, rolling her chin to her right shoulder, suddenly feeling an adrenaline rush and shyness at the same time. He stops her at the base of the stairwell leading to their bedroom.

Harry leans into her ear to speak at a low whisper— a move he only does when Daddy shows up. Briar audibly gulps.

“I have an idea. How about I get to pick the color your arse will be tonight? Bet I could match it to the nail color Niall picked real nice.”

_________________________________________________

EEEEEE lmk what u think 🤠🤠🤠

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

I did an alternate prompt for today, so BuckTommy Fluffebruary Day Twenty-One (!!!!) is Candlelight Dinner. Buck does experience a little storm-related anxiety at the beginning, but he's okay. Also there is one line in here that is the entire reason why I named Tommy "Tommaso" in these fics instead. I'm not kidding, it's so dumb. This is posted over here on AO3. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

There’s a storm outside, and Buck is doing his best to ignore it while he cooks dinner. He keeps checking his phone, but he knows Tommy won’t be home for a bit. It still makes him nervous, because LA drivers are terrible at the best of times. With rain pouring from the sky and high winds, it’s a thousand times worse, and he's had to deal with the aftermath of one too many accidents in these same conditions.

He’s taking the eggplant parmesan out of the oven and setting it on the stove when a flash of lightning outside catches him off-guard. He has to grip the handle of the stove door while he breathes through his nose and out through his mouth. It’s not—he doesn’t usually have a problem anymore, but it’s been a long week and his defenses are a little lower than normal.

The rumbling of the garage door hits his ears, and he realizes he’s been standing still in their kitchen for a few minutes. Tommy opens the door from the utility/laundry/mud room that connects the garage to the kitchen, and Buck looks over his shoulder to smile at him, feeling his shoulders relax and the ball of tension in his belly loosen.

“Hey,” Tommy says, greeting him with a kiss to his cheek and an arm around his waist. “That smells amazing.”

“It just needs a few minutes,” Buck says, turning to put his arms around Tommy’s shoulders so he can kiss him properly. “How’s Sal?”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Sal’s a headcase, because he and Gina had a pregnancy scare last week. I don’t even think you can call it that when you’re over forty and already have three kids, but I get to take him to get snipped next week.”

Buck snorts. “Isn't that an outpatient procedure?”

“I think I'm more moral support.”

“Get him a cone,” Buck suggests.

Tommy laughs and leaves a lingering kiss on his cheek. “That’s what I was thinking. Gina thinks it'll be hilarious, he’ll probably take a swing at me. How was your day?”

He sighs and shrugs. “It was a day. We actually had four separate birth calls, so maybe something’s in the air.”

He smiles when Tommy hums and leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. When a flash of light fills the kitchen window again, he jumps just a little, and Tommy squeezes him close.

“There’s a very new roof over our heads,” Tommy reminds him, rubbing his back and looking at him with nothing but warmth. Buck loves him for that. He loves him for a lot of things, of course, but he loves that Tommy’s first instinct is to make sure Buck feels safe. “And neither of us has any reason to go outside tonight.”

Buck nods and lets himself get pulled into a hug, burying his face in Tommy’s shoulder. He smells like their laundry soap and his deodorant and that patchouli hand soap that Gina buys and home. “I’ll be okay, I promise.”

Tommy kisses his hair and then his ear, and Buck huffs out a laugh. An answering chuckle rumbles in his ear, and he pulls back to kiss his boyfriend. He’s about to ask if he’s hungry when the lights go out and the house goes silent.

“Well,” Tommy says, his face barely visible in the dark kitchen. “There goes that.”

They poke their faces out the front door and see that the neighbors are all dark, too, except for the guy at the corner who has a solar battery setup. The street lamps are also out. Tommy grabs a flashlight from the drawer in the sideboard by the front door and uses it to guide them back to the kitchen, flipping down any lightswitches on their way while Buck unplugs things.

“Be right back,” Tommy says, disappearing into another part of the house. He knows it by feel, and Buck is still getting used to it. He’s only been moved in for a month.

He serves up their dinner onto two plates and covers the rest, opting to grab them glasses of wine instead of beer, since the wine wouldn’t require him to open the fridge. He turns to carry the plates to the dining room and sees a flickering glow lighting the way. When he walks into the room, he sees that Tommy is lighting a second taper candle on the table.

“I’ll get the silverware,” Tommy offers when Buck sets the plates down. Buck follows him into the kitchen anyway to grab the wine, and they settle down at the table to eat.

He watches the way the small flames light Tommy’s face, the way the shadows will occasionally shift, and he gets too distracted to eat for a moment. When Tommy takes a bite and lets out an appreciative groan, Buck remembers he’s supposed to be eating his dinner and smiles to himself for being so sappy.

“God, this is so good,” Tommy says, reaching over to squeeze his wrist. “Thank you for making dinner.”

Buck shifts happily in his seat and shrugs. Tommy’s hand moves to cover his, and Buck’s eyes go from his plate to Tommy’s face. And if Tommy had been beautiful in the candlelight, he was breathtaking when he was looking at Buck with a soft, sweet smile—even with a tiny bit of sauce on his lip.

“You’re beautiful,” Tommy says, and Buck flushes. “I think I should break out the candles more often. You’re ethereal.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that,” Buck says, lifting Tommy’s hand so he can press a kiss to his knuckles and smiling when Tommy’s own smile widens. “But I agree, the candles should be a new thing. You look pretty perfect yourself.”

They eat their dinner like that, with their hands held on the table between them. It means that Tommy has to eat left-handed, but he’s comfortable doing that. Buck knows that he’s sprained his right wrist twice, that his mom was left-handed, and that he once cut his right ring finger so badly it needed stitches and was in a splint while it healed.

He’s collected little facts about Tommy whenever he could, and he’d asked him if he was ambidextrous when he noticed Tommy would switch his paintbrush between his left and right hands easily. The answer was “kind of,” and Buck found out how he’d gotten comfortable using his left hand for a lot of things. He soaks in every new bit of information, tucking it away with everything else he’s ever hyperfixated on in his life. He knows that the largest land animal to have ever lived is the Argentinosaurus, and he knows that Tommy Kinard never bites directly into apples because his Nonno never did, so he cuts off slices and eats them piece by piece. And his Nonno did that because he grew up on a farm in southeastern Piedmont and had to avoid wormy apples all the time.

He knows that Tommy can’t stand the taste of radishes on their own, but he’ll eat them in salads. He has a “pseudoallergy” to morphine and gets itchy and miserable but doesn’t have a true reaction, but it’s listed as an allergy on his charts for simplicity’s sake. He thinks green caterpillars are really cute, but moths freak him out because he hates when their wings flap in his ear. He couldn’t say his own first name as a toddler, so he introduced himself as “Tomato” until his mom started calling him “Tommy.”

“What?” Tommy asks, and Buck realizes he’s been frozen with a fork halfway to his mouth for probably a while.

“Sorry,” Buck says, setting his fork down. He half-stands and reaches across to draw Tommy into a kiss. “Just—I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Tommy replies, smiling. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Buck sighs happily, sitting back in his chair and picking up his fork again. “I was going to ask earlier if you wanted to do something this weekend while we’re off.”

Tommy gestures toward the window with his fork, where rain is battering against the glass. “If the weather keeps up, we might be stuck inside while we watch Bake Off.”

“Oh no-o,” Buck says sarcastically, grinning. “Anything but that.”

“I know,” Tommy says, making a face. “I might even need to break out the heated blankets. It’ll be terrible.”

“We’ll have to make soup—”

“And hot chocolate—”

“—and tea—”

“—and bread to dip in the soup.”

They share a grin, and Buck squeezes Tommy’s hand, receiving an immediate answering squeeze.

When they finish their dinner, they rinse their plates off and leave them in the sink to go in the dishwasher in the morning. They debate about how to store the leftovers before just very quickly throwing them in the fridge and shutting the door before too much cold air can get out. Tommy checks the PG&E status site for their address while Buck pokes through the pantry for some cookies he’d stashed away.

“Should be back on by the time we wake up,” Tommy says, taking an offered cookie. “According to the infallible company that’s never been wrong about anything or set our state on fire.”

“Better hope it is or your truck is trapped in the garage,” Buck points out, and Tommy groans.

They bring the flashlight and one of the candles to their room, because there’s a loop in the candleholder and it makes Buck feel like he’s walking around an old haunted Victorian manor. He keeps it with him while he washes his face and brushes his teeth, except the effect is actually a little creepy in a mirror and he makes sinister faces and makes himself chuckle. He waits until Tommy’s in bed to blow out the candle and curls up with him, his face pressed into the warm skin on the back of Tommy’s shoulder.

“G’night, baby,” he mumbles.

“Good night, sweetheart,” Tommy mumbles back, burrowing back against him with a sigh. “Can you scratch my back?”

Buck smiles and does as he's asked, his strokes wide and lazy until Tommy's breathing deepens with sleep. He keeps it up until his hand stills and he drifts off to the sound of Tommy’s breathing and the rain pattering on their new roof.

[the-amazing-digital-time-capsule]

TADTC Lore Dump #1

Character Lore And Fun Facts!

Pomni

Pomni was born in and grew up in upstate New York, going down to New York city to visit her very large extended family. She is incredibly good at math and physics, being able to recite long equations, and complete computations very quickly. Despite being able to do this, her memories on why or how she is able to, are foggy.  She doesn't remember her job, family, or education, or training…

She also loves to write historical fiction, but her dyslexia makes spelling and grammar a challenge. Sometimes she gets Caine to read over her stories and check both his historical accuracy as well as spelling and grammar. 

Pomni heavily dislikes playing the violin despite that being her assigned role in the capsule.  Though her memories are cloudy she associates the violin with nothing but anxiety and frustration.  Especially if she is ever tasked with playing sheet music, because of this correlation between distress and sheet music Pomni almost always plays the violin by ear.  She creates or edits performances on the spot, no matter if she was tasked with playing a specific piece or not.

Pomni’s Greek (But doesn't remember), and knows how to speak and write the language, however she has issues with her listening interpretation.

Pomni's lost the most memories when compared to the other capsule members.  Sometimes this fact makes her feel isolated and lonely as she is sure of so little about herself. 

Caine

He was born in 1900, Detroit, later moving and growing up in Pittsburgh. He is a WWI vet, he joined the army right out of high school, lying about his age (to his families dismay).  After showing exceptional skill in marksmanship, he went to Camp Perry, Ohio to become a trained sharp shooter.  He’s favorite rifle to shoot with is the Model 1903 Springfield with a scope.  Near the end of the war, he suffered an accident that made his confidence drop leading to job issues when coming home. After returning from war he worked as a freelance artist and animator, but after losing his animation job in 1926 he had to live off almost nothing. Eventually leading to him raiding an old garage for any junk that he could sell for cash.  There he found the Time Capsule.  

Caine has had a lot of time in the capsule to learn and master many skills.  He is a real renaissance man.  His favorite is being ambidextrous, since he finds amusement in confusing people by switching the hand he's using very quickly. 

Since becoming the leader in 1957 he has access to everyone's names including his own. However, Caine refuses to tell anyone their name, and to be in solidarity with everyone else refuses to go by or tell anyone his own.  Only Kinger Knows that Caine has access to everyone's names. 

No one besides Kinger really knows what has happened in Caine’s past.  He doesn't like to talk about it much due to severe PTSD; PTSD that can get triggered by loud noises, the smell of mud and gas, and getting touched without warning. 

Caine never goes to his room for this reason.

Caine is always interested in learning about what he's missed since entering the Capsule, but people don't tend to talk to him due to his depressing demeanor.  If given the chance he would be incredibly happy to sit and listen to whatever he's missed in the past 70 years. 

Kinger 

Kinger was also a WWI War vet and a Lintennieut Colonel in the U.S Army.  Kinger refuses to enter a relationship while in the capsule, only Caine knows why he chooses to stay “single”.  

As the bartender in the capsule Kinger knows a lot of information, be it people's deepest desire or their social security number. He is very aware of his customers and their affairs.

Kinger is also the designated surgeon of the group, if any Capsule member gets hurt or injured by one of the Guests or anything else… Kinger will sew them back together.  When he performs a procedure he will give the patient alcohol (except Caine) to numb the pain as they don't have access to painkillers. 

Kinger is Caine's best friend and they rely heavily on each other.  Kinger tries to manage Caine's drinking habit by hiding or measuring his alcohol intake, but that doesn't always work. 

Kinger, despite acting the most aloof, retains the most memories of his past.  When you walk past his room at night you can hear him murmuring about missing someone.  

Zooble

Zooble is half German, and speaks the language fluently even in the capsule.

Zooble is the most deadpanned member of the Capsule but also has the biggest heart.  While they may not seem like the person to go to for help they will do anything to lend a hand if needed. 

They have a strange aversion to kids... while they don't hate children and even like them, Zooble avoids them at all cost.  Since Ragatha is the child care attendant, that also means that Zooble inadvertently avoids Ragatha as well, causing tension between the two.

Zooble’s right hand can act as almost any tool, from a blow torch to a screwdriver, Zooble's hand can act as any tool needed as long at they have the correct bit inserted. 

Zooble’s torso is a radar system that tracks every member of the capsule.  Bubble will sometimes use Zooble as a way to find and track down the other members.  Zooble’s hate this fact but can’t do anything about it.

Gangle 

Gangle is half Hispanic American and half Japanese.  Before entering the capsule she juggled two different worlds.  One being her cultural side at home and the other being her American side to her friends.  She would do anything to avoid having these two worlds collide. 

Within the Capsule she is most comfortable with Caine.  She’s not entirely sure why but Caine has always treated her like a younger sister and she is nothing but grateful for that.  He really helped her try to find some joy in the capsule allowing her to find some peace with her new situation. 

Pomni and Gangle are roommates as they are the two main performers.  They share a dressing room 50/50.  Gangle's side is a shrine to her favorite characters, of which she had Caine draw for her from description, and is surprisingly immaculate.  While Pomni's side is minimalistic, with a drawer next to her bed full of crumpled up pieces of paper. Gangle always tries to encourage her to decorate.

Jax

Jax used to be a rich brat who got through life with daddy’s money, but after partying a bit too much his senior year of college he found himself stuck in the capsule. 

Jax likes to be seen as a kind of idiot, cool guy, even when a human. He hid his love of classical books and chose to perform poorly in school.  Barely scraping by enough for his father to buy his way into Yale. 

In the capsule Jax lives on the pixelated streets, “entertaining” the children too old to be cared for by Ragatha.  If his joystick were to ever break Jax would be unable to ever move again, he would be conscious but paralyzed.   

Off duty Jax loves to tinker in Zooble's workshop, making a variety of small trinkets to decorate his alleyway. 

List of who remembers most about their life (Top is most, Bottom is least)

This list excludes Caine since, as the leader, he has access to all his memories.  

Kinger 

Jax

Zooble

Gangle

Ragatha

Pomni

[geekgirl750]

Random details I noticed in Scream after watching it for the umpteenth time.

First:

Stu has a dog?!

In the final confrontation scene in the kitchen before Stu brings out Sidney's dad I noticed that there was a note written on the white board behind him

Here it is in more detail, although the quality isn't the best as I had to screenshot the scene from YouTube:

When I paused to read it in the actual film I was able to make out most of the note except for the small writing in the upper right (Which I think is either a phone number or date) but I'm pretty sure the note reads:

"Hi Stu, Sorry we missed you today. We'll be back Sunday. Be good! Love mom & dad. P.S. feed the dog."

The last line I wasn't sure about because it was blurry but I matched the note from this shot to the shot where Stu is sitting at the desk on the telephone and sure enough the last line is "P.S. Feed the dog"

So basically, Stu canonically has a dog which I think is super funny because it makes me wonder where the dog was during the party and what type of dog it is.

It also makes more sense for the dog door in the garage that Tatum tries to crawl through to be put there for the Macher's family dog rather than the cat.

Side tangent head cannons:

The orange cat we see run out before Tatum is killed in the garage belongs to Stu's sister Leslie and has a basic name like Marmalade or Garfield

Stu is 100% a dog person and hates his sister's cat because its tried to scratch him on a number of occasions and now he's lowkey afraid of it

That's why when he's left home alone he doesn't really watch the cat and lets it do as it pleases. (His sister is adamant that the cat is indoor only but Stu is kinda careless lets the cat roam free outside through the dog door)

The Macher's family dog is either a basic crusty ass white dog that belongs to his mom and has a ridiculously fancy name like Princess or Dutchess

Or the dog is something small and hyperactive like a Jack Russell that Stu used to play fetch with and run around with in the backyard as a kid

Like I said before I feel like the Machers aren't super creative with naming their pets. If the dog is a boy his name is probably Max or something like that.

Okay second thing:

I never noticed this but you can see Randy dancing with/ flirting with a girl at the party when Sid and Tatum first walk in

And then later that girl is being led away by a different guy so I guess Randy struck out twice that night lol

(Also peep Stu and Tatum flirting/ kissing in the lower left)

Thirdly:

In the garage scene after Ghostface first cuts Tatum's arm she stumbles backwards and bangs into a bike

This is more of a head canon than anything but I noticed that the bike is more feminine in coloring (shades of red and purple) so it makes me wonder if it belongs to Stu's mom or maybe his sister.

Lastly,

The layout of Stu's house makes no sense!

So I'm going to make another longer post about this because I spent like an hour last night comparing shots from Scream 1996 to shots from Scream 5 to get an understanding of the Macher house because it's almost labyrinthian in it's layout, especially the upstairs, but I'm pretty sure there's no way that house has 3 bedrooms if Stu's sister is supposed to be canon.

Anyways, here are a couple details I noticed that I thought were interesting:

I think the house has an intercom system! You can seen what looks like speaker/receiver on the wall behind the lamp in Stu's room as Sidney runs by it.

Lastly,

The Macher house has a back stairwell!!!

So I've watched this movie a bunch of times and I always thought that there was a door in the kitchen that led directly to the garage but that's NOT TRUE!

When Tatum goes to get the beer for Stu you can see that the kitchen is connected to the dining room and off the dining room is a door that leads into a laundry room/ mud room.

To Tatum's right you can see what looks like an ironing board and then a set of railings/steps which I'm assuming is a back set of stairs that leads to the upper floor.

You can see again in the reverse shot that the door that gets locked behind Tatum isn't actually the kitchen door but the door to the laundry room in between the garage and the kitchen .

Seeing this changed my whole perception of Tatum's death scene because I was always like how did no one see Ghostface sneaking around the party, whether it was Billy or Stu, and not realize when he goes back inside after killing Tatum rather than leaving through the garage. Now I think it's because whoever was Ghostface never actually cut through the party at all.

HE WENT UP THE BACK STAIRS!

And the layout of the laundry room would have hidden him from view of the kitchen as he would have behind the wall and out of sight.

I want to go more into detail about the logistics about how I think Billy and Stu got around the house as Ghostface as well as the entire layout of the house in a second post because I think the set design is so interesting but for now these are just some cool things I noticed that I wanted to share.

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Goober

Summary: On a stormy night, a dog makes a dash for the garage. Frankie is insistent, like all dad's, they are not keeping that damn dog.

Warnings: Cussing, fluff, puppy madness, Nora seems to need her own warning in this fic cause she is sassy!

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday!!! Another installment of the Parents to Lovers AU! Thank you so much @noxturnalpascal for betaing for me ❤️❤️ @jay-zzle, my side kick for all these stories, my personal moodboard maker, one of my best friends that I would have never even met without Pedro Pascal existing, once again thank you for making the moodboard AND the other thing(wait til y'all get to the end)

Masterlist||AO3||Parents to Lovers

divider provided by @saradika-graphics

The thunder was getting closer and closer. You can smell the incoming rain on the air as you close the kitchen window.

“Girls!” You shout, approaching the living room doorway “Did you remember to bring your bikes in the garage?”

“I did!” Missy says quickly, returning to the game on her tablet.

“Uhh…” Nora hesitates, fingers fidgeting against her own tablet, “I forgot.”

“Nora! How many times have we talked about this?”

“Sorry,” she shrugs, “I just forgot.”

You groan, putting your shoes on and making your way to the garage. Frankie won’t be home for another hour or else you’d send him outside to get the bike. Opening the garage door you see the rain already starting to come down in sheets. Thankfully, Nora’s bike isn’t that far from the open door, but running towards it you see something dash past you into the garage.

“Fuck,” you mutter, grabbing the bike and wheeling it into the garage, “Now I get to deal with whatever creature decided to run into here for shelter from the storm. Thanks Nora, you’re the best!”

A clap of thunder sounds just then, causing you to jump, and you hear a whimper at the edge of the room. You reach for the switch on the wall and when the overhead lights come on you see a dog huddled in the corner.

“Hey little baby,” you say sweetly, crouching down and stretching out your hand, “It’s just a little thunder, nothing to be scared about.”

The dog slowly begins to move closer to your outstretched hand. You notice the floppy ears, short legs and long body. Another clap of thunder and the thing darts over, shaking and whimpering.

“Hi there,” you coo, “Let's get you some place warm and dry, huh? That sound good?”

The dog’s tail starts to wag a little as you continue talking to it, grabbing a towel as you begin to attempt to dry the dog off.

“Are we a boy or a girl?” You ask, lifting a leg to check, “Congrats! It’s a girl!” You say to no one but yourself.

The dog begins licking your face as you wipe her paws more to get the mud off.

“Aww, you’re just a sweet girl, aren’t you?” You coo, as the dog continues to lick your face, “Yes, yes you are! Okay, I think we’re good to go inside now.”

You gently scoop the dog up in the towel and carry her inside, bringing her into the living room.

“Is that what I think it is?!” Nora shrieks, smacking Missy’s arm to get her attention from her tablet.

“Hey, calm down, she doesn’t like loud noises,” you explain, “This little girl ran into the garage because of the storm.”

“She’s so cute!” Missy excitedly whispers, “Does she have a name?”

“Well I don’t see a collar so I don’t know,” you say, placing the dog in the middle of the living room.

The dog’s tail begins to wag harder when the girls slowly slide off the couch to approach her, and you notice her peeing on the carpet. 

“Shit,” you hiss, quickly going to the laundry room for a towel, laying it on the carpet to soak up the mess. She’s much more enthusiastic seeing the girls than she was seeing you. You sit on the couch watching the girls interact with the puppy.

“Hi,” Missy whispers, reaching her hand out for the dog to sniff, “You’re very pretty.”

“Yes,” Nora agrees, stretching her arm out, “Pretty and smooshy!”

The dog eats up the attention stretching out on the floor to show her chest and belly. Missy and Nora begin petting her, taking turns rubbing her tummy and scratching behind her ears.

“Momma, what kind of dog is she?” Nora asks, looking at you.

“It looks like she’s what’s called a basset hound,” you grin. You’d always wanted one growing up and thought that whoever owned this girl was the luckiest person in the world. You needed to call Frankie before he got home, that way he could maybe stop somewhere to get a collar, leash, and dog food. You pull your phone from your pocket, tapping on his contact info.

“Hey babe,” he sighed, “Think we’re almost done here and then I’ll be home.”

“So,” you say, getting up and walking to the kitchen so the girls wouldn’t hear, “I need you to do something for me before you come home.”

“What kind of ice cream do you want now?” He laughs.

“It’s not a craving this time,” you whisper into the phone, hand rubbing across your barely there bump, that news you hadn’t shared yet with the girls, “Not a bad idea though, Ben and Jerry’s Salted Caramel.”

“Sure thing,” he says, “I’ll be sure to ge—“

“No babe,” you interrupt, “Seriously that’s not what I was calling about. I need you to get some puppy food, a leash, and a collar.”

“Do what now?”

“Puppy food, a leash and a collar,” you repeat, “and the Ben and Jerry’s! I’ll text you what I said, love you, bye!” You say quickly before hanging up and texting him the list. Your phone pings a second later.

Frankie: What the fuck?!

—

“Babe,” Frankie shouts, entering the kitchen, “I got the st—“

The dog ran into the kitchen, looking up at Frankie, giving a single bark.

“Well, hello,” he says, dropping the small bag of dog food on the table, hesitantly the dog inches closer to Frankie, tail tucked between her legs, sniffing his boot.

“Dad, look!” Missy says, pointing at the dog.

“I see,” Frankie says, eyebrows raised.

“Can we keep her?!” Nora asks, bouncing from foot to foot.

“Absolutely not!” Frankie says, putting his hands on his hips, “She looks pretty young, probably has a family around here somewhere.”

“Obviously they don’t care about her though,” Nora argues, “They left her out in a storm!”

“Yeah,” Missy agrees, nodding her head, “That’s just mean to do to a baby dog!”

“Now, now girls,” you say, placing a hand on each of their shoulders, “Sometimes dogs get loose when they’re scared and just run off.”

“We’ll make some flyers and post them around the neighborhood,” Frankie says, “Until we can find the owners we’ll make sure the little thing’s fed and taken care of.”

“She’s not just a thing, Frankie,” Nora grumbles, stomping past you to the living room, the dog and Missy following right behind her.

Frankie takes in a deep breath before slowly letting it out. You walk towards him, grabbing him around his waist and pulling him close, breathing him in.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper into his neck, placing a small kiss there.

“Why’s she gotta be so damn stubborn like her momma?” Frankie hums, grabbing a handful of your ass.

“Everyone says she looks like her dad so guess that means she has to have my attitude,” you say, shrugging your shoulders with a laugh.

—

“Are you sure we can’t just keep her?” Missy asks while you’re stapling one of the flyers to a pole.

It’s been a couple days since the dog arrived. You’d gotten the flyers made and now you were all walking around the area with the dog and posting them up in numerous places. You’d already hit every business downtown that you could. Now it was time to hit the neighborhoods around you.

“I’m sure,” Frankie said in a stern tone, “We are not keeping her.”

“But I already picked out a name,” Nora pipes up, flicking the leash lightly in her hands like a whip, “Goober!”

“Nora don’t do that with the leash,” you say, “You could hurt her.”

“Don’t name her!” Frankie groans, “She’s not our dog!”

“Why Goober?” Missy laughs, as you all continue to walk.

“Well,” Nora says, looking down at the dog who cocks her head to the side like she was waiting for the answer as well, “Just look at her! Mom always says I’m a goober when I do something funny and she just looks funny!”

“I like it,” Missy says with a small smile.

“No,” Frankie said, “Her name is not Goober.”

The dog barks, ears perked up, wagging her tail, and looking directly at Frankie.

“Oh,” you laugh, “Babe, I think she just told you you’re wrong and that her name is, in fact, Goober.”

“Stop it,” he says, pointing at you before hanging up another one of the flyers.

—

“Would it be such a bad idea to keep her?” You ask while filling the dog’s food and water dish. The dog is patiently waiting for you to place them on the floor for her.

“Yes it would.”

“Frankie,” you groan, hand on your stomach, and bending down to set them on the floor, “She’s so cute though!”

“Doesn’t matter how cute she is,” Frankie shakes his head, “We shouldn’t keep her.”

“Babe,” you say flatly, “It’s been a week and a half and we haven’t heard a single thing from anyone!”

“Good morning, Mom!” Nora beams, coming into the kitchen, “And good morning Princess Goober!”

“Morning,” Missy grumbles, “Goober!” She says perking up a little and petting the dog on the head.

“Stop calling her that!” Frankie says sternly, “She’s not our dog. End of discussion.”

“Oh,” Nora says, glaring at him, “Morning Frank.”

“Are you guys ready for school?” He asks, ignoring Nora’s glare.

“Yeah,” Missy yawns. Nora just grumbles still glaring at him.

“Alrighty then,” you hum, “Come here. Hugs!”

Both girls embrace you one either side, giving them both a tight squeeze before letting them go.

“Have a good day and Nora,” you smile, “Please behave.”

She rolls her eyes, following Missy into the garage with a huff. Frankie shakes his head, walking towards you, wrapping his arms around you.

“That girl’s gonna give me more gray hairs than the baby,” Frankie mutters into your temple.

“That makes the both of us,” you laugh, giving him a chaste kiss before he’s off to take the girls to school and go to work.

—

“Goober!” The girls shriek, bursting into the house through the garage. Goober’s tail starts wagging like crazy and she pees all over the floor.

“Goober Goo!” You groan, “Not again!”

Goober just looks at you, panting, tongue hanging out to the side.

“Can we take her to the backyard?” Missy asks, putting her backpack on the hook.

“Sure,” Frankie grunts, bending down to clean up the pee. Goober pokes her head under his armpit, while he wipes the pee up and begins licking his face, “Okay, okay. Yes, I see you.”

“Think she likes the way your beard tastes, Dad,” Missy giggles.

“Must be leftovers in there,” he grumbles, rubbing Goober’s ears.

“Oh! Watch this!” Nora exclaims, “Come here Goober! Come here!”

Goober pushes past Frankie’s arm, walking in her pee to get to Nora.

“Damn dog,” Frankie mumbles, motioning for you to hand him the Clorox wipes.

Goober plops down in front of Nora. She grabs one of Goober’s ears and begins to scratch the inside of it, causing Goober’s back leg to violently shake. 

“What is she doing?!” Missy asks, starting to giggle.

“You found her puppy spot!” You exclaim with a laugh.

Frankie looks up to see what you are all laughing at, watching the saggy dog’s body jiggle and starts laughing.

“What the hell?” Frankie laughs, shaking his head, “Think she is a Goober afterall. Go on, take her outside now, I’m sure she’s got more pee in her. Don’t want her pissin’ in the house more than she already has.”

The girls take her outside, taking turns throwing the floppy stuffed animal they gave her that she had ripped the stuffing out of.

“Babe,” You smile watching the girls play with Goober outside, “I think we have a dog now.”

“I think you’re right,” Frankie groans, standing up, throwing away the Clorox wipes and throwing the towel into the hamper in the laundry room.

“We can’t get rid of her,” you pout, “The girls love her too much. Frankie, I love her too much and no one’s claimed her!”

Frankie finishes washing his hands at the sink, turning around, crossing his arms with a big sigh.

“Fine,” he sighs, “We’ll keep the damn dog.”

—

“What ya making, babe?” Frankie asks, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist, “Smells really fucking good.”

“Spaghetti,” you grumble, “Only thing the girls seem to want to eat right now.”

Nora rushes into the kitchen, observing the fridge, rearranging some of the pictures on it.

“What are ya doin’ kid?” Frankie asks, looking behind his shoulder.

“Moving some stuff around,” she says snarkily, “This coupon is expired. Can I throw it away?”

“Yes,” you and Frankie say at the same time.

“Cool,” she says, throwing it away and running out of the kitchen.

You continue stirring the sauce, trying not to let the smell get to you.

“Need me to take over?” Frankie asks, kissing your temple.

“Oh my god,” you huff, “Please.”

Frankie laughs softly, kissing the spot on your neck that meets your shoulder. Then moves you to the side when Nora and Missy come rushing back in. Goober following closely behind them.

“I think we should put it here,” Nora says, pointing to the empty spot she made.

“What if though,” Missy says, rearranging different pictures, creating a new empty space, “We put it here?”

“Hmm, yeah, I like that better,” Nora agrees.

Missy grabs one of the magnets off the fridge, placing a new picture on the fridge, right alongside the picture of the four of you together, underneath the picture of Missy and Nora, and above the picture of Frankie with the guys.

“There!” Nora beams, “Goober is on the fridge, that means she’s family!”

“No take backs!” Missy says, pointing at Frankie.