#reeling off the wheel au

[maroonshirt81]

omggg what about a carcar cruise au?? Like they meet on the boat 😭🫶

thank you for the great request <3

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carcar, 2k words, rated m for language

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When Carlos arrived at his McLarenCruise luxury suite, his luggage was already waiting for him on the bed, next to a young man in a bright orange uniform, who was standing there with his hands folded behind his back. As soon as the door fell shut behind Carlos, the man started to speak like a robot who’d been waiting for its activation command.

“Welcome to your private luxury suite aboard McLarenCruise, where your comfort is our priority,” he drawled in what Carlos guessed to be an Australian accent. “I am Oscar, your personal steward, and I’m here to assist with anything you may need during your voyage.”

“Hello, Oscar,” Carlos said, flashing him a cheeky grin. “What if I need a little more enthusiasm?”

“I’m afraid that is not a service provided by the McLarenCruise stewards' crew,” Oscar prattled on, if possible even more monotone than before. “If you are unsure of how to make use of the steward appointed to you, I can print out a list of appropriate requests. It includes things like unpacking and storing your luggage, stocking your suite with toiletries and other amenities, and delivering room service.”

“Relax, Oscar.” Carlos laughed, plopping down on the bed. “I was only joking. Don’t act like I asked you to take off your pants.”

“I can also print out a list of actions that aren’t appropriate,” Oscar said. “It includes sitting on the bed while joking about your steward taking off his pants.”

Carlos’s mouth dropped open to tell him that he would never, in a million years, ask someone like Oscar to take off his pants, because… well—have you seen Carlos? But he realized in time that the inappropriateness of such a reply was probably even worse than the joke had been to begin with, so he said nothing.

Oscar seemed to take this as his dismissal. He nodded, as if he had provided exceptional service, and then left the suite before Carlos could ask him to unpack his luggage.

****

“Hello, Oscar,” Carlos tried again once evening came around. He had ordered a Risotto al Tartufo Bianco over the comm and then spent 20 minutes checking his hair in the mirror to make sure his charm was turned up to eleven.

He wasn’t the type to treat service staff poorly. In fact, he prided himself on being well-liked by all his subordinates—whether at his own firm, in restaurants, or within his household. He could crack a slightly grumpy Australian, no problem.

“Good evening, sir,” Oscar replied as he wheeled the cart into the suite. “Will you be eating at the table by the window?”

“Yes, please,” Carlos said, following behind to watch Oscar set the dishes on the smaller table in the suite. He looked a little out of place, with his bright orange cap, bright orange polo shirt, black shorts, and white tennis socks, serving a $100 dish to a high-end luxury suite.

“The cruise company forces you to wear this outfit, or is it a personal choice?” Carlos asked as he sat down in the chair Oscar had pulled out for him. He made sure Oscar saw his bright grin and knew that he was joking this time.

But Oscar didn’t laugh. Instead, he heaved a slightly disappointed sigh.

“Please, sir. I know this is a famously hard lesson to learn for old white men. But it is never appropriate to comment on the outfits of people in your service. Please reconsider letting me print out that list for you.”

Carlos was reeling.

Had this guy seriously just called him an old white man? He was thirty!

He must have been reeling for a moment too long because, once again, Oscar nodded at him as if he had just been dismissed after doing an amazing job and left without looking back. He hadn’t even poured Carlos a glass of wine.

And Carlos desperately needed it now.

****

“Hello, Oscar,” Carlos said the next morning, upon opening the door to what he first mistook for a wandering corpse. He had not bothered with trying to be charming today, but the even pastier-than-usual color of Oscar’s round, unremarkable face made him soften a little. “Are you seasick?”

“No, just sick of this job,” Oscar mumbled, barely audible. “What could you possibly want at six in the morning?”

Carlos arched his eyebrows high, surprised by the sudden lack of robot-like professional speech.

“You were asleep?”

“What gave it away?” Oscar asked. There were pillow lines etched into his cheeks, highlighting the truly terrible, blotchy stubble vegetating between the acne scars. Carlos didn’t point that out, though, since the question had clearly been rhetorical anyway.

Despite looking like he had just rolled out of bed, Oscar was wearing his trusty orange hat and orange polo.

“Do you just sleep in these clothes?” Carlos blurted, remembering Oscar’s lecture about outfit comments too late.

Predictably, Oscar started, “I get that at your age, memory might begin to fail, but—”

Carlos threw the door in his face.

Fuck it. He could find the early morning spin class by himself.

****

Oscar continued to be the most infuriating, judgmental, and frankly useless service personnel Carlos had ever dealt with. The charm offensive was not working, just like Oscar’s eyes, apparently, because he kept insinuating Carlos was some geriatric creep with a power kink. All week, he made Carlos feel like the biggest asshole who ever lived, hinting again and again at printing out a list of appropriate and inappropriate behavior toward his luxury cruise stewards.

Carlos even started to have nightmares about a monster with an orange for a head and unblinking, dead eyes, accusing him of wanting to fuck it.

And yet. 

And yet, when he was lounging on a sun chair on the deck by the pool one afternoon, sending a request for a hopefully spit-less cocktail to be delivered to him, he felt an odd pang of disappointment when a different, much more chipper-looking orange-capped young man appeared to deliver it to him.

“Where’s Oscar?” he asked.

“Oh, he has the afternoon off,” the guy informed him, somehow managing to directly answer his question without implying Carlos was a sick freak who should be arrested for indecent behavior.

“I see,” Carlos said.

“I’ll be at your beck and call until he’s back, sir,” the chipper guy said cheerfully. After a week of Oscar’s flat stare, this guy’s energy felt borderline manic.

“That’s fine, I won’t be needing you again,” Carlos sighed, waving him away.

Damn. He had come on this trip to wind down from his stressful job, maybe have a little summer fling with a hot twink—not to be haunted by a prickly, orange steward.

Letting his eyes wander over the various people surrounding the pool dressed only in the tiniest swimwear possible, he found himself utterly uninterested in any kind of fling. Until…

Until a soft, high giggle caught his ear from a few deckchairs away, where a group of young men were gathered, towels wrapped around their hips or draped over their shoulders.

Carlos immediately perked up. Now that was the kind of laugh he would like to elicit from someone. Honest and unguarded, as if they weren’t used to it but just couldn’t help their good mood in his presence.

Glancing past the various people obstructing his view, Carlos finally found the source of that special giggle, and felt like the air got punched out of his chest for a second.

Because standing there was a guy who could only be an actual, honest-to-God prince. Light brown hair with almost reddish highlights from the sun, falling over his forehead in the most perfect, gravity-defying curl. Crinkly eyes, pale skin with rosy cheeks and a fine peppering of moles spread across his whole body. He was obviously fit, but not in the kind of anabolically enhanced bodybuilder way. His arms had a nice shape to them, as he stood in a cute little pose, hand on his hips, accentuating a tiny waist. And outlined by a wet pair of black shorts was the most perfectly round, biteable ass Carlos had ever seen.

Now that was a guy Carlos would ask to take his pants off!

He kept observing the guy, waiting for the right moment to make his move, and the instant the prince sank into one of the free deckchairs while his friends wandered off toward the pool or the bar, he seized his chance.

Leaving his untouched cocktail behind, Carlos grabbed his bottle of sunscreen instead, master plan already forming in his head.

The guy was lying on his stomach when Carlos reached him, wet drops of water glittering compellingly on his back, face hidden in the nook of his elbow.

Carlos cleared his throat twice before the pretty guy turned his head, blinking one eye open.

“Sorry,” Carlos said, all casual-like. “I noticed your back is starting to be a little red.” Showing off his bottle of sunscreen, he added, “Do you want some of this?”

The guy just stared at him, until Carlos started to sweat a little.

“I could… ah… I could put it on, if you want?”

Finally, the beautiful man pushed himself up on his elbows, his brows furrowing in mild irritation.

And then.

And then he started to speak.

In a very familiar, incredibly judgmental Australian drawl.

“Top subject on the list of inappropriate interactions with your stewards,” he said. “Has to be approaching them on their afternoon off and offering to rub sunscreen all over their body!”

Carlos dropped his bottle of sunscreen without even noticing.

“Oscar?” he croaked, eyes snapping open so wide, he felt they were in danger of rolling right out of their sockets.

“Yes?” Oscar said, as if it was incredibly obvious that this… this God of a man was the same sickly pale steward who kept pestering Carlos’s every waking and sleeping moment with his thinly-veiled insults and scathing remarks. The same orange little traffic light figure. The same bad-mannered human Cheeto who complained about being woken up too early up to eleven o’clock, despite being tasked with bringing Carlos his breakfast.

Carlos turned around, not bothering to pick up his sunscreen, and launched himself right into the pool.

Because that was the closest he came to throwing himself overboard the ship.

****

He was surprised to actually find Oscar by the door come dinner time, wearing the same orange cap and polo and unimpressed expression as always. Carlos had almost expected to be permanently switched to the borderline-manic guy.

“Hello, Oscar,” Carlos said contritely, and stepped away to let him wheel in his little cart.

“Spaghetti Carbonara—the classic Italian version, per your request,” Oscar narrated, as he put down the dishes on the little table by the window. Carlos noticed the additional plate with a cloche over it, hiding its content, before Oscar even pointed it out.

“There’s a special little something for dessert under there. On the house. Bon appétit!”

And with that, he left, once again without pouring Carlos any wine.

Carlos waited until the door had fallen shut behind him, then lunged for the cloche, lifting it up.

As he had expected, there wasn’t actually any dessert under there.

Instead, it was a piece of paper.

Carlos took it and read through it, groaning louder the further he read.

Once he was done, he balled the piece of paper up and threw it across the room. Then he went over to the comm and dialed the steward’s office.

“Mr. Sainz! How can we help you?” a female voice asked from the other side.

“I have a message to leave for Oscar, please. Do you have something for writing?”

“Sure,” the woman said. “Go on.”

“Please write down: Carlos Sainz, 055-8155…”

****

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

You Make Me Wanna 2

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, best friend’s dad trope other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You duck your head just before you can glance off the metal. Walter shoves you into the passenger seat gruffly as you drunkenly gold against his strength. You dizzy pull your feet inside as he grips the door and barely get them out of the way before he slams it. You shake your head, try to break free of the haze. Ugh, too much vodka.

The car jostles as he rips open the driver's door and the axel dips beneath his weight. He growls as he snaps the door shut and ram the keys into the ignition. He lets the engine idle as he shifts in his seat. He slips his phone out and taps with his thumb. He could crack the screen. You grasp your own cell and check for messages.

He huffs and drops his phone in the cupholder. He pulls the seatbelt across his burly figure and clicks it into place. He glares over at you as he slaps a hand around the ridge steering wheel, "buckle up."

You obey. The nightstand taken a rotten twist and the sooner it's over the better. You just need to find Faye. You do up your belt and grab your phone again. You key in a message without a care for typos. Where is she? You suspect she might be too distracted to answer.

He reverses out sharply and you lean into the door. You look up, the streetlights glaring in your vision, then another light draws your attention. His phone is still bright. You squint at the map on the screen and the dot pulsing a couple blocks away.

"What the hell?" You bend to see clearer and he resches over to shove you back against the seat. "You're tracking her?"

"None of your business, " he sneers. "That's fucked up," you say. "You got a nasty mouth. Now I know where she got that from."

"I didn't raise her," you scoff. "Why the hell am I here if you got GPS on her--"

"Because for once you're gonna face consequences for your actions," he growls as he turns the corner without slowing down.

"Stop the car," you demand.

"Shut up."

"Stop!" You pull on the door handle futilely, "let me out."

"Don't do that," he barks as he keeps his foot on the gas.

"Let me out!" You raise your voice, "let me the fuck out, Walter."

"Mr. Marshall," he retorts meanly. "Stop fucking around."

"I said. Let. Me. Out." You hit his shoulder with your fist and the wheels swerve. He slams on the brakes and you lurch back in your seat.

"Hey!" He roars and reaches over to grab your wrist. He twists and you whine. "You're gonna get us fucking killed."

"No, you are."

"You ever shut that mouth," he sneers as you try to free your arm, only further stressing the tendon. You whimper and bring your other hand up to try to peel away his fingers.

"Let me go." He huffs and releases you.

You recoil and rub your wrist as you pout. You're quiet as you evaluate the throbbing in your muscles.

"You know, I don't think you'd want someone treating Faye like this," you murmur.

"Shut up," he mutters as he eases onto the gas.

"No, stop, I'm getting out."

"You're not going anywhere," he quickly builds speed again. "And you're not going to talk about my daughter again."

"Well... you put your hands on me. What kind of man--"

"I'd hate to think of the boys you call men," he spits.

You reel at his inference. Is he calling you a slut? He would laugh at the truth.

"Whatever," you cross your arms and sit back, fingers still tingling.

He drives on in silence, only his grumbles underlining his slow breaths. You don't get it. How is it always your fault? You got better grades than Faye, you did extracurriculars, it isn't your fault you couldn't afford tuition.

You don't spill any of these gripes to Walter. He would care. He doesn't care. He just needs someone to blame besides his precious daughter. If only he knew how many times you kept her from worse mistakes.

You peer out the window, yellow blocks of light flicking in between the dark. You had a bad feeling about tonight. You saw right through Faye. You knew she wasn’t coming for you. These days, your hang outs rarely end up being just that. You just don’t know why. She’s changed.

Or maybe she’s outgrowing you. She’s in college and you’re working down at the diner, scrounging tips to pay your mother’s rent. You slump down as the drunkenness coaxes your self-pity to the surface.

Your eyes wander across the dashboard. It’s not old and grimy like your mother’s used Chrysler. It has bluetooth and lights and the heat works. There isn’t a crack down the plastic and it doesn’t smell like cigarettes.

It was easier in high school to pretend you belonged with Faye. You still had that layer of naivete that made you believe things could get better for you. Well, life’s begun and you’re just the same as you ever were.

You’re rattled suddenly as he shakes you, his large hand on your shoulder, “wake up.”

“Hey,” you shrug him off, “I’m awake.” You swat him away again, “don’t touch me.”

He blows out between his lips and snorts, bringing his hand back to the wheel. You sit up and turn your eyes back out the window. He’s just another person in your life who thinks they can mistreat you. His temper tantrum is nothing to you, just like you’re nothing to him.

[leashybebes]

@fiyaerrigan, @earlywiinter, @wilchildkyo, @trombonechurchill, @thegingerparty, @aisatsana441, and @kissmyashes all asked for more ex-borg tommy in the last round of make me write so i'm combining them into a long-ish chunk

this picks up directly from here so, previously on This Untitled Trek AU...

"You lie." "I don't." "Inferior species use obfuscation to conceal resources worthy of assimilation." The word makes Buck's blood run cold. Whatever has gone wrong with this particular Borg, he probably still has the ability to - to do that to Buck. To all of them.

"Okay," Buck says, on autopilot. "Okay, well this inferior species isn't obfuscating. You're a long way from home - " he pauses. "What's your name?"

"Our designation is third of four."

"Okay," Buck says again. "Well, that's - an…interesting designation."

The Borg doesn't react. Buck is very aware of the cold trickle of sweat working its way down his spine. He wonders if he should try to contact the others, or whether that will make it worse. If he reaches for his communicator, will the Borg take that as a threat? If he makes it aware of the others' presence, is he sealing their fate?

"Interest is irrelevant," the Borg says. "You will return us to the collective."

This again, Buck thinks. It's a bit like talking to a huge, terrifying, deadly child.

"I told you," Buck says carefully. "I can't - "

The whine of phaser fire rips through the air. It hits the Borg in the shoulder, but he barely flinches, the ripple of shielding the only sign to show that anything has happened at all. The Borg takes a step away from Buck, in the direction of the fire, at the same time as Eddie's voice rings out across the clearing.

"Buck, drop!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Buck dives between Eddie and the Borg, holding a palm out towards each of them. "Eddie, stop! He hasn't hurt me, he hasn't even tried."

"Get out of the way - "

"Just - just cool down, okay - "

"Buck, it's a Borg!"

"I think he's been disconnected from the collective, he's not - he's not going to hurt us."

The phaser is shaking in Eddie's hand. He's veering between looking completely shut down, and like every nightmare he's ever had is scrawled across his face for all the world to see. God, Buck loves the guy, but he wishes it had been Hen instead, or Chim, even Ravi. The Borg had ripped the heart out of Eddie's world and unless Buck's mistaken somehow, this is the first time Eddie's come face to face with one since the battle at Wolf 359. Eddie is still yelling, and the Borg is advancing on him, and the situation is going south so abruptly that Buck doesn't think at all. 

He grabs for the Borg's shoulder, the exoplating cold and faintly oily under his fingers. He yanks as hard as he can and it does absolutely nothing except inspire the Borg to jerk away from his hold and swing one massive, metal coated arm in an inexorable arc, until his cold hand connects with Buck's jaw and sends him reeling away. It takes Buck a second to scramble to his feet and when he does it's to see the Borg with one massive hand around Eddie's throat, holding him clear off the ground. Eddie's struggling, kicking ineffectively at the Borg's legs, both hands scrabbling at the implacable hand that's choking him, the phaser lost somewhere in the struggle. 

"No!"

Buck flings himself helplessly against the Borg's broad back, grasping for a handhold, finding only smooth metal and unbreakable cables for a second until his fingers find cold skin at its neck and he digs in as hard as he can. It does exactly nothing, but the Borg does wheel around, flinging Eddie away from them. There's a sickening crunch as his body connects with a tree and slides to the floor and then the Borg's shaking Buck off as though he weighs nothing, disappearing into the darkness.

Silence reigns for a few awful moments. Buck's head is spinning.

"Eddie," Buck whimpers, scrambling through the dirt to reach him, hands shaking as he reaches out. "Eddie, Eddie, oh god - "

Eddie's breathing, he realises, winded and gasping for air, but alive. Buck reaches for his tricorder, his only thought making sure Eddie is still in one piece, but Eddie slaps his hand away.

"Comms," he manages, and Buck swears, grabbing the communicator from Eddie's waist. Before he has a chance to activate it, the night air fills with the sound of energy weapons and distant shouts. From the direction of the ship, Buck realizes with ever-growing horror. He grabs Eddie's arm and together they drag themselves to their feet, staggering over rough ground in the same direction the Borg had taken. 

Towards their only way off this barren moon. 

Towards their friends.

[pawnshopbleus]

These Are the Days Chapter Eleven - For Good

Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader High School AU

For the summary, warnings, and more, please visit here.

Author's note: a lot has happened since i last updated. my childhood dog died (Theodore is based on him), I started my first semester of college, I finished my first semester of college, I started watching Arcane (sevika is my wife), i fell in love with wicked, and I turned nineteen. I'm so sorry to keep you all waiting.

Previous Chapter

The last time Abby felt this happy was when her dad took her to the county fair seven years ago. The rush she felt when she saw the bright rainbow lights on the Ferris wheel was the same feeling she got when she looked into your eyes. Your lips, so soft and plump, melted against hers like chocolate on a s'more roasting over the fire. 

She could smell the conditioner that you use right under her nose. The sunlight shined through the small sliver between the curtains, blinding her as she slowly blinked awake. Abby let a small smile grace her lips as she felt your weight beside her. Your couch felt better than her own bed at home. It reeled her in and begged her to stay a little longer, but she couldn’t. There were things that she needed to do today. 

Abby never wanted to be near Owen ever again. He had caused her so much pain and sorrow that she felt like he had irreparably damaged her. Beat her down so that she would stay with him. She had been a doormat for his cheating and abuse for far too long. She should have broken it off for good when he got Mel pregnant, but she was so naive back then. Now, she finally has something good, and she doesn’t want to fuck it up. 

Abby slowly gets off the couch, careful not to wake you, and walks to the door. She looks back at you, admiring how calm you look. Theodore jumps onto the couch and settles in Abby's previous spot. Abby winks at the dog, a silent plea for him to watch over you. Theodore sneezes, and Abby takes that as her answer. He’ll be there for you when Abby isn’t. 

She is going to break up with Owen. 

She scared. He could make the rest of her life in Bellevue - in the entire state of Washington a living hell. She could lose her spot as captain and kiss college goodbye, but it would all be worth it because she gets to be with you. 

She turns onto a street a few blocks away from her house. Abby’s been down this road one time. After securing her spot as cheer captain, Mel threw a party junior year. It was a night filled with dancing, alcohol, beer, and caring for Owen. Abby shudders when she remembers the smell of the place. At least one hundred sweaty teens were stuck inside the first floor of Mel’s home. The windows stayed closed, and no one was allowed outside. Abby’s grateful Ellie became the school’s resident party thrower. A guest bedroom, an outside patio with a pool, fully functional windows, and pre-rolled joints were always at her disposal. 

Abby parks her car and walks to the front door. It’s a Sunday, so most people in the suburbs attend church, but not Mel. The shame of being pregnant and unwed has cost her too much. At first, she boasted about the fact that she was pregnant with Owen’s baby, but when reality set in, she became quiet and timid. She hasn’t been at school for weeks. 

Abby knocks on the door, and footsteps are heard walking to the door. Mel looks through the peephole and sighs. 

“What do you want?” Mel asks. 

“I want to talk.” 

The door swings open, and Mel, dressed in a long nightgown, steps aside, “Do you want to come in?” 

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll make it quick.” Abby bites the inside of her cheek and speaks again, “Why’d you do it? You knew he was with me, and you still did it? You kept his fucking baby, Mel? Why”

Mel sighs and bites her lip. “I don’t know. I was stupid, and I wanted to feel something. Owen made me feel seen. Everyone thinks I’m a lesbian because of my haircut, but I’m not! He made me feel beautiful.” 

“He made you feel beautiful, so you let him get you pregnant?” 

“That’s not-” Mel sighs. “I feel like this is my karma. This is what I get for being the other woman.” 

“It’s not entirely your fault.” Abby puts her hand on Mel’s shoulder. “Good luck, Mel.” Abby gets back into her car and sighs. She laughs at all the sighing she’s done today and starts her car. Knowing what comes next, she’ll need some laughter in her life. 

Abby walks into Owen's house. She never knocks; she never needs to.

Mr. Moore, Owen’s dad, is sitting on the couch in the living room. He is the spitting image of his son. All-American man with blonde hair instead of brown. The beer he holds in his hand is half gone, and the football game on the TV is left unwatched as he snoozes in the loveseat. Owen is in his room as expected. The curtains are drawn, and his room is bathed in darkness. The fact that it’s three pm and he is still asleep doesn’t surprise Abby. 

She pokes his shoulder repeatedly, urging him to wake up. Owen slowly blinks awake, his eyes squinting as he tries to see through the darkness. 

“Who’s there?” his tired voice asks. 

“Me.” “Abby?”

“Yeah,” she says matter of factly. “We need to talk.” 

Owen nods, and his head falls back onto his pillow. “I’m serious, Owen. This is important.” 

Owen nods against the pillow and turns away from Abby. Abby grumbles and crosses her arms. If he wants to act like a child, she’ll treat him like one. That doesn’t mean she’ll be nice, in fact, she feels the spirit of Miss Truchbull posses her. 

“We’re done.” Abby crosses her arms, “for good.”

“Okay,” he says sarcastically.

“I mean it this time, Owen. You better get your shit from my house, or else I’ll burn it. I’ll burn everything you’ve ever given me, from that fake bouquet of flowers to that jersey you signed by Russell Wilson.” 

Owen gets up from his bed as if it had just been set on fire.“What the fuck are you talking about right now?” 

“We’re done, for good! Your stuff will be in a big black trash can outside my house. Get it by tomorrow, or else you’ll never see it again.” 

“We’ve gone through this before, Abby. You’ll just come crawling back to me.” 

Abby shakes her head. “I have something this time that I didn’t have all those other times.” Abby thinks of you: of last night, this morning, last week, last month, and the first time she saw you. 

“What? A lawyer?”

Abby laughs in his face and walks away in utter disbelief at Owen’s stupidity. He’ll soon notice that she’s through with him and his antics.

Abby skips down the stairs of Owen’s house for the last time. She’s dreamt of this moment. Usually, it ends with his house blowing up and her walking away like Heath Ledger in The Dark Night. 

Abby’s head hits the steering wheel, and she jumps a little when the horn honks. She sighs for what feels like the hundredth time today and closes her eyes. She’s done. She’s done with his bullshit, she’s done with feeling sorry for Mel, and she’s done with denying her feelings for you. 

Theodore barks at a car passing by your house, startling you awake. You scan your surroundings for any sign of life and realize that you are home alone. Your phone chimes, and you check it. The brightness is turned all the way up, temporarily blinding you. You squint your eyes and press the notification. 

Abby: Owen and I are done for Good. 

You shut your phone off and pet Theodore’s soft fur. You close your eyes and smile with contentment as your new life in Washington is finally looking up. 

Tag list: @rew1nds @colbyweirdo

Thank you for reading!

Next Chapter

[strawberrylemonwedge]

Fuck it, modern au mdzs driving style headcanons (us american version srry)

wei wuxian - he rests his left wrist limply over the top of the steering wheel, his right arm is gesticulating at his passenger as he chatters away the whole drive or he’s leaning it on the center arm rest, body always slightly angled towards the passenger seat even when it’s empty. He always drives at least 5 over the speed limit, but sometimes accidentally more if he’s not paying attention

jiang cheng - left hand firmly at 10 o’clock, right hand loosely at 3ish, sitting straight against his seat at 90 degrees if there’s anyone else in the car. When he’s by hiself and ONLY by hiself he’s got his left hand in a loose grip on the top of the steering wheel and his right arm leaning comfortably on the center arm rest similar to wwx but he’d die before he lets anyone think he’s copying his brother, Least of all wwx!!

lan wangji - a proper 10 and 2 position sitting stick straight, eyes on the road. Wei wuxian is of course a menace of a passenger spending the ride trying to distract him with his hands on his thighs, practically crawling in his lap to whisper in his ear. Lan wangji doesn’t cave of course but the steering wheel certainly does

lan xichen - a proper 10 and 2 position a bit more relaxed than his brothers, fingers looser and curled a bit more on the back of the wheel. Xichen actually Loves driving and the little break if affords him from his responsibilities. He finds it relaxing to drive solidly at the speed limit with his favorite music playing

nie mingjue - he drives with his window rolled down in almost all weather, left arm resting along the door or dangling outside. His right hand tightly gripping 2 o’clock. If he tends to drive with his sleeves rolled up so he can flex that arm when xichen is in the passenger seat, that’s honestly no one’s business

nie huaisang - if his da-ge is in the car, huaisang has both hands properly on the wheel, seat pulled forward so he can see over the dash, never driving more than 5 over the speed limit. If his da-ge is Not in the car his ass is driving with his damn knees, both hands on his phone, only occasionally grabbing the steering wheel (which is adjusted to the lowest setting) to turn, or if a cop is nearby. He’s watching reels, texting, and playing dj bc no one else is allowed to pick the music in his car

xue yang - ok his left foot is propped up on his seat, left arm resting on that knee, with a very loose two-finger-one-thumb hold on the steering wheel. His seat is leaned back so far you could say he’s lounging. His right arm sits on the center armrest when he isn’t reaching over to poke at xingchen or tug his hair or flip off other cars. A-Qing isn’t allowed to sit anywhere other than the backseat even if Xingchen isn’t riding with them, but he does secretly slip songs he knows she enjoys into their playlist if he’s feeling nice (only if he likes the songs too tho)

what do we think?? also bonus points if you can guess who i drive most similarly to lol

edit - there’s a junior quartet version now, tag yourself~

[howlingday]

D&D au jaune thought he didn't have talent for magic until one day he insulted a goblin so bad it just fucking died. walk us through the adventures of the blonde bard jaune arc and his best spell vicious mockery

I wish I was more familiar with Bards, and I also wish I answered this with Tom Cardy's "Perception Check". Sadly, I've played a bard once in a now long dead campaign and two mini-campaigns, and I already gave the Tom Cardy treatment to Nora. That said, here's Bard!Jaune

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

"Fellas, fellas, please." Jaune waved his hands defensively as thugs pressed closer to bring harm to him. It wasn't his fault all the girls were giving him all the unwanted attention. It was an occupational hazard, just like pissing off a bunch of drunken bullies. Like right now. "Come now, can't we settle this without violence?"

"No chance, cheese-hair!"

"Cheese-hair?!" Jaune jumped back. "At least I have hair that looks like cheese, where ass your head is as bald as a newborn elephant's asshole!"

The bald foe reeled back, covering his head. In the far back corner, another bald patron left the tavern in tears. The others, heads much fuller of flowing locks, pressed further. One of them grabbed Jaune by his collar, foul miasma spilling through stained teeth.

"Ugh!" Jaune held a hand over his nose. "You do realize urinal cakes AREN'T real cakes, don't you? What goes into the lavatory is supposed to stay in the lavatory, not go back inside you!"

Jaune landed on his feet as he was dropped, and thick hands clasped shut the port hole of the offending odor. Light chuckles that started filling the room were now building into light rumbles of laughter. The third and final foe stepped forward, tossing a fist without warning. Jaune caught the strike with his face and flew across the stage and into the back wall. It was time to break out the big guns.

"You call that a punch?" Jaune stood from the floor, fire in his eyes. "Your mother hit me harder than that, and that was after I already tired her out with my TRUE bardic skills. But she wasn't the only one, of course, because both your sister AND your father wanted a piece of the action, too!"

The tavern nearly exploded, roaring with laughter as Jaune roasted this man's entire family with his vicious sling of insults. People were in tears, but not nearly as much as this man who had fallen to the floor in a blubbering mess. Taking his instrument in hand, Jaune left the stage, holding his hat out to anyone who wanted to give him his due of gold and silver and coppers.

However, one person had been watching him the entire time and made an important decision. There was an important mission that required people of as many skills as possible in order to get the sweetest score of all. And it would need a bit of sweet talking to help grease the wheels to get there.

That's why Roman Torchwick decided to snag Jaune as soon as he could to get the job done.

[withclawandvine]

GOT LOVESTRUCK, WENT STRAIGHT TO MY HEAD — the wrong place at the right time

summary: Elain was supposed to be in paradise with her fiancè, not alone at an airport bar, held hostage by a storm. Lucien was only supposed to be in Las Vegas for a few days on business, before flying back home on the Vanserra jet. They weren’t supposed to meet, but fate is funny like that.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59610724/chapters/152036788

author’s note: happy @elucienweekofficial !!! i had SO MUCH FUN writing this one. it’s all a modern au, obviously, but the other prompts are woven in! i had every intention of posting a chapter per day(ish) this week, but i went to the george r.r. martin school of writing, so…. that didn’t happen lmao but here’s the first of the planned five parts to get the ball rolling !!

The moment the wheels of the 757 traveling south from San Francisco to Las Vegas touched down, the sky split open, unleashing a seasonal monsoon with wind speeds and torrential rainfall surpassing any other that year.

Most people would consider it a stroke of good luck — a small miracle, even — that plane hadn’t been struck from the sky by a bolt of lightning.

Elain Archeron knew better.

She knew this storm was just one more incident in the chain of mishaps shackled to this vacation.

First, there was Graysen unceremoniously breaking their engagement two months ago, leaving Elain with a voluminous white gown taking up all the room in her closet, a box of unaddressed invitations collecting dust, and a nonrefundable booking for an all-inclusive luxe resort in St. Barts — the Christmas gift Gray had insisted she take for herself and a friend, all with that heavy dose of that new money condescension he was so versed in.

If she’d been smart, Elain would have given the tickets to the retired couple next door, but instead, she’d called Feyre.

Her little sister had suffered her own heartbreak earlier in the year, and although she pretended to be over it, Elain knew she was still reeling. Tamlin would have never let Feyre leave the country without him. Or, more accurately, Tamlin wouldn’t have let Feyre leave the backyard without him.

So it felt exceptionally cruel when Ferye called, voice weak and miserable, to tell Elain she had food poisoning and wouldn’t be able to make the trip. Hell, she’d lamented. I’ll be lucky if I make it out of the bathroom anytime soon.

With her plane departing in a few hours, Elain knew her only choice was to either call the whole thing off, or go it alone.

She enjoyed solitude; she liked gardening alone, and was a lunchtime regular at the little cafe down the street. But in the weeks since moving out of Graysen’s townhouse, she’d been spending most of her time confined to her new apartment, and if it went on for much longer, she’d evolve into a Gothic heroine.

She knew she needed a change of scenery, lest she start clawing at the wallpaper.

A man taking a sharp corner without looking up from his phone narrowly avoided a head-on collision with Elain; instead, he clipped her suitcase, wrenching it from her hand. It clung to the stranger’s carryon for a few paces, then dropped to the floor.

Before it could get swept up by the chaotic and restless crowd, Elain snatched the handle of her suitcase and righted it. The bag wobbled, then settled crookedly to the right. Within seconds of realizing he small, black wheel on the ground near it did in fact belong to her luggage, someone’s foot sent it skittering over the tile.

Elain watched it pinball out of sight, unable to contain her sharp, deranged laugh.

Just like that, the trip had gone from unfortunate to downright cursed — that little wheel was no mere inconvenience. It was an omen, just as powerful as any broken mirror or bolt of lightning. Clearly, the universe was trying to tell her that a hurricane was foredoomed to materialize on the first day of her stay, and wash her away by the third. Or that the long-inactive volcano would spontaneously erupt. Perhaps the plane would evanesce into the Bermuda Triangle.

She should have stayed home. She wanted to go home. Spend the next ten days of her hard-won PTO rewatching Bridgerton. Make a batch of her famous death-by-chocolate brownies and an espresso martini. Get petty satisfaction out of knowing how much of Graysen’s money was being wasted.

But as it was, Elain wasn’t on her way to an island or her Bay Area apartment; there was only one place she could go right now.

She all but stomped, her suitcase limping awkwardly behind her, in the direction of the nearest bar.

Elain collapsed onto a barstool and ordered something sweet, tropical, and strong. The bartender looked annoyed by her lack of specificity, but had the good grace not to say anything about it as he shook up then presented her with a mango mojito with an extra shot of rum.

Elain closed her eyes and took a sip, imagining she was basking in the sun as the tide lapped at her brightly-pedicured toes.

Her conjured serenity dissipated when she felt someone settle into the stool beside her.

A man in a perfectly tailored suit flagged the bartender. It was the kind of suit that spoke of money and importance — the kind of suit that ordered top-shelf whiskey, neat.

So Elain couldn’t help but look to him in surprise when he said, “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

Sensing her attention, he turned his head to flash her an easy smile, shrugging as if to say What about it?

He was captivating; his sharp suit so at odds with his long hair, tied back in a way that was almost thoughtless. Artfully messy, with a few loose strands framing a face made up of pointed features that screamed mischief. A scar, now faint with age, was carved into the left side of his face from brow to jaw, pulling slightly at the corner of his mouth. That mouth — the only soft part of his face.

Elain watched him take a hearty drink of his cocktail.

“That’s fucking delightful.” He said this to Elain as if she’d been the one to make it for him, not just put the idea in his head by sipping on her own. To the bartender, he said, “We’ll need two more of these, please.”

She blinked at him. “We?”

“What?” His smile was a little lopsided and a lot teasing. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

When Elain gave the waiting bartender a thumbs-up, the man’s smile grew.

God, he needed to keep that thing in check.

He extended a hand. “I’m Lucien.”

She took it, letting his fingers engulf hers. “Elain.”

He repeated her name to himself softly and fondly, like they do in the movies.

“Well, Elain, where are you supposed to be right now? Assuming a bar in the Las Vegas airport wasn’t your final destination.”

Maybe it was that second mojito, but telling Lucien the story about Graysen dumping her within weeks of their big, romantic getaway, and months of their wedding was surprisingly easy.

“So yeah,” she shrugged, stirring the melting ice and crushed mint around the glass with her straw. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” Lucien agreed, pushing a water she didn’t even notice him ordering at her.

“What about you? Were you in town for business or pleasure?”

“First it was business.” He flashed her a secretive smile, “Now it’s a pleasure.”

“Well, it must have been one nightmare of a business trip if this is your —”

Elain’s phone buzzed on the counter.

ATTN: Flight MAF608 LAS to MIA has been POSTPONED until 6:00 AM PST. For more information, reply HELP

Elain set her phone back down, then, without uttering a word, slid the water away, giving herself enough room to let her forehead fall to the countertop with a dull, defeated thud.

“Everything alright?”

She turned her head enough to look at Lucien with one eye. “I am going to die in this airport.”

He picked her phone up. “You’re going to die in the next…” he squinted at the screen, “ten hours?”

“If I’m lucky,” she grumbled, “it’ll be in the next two.”

Lucien’s laugh was rich and bright. Elain wanted to be annoyed at him for laughing at her misery, but the sound was so perfectly joyous, she could only manage a half-hearted pout.

“You’re laughing,” she said. “I’m going to spend the night on this barstool and you’re laughing.”

A prospect that still somehow seemed more dignified than calling Graysen to ask for money to cover a night in a hotel. The only reason she could go on this trip in the first place was because of his fancy tech job and guilty conscience.

“The business I was in town for,” Lucien said, making a show of snuffing out his laughter and becoming serious. “It was with a hotel on the Strip that my family does business with. I can make arrangements for you to stay there.”

Elain smiled, even as she shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but —”

“Please,” he insisted, sweeping up her tab with his own, and placing a black Amex on top. “It would be no trouble at all.”

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Resistance AU: Chewtoy, Alt: Bad End Timeline: close to the end

Fever Dog [First | Prev]

A dog barks at the end of its chain. Barks, and barks, and barks. Sharp, echoey sounds like rocks falling into a well. Is this what a dog sounds like? Bark, and bark, and bark, pulling at the chain and the chain clinks and the dog barks.

They kick the dog. Every day, in his heavy boots, steel-toed boots with scuffs on with thick black polish on. He kicks the dog and it yelps, it whines, it whimpers, it growls, and always it gets hit. In rain and in snow and in sweltering summer heat and the smell of tarmac. The dog yelps, barks, growls, whines, sunrise sunset.

The sun wheels across the sky, kaleidoscope shadows, red sun yellow sun long shadows like a nature film and that click-click-click-click film reel noise they used to play at the start of movies. Sunrise sundown sunrise sundown or the sky is still and the world is spinning full circle, upside down, dizzying, unrelenting.

Bark, bark, bark, bark, there is the dog again. At the end of its chain and howling. Every day beaten and kicked but when he calls to it every day it comes slinking, snarling, low to the ground miserable but it comes to his call. 

He is calling now but the dog is still barking. Does it hear him? Does it hear him over the sound of its own voice? Does it even hear itself or is the bark bark bark so constant it is nothing, just nothing, just noise, and the dog doesn’t even know.

Every day the beating and the dog still crawls but sometimes a kicked dog bites. One day the kicked dog bites, and buries its teeth in his throat and shakes him like a rat. One day the dog remembers it is a dog with finger-long teeth and jaws that clench hold strain ache hurt cling bite bite.

—

Riven curses, and slaps her upside the head. It doesn’t dislodge her grip, just jolts her teeth in his skin. 

“Where the fuck did that come from?” 

He thought she was out cold, or near as. Eyes pointed at nothing, unresponsive to his hands and to the kiss of the knife. 

He digs the fingers of his free hand into the muscles of her jaw. When that doesn’t work, he gets a hold of her by the nose to prise her jaw open by force until he can yank his hand free. The skin tears a little further, caught on her lower teeth.

She snaps after him, teeth clacking together like a mechanical trap. She still has those dead eyes, not even looking at him.

“Dirty little bitch,” he growls, “I knew you were still in there.”

Ignoring the blood trickling down his fingers, he grabs one of her shattered hands and twists, feeling the shards of bone grind together between his fingers. That’s gonna have to come off soon before it poisons her blood.

She arches her back and screams – or tries. Her voice is a wisp of a thing as ruined as her body, more breathy hiss than real scream. Ribs move unnaturally under her skin as her chest heaves for air.

“You want to die, bitch?” he hisses. “I know you do. Beg me, and I might consider it.” Still the same vacant stare, not even looking at him. “You remember how to beg? You used to be so good at this.” Stubborn bitch hasn’t begged since the first week. She thinks she can win this?

He twists her hand again. She arches her back and tries to scream.

“Don’t pretend you can’t fucking hear me, you can’t pretend after you fucking bit me.” He slaps her with his bitten hand, leaving a smear of his blood across her cheek, brighter than the caked-on stains of her own blood.

Her teeth clack in the air again.

Seething with fury, Riven pushes down on her chest until he feels the crack of bone slipping against bone. She convulses, limbs twitching, mouth open in a futile gasp.

Still the same empty fucking eyes, faking like she isn’t even processing. Maybe he should rip them out.

—

The dog has its teeth in her flesh. The bark bark bark runs through the meat like waves in jelly. Bark bark agony bark. Raw splitting burning meat cracking and turning to black under the sun. Lungs full of crumpled paper, crackling on every breath. Bark, bark, bark.

[queenofcats17]

Fav batim au’s?

Ooh!! I haven't talked about my favorite BATIM AU's in a while.

There's @disneyphantomlover's False Protagonists AU. That was one of the ones that really got me into BATIM I think.

There's @pipesflowforeverandever's Hymns of Struggle.

@a-rae-of-sunshine's Happily Ever After AU

@insane-control-room's The Big Picture.

I don't know if @randomwriteronline has any dedicated AU's, but I really like their BATIM works.

Reeling Off The Wheel by robboyblunder

Team Sillyvision by maulan-reverie

fishy-mom's Metal and Ink AU.

The Undertale crossover by esthyradler.

jekyll-doodles and @rosebloodcat also had a lot of AU's I really enjoyed.

I'm probably missing some, but those are some of my favorites that have been done by other people.

(I didn't ping everyone involved because I didn't know if they'd be okay with being pinged or not)

OH! ALSO! EDIT!:

@liliflower137 and @miscmangos-wonderland have also done some really cool AU stuff! Some of which I've been a part of and some of which I've just witnessed!

[frostbitepandaaaaa]

Hi ^^ now when i've found your list, and i feel safer than a while ago (thank you! :D ) and i have no idea what Aphelion could be, may i ask about:

Melshi and the others ...?

ahhhh, my dear Nen, that is part 2 of my zombie AU i wrote for Whumptober!

(also, side note, 'Aphelion' is an astronomical term for when two heavenly bodies that orbit each other are at their further points away from each other. take from that what you will)

here's a snippet of part 2 of Sometimes the Wolf:

Jyn lays half upright against the other wheel well, still panting. Her own charge seems to have passed out on her chest— from sheer exhaustion or from shock he can’t say, but it doesn’t matter. He can work around her. “Cass…” she hisses at him almost in warning as he drags himself toward her. He snaps open the thick plastic hatch of the tac box. “It’s too late—“ “Are you feeling feverish?” he asks, plucking the precious vial from the foam encasing it and shaking it. “No, but… Cassian it could just be the rain… or shock. Too much time has passed—“ “The virus works different on everyone. Thirty minutes is just a rule of thumb—“ “Cassian, if you do this and I turn anyway, it will be a waste. Wasted when it could be used for someone else.” He pulls the cap off the syringe with his teeth. Pierces the vial and begins to draw. “Draven will flay you alive!” she continues, growing a bit desperate, perhaps. He flicks air from the needle. “You think I give a shit about that?” He pulls up the sleeve of her jacket, smooths the rain and blood from the bite. It’s black and putrid and hot to the touch. He feels himself reel, but he takes a breath, looks up at her with the best grin he can muster. “Are we married or not?” Cassian waits for a relatively smooth stretch of road as Jyn lets out a harsh breath of frustration. “I can’t fucking believe your making jokes right—“ Jyn halts in her griping with a hiss of pain as the needle goes in. She always did hate needles. Cassian depresses the syringe, pulls the needle free, tosses it back into the box. He grips her face between his hands and brings their brows together. “You’re going to make it,” he swears to her. “You’re going to make it, or I’m going with you.”

[ladychandraofthemoone]

Since this universe utilises all characters from every iteration of the RWS/T&F, including AEG, what about the story of the Logging Locos and Misty Island? As we all know, the Logging Locos are widely hated. So what's their story and what changed about them?

oohhh alrighty!! Ive actually got them lying about here:

Starting off with bash and dash are both girls their real names are baileya and dahlia. Baileya is quite timid also the calm one and the peacemaker of the gang she’s also the one who’s gets homesick easily and the most anxious will start crying. She’s a herbalist florist gardener every plant/flower related thing knowing ever single scientific plant name and remedy after listening to the indigenous people’s of the misty valley (that’s where shining time is located here in my au) she has a soft spot for more spooky plants like larkspur and belladonnas and can “speak” with plants.

where as Dahlia has freckles and is the more outgoing energetic and open twin especially when interacting with animals she’s the one who gotta bring home animals as pets. you bet that everyone freaked out when she brought to the sheds a opossum when they visited.

So far she has a pet frog called mister hoppadiah “hopper” croakingtion that lives in her cab and a raccoon 🦝 named bubbles along with a group of wolves that she claims raised her and opossums. (James had such a fright when her pet frog 🐸 fell on his face) just like her sister she can “speak” with wildlife critters.

Ferdinand is the classic gentle giant and prefers the simple approach to life. Despite baileya’s shyness all three of them have a fair share of mischief and are known for pulling each others and others wheels.

Maybe that’s why the girls got a long distance relationship with the china clay twins…(Boco and also everyone else nearly busted his radiator when he hear about them but at the same time, they appear to reel one another in so..)

They use to be part of the early days of the island being part of the W&S from early indigenous American immigrants in the 1880s before becoming their own company for the isle of Glendale/glyndale or Brendan (which is now nicknamed misty island though it’s made up of many tiny islands) as a majority settled there (alongside some Shay ocs) something something oil and an new species of trees found there led to corporate greed and tycoons which nearly stripped the land bare before and logged it that they abandoned them and taking their friends away.

50 years later, it’s Toby and diesel who find them, the misty islanders (mainly of indigenous south and North American descent they mainly celebrated Hanukkah and epiphany, though they had others who have been stranded and were accepted into the community/village or hav left but took their friends away rubbing more salt in the wounds) and they’re all shook by how much as changed especially with diesel calling him a strange box on wheels though have since accepted the changes.

[themculibrary]

Firefighter AU Masterlist

9-1-1 (ao3) - amoree999 steve/bucky N/R, 7k

Summary: Sirens

“Firefighter fell through a two story burning building, unconscious possible concussion and internal bleeding” Paramedic Chi tells the attending nurses who flock the gurney being wheeled into the ER.

“What do We got?” Steve asks jumping into action, “Firefighter hurt on the job fell through a two story burning building Medics said possible concussion and internal bleeding” Danvers says, “Danvers run a line of blood, plasma, vitamin K and platelets” Rogers says, “Jones help me with his uniform” Steve says cutting the turn outs off the firefighter and taking his helmet along with the rest of his gear off. Rogers listens to his heart, lungs, and checks his airways before pressing around on his stomach looking for the source of his internal bleed. “Abdominal bleed left side” He says, “Jacques! Page the attending tell ‘em to open an OR now!” He checks the fireman’s pupillary response, “Both left and right pupils responding normal, CAT scan after he comes out of surgery. Airways are clear but treat him for smoke inhalation anyway, his mask was cracked. MOVE PEOPLE!”

45 minutes earlier���.

Burnt Sand (ao3) - maikurosaki steve/bucky E, 30k

Summary: Steve Rogers thinks he's completely fine: he's a great firefighter, he has awesome friends, and his occasional interactions with Bucky Barnes always put a smile on his face. But, in between a rescue mission at work that leaves him shaken and a blast from the past that leaves him reeling, Steve comes to the realization that he needs to be brave and go after what he wants. The problem is he's not sure he can follow this through.

Or: Steve Rogers is a firefighter with commitment issues. Bucky Barnes is an army veteran turned bartender with a different set of issues. Somehow, they make it work.

Engine 12 (ao3) - bethy_277 pepper/tony, hope/scott N/R, 41k

Summary: Tony Stark is a 30something firefighter in New York City, when he saves 6 year old Peter Parker from a fire. The kid loses his parents in the fire, and for some reason, he takes a place in Tony's heart.

Eternal Flame (ao3) - 74days steve/bucky, pepper/tony T, 14k

Summary: There's a bet at the Firehouse that Barton'll go for more than anyone else at the Charity Auction - and Bucky finds himself roped into the whole thing against his will.

It's all fun and games until a mystery phone bidder pays waaaaay to much to get Bucky alone.

He's gonna end up dead in an alleyway because of Barton and his stupid bet.

Everything Happens For A Riesling (ao3) - TaraSoleil G, 1k

Summary: A fire at Stark's mansion leaves firefighters Steve & Bucky trapped.

Gotta Have Some Hot Stuff, Gotta Have Some Love Tonight (ao3) - OriginalCeenote bucky/clint, steve/sam M, 5k

Summary: “We’ve got another call, Barton.”

“Huh?”

“Get back in the rig. Stop staring at Barnes’ ass.” Nat’s voice sounded more amused than impatient, and Clint realized that he was staring. Wasn’t his damned fault that Barnes was wearing those khaki Dickies pants, was it?

I Stare Into the Fire (It Signifies My Desire) (ao3) - laudatenium steve/tony T, 6k

Summary: They keep telling Tony to evacuate. The smoke's too thick, he'll suffocate.

But who's gonna force him to leave? Not the fire captain, no sir.

More than Friends (ao3) - Neverever steve/tony T, 7k

Summary: Deputy Police Chief Tony Stark wonders if there is more to his flirting with the new Fire Chief Steve Rogers. After all, everyone treats them like they come as a matched set. Meanwhile Steve wants to find the serial arsonist in town.

not shy of a spark (ao3) - burning_brighter art (burning_brighter), cable-knit-sweater (cable_knit_sweater) steve/bucky, wanda/sam E, 5k

Summary: EMT Steve doesn't like firefighters. They're arrogant, more muscle than brains, and everyone falls over themselves for these supposed heroes. He really can't stand them, and doesn't understand how his friend and colleague Wanda can be attracted to any of them.

Firefighter Bucky going into an unsafe building with an oxygen tank that's low is just more proof of their stupidity. But when Bucky comes out of the building cradling a tiny cat to his chest, Steve can't help but be a little endeared.

It doesn't change anything though; firefighters are still the worst.

Or that's what he tells himself, even as he goes to check up on the cat later that week.

Definitely to check on the cat, not because he wants to see Bucky again. He certainly isn't disappointed to hear Bucky has transferred to another firehouse.

It's also what he tells himself when Bucky shows up to work at Steve's firehouse the next week. Steve doesn't do firefighters. No matter how cute. Right?

Unfortunately, Bucky turning out to not be as bad as he initially thought - and maybe also his tendency to walking around half naked at work - makes it a little harder for Steve to stick to his story.

Playing with Fire (ao3) - shatteredhourglass bucky/clint E, 5k

Summary: “Three o’clock,” Natasha says and Clint looks automatically, not registering the glint of mischief in her eyes until he’s already looking.

“Why is he stripping,” Clint whispers, outraged.

Bucky Barnes is standing a few meters away from them, tugging his shirt over his head. He doesn’t wax his chest during the winter months, apparently, because there’s a trail of dark hair that Clint really, really wants to get his mouth on. He’s stuck staring like an idiot as Bucky throws his shirt over the door of the firetruck, every inch of his ridiculously hot upper half on display. He can almost feel the brain cells in his head frying just from the sight.

Stoke This Fire In My Heart (ao3) - JustAnotherMarvelGirl wanda/vision T, 1k

Summary: When Wanda gets injured on the job, Vision can't deny his feelings for her anymore.

The best view comes after the hardest climb (ao3) - hopelessly_me bucky/clint T, 1k

Summary: On the ten year anniversary of 9/11, Bucky finally joined his support group in participating in the 911 Tower Challenge.

The Hazards Of Falling In Love (Rescue Me) (ao3) - EmmaLostInWonderland T, 4k

Summary:

“So that’s your name?” Rogers hasn't looked away from him once. His eyes are a piercing blue, and Tony barely manages to keep from squirming under his gaze.

“Yeah. Or Telecommunications Operator Stark, if we’re getting technical about it.”

“Are we?”

Tony tilts his head slightly. “Depends. Can I call you Steve?”

The man grins. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Tony.”

// Tony Stark doesn't date firemen. But he'll make an exception for Battalion Chief Steve Rogers.

The heat of you (ao3) - queerastronaut sam/bucky, background carol/maria M, 15k

Summary: Sam's a paramedic. Bucky's a firefighter. They hate each other's gut but somehow, they keep saving each other's lives. Until one day, the fire gets too big too fast and Sam realizes that he may not hate James Barnes as much as he thought.

the new romeo and juliet (ao3) - imposterhuman bucky/tony G, 2k

Summary: Bucky and Tony weren’t dating, because a firefighter and a detective couldn’t date (never mind that Tony hadn’t slept with anyone else since their thing had started, and he and Bucky hung out with an alarming frequency, and the whole precinct thought that they were an item). It didn't matter how many nights they spent together, how Bucky had a drawer of Tony's things and vice versa, they just couldn't.

It was a classic Romeo and Juliet situation, if Romeo and Juliet actively disliked each other on top of everything.

Trying to Stay Warm (ao3) - freedvmrouge G, 2k

Summary: After waking up from the ice, what if Steve became a firefighter-paramedic instead?

Wildfire (ao3) - 70SecretKinks steve/bucky T, 1k

Summary: No amount of training in the world could prepare rookie firefighter Steve Rogers for the force and fury of a California wildfire. But even a sea of fiery flames paled in comparison to hot-as-hell fellow fireman, Bucky Barnes.

[moonylilies]

2023 Art Summary!!

so here's a single piece from each month i did!! i really wish i did more art this year, so hopefully (and most likely) next year i will!!

below under the cut are links to the ones i managed to post along with my art goals and some thoughts for the next year

thank you so much for those who have been following me this year and i hope we can continue to grow doing what we desire in the next year :3

yall can skip reading this if you just wanna go see the links; most of you probably know i went back to college in january, which unfortunately caused me to gain major art block (ew) when my depression creeped up. i also had like no time this semester with the large ammt of courses i took (i took 6 classes and it killed me with the course load since most of them were online. never again i will be making that mistake). when i go back to classes in january, i hopefully will not be as dying as i was this semester since i am taking a majority art course load. im even taking a printmaking class which means yall will be gettin some goodies posted hopefully

my art goal for next year besides getting more commissions lol (which if you are interested can see about here) is to be able to draw full bodies - i still can't and ive been drawing humans as my main thing for at least 6 years now. i will def be practicing next year by doing many figure studies lol. i also hope i can manage to figure out how to do backgrounds besides the basic ones i tend to do i also hope that with my shop i can break some of my records like getting new states i haven't shipped to yet so that my state ammt goes up from 8 to maybe 10, having my total ammt going up to around 50 sales from 35, getting more fans for my art who love the stickers and prints i am making, ect ect i wasn't able to this year. while i am on winter break, i am trying to set up a shop update for before classes start again which i will be updating on here about when i remember to do so (honestly the hardest thing for me while having an art acct to promote my art and shop is making content besides just posting my art online and hoping people like it)

links for art + what the ones that don't have links are lol: january: lunar new year rabbits feburary: ft ferris bueller's day off au (this one is the one i am the most proud of) march: lucy redesign april: team shadowgear hehehe (this one's my favourite i did this year) may: yuki got hit by a car june: sketch of my oc alyss july: levy for part of my colour wheel challenge that is still a wip (tiktok one two ; reels one two) august: wally ice cream (aka a future sticker) september: art of my oc adora october: the sun tarot card feat sting eucliffe (wip portion is linked) november: bisca icon december: ramen sticker (a sticker soon to drop in my shop once i do a shop update soon)

[comatosebunny09]

forget me not

genre: angst, modern au

warnings: mentions of a toxic relationship, heartbreak, pining, crimelord!kyo, female!reader

music: adieu - emily bindiger / clair de lune - claude debussy

You had called him after the sun took refuge behind the mountains. 

When the sky was violet, and stars spilled across it like paint. 

Swaddled in the blue light of his cell and the gentle murmur of his engine, Kyojuro reached for the driver-side handle and threw the door open. The wind was fearsome, ruffling his hair and threatening to knock him off his feet. 

But the sound of your voice breaking through the staticky speaker kept him tethered to Earth.

He nearly dropped his phone when he slid into the leather seat, fumbling to connect you to the Bluetooth. Wild-eyed and swallowing thickly, his nerves solar flares beneath his skin.

“Hey,” you said. 

Light as silk, a simple greeting filled his spacious convertible and his head with vertigo. There was apprehension swimming beneath the soprano of your tone. A slight waver. A shaky sigh as if the world’s weight was on your shoulders. 

“Hey,” he parroted, masking the tremor of his own voice.

Sat up, spine painfully stiff. Never gripped the shifter tighter. The fine hairs littering his body stood at attention. He found himself straining every molecule inside to hear you again.

To feel you again.

It had been months, after all. Since he last heard from you. Saw you. He never thought he would again, having fled the city to let you reassemble the jagged shards of your heart.

Alone.

Said it was best because he was destroying you. Stripping you down to the marrow, bleeding you dry. A good girl like you didn’t deserve to be dragged down by a scoundrel like him. You deserved happiness. Freedom. Stability.

Kyojuro watched the dam keeping your emotions at bay splinter, tears pouring in rivulets down your cheeks. He could still hear your shrill cries for him to stay. You clung to his sleeve. Pounded tiny fists against his chest. He watched emotions fleet across your face like torn film reels, all passive and tight-lipped. He had to be. It was the only way to make this breakup clean. 

Sand filled his throat, and his heart sank into the empty chasm of his stomach as he left.

Forever.

Or so he thought.

He couldn’t understand; why he clung to every minute sound—every burst of static, every heave of breath. Strangled the leather of his steering wheel, and his foot hovered over the pedal. 

Say the word. Just say it. Just—

“I… didn’t know who else to call.” 

Your voice popped and fizzed like a bonfire, cutting through the dissonance of his mind. He could taste the brine of tears welling up beneath your lashes. Could sense you receding into yourself, rubbing your arms to ward off the cold. Pictured you with your back against a wall, fighting against the quake of your shoulders and biting your lips to keep from whimpering.

The thought made the warmth of fondness wade over him. He couldn’t help the quirk of his lips as he leaned back against the seat. You were always such a crybaby. His crybaby.

Somehow, the notion was comforting. Knowing that you needed him. That he was at the forefront of your mind after all this time. Sure, a part of him felt sick. Deplorable. Hollow. But he couldn’t ignore how his body tingled.

Assuredness drenched his timbre as he asked, 

“Where are you?”

The ping in his notifications was instantaneous. As was the airiness that inhabited your voice as you breathed a

“Thank you.”

Kyojuro nodded to no one, your pin drop flooding the dash screen, a melancholy smile rounding his lips. He peeled out of the parking lot without thinking, the roar of his motor mirroring the wild flutter of his heart.

[axiro]

Through the Dragon's Eyes || Talon AU Hanzo Shimada

Chapter Nine - Ad Hominem

Who's left to blame.

Chapter Master List || AO3

Any underlined text signifies background music/ambiance is linked. :)

Hanzo wakes to a chill against his back, and rumbling surroundings. Vision remaining dark, body staying still, he listens. There's whispering not far from him. Trying to make out what's being said is difficult, especially as pain begins to try and drag his attention away. His head reels, making him feel as if his body is going to sink into the surface beneath. A pained groan passes his lips. The whispering stops.

Footsteps approach, stopping on his right. He can feel their presence, yet they're uncomfortably silent. Breathing through the nausea his spinning mind is causing, he weakly opens his eyes. Glancing over, it takes a moment for his sight to remedy of any blur, revealing who is standing prim at his side. Her gaunt features study his own, seemingly uncaring about the discomfort he's in. Her two toned gaze drags away with the rest of her as she walks off. Moments later, the metal table he's laid upon begins to fold upwards, rising him to a more sitting position.

"Took quite a fall, did you, Shimada?" She asks, her tone almost mocking.

Hanzo doesn't reply, just turning his head to face straight and continuing to breathe as the nausea slowly begins to fade. In his right arm is an IV, leading up to a bag that's hanging off the hook of a larger medical apparatus on wheels by the table. It seems rather primitive compared to what he knows this medic is capable of. Why hasn't she just patched him up completely already, he wonders. Moira. What could she be thinking? What could she be doing? Knowing her history, he feels he has every right to question anything she does, no matter how little.

He's unsure how long it's been since he was knocked out, nor how long he's been in transit before he awoke. He wants so greatly to get away from the current situation due to the discomfort of the other's presence. Plus, he doesn't want her to take care of something he knows how to deal with himself. This is ridiculous. It's wasting his time.

Beginning to turn to face his back to the geneticist, he slides his legs off the side, feet touching the floor. Bare skin presses against cold steel, causing a shiver. The chill paired with the refrigerated contents of the liquid drip tethered directly into his vein is an unpleasant feeling.

"I would not recommend that." Moira says.

He ignores her. Gently pushing his weak body off the table's edge, he goes to stand. The dizziness returns tenfold and gravity shifts. He stumbles, tumbling down onto his knees with one hand hitting the table to try to catch himself on the way down, causing the IV apparatus to clang against the other side as it wheels along with his fall.

This surprises him.

Sure, he took quite a bit of damage, yet he's walked away from things like this with at least some, if not most of his strength left before. Now, he feels as if it's been drained from him. Muscles like that of a newborn, he's unable to lift himself back up onto the table, simply sitting on the ground with his hand still gripping the tables edge, confusion and frustration constricting his features.

"If you wish to be stupid, so be it. Just know that will delay the process." Moira sighs, walking around the table to stand in front of him.

Bending down to assess the bandage on his chest, she begins to remove it, pushing aside his opened shirt for easier access. Without the strength to lift his arm to keep hers away, he can do nothing but wait for her to finish. Once the bandage is removed, she hums to herself.

"Fascinating." She mumbles.

That's... worrying.

Straightening back up, she walks back around to where she was before. The scribble of a pen can be heard behind him. Once again, he remains stagnant, still upon his knees on the cold metal floor. There's several minutes of scribbling, button beeping, pacing and more, yet he pays it no mind, simply staring at the ground with exhaustion.

His head finally stills of the spinning, the silence being broken not long after.

"You will remain under my care until you are functional." Moira says as her footsteps leave the room, door sliding open and subsequently shut with her departure.

Fascinating. Functional. Those words she used are a strange way to refer to him. It's obvious she in fact truly does not see him as a patient, but perhaps more of a machine. A tool. He has been just that for Talon. He knew this would be the reality going into it, just like he has every intention of using that to his advantage to get out of it.

Suddenly, he remembers. With a small inhale, his memory begins to remind him of what happened. The job. That was it. The last thing he needed to do before he could start tearing them apart from the inside. However, the crash...

The crash.

He doesn't know if the cowboy survived. If the job is truly done. They both hung there, looking at one-another in mutual understanding of their situation. They both fell. Cassidy... tried to catch him.

Why?

Why didn't he just watch as Hanzo fell to his life's end instead of making an attempt at saving it?

Too many questions. Too little energy. Hanzo doubts he'll ever be able to know the answers, anyways. His head hangs as he slides his hand off the table, letting it drop to his side before he carefully, slowly adjusts to just lie on the floor entirely. Knees pointed to the side and right arm over his torso, he rests through the remainder of the journey back to the hell-scape that awaits him.

If only it could hold a candle to the one in his mind.

----------

Hanzo feels the ship land. The engine begins to whir slower, it's deep whine fading in volume. He sits up, luckily this time without any unpleasant responses from his body. In fact, he feels good. Looking down at his torso he notices the gunshot wound is gone. Not completely, but it's sealed up as if it's already been healing for weeks. All that's left is what looks like a scar.

It's wrong.

Standing up, he claws at the tube that's patched to the vein in his arm, quickly gripping, pulling and disconnecting it from his system, the sound of ripping tape bouncing off the metal surroundings. Throwing it down, he turns away, clasping his left palm down on the insertion site as he rounds the table to search the counters for something to wrap it with. Spotting some gauze and bandaging, he grabs it, ready to do what needs done. Removing his hand, he observes the spot.

There isn't one. Not even the tiniest needle dot.

He drops the supplies, running his left thumb over the area. It doesn't even ache.

Turning around, he takes a few quick steps towards the table he was on earlier, grabbing the IV bag that's still hanging from it's hook. It's clear. Nothing is written on it. Just completely blank. The door to the room slides open. Moira enters with a few guards tailing behind.

"You'd do well not to mess with things that do not belong to you, agent." She says.

God, it's hard to read her. He hates that.

He removes his hand from the bag, eyeing her.

"I expect you will explain your methods, then." He says through gritted teeth.

Moira smirks, rotating her head ever so slightly to the side.

"You are responding well. I am very pleased." She pauses. "An explanation will do very little. The most I can offer you in form of words is that I healed you."

She walks forwards, the guards still tailing her as if she holds an invisible leash to each.

"As per my responsibility. I am your medic. Now, please dress yourself, we're to speak with the commander at once."

What exactly it is she's done, Hanzo isn't sure. It's unnatural, whatever it was, and he does not like the way its going. For now, he locates his boots on the floor by the door, putting them on and adjusting his clothing back to normal. He has no band or ribbon to put his hair back up, as seemingly those items have been lost sometime between now and the train.

Once he's made himself as presentable as possible, he re-approaches Moira. Walking off the vessel as a group, he once again crosses the surface of the large helipad he touched down upon when he first arrived. Back down the same path. Back to the same damn meeting room.

In the conference area, he sees Reaper standing in wait, arms crossed, his brooding aura practically steaming off his person. Once Hanzo's group enters, the wraith releases his arms, letting them hang by his sides as he approaches, heavy footsteps apparent.

"Well?" He asks, an expectant tone slathered with his signature growl as he looks to Hanzo.

Hanzo exhales lightly. He's stood in front of the clan elders and his father in such a manner when he's fucked up before. Yet, this is different. He didn't fuck up. He holds his ground, knowing his following explanation is truthful.

"There was an interference." Hanzo states, straightforwardly.

"No shit." Reaper replies.

There's a bitter few seconds of silence between the two of them before Hanzo continues.

"An explosion. It must have been pre-set. The train de-railed with us both upon it."

Reaper approaches a little closer.

"Did you lose him?" He asks, lowly.

"For reasons outside of my immediate control, I-"

Reaper hums in deep irritation, cutting the assassin off before just as quickly becoming terribly close, his face mere inches from Hanzo's. There's a chill surrounding him like that of a ghost.

"I do not know what became of him." Hanzo finishes.

Reaper scans the other's face for a few long moments, his very presence feeling like a drain on the archer's soul.

"You. Don't. Know." He echoes.

With an airy hiss of a sigh, he backs off. Then, he looks to Moira.

"We need to talk. Alone." He growls. "And you," he points to Hanzo, "I will discuss this with you later. Leave."

With an abrupt end to the meeting, Hanzo takes a few steps backwards before departing without another word, the guards escorting him to a new area he hasn't yet seen. The medical ward. He's practically just pushed inside before they shut and lock the door behind him.

He glares at the door before shaking it off, instead choosing to look about the room. It's rather empty, save for a few typical rolling beds, a wheelchair in the back corner and meticulously organized equipment among the counter tops and rolling metal operation tables. He sits on the edge of one of the beds, attention shifting to his chest.

Reaching his hand into the fold of his top, he feels at the gunshot wound. It's a little bumpy but nothing abnormal from what a mostly healed wound like this would be expected to be like. However, the strange feeling of an abnormal strength remains. He experienced both sides of the spectrum mere hours apart, neither even touching any semblance of normal in between.

It's a miracle he survived in the first place. He fell with an entire train car into a river, somehow didn't drown during his black-out and ended up back, well... here. The whole thing is fishy. If he didn't know any better, he'd assume Talon in fact directly had something to do with the bomb. A failsafe with no room for him in its thoughts. He's not about to vocalize that, of course.

He needs proof. As confident as he is about this conclusion, he can't act without knowing how many cards they're holding.

His thoughts are pulled back to the present a few minutes later as the door unlocks. Reaper enters with Moira in tail. The wraith is silent. Seems whatever they spoke of once he left is very much on his mind.

He walks up to Hanzo.

"Details. Now." He demands.

Just like before, Hanzo explains everything. The fight. The bomb. The fall. He leaves out the mention of Cassidy seemingly trying to catch him. Reaper listens, still as a statue through the whole thing. Once Hanzo finishes, he sighs.

"I'll have Sombra send out drones to investigate the site. If we don't find a body," he pauses, "we're back to square one."

And Hanzo is still stuck in the deal.

Hanzo curses to himself in a whisper. Starting over in this type of situation is less than desirable. He finds himself hoping his target did in fact perish. That the body will be found somewhere downstream. Another part of him is disgusted with that desire. He lightly shakes his head, exhaling through his nose in displeasure.

"I see." Hanzo replies, monotonously.

"You're going to remain here until you're fully healed. A day or two, maximum." Reaper says, his glare shifting to Moira for those last few words.

Moira meets the look with her own signature gaze, calm and quiet. The gruff man growls quietly, only to where Hanzo can barely hear it. The medic is once again by his side as the door slides shut after Reaper disappears, leaving the two of them alone in the room.

[firewoodfigs]

♥️ and 🎨 for the ask game :)

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

oooo!!! off the top of my head (and only scouring very recent fics/poems that i've written, which is to say not a lot), it would probably be:

sweet tea in the summer / cross your heart, won't tell no other

That summer, the desert barren, swollen with grief; dreams of glory frayed and worn. 

a study in reformation (chapter 7)

"Goodnight, Riza. Sweet dreams.” A chuckle, a prelude to something ludicrous. “And by that, I mean you have my permission to dream about me.”  “That would be quite the nightmare, wouldn’t it?” A noise of protest, feigning injury. Her smile doesn’t waver. “Goodnight, Roy. Thank you.”  “Anytime.” 

also i think there was a line i wrote in an earlier chapter that was something like "maybe it's simply a proletariat's fate, to trade impractical dreams for rent money" that was entirely personal lmao

i wove a wreath to keep us from death's tender breath

I wove a wreath to keep us from death's tender breath / a peace lily, settling in grief's buoyant sea.

also these are some lines from a song I'd originally intended to finish recording for royai week 2023, but will probably only get around to doing so in august haha...

in this dream, you were / shimmering / aurora in spring / chasing brass rings / wasn't worth our weight / in gold ... but all our wishes upon tarnished stars / have bled into / catastrophe and war / claimed our youths / and maimed our truths

🎨 If someone were to make fanart of your work, what fic or scene would you hope to see?

OOOOO omg honestly i adore fanart in all forms, but if i had to pick -- there was a scene in the latest chapter of the college au / ch. 7 of a study in reformation that really started out as a film scene in my head. specifically the scene where roy and riza were hanging out at the party alone, gazing at the party crowd uncomprehendingly as they lean back against the cluttered table of drinks and re-evaluating what they know about each other, with roy being all like "there's a lot you don't know about me, and i'm sure there's a lot i don't know about you, too" LIKE. to be known is to be loved and we are slowly getting there >:)))

honorary mentions go to: (i) the scene in sweet tea in the summer / cross your heart, won't tell no other where Roy braids Riza's hair after she gets ridiculed at school, and she sees her mother's reflection in her cup of tea; (ii) the scene in and if this is the long haul, how'd we get here so soon where they're sitting on a bench in the amestrian version of coney island, staring at the ferris wheel forlornly like it's a reel of everything that could've been, if they'd been unmaimed by their sins; and (iii) the scene in no matter the hearts you burn, in mine you shall always remain where Roy and Riza (and their gremlin child Ed) get shoved into traditional xingese garb by a herd of overpowering maidservants.

ANYWAY. I WOULD LITERALLY BE OVER THE MOON like these visuals lurk around in my head like film scenes but i am aesthetically challenged and incapable of drawing anything beyond stickmen unfortunately.

special shoutout to volvare for her incredible depiction of the balcony scene in memento amare and smoothshine for her breathtaking illustration of THAT scene in and you get lost when you're led by blind faith!!! y'all are insane and your art lives rent free in my mind <3

thanks for the ask, lovely! i had so much fun answering this one - have the best weekend!!! xx