#skid steer spin outs

[rmspeltzfarm]

Crazy Making Donuts with 9000lbs Skid Steer on ICE

Crazy Making Donuts with 9000lbs Skid Steer on ICE

#skidsteer, #farming, #spinouts

[pucksandpower]

Help, My Cat Drank My Red Bull!

Max Verstappen x veterinarian!Reader

Summary: in which Sassy gets into an open can of Max’s energy drink and inadvertently leads Max to the love of his life

Max sighs as he exits the sim-rig, stretching his arms over his head. After a few intense hours of virtual racing, he could use a pick-me-up.

He wanders into the kitchen, spotting the full can of Red Bull he had left on the counter earlier.

Perfect.

But as Max reaches for the energy drink, something catches his eye — a sticky puddle on the granite countertop where the can should be. He leans in, sniffing cautiously. The unmistakable sweet scent of Red Bull wafts up.

“What the ...” His voice trails off as a blur of tan fur darts past the corner of his vision.

Sassy skids into view. Her pupils are dilated to the size of marbles and she’s practically vibrating with excess energy. Max’s jaw drops as the realization hits.

“No, no, you didn’t ...”

But the evidence is irrefutable. Sassy must have knocked over the can and lapped up every sugary drop.

Max runs a hand through his curls, panic rising. Too much caffeine could be incredibly dangerous for a cat her size. He needs to get her to a vet right away, but at — he checks his watch — 2:14 in the morning, his usual clinic will be closed.

“Come here, Sassy!” He calls, slowly advancing on the hyper feline.

But Sassy just stares at him, unblinking, before bolting in the opposite direction with a manic burst of speed. Max gives chase, cursing under his breath as she darts around furniture and ricochets off walls. After several frantic minutes of pursuit, he finally manages to corner the cat and scoop her into a carrier.

Sassy yowls in protest as Max secures the door, but he has no choice. He grabs his keys and races down to the parking garage, carefully settling the carrier into the passenger seat of his bright red Ferrari before peeling out toward the nearest emergency vet clinic.

The drive seems to take an eternity with Sassy howling the whole way. Max’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel as he haphazardly parks outside the clinic and jumps out, slamming the door behind him.

Only to stop dead a few steps later, the realization crashing over him like a wave. In his haste, he left the cat in the car.

“Shit!” Max spins on his heel, cheeks burning as he hurries back and grabs the carrier, cradling it awkwardly against his chest.

He strides through the front doors of the clinic, the receptionist looking up in surprise at his abrupt entrance.

“Please,” Max gasps out, eyes wide. “My cat, she drank a whole can of Red Bull. What do I do?”

The receptionist’s brows knit together briefly before her features smooth into a professional mask. “Okay sir, please have a seat in exam room three. The doctor will be right with you.”

Max nods frantically, hurrying down the hallway as directed and gently depositing the carrier on the exam table. He resumes his pacing, running anxious hands through his hair.

After what feels like an eternity, the door finally opens. But the person who walks in absolutely takes Max’s breath away.

You are, without a doubt, the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen. From your cascading locks to your warm eyes, Max can’t tear his gaze away. Your figure is highlighted by pale blue scrubs as you cross the room, a soft smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

“Good morning, I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. What seems to be the trouble?”

Max’s throat is suddenly, inexplicably dry. He clears it harshly. “U-uh, hi. I’m Max. Max Verstappen. My cat, Sassy, she — well, I had a can of Red Bull out and she must have knocked it over because when I came back, it was empty but the counter was sticky and then she was just … super hyper and crazy ...”

His words stumble to a halt as you lean over, gently pulling the still-feisty Sassy from her carrier and depositing her on the table. You murmur soothingly, stroking her soft fur as you examine her dilated pupils and elevated pulse.

“Hmm, yes, it does sound like she’s had a bit too much caffeine.” You shoot Max a reassuring smile that makes his heart skip a beat. “Not to worry though, we’ll get her taken care of.”

As you deftly slip a mild sedative into the crook of Sassy’s leg, Max can’t help but watch in awe at how gentle and caring you are. He’s never seen someone so compassionate and loving toward an animal before.

Within minutes, the sedative takes effect and Sassy transforms from a blur of frantic energy to a lazy puddle of fur, watching the room with heavy-lidded eyes. You scratch between her ears, lips quirked.

“There we go, that’s better. She’ll be feeling pretty groggy for the next little while as the caffeine works its way out of her system.”

Max nods dumbly, completely mesmerized as you deftly check Sassy’s vitals again.

“Her temperature and heart rate are looking good. I’d just recommend keeping her awake and hydrated until the effects have fully worn off in six to eight hours, then she should be back to normal.”

“Okay, yeah. Thank you so much, really,” Max gushes, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was so worried when I realized what happened.”

You shrug with an easy smile. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all. Better to get these things checked out, just to be safe.” A teasing glint enters your expressive eyes. “Although, I have to ask — how exactly does a Red Bull can get knocked over and lapped up by a cat?”

Max feels his cheeks flush again as your gaze meets his, warm and friendly and so incredibly beautiful up close.

He clears his throat. “Uh, well, you see I was sim racing for a while and just left it out, which was dumb of me ...”

As he rambles through the explanation, Max can’t tear his eyes away from the crinkles that form around your eyes when you smile or the melodic lilt of your laughter. By the time he’s finished, he’s even more smitten than before.

An awkward silence falls as you finish up examining Sassy. You turn back to Max, expression soft.

“Well, it seems like your girl is going to be just fine. I’ll get the discharge paperwork ready for you.”

Your footsteps retreat toward the door and panic seizes Max’s chest. He can’t just let you walk away, not without at least trying ...

“Hey, uh, Dr. Y/N?” He calls out before he can overthink it.

You pause, eyebrows raised expectantly as you turn back.

Max suddenly can’t remember what he was going to say. His mind goes blank, palms growing sweaty, as he shuffles his feet. The words completely escape him as he’s overwhelmed by your warmth and beauty.

“I, uh … thanks again. For helping Sassy,” he stammers out instead, mentally kicking himself.

You smile patiently. “Of course, I’m just glad she’s going to be okay.”

An awkward silence stretches between you as Max wars internally, desperately trying to muster the courage to ask you out properly. But the moment slips away as you begin to turn back toward the door.

“Well, I’ll get those discharge papers ready for you.”

“Right, yeah, okay. Thanks ...” Max’s words trail off lamely as you exit the room.

He squeezes his eyes shut, smacking his forehead in frustration. He just completely blew his chance with the most incredible woman he’s ever met, all because he’s a bumbling idiot who can’t even form a simple sentence around someone that effortlessly beautiful and caring.

Max blows out a long breath, trying to refocus on the fact that Sassy is going to be alright, at least. As he carefully gathers her sleepy form back into her carrier, he can’t help the pang of regret that settles in his chest.

Maybe your paths will cross again someday under better circumstances. A guy can dream, right?

***

The next week drags by for Max in a blur of monotony. He finds his thoughts drifting constantly back to the emergency vet clinic, replaying his disastrous non-attempt at asking you out on a date. Just the memory of your radiant smile and warm eyes is enough to make his heart stutter.

But as the days pass with no sign of you around Monaco, Max’s hope slowly fades. Of course someone as incredibly kind, caring, and beautiful as you would never go for an awkward guy like him. He’s an idiot for thinking he even had a chance.

Exactly one week after the Red Bull incident with Sassy, Max is moping on his couch, idly stroking Jimmy as he channel surfs. He pauses on a cheesy romcom, watching with mild disdain as the bumbling male lead performs increasingly ridiculous stunts all for a chance to see his love interest again.

It’s utterly ridiculous. And yet … Max feels a strange sense of kinship with the hapless romantic on screen.

Because as he stares at the TV, a crazy idea begins to take shape. If he wants to see you again so badly, why not take a page from the movie’s playbook? With a jolt of determination, Max scoops up a disgruntled Jimmy and tucks him into his carrier.

“Looks like you’re coming with me on an adventure, buddy,” Max murmurs, grinning slightly at Jimmy’s unmistakable look of disdain. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while. I just need you to play along so I can see Y/N again. You’re going to help me make her yours and Sassy’s new mom.”

Jimmy yawns pointedly, seemingly unimpressed with Max’s romantic scheming. Max just chuckles, scratching the cat between the ears before grabbing his keys and heading for the garage.

He settles Jimmy’s carrier into the passenger seat of his Ferrari, the engine roaring to life under his expert control. As he navigates Monaco’s winding streets, Max keeps up a steady stream of conversation with his distinctly unreceptive feline audience.

“You’re going to love Y/N, I just know it,” he insists, pulling up to a red light. “She’s the kindest, most compassionate person I’ve ever met. The way she took care of Sassy with such patience and gentleness ...” Max shakes his head in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Jimmy blinks slowly at him, conveying an impressive blend of judgment and displeasure at being awake, much less participating in this ridiculous plan. Max just barrels onward.

“Look, I know this seems crazy. But Y/N … she’s just special, you know? And if this is what it takes to get to know her better, then I’m all in.”

He pulls up to the familiar sight of the clinic, parking much more calmly this time before grabbing Jimmy’s carrier and heading inside. The same receptionist from before looks up in surprise as he approaches.

“You again? Is everything okay with Sassy?”

Panic grips Max’s chest as he realizes he didn’t actually come up with an excuse for bringing Jimmy in beforehand. He scrambles for something, anything, to say.

“Uh, well, actually it’s Jimmy here who needs to be seen,” he rushes out, nodding toward the disgruntled cat. “You see, I was just, uh … brushing him earlier and he seemed great. But then I went to pick him up and it was like … bam!” Max mimes an explosion gesture. “Total f-fur explosion, just hair going everywhere! It was like he was … moulting, but not in the normal way, you know?”

By the time Max finishes, the receptionist is staring at him in bewilderment. He can feel the flush creeping up the back of his neck as she blinks slowly.

“A … fur explosion,” she repeats flatly.

“Exactly!” Max insists with a vigorous nod. “Just an absolute furpocalypse, you would not believe it. So I figured I’d better bring him in to get checked out, just in case?”

A beat passes as the receptionist seems to silently debate arguing with him further. Finally, she just shakes her head.

“Okay, well … go ahead and take Jimmy back to exam room three again. Dr. Y/L/N will be right with you.”

Max’s heart leaps into his throat at the mention of your name as he forces a polite smile and heads back down the hallway to the familiar room. He carefully lets Jimmy out to explore as they wait, praying fervently that you’ll actually be the one to walk through that door.

The minutes drag by in tense silence, Max gnawing nervously at his thumbnail. Just as he’s starting to think this was all a terrible idea, the door swings open and you step inside.

It’s like the world stops spinning for a moment. You are … breathtaking, even more gorgeous than Max remembered. From your tumbling locks of hair to the gentle curve of your smile, he’s completely mesmerized all over again.

You glance up from the chart in your hands, doing a slight double-take as you recognize Max.

“Well, hello again you!” Your voice is bright and melodic. “I can’t say I was expecting to see you back so soon. What happened?”

Your inquisitive gaze meets Max’s and he very nearly blurts out the entire truth right then and there — that he absolutely made up an excuse just for the chance to see you again. Somehow, he bites back the words at the last moment.

“Oh, uh, it was the weirdest thing,” he stammers instead, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I was brushing Jimmy, my other cat, earlier and all of a sudden his fur just started … exploding everywhere! Like, full-on furmageddon. It was insane.”

He cringes inwardly at how stupid he sounds, watching as a crease forms between your brows in contemplation. After a moment, though, your features smooth out into an easy smile and you move closer to gently stroke Jimmy’s silky fur.

“Well, let’s take a look, shall we?”

For the next several minutes, Max watches in rapt fascination as you thoroughly examine Jimmy from ears to tail, gentle hands ghosting over his fur as you murmur soothing reassurances. Just being in your presence is intoxicating.

You’re so caring and patient, even with the obviously fabricated reason Max invented to see you again. It only makes his growing infatuation burn all the brighter.

Finally, you straighten back up and turn to Max with a warm smile.

“Well, I can definitively say there was no fur explosion or moulting crisis with Mr. Jimmy here,” you tease lightly, arching one perfect eyebrow. “He seems perfectly healthy to me. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Your knowing look pins Max in place, cheeks flushing guiltily. He rubs at the back of his neck again, trying to decide if he should just come clean or stubbornly dig himself deeper into this ridiculous invented scenario.

But as he opens his mouth, ready to try and bumble through another excuse, something stops him. Maybe it’s the patient understanding in your warm gaze or the gentle amusement playing at the corners of your mouth. Or maybe it’s just Dutch stubbornness rearing its head.

Either way, Max’s words grind to a halt as he takes a deep, fortifying breath.

“You know what? I’m just going to put it all out there,” he blurts before he can second guess himself further. “The truth is … I made up this whole thing as an excuse to come see you again.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but Max presses onward, suddenly unable to stem the flow of words.

“I tried to ask you out last week after you helped Sassy but I completely chickened out like an idiot. And I just … I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about how caring and amazing you were.”

Max’s heart thunders in his ears as he runs an anxious hand through his hair.

“So, I don’t know, I got this stupid idea to bring Jimmy in so I could see you again. Which is insane, I know, and you probably think I’m some total weirdo stalker creep now but-”

“Max.” Your soft voice cuts through his panicked rambling like a lighthouse beam in the fog. “Breathe.”

He sucks in a shuddery breath, feeling his cheeks flush scarlet under your gaze. This is it, the moment you shut him down for being a complete crazy person and he has to slink out of here in shame. Maybe he can move to Timbuktu and become a goat herder to escape his humiliation-

“I have to admit, this is a new one for me,” you continue, a teasing lilt to your words. “Most guys don’t go to such elaborate lengths just to see me again.”

You take a step closer, eyes sparking with a hint of mischief that has Max’s breath catching in his throat.

“Though I have to say, faking a pet illness is definitely an … original move. Do you go to such dramatic extremes for all your romantic pursuits?”

Max can’t help but huff out a surprised laugh at that, some of the tightly-wound tension easing from his shoulders.

“No, I uh … you’re pretty definitively the first person I’ve literally made my cat an accomplice just to spend more time with.”

The laughter that bubbles up from you at that is bright and infectious, warmth blooming in Max’s chest as he drinks in the delighted crinkles at the corners of your eyes.

“Well, as harebrained schemes go, I suppose I’ve encountered worse,” you tease warmly. “Though in the future, you’re welcome to just ask me out like a normal person.”

A weighted pause hangs between you as realization dawns in Max’s thundering heart. Is this … is this your way of giving him that very opening?

He clears his throat roughly, feeling oddly like he’s standing at the edge of a precipice, every molecule vibrating with anticipation and hope and sheer, pounding need.

“Does that mean … I mean, would you want to?” The words stick in his suddenly dry throat. “Go out with me, that is? On like … a date?”

The breath rushes from Max’s lungs in a dizzying whoosh as he finally gets the words out. He watches you intently, hands clenched into nervous fists as he waits for your response with bated breath.

For a moment, you’re quiet, considering him with an inscrutable expression. The silence seems to stretch into eternity, suffocating Max as a thousand worst-case scenarios start to race through his mind.

This is it, he’s blown it forever. You’re going to turn him down, probably with a gentle let-down about having to be professional or not dating clients or something. He’ll be crushed, forced to slink away and change his name and flee to the farthest reaches of Nepal to become a hermit and-

And then, finally, you smile. It’s soft and warm and sends relief crashing through Max in a blissful wave.

“You know what, Max? I would really like that.”

He blinks, feeling a little dizzy as the words bounce around his head. “You … you would?”

You laugh again, low and melodic, taking another step toward him. “I would. In fact, I’d love nothing more.”

A giddy grin splits Max’s face before he can rein it in. You actually said yes! To him! After his utterly insane made-up pet emergency, you still somehow agreed to go out with him.

The absurd wave of giddy elation and disbelief must show on his face, because you shake your head fondly.

“What am I going to do with you, Max Verstappen?” You say, voice warm with wry amusement. “Anyone else might have turned and ran after that nonsense, but I have to admit … there’s something terribly endearing about your attempts at romance.”

You brush past him then, headed for the door with a coquettish glance over your shoulder.

“I’ll get those discharge papers ready. And maybe once the completely fabricated fur crisis is dealt with, you can take me out for that date one of these days?”

Max can only nod dumbly, wide smile still firmly in place as the exam room door swings shut behind you. He glances down at a disgruntled Jimmy, scratching his cat’s ears with a breathy chuckle.

“Looks like your little acting gig paid off after all, buddy. Your new mom’s gonna take me out on a date!”

***

A few months later, Max can barely contain his excitement as he weaves through the familiar organized chaos of the Monaco paddock. This race holds a special thrill every year as one of the marquee events on the calendar. But today, there’s an extra level of anticipation thrumming through his veins.

Because for the first time ever, you’re here with him.

After months of gentle coaxing and meticulously planned days off, he’s finally convinced you to spend an entire race weekend as his guest. The chance to show you his world, the intoxicating intensity of a Grand Prix up close, fills Max with a buzz of elation.

He can’t wait for you to experience it all — the roar of finely-tuned engines, the crunch of data analysis, and even the mundane periods of hurry-up-and-wait that are all just part of the hectic lifestyle he loves. Just having you by his side makes everything seem that much more vibrant and alive.

Max throws you a brilliant grin as he catches your eye, unable to resist drinking in how gorgeous you look, face glowing with curiosity and excitement at taking it all in. His breath catches a little at the warmth in your returned smile. Even after months together, he’s still constantly amazed that this funny, caring, wonderful woman actually agreed to be his.

A gentle hand on his arm breaks through Max’s reverie. He glances over to find his trainer indicating they should move on for the next pre-race commitment. Max nods easily, squeezing your hand as he slows.

“Why don’t you wait here? I’ll just be a couple minutes with Rupert going over some details, then we can grab some food, yeah?”

“Sounds perfect.” You lean in to press a lingering kiss to his cheek that makes his head swim. “I’ll be here.”

Max’s grin is so wide it borders on goofy as he tears himself away to follow Rupert toward the motorhome, throwing one last look over his shoulder. You’ve settled onto a stack of tires just around the corner, radiant smile still in place as you watch the surrounding action unfold.

His trainer’s voice pulls Max back to the present as they walk, and he does his best to shelf his heartsick infatuation for a few minutes to focus. This is it, the most famous race of the year. The track with no room for error during qualifying. He should be mentally locking in, triple checking every detail and sensor read-out.

Instead, his mind keeps drifting back to how soft your lips felt against his cheek, how undeniably right it feels to share this with you.

By the time their brief walk-through wraps up, Max is practically shaking with anticipation to rejoin you. Only as he turns back toward where he left you, jacket slung over his arm … you’re nowhere to be seen.

A crease forms between Max’s brows as he scans the scattered tires and tool chests, looking for your familiar figure. You couldn’t have gone far in such a short span.

Then a flash of movement from the Mercedes garage entrance catches his eye and Max feels his heart plummet. There you are, crouched down animatedly in front of the German team’s pit … with none other than Lewis Hamilton and his bloody bulldog Roscoe.

Of course. Of course Lewis-freaking-Hamilton would zoom in the second Max’s back was turned to try and work his charms on you. Even bringing that dumb dog out like the world’s most obnoxious prop to appeal to your soft heart for animals.

Max sees red, an irrational wave of protective jealousy surging through his veins as he watches you laugh at something Lewis says, completely charmed. Your hand strokes Roscoe’s broad head idly, pure affection written across your features.

And just like that, Max is moving before his brain can catch up, feet carrying him hastily across the pavement as if drawn by an invisible cord.

You glance up as he approaches, smile stretching even wider. “Max! Lewis was just-”

But Max pays your words no mind, slipping an arm around your waist and tugging you snugly against his side as he sizes up Lewis with narrowed eyes.

“Everything okay over here?” His gaze pointedly avoids the dog panting at their feet.

He sees confusion flicker across your features, but Lewis just chuckles good-naturedly.

“Just making a new friend is all! Your girl here is an absolute natural with Roscoe.” He shoots you a warm grin and motions to his dog, who thumps his stubby tail happily against the pavement.

Max feels his jaw tighten, irrational possessiveness flaring hot and bright as Lewis’ approving gaze lingers a little too long for his liking.

“Oh, the pup’s adorable!” You enthuse, dropping into a crouch again to ruffle Roscoe’s velvety ears. “You’re being such a good boy, aren’t you?”

Max scowls down at the dog, annoyed by his besotted panting and frantically wagging tail as you dole out affectionate pats. Like the mangy thing has any inkling how lucky he is.

Leave it to Lewis to trot out something irresistibly cute like that just to try and win you over.

Seeming to sense his silent brooding, you straighten back up and loop your arm through Max’s, squeezing his bicep gently. “I’m getting a little thirsty, actually. Do you mind if I run to the hospitality tent for a drink quickly?”

Lewis perks up instantly. “I can show you whe-”

“She knows the way,” Max cuts him off, perhaps a bit too sharply judging by your surprised blink. He softens his tone with an effort. “To Red Bull hospitality, I mean. I’ll walk you over.”

He turns on his heel, tugging you along in the wake of his hasty dismissal. Your brows knit together and you open your mouth, no doubt to question his odd behavior.

But Max stubbornly presses on, only slowing once you’ve turned past a row of transport trucks and the Mercedes garage is out of sight. He releases a long, slow breath, some of the weird, clawing tension ebbing away now that you’re back by his side.

“Everything alright?” You ask carefully, mouth curved into a bemused half-smile. “That was … a bit of an abrupt exit back there.”

Max snorts, shaking his head ruefully as you fall into step together. How is he supposed to put this in a way that doesn’t make him sound like a completely irrational, jealous idiot?

“Yeah, everything’s great. Just felt like it was time to move on before Lewis could really get going, you know?” He shoots you a sidelong look, arching one brow meaningfully. “Dude loves to hear himself talk.”

You huff out an amused breath, lips twitching like you’re struggling not to grin wider. “I’m not sure I’d go that far. He seems perfectly lovely from what I could tell.”

Max shrugs one shoulder, brushing off the statement and its implicit critique of his attitude. Lewis is a fine enough guy … he just also happens to be a chronic flirt who clearly recognizes a beautiful, charming woman when he sees one. And that activates Max’s protective instincts on a level he didn’t quite anticipate until he saw Lewis zeroing in on you like that.

You drift closer as you walk, bumping his shoulder with yours playfully.

“You know, it was kind of sweet, actually — him bringing Roscoe out to meet me. I think he knew I’m a sucker for a cute dog.”

Sweet. Right. Because Lewis was just doing it all out of the goodness of his bleeding heart.

“Don’t you mean Roscoe is the real competition here?” Max tries for a teasing tone, only half-joking. “Pretty sure that mutt was the one working overtime to charm you.”

He tosses you an exaggerated leer, stoking the banter to cover his lingering irrational annoyance at the entire situation. If you noticed his blatant brush-off of Lewis, you’re being mercifully subtle about calling it out.

Sure enough, you lift one delicately arched brow, lips curved into an indulgent smile. “Is that so? And here I thought it was just Lewis trying to get on my good side. My, what a dilemma!”

Max chuckles despite himself at your playful tone, some of the weird tension ebbing further from his shoulders. Of course you’re not fazed by all this nonsense — you never are. Not only are you unfailingly kind and patient, but you clearly know him well enough by now to recognize when his protective instincts are causing the occasional bout of unreasonable jealousy.

Even though he swears up and down he isn’t actually jealous, not really. Just … being cautious after finally finding someone as incredible as you.

Red Bull hospitality comes into view up ahead, its distinctive energy drink logos splashed across the entrance. You start to slow as you approach, hand trailing lightly down Max’s arm until your fingers brush his.

“I wasn’t gone that long, you know,” you point out, regarding him with those warm, knowing eyes. “I wouldn’t just run off and leave you behind on your big weekend.”

Something in your tone, soft yet insistent, assures Max that you see right through his childishly competitive display. He doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish as you continue.

“Max, you don’t have to worry about anyone trying to steal me away or whatever it is that’s going through that handsome head of yours. I’m yours, remember?”

Your fingers tangle through his and your free hand comes up to cup his cheek, grounding him fully in the moment. He nods slowly, leaning into your touch as the last wisps of stupid, needless jealousy evaporate under the warmth of your fond gaze.

“You’re right, I know. I do remember.” He turns his head slightly, brushing his lips across your palm. “And I’m yours.”

“Exactly.” You raise up on your tiptoes to dust a feather-light kiss across his mouth that leaves Max’s head spinning delightfully. “Now, what do you say we get something to drink so we can enjoy the rest of the weekend together?”

Max grins, feeling lighter than he has all day as he catches your hand and tugs you toward the tent entrance.

“Lead the way, liefje. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

And he absolutely would, too — past Lewis and Roscoe and any irrational jealousy that rears its head. Because having you by his side through all the whirlwind of Formula 1, getting to share this wild life with the woman he loves more and more every day?

It’s the only competition Max has any interest in winning.

[skeltnwrites]

Deck the Halls ⋆⁺❆₊꙳‧❅⋆࿔

With Eddie stuck in the hospital, the boys help you bring Christmas to him. 3k

a/n - for the amazing @littlexdeaths twelve days of promptmas! <3

“Mike, stop pulling so hard.” 

“You’re holding it too high!” 

Lucas scoffs. “It’s literally dragging on the floor.” 

“It’s literally not–” 

“Guys!” Your snow-slick boots squeal on the linoleum as you spin. “You’re gonna get us caught if you don’t stop arguing.” 

“But he–” 

“I wasn’t–”

“Both of you! Shut up!” 

The scowl Mike gives Lucas is met with equal disdain. But he rolls his eyes and heaves the Christmas tree in his arms up a notch. You resume down the hospital hallway, hauling the front end of the tree with four grumpy teenagers in tow. 

You can’t be that annoyed. Dustin, Lucas, Will, and Mike are all here with you of their own volition in this stuffy hospital very early on Christmas morning. And they all have a piece of your heart for doing so. 

You adjust your grip on the tree. No matter how you hold it, the bristles poke your waist, and the bark stamps itchy lines into your palms. But you remind yourself of Eddie. Of his hospital room with white walls, white sheets, white machines, white everything. And that’s just not right, not on Christmas. 

So you’re bringing the holiday spirit to Eddie this year. Between the five of you, there are three backpacks brimming with unused tinsel, lights, and ornaments, and a pine tree as tall as Lucas. 

You’d have decorated earlier if you could’ve. But Eddie procrastinated until Christmas Eve to fix the lights on your roof and in his haste, his heel skidded on a patch of ice, and he tumbled off the house in a rather cartoonish display. It wasn’t funny then, but you can laugh now knowing he’s passed out on painkillers and recovering just fine. Still, two broken ribs were enough to hold him for observation and visiting hours ended before you could scrounge anything festive together. So here you are, slinking through the emergency room past receptionists, nurses, and hospital security in the middle of the night. 

You raise a fist, prompting the boys to freeze. The click-clack of heels echoes from around the corner, growing louder by the step. “Back, back, back,” you order. 

Mike backpedals straight into Will’s chest and Dustin steps on Lucas’ foot. The tree lurches backward as they all grapple for balance. It’s a clumsy scuffle nowhere near quiet. If whoever’s there didn’t hear you before, they certainly have now. 

You try the nearest door handle and swing it open. By some miracle, the room’s unoccupied. 

The boys follow your lead, bags jingling loudly with each frantic step. They shove the tree through the doorway at an angle and a branch snags on the frame. 

“Wait– stop, stop!” Dustin whisper-yells. 

Mike rams it through again, a flurry of pine needles shaking loose and fluttering to the floor. 

“Stop,” you bark, “Turn it first.” 

They’re a smart bunch but they lack teamwork skills when you so desperately need it. Several pairs of hands fight to maneuver the tree in opposite directions. And all four of them squeeze through the doorway with it, snapping a branch in half and shaking another sheet of pine needles free. 

You sweep the tree remains inside with your foot– though there’s certainly still evidence in the hall– and pull the door closed behind you. The cheap window blinds crinkle as you steer them aside, just enough to see past the door. 

The heeled woman is either blind, deaf, or committed to minding her own business because she strolls by the door like it’s any other. You slump against the wall, turning to flash a thumbs up at the kids as soon as she’s out of view. You’re matched with a quartet of yawns, skipping from one frown to the next. 

“Almost there,” you encourage. It’s not a lie, per se, but it’s not very close to the truth either. This might be harder than you imagined. 

The elevator is too risky, so you take the stairs. But hauling a whole tree up four flights of stairs is no easy task. Mumbled complaints overlap and echo in the stairwell and by the top, your arms and legs are protesting just the same. 

The door whines as you crack it open, and you peer through the gap to scope out the area. There’s a nurse's station in the center of the floor manned by the same woman you’d seen earlier. Eddie’s room is on the opposite side; there’s virtually no way to sneak past without her seeing. 

You turn around, eyes locking with Dustins like they’re two bullseyes. 

He crosses his arms and cocks his head. He knows the look you're giving him and he doesn’t like it. “What?” 

“I need you to distract the nurse.” 

He says your name through a sigh, but before he can actually disagree, you yank him by the sleeve and thrust him through the doorway. 

The nurse’s head pops up from the desk immediately and Dustin shakes himself into character. 

“Help!” he shouts, promptly clearing his throat. “I need help– it’s my, my mother! You must help her,” he whips his head left and right. “Over here, in the elevator!” 

The nurse doesn’t move. She tries to speak but Dustin interrupts her.

“No! She won’t make it! Please– hurry!” 

The woman scrambles out of her seat and jogs after Dustin. He’s not very convincing, but he’s a better actor than the rest of you. And he’s very committed once he’s in it. Dustin’s cries persist, eventually distant enough that your adrenaline loosens its grip. You fling the door open, pinning it with your foot. The boys hustle through, following your pointer finger down the right corridor. You trot back ahead, escorting them right up to Eddie’s door. 

The sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant imbues the frigid air in his room. The machines are off so the quiet hangs heavy. It’s the opposite of warm in every sense possible. And the little bit of it still spilling in from the hall is quickly cinched as someone shuts the door. 

You grope around the darkness, staggering over to the inky shadow you recall to be a chair. Your fingertips brush the scratchy fabric, and you let your bag slip from your shoulder, landing softly on the seat. 

A splash of light from the window catches one side of Eddie’s face. His lashes kiss the hills of his cheeks and his mouth is hinged open, exhaling a string of soft snores. It’s very cute, though, the kids’ expressions don’t reflect the same fondness. 

“We don’t have all day,” Lucas mocks, parroting your exact words from earlier when you’d urged him to get in the van before all the heat escaped.  

Your gaze sours when it reaches the boys. “Shut up. Help me stand the tree up.” 

Lucas snickers, planting himself on the other side of the tree. You lift the trunk so Will can slide the base under and Mike goes prone on the floor to screw it in. 

“Hurry up,” Lucas complains. 

“I can’t see!” 

“Shhh!”

Will pulls a flashlight from his bag and points it at Mike’s hands. The final screws are tightened and the boys let go.  

You give the trunk an affirming shake before retracting your own hands. It remains upright, even after a few optimistic steps back. 

If you think decorating would be the easiest part of this mission, you’d be wrong. It’s much too dark to work, even after Will situates his flashlight so it’s highlighting most of the tree. And keeping quiet might be impossible when you’re forced to mediate petty teenage arguments every five minutes. 

Mike and Will are hunched over a wad of string lights on the floor, unknotting opposite ends when Lucas waves his much neater spool of lights. “Uhh, we can’t use those. I brought rainbow ones.” 

Will tuts at the other boy. “So? We can use both?” 

“No, it’ll look stupid.” 

Will beckons you over with a growing frown. You’d swear these kids never graduated middle school if you hadn’t gone to the ceremony. The older they get, the more they fight, it seems. But your patience is thinning with each wave of attitude you receive. You’d asked for their help as their friends, not their babysitters. 

“Use both,” you decide, hands pressed into your hips. 

“But it won’t match!”

“It’s fine, Lucas.” 

He rolls his eyes very blatantly at you. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to drive him home then and there. 

But the sound of the door handle rattling steals your attention. It jerks up and down but the door doesn’t open; one of the kids must’ve locked it. Your heart springs up into your throat, your eyes swinging around the room for an escape plan. The lock will only buy you so much time and there’s no way to safely exit through the window and—

“It’s me!” Dustin shouts, popping into the window frame. His lips are nearly touching the glass and he’s fogging up the pane with his breath. 

“Jesus,” you mumble, clutching your chest as you march up to the door. 

Dustin scrambles in, chest heaving with a glare aimed right at you. “You would not believe how much stamina that woman has! I mean she just kept going. I thought, I lost her, and then–” 

You slap your palm across his mouth. “Shhh!”  

His wide eyes follow yours to Eddie. 

Eddie sighs, lips smacking as he straightens a leg across the sheets. You’ve never been so thankful to be dating such a deep sleeper. 

“Sorry,” Dustin whispers. 

You shove him further into the room. “Go. Be quiet.” 

Dustin grabs the tail end of the lights in Will’s hands. Together they wind the cord around the bottom half of the tree. Lucas dresses the top half in rainbow bulbs, still sulking as he works. 

You squat beside Mike to help him sort the ornament pile. One you brought quickly catches your eye. It’s a clay guitar pick Eddie made in middle school art class, an instant favorite of yours. You take it and hang it front and center, filling the gap in the middle of the tree where they ran out of lights. 

One by one, the tree is stocked with a rainbow of mismatched ornaments. There's something from each of their homes– family photos and elementary school crafts and trinkets of every size. It’s a wild assortment but a very special one too. 

Dustin is determined to hang the star– puts up a case that he was used as bait and thus deserves it– though, no one was going to argue against him in the first place. He climbs onto Mike’s back, arms stretching as far as they’ll go.

“God, you’re heavy.”  

“Stop complaining. Get me closer.”

“I’m trying.” 

Mike staggers closer and Dustin snatches a fistful of the top. The entire tree lurches toward him, ornaments clinking in his wake. 

“Wait– careful,” you urge.

Dustin lists dangerously forward, jamming the star through the bristles. 

From beside you, Will hums disapprovingly, “It’s crooked.”

Dustin’s tongue curls over his lip as he adjusts it. “Now?”

“Still crooked.”

"Now?"

Your hands hover out in front of you like a net but you are not as prepared to catch him as you look. “No, it’s fine. Just leave it.” 

Dustin releases the tip and the whole tree reels back. His arm shoots back out to steady it, but a handful of ornaments swing off and onto the floor. Miraculously, none shatter, but they bounce away in a ripple of clinking. 

Your focus jumps over to Eddie. He’s squinting vaguely in your direction, head tilted off his pillow with curls plastered to one cheek. 

A breathy chuckle reverberates through your chest. “Merry Christmas!” 

“Wha…”

The kids mimic you in their own broken choir of wishes but with half the enthusiasm you delivered. 

Eddie’s eyebrows weave into one crooked arch. He attempts, and quickly fails, to prop himself up on his elbows, making a sullen sort of sigh on the way down. 

You stride over to the bed, landing on the edge by his sheet-wrapped thigh. Your hand slips behind his shoulders and you offer a half smile. “Surprise?” 

He winces into a sit, a hand flying to his chest. Pain folds back into confusion as his eyes flicker across each face in the room. “I don’t… Why?” 

“So you can celebrate, silly.” You hook a finger under the hair stuck to his face and tuck it behind his ear. 

His lashes flutter closed as he melts into your palm, slowly bending until his forehead meets your shoulder. “Sorry, ‘m so tired.” 

Despite the overdramatic gagging going on behind you, you accept the embrace, running a ginger hand up his spine where his gown has billowed open. “Don’t be. Didn’t mean to wake ya. It’s early.” 

His nose sweeps a cold line across your collar. “How’d you get in? Place is like a prison,” he mumbles. “Already tried to escape.” 

“No, you didn’t,” you snort. 

“No,” he admits, lips turning against your shirt. “You snuck in? Snuck a whole Christmas tree in?”

You lean away just enough to nod, pride softening the edges of your grin.

“And you managed to do that with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum times two.” 

“I’m sorry– Who face-planted off a roof again?” Dustin cracks. 

Your sudden laughter is corked with Eddie’s palm. He glares– or tries to anyway– but you know his tells. The way one corner of his mouth twitches through his frown. How he tilts his head when he’s secretly amused. “Don’t laugh at that,” he says, utterly unconvincing. 

The rest of your laugh is swallowed, but the levity doesn’t fade. You peel his fingers off, gently carrying them to your lap like they might be broken too. “It’s true. You did.” 

“Whatever.” 

“Don’t pout.” You tip your head, mirroring him on purpose. “Do you like it?” 

His gaze tapers back up to the scene behind you, eyes glowing with red, green, and gold. “No, I love it,” he says honestly. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. I can’t believe this. How’d I get so lucky? Hmm?” Eddie pinches your side, cutting off your giggle with a swift kiss. 

“God, gross!” 

You whip your head toward the source. “Lucas, you literally have a girlfriend.” 

“Yeah, but you’re kissing Eddie.”

“What? You don’t think Eddie’s pretty?” Your fingers clamp either side of his face, cheeks squishing into his puckered lips like a fish. 

Eddie stares blankly at Lucas, but the second his eyes bound to yours, you both burst into laughter. 

“Don’t make me laugh, babe. Fuck,” he hisses, doubled over in amusement and equal pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” you amend, hands gently sandwiching his. “Oh– Let me get your gift.” 

He’s curious but he still sulks as you leave, chasing the lost warmth as you slide off the bed. “A gift?” 

“Mhmm,” you say, unzipping the front pocket of your bag. You fish out a small box wrapped in glossy paper with a puffy, red bow. 

He gives it a good shake when you pass it to him and a knowing smirk at the noise it makes. 

“Open it.” You beckon the kids closer, taking your prior spot on the bed. “It’s from all of us.”

The paper falls away under Eddie’s eager hands, a smirk growing and growing until it suddenly falters. Pure shock washes over him as he gawks at the gift. A limited edition, glow-in-the-dark set of dice he’s been talking about for months. 

His eyes shoot between you and the dice several times before he asks, “Where’d you even get these? They sold out like immediately.”

You shrug, nonchalance slipping. “Know a guy.”

He rolls his eyes, giving your shoulder a good jostle. And his gaze shifts across every person in the room, thumb absentmindedly roving across the box's label. “Thank you, guys.” 

“They come with one condition,” Dustin says. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to resurrect Virehart the Vengeful.”

Eddie groans, burying his smile in his free hand and shaking his head. “I told you guys I’m not doing it.”

“Please, come on! That’s our only condition,” Will tries. 

“He literally had like two lines.” 

“And they were badass!” says Dustin. “A blade is only as sharp as the courage behind it,” he recites in a voice much deeper than his own. 

“Oh my God.” Eddie waves a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine.” 

The boys celebrate with a chain of cheers. Eddie steals your fingers back amidst all of the yelling, a doting little look in his eyes. Forget the dice, you’re the real gift to him. 

The fuss very promptly ends when someone clears their throat. You all turn in unison, finding the same nurse from earlier. She sighs, hands planted on her hips with a disapproving shake to her head. 

Eddie chuckles nervously. “Merry Christmas?” 

[chilling-seavey]

Live Fast, Drive Fast (ln4)

↳ A/N To the anon who requested this song for my 1.5k celebration: thank you for submitting!! I decided to go with 777 since I've never heard it before (and I actually really like it so thanks for the accidental song rec too hehe)

↳ Inspired By: '777' by Joji

↳ Pairings: Lando Norris x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 447

↳ Warnings: Driving under the influence, toxic relationship, dark undertones

“Are you out of your mind?”

The rev of the engine echoed through the darkness that surrounded you, orange headlights tunneling the pitch-black road ahead of you. The force of the acceleration pressed your body back against the leather seats, your gaze locked on the vast expanse of night that made up the empty highway you drove down at some ungodly hour. As if desperate for some control, your hand reached across the front seat to grasp onto the sleeve of his jacket, knuckles turning white in the neon glow of the dashboard.

“Lando!” you said loudly to be heard over the rumble of the engine.

He didn’t look at you, narrowed gaze focused straight through the windshield. He held an emotion in his eyes you couldn’t quite place - unfamiliar - shadowed under the fabric of his hood. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, jaw clenching, eyebrows flickering into a momentary frown without tearing his eyes away from the dizzy highway lanes.

The little arrow on the dashboard inched up higher and higher; surpassing each glowing number tick by tick, second by second.

130, 140, 150, 160…

Through the empty lanes, he swerved in meticulous controlled curves as if he sadistically enjoyed the way your hand tightened on his jacket with every abrupt motion. Any other day, you would have trusted his skill and his control. Tonight, your mind lingered on the memory of the drinks he consumed and the angry words you exchanged under the dancing party lights of the club.

“I want to go home!” you insisted, nearly shouting, torn between watching the road or wanting to screw your eyes shut in paralyzing fear.

“So you can leave me?” Lando snapped back, his first sentence since you had left the club. Maliciousness dripped from his tone.

“There’s nothing to leave!” you shouted, “You’re not my boyfriend! You have made that very clear!”

“I told you I don’t do strings.” his words were thick and slurred.

“This isn’t sustainable!” you replied. The force of his swerving threw your shoulder towards the door. Your other hand flew to grab the handle above you, silently pleading for a lifeline. “We are not sustainable like this!”

Instead of an answer, Lando pressed his foot down harder onto the accelerator. The engine growled fiercely through the pitch-black night.

170, 180, 190, 200…

The rear wheels skidded slightly and he had to really pull at the wheel to catch the car before it was sent spinning into the ditch.

Your scream nearly echoed through the car, “You’re going to kill us, Lando!”

He laughed, almost menacingly, his pitchy voice churning your stomach as he purred, “I just wanna go fast, baby.”

"Blame it on me, you can blame it on me, Never turn back when I'm goin' full speed. Live fast, drive fast like two hundred on the dashboard. It’s my way, my way, even if it is a crash course"

[marlynnofmany]

Downhill Speed

You know what's a shame? Wasted potential.  Like this new place we were doing business, which was all swooping walkways and ramps — a spectacular opportunity for hoverboard fun, except for the fact that it would probably cause a massive diplomatic incident. The locals were an exceptionally stuffy and dignified species. I couldn't tell if they walked that slowly out of choice or necessity, though the planters full of edibles leaves every few yards felt like a clue. These guys were always chewing, as if they'd run out of the energy to move if they stopped.

I don't know. Maybe they were just like that for cultural reasons. But they kinda did look like koala-sloths in fancy robes. 

And as much as I wanted to find something with wheels or thrusters to ride whooping down the walkways, I didn't want to get our courier ship blacklisted from this sector of space. 

So I just waited patiently while Captain Sunlight worked out the details, and I helped Paint and Mur transfer the pile of small boxes from their hoversleds to ours. I didn't even comment on the inefficiency of all these small crates and multiple hoversleds when they could have had them strapped together in a pallet. Maybe the things came from multiple houses. Not my business. 

But then. One of the locals dropped a box.

It landed on a corner and cracked right open, to a chorus of horrified gasps, and its contents rolled out — a single glowy blue sphere, all sparkly and beautiful, the size of a bowling ball and just as fast. It gathered speed down the ramp while locals cried out helplessly. 

Well if that's not my cue, I don't know what is.

I jumped on a hoversled and flashed off after it, kicking madly to catch up. This was more awkward than I expected. I was out of practice — it had been a long time since I zipped between college classes on a proper board — and this was definitely not that. The little hoversled clearly wasn’t built for speed. It vibrated under me like it was panicking about the velocity we were going, and I couldn’t blame it.

This ramp was a pretty straight one so far, which was great, because I had no real way to steer. I’d kicked to a proper pace, and now I balanced with both feet planted and both arms out like an absolute amateur. But I didn’t want to tip over. I was closing in on the ball.

It made an ominous rumble along the floor.

It was just two yards away.

There was a corner coming up.

The ball was one yard away.

I crouched.

And I grabbed it, tucking it against my chest with one arm while I clutched the edge of the hoversled with the other, sitting down just before I slammed into the clear wall at the corner.

That was some painful skidding. I put my feet down to slow things further, which ended up spinning me around, dragging my feet behind me. But I didn’t drop the ball. And I probably didn’t get any friction burns through my sleeve, though I’d definitely have to check that later.

For now, I was busy sliding to a stop and taking a few deep breaths before standing up. As my blood stopped pounding in my ears quite so loudly, the realization trickled in that people were making a lot of noise around me.

Good noise? I think. Whew.

It took a second to be sure, but those were cheers of praise. Either this ball was an important holy item, or the stunt I’d pulled to catch it was just that impressive. Possibly both. I wouldn’t know until I got back up to the top, because there wasn’t anyone nearby to ask.

But they were hurrying down to meet me, as much as their species could be said to hurry. I found the height adjustment on the hoversled and raised it to where I could tow it without bending down, then started the long walk back up. I held the pretty blue sphere close.

When the koala-sloths met me in the middle, galloping with an undignified flapping of robes, they thanked me profusely for catching the high explosive before it leveled the place.

Multiple responses ran through my head.

I ended on “You might consider better packaging for it.”

They agreed, taking it from me (to my relief) and pulling the hoversled as well. By the time we reached the top, our entire crew was going to town with bubble wrap on the other boxes, and Captain Sunlight had arranged a significantly higher delivery fee.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!

[kentobb]

hiromi higuruma x female secretary (AU).

chapter 19 > chapter 21

warnings: (violence, guns, death) strong content +18

chapter 20

The roar of engines filled the streets of downtown, a cacophony of chaos and adrenaline. Higuruma’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he sped down the road, weaving through traffic like a predator locked on its prey. His heart pounded in his chest, the sight of Gojo’s blue Lamborghini speeding recklessly ahead only fueling his urgency. But something was off—it wasn’t Gojo driving. It was Geto.

Through the windshield, Higuruma’s sharp eyes caught the panic etched into Geto’s face. His hands gripped the wheel like a lifeline, his dark hair disheveled, his lips moving in what seemed like a frantic prayer. Then Higuruma’s gaze shifted to the passenger seat, and his blood ran cold.

Gojo.

Slumped against the seat, blood soaked through his shirt, his usually vibrant blue eyes half-closed, fluttering as if he was fighting to stay conscious. Higuruma’s stomach twisted.

But there was no time to process the sight. A black sedan loomed behind them. Toji Fushiguro. Higuruma’s jaw tightened as rage surged through him. He slammed on the gas, his black Lamborghini growling as it surged forward. One hand reached for the glove compartment, pulling out his pistol.

Toji’s car swerved behind them, gaining speed. Gunfire erupted from the sedan, bullets ricocheting off Higuruma’s car and the nearby buildings. Higuruma didn’t flinch. With one hand on the wheel, he leaned out of the window and fired a shot, the crack of the gun echoing in the air.

The bullet grazed Toji’s car, forcing the man to swerve slightly, his speed faltering. Higuruma took the opportunity to pull ahead, now placing himself between Toji and Geto. He glanced in his rearview mirror, his sharp eyes narrowing as Toji steadied his aim once more.

“Not today,” Higuruma growled under his breath.

The security convoy following Higuruma arrived in time, flanking Toji’s car. One of the guards leaned out, firing back at the black sedan. Glass shattered, and Toji’s car swerved, but the man didn’t stop. He returned fire, his movements calculated, forcing the security cars to scatter slightly.

Higuruma didn’t wait to see the outcome. He accelerated, pulling up beside Geto’s car and rolling down his window.

“Geto!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Geto’s head turned sharply, his wide, tear-filled eyes meeting Higuruma’s. He looked lost, overwhelmed, but still driving like his life—and Gojo’s—depended on it.

“Drive to my house!” Higuruma yelled, his voice steady despite the turmoil. “My guards will help.”

Geto hesitated, his trembling hands tightening on the wheel. “Higuruma, he’s—he’s bleeding out! I don’t think—” His voice cracked, his fear spilling out.

“Listen to me,” Higuruma interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “Gojo’s strong. He’ll make it. You just have to trust me. Drive as fast as you can, and don’t stop. I’ll handle Toji.”

Geto’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, but then he nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the noise.

Higuruma watched as Geto took a sharp curve, heading toward the safe house. Relief mingled with his fury as he turned his attention back to Toji.

“Let’s finish this,” Higuruma muttered, his focus now solely on the black sedan.

The remaining security cars closed in on Toji, bullets flying in both directions. Toji’s sedan swerved and skidded, but the man’s skill behind the wheel was undeniable. He shot back, his bullets hitting their marks and forcing one of the security cars to spin out.

Higuruma clenched his jaw, his own anger boiling over. This wasn’t just about protecting Gojo anymore. This was about ending Toji’s reign of terror. He floored the gas pedal, his car roaring as it charged toward the black sedan.

Toji saw him coming and smirked, rolling down his window and aiming his gun. But before he could fire, Higuruma swerved sharply, slamming his car into Toji’s side. The impact jolted both vehicles, the screech of metal against metal deafening.

Higuruma fired his gun again, shattering Toji’s side mirror. Toji retaliated, his bullets grazing Higuruma’s car, but the prosecutor didn’t relent. His determination burned hotter than his fear.

In the distance, Higuruma saw the blue Lamborghini disappearing from view, Geto speeding toward safety. A small flicker of relief pierced through his fury. Gojo was in good hands—for now.

“Now it’s just you and me,” Higuruma muttered, his voice low and deadly as he locked eyes with Toji through the shattered window. The battle wasn’t over yet, but he was ready to see it through to the bitter end.

You’re in the garden, meticulously laying out the last of the picnic setup, the sunlight dappling through the trees. It had been Higuruma’s idea to bring a sense of normalcy back, and while you were hesitant, you couldn’t say no. But something nags at you—a strange feeling you can’t shake. The sound of distant engines roaring pulls you out of your thoughts, and the tranquility of the moment shatters when you hear the commotion at the front of the house.

Your heart sinks. Something’s wrong.

You run toward the noise, the guards trailing closely behind you. As you approach the front door, your eyes widen in disbelief. Outside, Gojo’s blue Lamborghini screeches to a halt, its sleek exterior riddled with bullet holes. Smoke rises faintly from the hood, and the sight of it sends chills down your spine.

The doors of the car swing open, and Geto stumbles out, his shirt soaked in blood. In his arms is Gojo, his body limp, blood staining his clothes and dripping onto the ground. Geto’s voice is frantic, cracking as he yells for help.

“Someone help! He’s losing too much blood!” Geto’s normally calm demeanor is shattered, his face pale with fear.

The guards spring into action. One rushes to open the door wider while another disappears inside to retrieve the emergency medical kit. A third is already on the phone, frantically calling the doctor.

You freeze, your legs trembling as you watch the chaos unfold. Then, snapping out of it, you rush forward. “Geto!” you cry, grabbing his arm. He looks at you with wild, desperate eyes. His breathing is erratic, and his hands are shaking.

“Geto, tell me what happened!” you plead, your voice barely steady.

His lips tremble before he speaks. “It was Toji… He found us. He followed us…” His voice breaks, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep his composure.

Your heart feels like it’s stopped. “Where is Higuruma?” you whisper, the panic rising in your chest.

Geto swallows hard, shaking his head. “He’s… he’s after Toji. He stayed behind.”

The weight of his words hits you like a blow. You feel your knees buckle, and before you know it, you’re on the ground, gasping for air. The edges of your vision blur as a full-blown panic attack grips you. You clutch your chest, struggling to breathe as fear and dread take over.

You barely register Geto falling to his knees beside you, his head in his hands. The sound of shouting and frantic movements fills the air as one of the guards begins performing CPR on Gojo, his body motionless on the ground.

The sight only deepens Geto’s panic. “No, no, no!” Geto cry, his voice breaking. Tears stream down his face as you watch helplessly. Everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control.

Meanwhile, miles away, Higuruma’s focus is razor-sharp. His black Lamborghini roars down the nearly empty streets, each twist and turn executed with precision. The sleek black sedan in front of him—the one carrying Toji—was a menace he was determined to stop.

Gunfire erupts again, Toji’s bullets ricocheting off the hood of Higuruma’s car. One shatters his side mirror, but he doesn’t flinch. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and his lips press into a thin line.

“You want to play this game?” Higuruma mutters, his voice low and venomous. “Fine. Let’s play.”

He reaches and pulls out his pistol again. Keeping one hand steady on the wheel, he rolls down his window slightly and fires a calculated shot at Toji’s car. The bullet hits the back tire, causing the sedan to swerve violently.

But Toji recovers quickly, his skill behind the wheel just as deadly as his aim. He accelerates, matching Higuruma’s speed, and fires back. A bullet grazes the side of Higuruma’s car, but he doesn’t slow down. Instead, he presses harder on the gas pedal, narrowing the distance between them.

“Come on,” Higuruma growls under his breath. His anger is a wildfire, fueled by the thought of you waiting for him, terrified and vulnerable. Fueled by the sight of Gojo bleeding out. Fueled by Toji’s audacity to threaten everything he cared about.

Toji glances in his rearview mirror, his smirk evident even from afar. He lowers his window slightly, aiming his gun directly at Higuruma.

But Higuruma is faster. Anticipating the move, he swerves sharply to the left, pulling up beside Toji’s car. Their vehicles are inches apart, metal scraping against metal as they jostle for dominance.

“Let’s end this,” Higuruma mutters, his voice steady despite the chaos. He grips the gun tightly, his gaze locked on Toji. He’s not going to stop until this nightmare is over. For you. For Gojo. For everyone.

Higuruma tightens his grip on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tightly it aches. The roar of his Lamborghini’s engine fills his ears as he accelerates, his car pulling ahead of Toji’s black sedan. His heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him as his mind races. Every fiber of his being is focused on one thing: ending this chase.

He glances in his rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Toji’s car trailing close behind, its front bumper damaged from earlier scrapes. A dark smirk crosses Toji’s face as he reloads his gun, his intent clear. But Higuruma’s eyes narrow, and he makes his move.

Slamming his foot on the brakes, Higuruma’s Lamborghini screeches to a halt. The tires scream against the asphalt, smoke billowing as the car skids forward. Toji doesn’t have time to react. His sedan slams into the back of Higuruma’s car with a deafening crash, the impact sending shockwaves through both vehicles.

In that moment, everything feels unreal.

The sound of the crash fades into silence, like someone turned down the volume of the world. The chaos slows, moving frame by frame in his mind. Glass shatters, catching the sunlight like falling stars. Higuruma’s head jerks forward, the seatbelt biting into his chest. His hands grip the steering wheel as his car lurches violently from the collision.

His vision blurs, but he forces himself to focus. For a heartbeat, time stands still. He sees Toji’s sedan crumpled against his Lamborghini, smoke and steam rising from the wreckage. The scene feels distant, like it’s happening to someone else.

Then, sound rushes back in—sirens wailing in the distance, the hiss of a ruptured radiator, the groan of metal settling into place. Higuruma’s ears ring, and his breaths come in short, sharp gasps.

He shakes his head, trying to clear the haze. His body aches from the sudden stop, but he pushes past the pain. There’s no time to dwell on it. He unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for his gun, his hands steady despite the tremor in his chest.

Through the cracked windshield, he sees movement. Toji stumbles out of the wrecked car, his breath ragged, blood streaming from a deep wound in his abdomen where shards of glass have embedded themselves. He clutches his side but manages to stand upright, his dark eyes locking onto Higuruma.

Higuruma throws open his door, stumbling slightly as he gets out. He raises his gun, leveling it at Toji, who meets his gaze with a chilling smile.

Higuruma’s grip on the weapon is steady, his expression unreadable. His suit is disheveled, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, but his resolve is cold as steel. This moment had been a long time coming, and both men knew it.

Toji chuckles hoarsely, blood dripping from his lips. “You really think you’re any better than me, Higuruma?” he spits, his voice laced with defiance. “The righteous man who judges everyone else but hesitated when it mattered most. It’s poetic, really. You—the one who couldn’t sentence the man who took my wife from me—are now the one standing here, ready to take my life.”

Higuruma’s jaw tightens, but his aim doesn’t falter. “This isn’t about the past,” he says coldly. “It’s about what you’ve done. You’ve terrorized innocent people, hurt those I care about. This ends now.”

Toji smirks through his pain, staggering a step closer. “Innocent?” he scoffs. “You think I started this for no reason? I had a family, Higuruma. A life. And it was ripped away from me while men like you stood back and did nothing. You gave my wife’s killer a second chance. Do you know what that did to me? To Megumi?” His voice cracks, raw with emotion. “I didn’t know what to do with this anger, this grief… it consume me. What else was I supposed to do?”

For the first time, a flicker of emotion crosses Higuruma’s face. Regret. Guilt. But he doesn’t lower the gun. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the weight of those words bearing down on him. “I can’t change what happened. I can’t bring her back. But I can stop you from hurting anyone else.”

Toji’s smirk falters, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. “Sorry?” he echoes, his voice bitter. “That doesn’t bring her back either. You think this makes things right? Killing me won’t fix anything. It won’t bring peace to her memory.”

Higuruma’s grip tightens on the gun, his breathing heavy as the moral weight of his actions bears down on him. “It might not fix anything,” he admits, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “But it will end here. No one else gets hurt.”

Toji chuckles again, though it’s weaker now, more resigned. He takes another unsteady step forward, blood pooling beneath him. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I deserve this. But don’t fool yourself into thinking this makes you a hero.”

The silence between them is deafening. Higuruma studies Toji’s face—once fierce, now weary and broken. A man consumed by vengeance and grief, driven to darkness by loss. Higuruma knows this could have been him, had he let his own grief consume him.

“I hope you find peace,” Higuruma says softly, his voice tinged with sadness.

Toji smiles faintly, almost mockingly. “Peace,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”

The shot rings out, sharp and final. Toji collapses, his body crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap. His smirk lingers faintly, as though he’d accepted this fate long before it arrived.

Higuruma lowers the gun, his hands trembling for the first time. His vision blurs as he stares at his hands, his own blood and the weight of every decision that led to this moment. He feels the overwhelming weight of what he’s done, and a thought rises above it all: Is he a bad person?

author’s note: thank you for all the good comments! <3 i will be taking a three (3) day break. don’t forget to give a note and leave a comment! <3

[doonarose]

New fic!!! The big one that I've been thinking about and writing for ages and I really, really, really want it to be good! Chapter one is here! The next nine chapters are written and will drop about once a week!

CW/TW: Explicit sexual content in later chapters. Minor human injuries, major animal injuries, car accident in this chapter.

Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are from different worlds with little in common and no reason for their lives to ever intersect. But then one dark, cold, miserable night their meeting becomes unavoidable as they narrowly avoid their cars colliding. They're left with an injured wild animal and the inevitability of starting to fall for each other. But, of course, it isn't as simple as that...

A/N: Hoo boy. This story has been percolating for seven and a half months. It's my first try at a human AU and I first came up with it as some sort of coping mechanism after I hit a kangaroo in my brand new car and had to limp another four hours home without a headlight.

I never would have thought about trying to write it properly without the needling, annoying, and cheerleading of the GOAD writer's chat! Extra special shoutouts to u/harlotofupdog and u/Paperclip_ninja for being at the forefront of the push for 'deer fic' and then agreeing to beta without realising that would also mean listening to me bemoan every last little decision and detail for weeks on end! Thanks also to u/FuzzyGoblinoid for even more cheerleading and also making the lovely header art!

Nine chapters are already written and the whole story mapped out so I will be updating about once a week with those and hopefully stay ahead! There are some feelings to be had, but do not fear, the smut is closer than you think and, I promise, everything will work out in the end!

@goodomensafterdark

Excerpt It is a truly horrendous winter’s night, cloaked in pitch black darkness and pelting rain. Howling winds make the little white hatchback shudder and tilt as it rolls along, Aziraphale grasping the steering wheel tighter as he wills the tyres to maintain their grip on the road.

The night is all the more miserable for being a Monday, in all likelihood the start of a fairly rotten week, and a teeth-chattering eight degrees Celsius — both inside and outside the car because, of course, Aziraphale’s heating hasn’t worked since December. He should have left London earlier and been home already, snuggled under the blankets with a good book and a cup of tea. But Sharron, the bookshop owner, had called to say she was stuck on the other side of town and asked him to work back. It hadn’t occurred to him to say no.

Which is why he is now squinting through the windscreen as the wipers squeak back and forth and the rain starts to come down even harder. The first crack of lightning makes him jump in his seat and illuminates the dense woodland streaming past on either side. It also reveals that the twin gleaming tail lights ahead belong to an old-fashioned, sleek beast of a car.

Aziraphale eases off the accelerator to put a few more metres between him and the vehicle ahead and grumbles as the digital clock ticks past nine. They are both driving at well over the speed limit but Aziraphale knows these roads, knows his way home. He so desperately wants to be there already, instead of here, miserably holding his whole body tense against the onslaught of weather outside.

The road curves and the hatchback’s tyres slip for a moment, hydroplaning and skidding towards the wrong side of the road before Aziraphale regains control around the next turn. He really, really just wants to be home and he feels his bottom lip start to wobble involuntarily.

Around another curve, this one tighter, but Aziraphale knows it well. Only another dozen miles or so and —

The tail lights ahead are suddenly too close and too red — the hulking car’s brake lights flash and then it’s skidding, spinning sideways on the road ahead of him.

Aziraphale has no time to process, barely enough to react.

To continue reading head on over to AO3!

[bullet-prooflove]

North Carolina: Beau 'Cyclone' Simpson x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx @chickensrule @iwannabeinthesequalmrghostface @justameresimp @handsupforamiracle @lxaah11 @librarian1002 @littlebadariell @imaginecrushes @luckyladycreator2 @emersxn99 @flrboyd @nani-kenobi @areamir @b-bradshaw @adaydreamaway08 @crimeshowjunkie @shepgurl @ashcosmo @inkandarsenic @caffeinatedwoman @tortilla-maria1 @lemmons1998 @dr-alan-grantler @watashiwasun @burningpeachpuppy @penguin876 @haley-hotchner

Prequel to the Deployment!Series

Event referenced in The First Month

When the car goes into a spin on an icy road in North Carolina, it’s not his life that Beau sees flash before his eyes, it’s yours. He knows exactly what to do in a situation like this, slide the gears into neutral, steer into the skid. His training has taught him not to panic and he doesn’t.

Not until he sees that tree coming up on your side of the car.

He knows the statistics when it comes to female injury rates in car accidents, how you’re 73% more likely to be injured than he is, 17% more likely to be killed. It resonates through his skull as he struggles to gain control of the car. It stops a few inches shy of the tree, the bark barely scratching the paintwork of the junker he’s driving.

His heart races as he sits there with both hands clutching the steering wheel, staring out of the windscreen as the snow continues to fall. He thinks of how this could have gone, how his life plays out without you. It’s lonely and desolate, there’s no colour, only shades of grey because a world without you lacks vibrancy and texture.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by your sudden eruption of laughter. He turns his head towards you slowly and you clap your hand over your mouth trying to stifle it. He knows it’s the adrenaline, the sudden surge of it through your veins followed by the relief. The edges of his mouth twitch up and he can feel his own hysteria bubbling up inside of him. He looks at you and you look back and he simply can’t contain it.

The two of you almost died and now you’re both laughing like you belong in an insane asylum. His ribs hurt by the time it starts to wane, he uses the back of his hand to wipe the tears away from his cheeks before he looks at you again.

“Marry me.” He says suddenly.

You place a hand over your heart, still trying to catch your breath from your momentary bout of hysterics.

“What?”

“Marry me.” He repeats, reaching for you. His thumb chases over the apple of your cheek as he leans in close, his lips brushing over yours. “I don’t want to spend another moment without you.”

Love Beau? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[sparrows-house]

Racing the Devil || RadioApple - CH 1

Synopsis: In this racer AU, Alastor is deep in his debts and Lucifer is all but happy to make a deal with him.

Yes, there will be spice soon. Just read the damn thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alastor gripped the steering wheel of his battered car, knuckles turning white and heart pounding in his ears. The roaring of engines grew louder as headlights nearly blinded him in his rear-view mirror. He tilted his head down just enough to keep the glare out of his eyes.

His car shook as he pressed the break and drifted into a wide turn. He forced his breath out, as he always did on turns, and found it to be shaky. His hands felt weak, almost like they couldn't grip hard enough. His right hand shifted the gear and he pulled into the straightaway.

He looked between the road and his dash, the red and white numbers glowing in the dark. He was going downhill, which wouldn't normally bother him, but this particular mountain was incredibly steep. He had to break sooner, break harder, on turns.

Not that his pursuers cared.

Their engineers hissed and popped as they gained on him, determined to run him and his beaten car into the ground. Or rather, off the ground and down the side of the mountain. He had been in high-stake races before but none of them compared to the death match he was currently in.

The bright pink tip of a car inched closer. Alastor knew exactly what that witch was trying to do and there wasn't anything he could do about it. He shifted gears and braked as late as he dared, letting his tires skid across the dark street and swing out his back end. The pink car braked just as late but not nearly as hard and hit the back corner of Alastor's bumper, just enough to send him swinging out wider than he anticipated.

He went with the momentum and spun his wheel with one hand, catching Velvette's wicked, gleaming smile through his window as she passed.

But he was far from safe.

He barely finished the spin she had sent him into before a second pair of high beams barreled toward him. Tires screamed as the deep purple car braked, ready to slam into him just enough to do more damage to Alastor than their car.

Luckily for Alastor, they had miscalculated.

He finished his turn inches before their bumpers collided. He rightened the car and came neck and neck with the purple race car. He met Valentino's eyes milliseconds before he slammed into Alastor's side. Sparks flew past the window as Alastor's car was shoved into the guardrail, the sound of metal scraping metal like nails on a chalkboard.

He slammed on the breaks right as Valentino gave up and pulled directly in front of him. Velvette slowed past the two of them and came up right on Alastor's tail. All three of them braked flawlessly into the tight turn, once again coming within inches of each other. Their bumpers were damaged but not nearly to the degree as the rest of Alastor's car.

They straightened out. Alastor reacted one second ahead of them, pulling out of the little pocket before they could crush him like a sandwich. They moved to box him in again but he swung inward, back to his original spot, and slammed on the break.

But Velvette had anticipated that move. Red lights light up the street as the hood of her car caught the underneath of Alastor's number. Valentino moved beside him but stayed about three-quarters of the way ahead of him, putting himself at a safe position to keep Alastor from escaping, but not allowing him the chance to bump Valentino's corner and send him spinning.

"You're running out of room darling!" Velvette cackled over the radio. They were trying to force him into these high speeds so he had less time to react.

Truly, Alastor believed this ordeal to have blown up entirely out of proportion. Vox was still alive, wasn't he? Alastor might not be after tonight.

"I know you can hear me, you red freak!" Velvette taunted. "This is what you get for trying to be cool and race with an antique."

Alastor's eyes flickered once to the radio. He had been listening to music before the two of them came up on him. One hand turned the steering wheel while the other gripped the clutch, shifting every few seconds. She was right, he was driving an antique. And he didn't have the time to turn off the radio and focus.

Sweat dripped down his nose as they came into another sharp turn. His clothes were sticking to his skin uncomfortably. The adrenaline rush had passed and now he was working on straight fear, nerves, and a handful of muscle memories.

His eyes looked ahead. Another sharp turn. Only this one opened up to the dark sky and a just as dark ocean. There were no trees, no bushes, no rocks, no ledges to buffer his fall. He knew without a doubt this was the turn they would push him off.

Valentino would put pressure from the side and Velvette would deliver the crushing blow from behind and send the front of his car over the guardrail and headfirst down a cliff.

His sweaty fingers gripped the leather of his wheel and gear shift. Without warning, he accelerated. He wouldn't have the space or room to drift into the turn but if he was going out, he would go out by his own hand.

A third pair of headlights appeared in the distance behind them. The lights grew larger within seconds and Alastor felt his stomach drop.

Vox.

He was out? He was back on the roads so soon? Of course. They were going to let Vox do the honors, moving out of the way at the last second to let him ram into Alastor.

No.

Alastor wouldn't allow it.

"What the hell?" Velvette's voice cracked over the radio.

"Who the fuck is that?" Valentino yelled.

Alastor let up on the gas as the third set of lights poked through Velvette's car. He couldn't see what kind of car it was through her tinted windows but that didn't matter. They were distracted. He had a chance.

He pressed on the break as the newcomer flashed his high beams and slammed on his horn. The Vees cursed as their concentration broke, cars jerking slightly and trying not to overcorrect. Everyone braked into the turn and slid around the corner.

Alastor was the first to come out of the hairpin turn, surprisingly unscathed. His stomach flipped again at the sight of headlights ahead of him. He pulled on the right side of the road and floored it, hoping to give Valentino a chance to slip behind him before he hit the unknowing civilian.

Fortunately, he did. Red lights poked in the corners of Alastor's vision from the civilian breaking and pulling off to the side of the road.

Alastor turned into another corner, one he could see ahead of and drift into without fear. Valentino and Velvette were cursing and shouting over the radio, but no one was answering them. They came to a straightaway and Alastor managed to punch the radio off and return his hand to the gear before he shifted again.

The now fourth car pulled around the Vees and speed past them, coming directly beside Valentino who was still hot on Alastor's tail.

Another sharp turn. The Vees braked but the newcomer did not. He slipped ahead of Valentino right before the turn, tires screeching and back end swinging out much like Alastor's did. He came within inches of Alastor's bumper and, for a moment, Alastor feared this was indeed Vox hiding in the cover of a shiny new car.

But the car never hit him. In fact, it dropped further and further behind.

Alastor could see the car now. It was bright white with red accents on the front and sides of the car. There was a symbol on the front but he couldn't see it, nor did he care to with another turn coming up. Orange lights on the guardrail warned him of another civilian.

The four cars moved flawlessly through the turn, this time without any close calls. But it was another straightaway and Alastor was dangerously low on gas. He couldn't push his car on the straightaways anymore unless he wanted to survive his trip down the mountain.

Valentino tried to overtake the newcomer but the white car moved directly over the double yellow lines. He slowed even more, pushing more distance between the three of them and Alastor's beaten red car.

He was helping Alastor.

Alastor's pride normally wouldn't allow such an act, however, his blood was still boiling from the fear of nearly flying off the corner of the mountain.

He glanced into his rear-view mirror for the first time since the death match had begun to see the white car swerving in a control manner. He was moved back and forth, accelerating and decelerating, somehow avoiding the Vees' attempts to throw him off the mountain.

The white car surged forward a moment before slamming on his brakes. He baited the Vees into chasing him, only to slam on their breaks to avoid a full-on collision. The screeching echoed in Alastor's ears as he turned out of view. The time between his turns and the appearance of headlights in his rearview mirror grew longer and longer, as did the distance.

He was going to get away. He would live another day.

The mountain finished at a long, straight tunnel. Alastor slowed down so he came out the other end of the tunnel at a normal speed limit. He took a random left turn, then a right, then another left, and finally came to a full stop.

He shifted the car in park and turned off the lights. He peeled his hands from the gears and removed both feet from the pedals. He took a moment to catch his breath, to detach himself from the body of his car, and dropped his head on the wheel with a whine.

He was alive.

The smell of burnt rubber clung to the leather insides of his car, mingling with the metallic taste on his tongue. His hands, now free from their death-grip but in the same positions as if he were still holding the gears, shook uncontrollably. He flexed them in an effort to shake the ghost feeling of the road humming beneath his skin.

Alive.

The word rang on repeat in his mind. There had only been a few times in his life when the intensity of his fear in a race was this high, one of which had sparked this death-chase. Being alive meant he still had a chance. He still had a chance to get out of this mess.

But it had been close. Too close.

He let out a shaky exhale and lifted his head from the wheel, sweat glistening and even dripping onto the hub. His eyes jumped around at the empty, dark residential area, then up at his equally dark rearview mirror. There were no lights, no engines, no tires screeching. He had escaped the Vees. They hadn't caught him yet.

They never will, he thought proudly, but bitterly.

His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned back into his seat. The bright lights still beamed at him behind closed eyelids. He immediately pictured the white car sliding in between him and Valentino, and the controlled swerving to throw the Vees off their game. The driver had jumped into their chase and risked his own life and car to help Alastor.

But why?

He pulled his head off the headrest and turned his headlights on. He couldn't sit here for very long unless he wanted to run out of gas and have to walk to find the nearest gas station. The little orange light above the gas meter shone mutely in warning.

Despite the relief at being alive, Alastor couldn't shake the feeling of having yet another debt fall on his shoulders. That driver was going to show up eventually and demand repayment.

Alastor breathed out an annoyed sigh as he slowly pulled through the residential neighborhood. His red eyes glared through his windshield.

He needed to get his shit together.

~*~

The dimly lit bar roared with life; the clinking of glasses, the pulsing of music blaring through the speakers, and people yelling out the lyrics with as much grace as a donkey crying.

Alastor let the door close behind him and the smell of tar and asphalt on his jacket was smothered by the smell of spilled alcohol and sweaty individuals.

He wore his usual racing attire: black pants with red accents, short heeled boots, a black long sleeve, and a red leather jacket with flaps that almost met the ends of his hair were it down instead of pulled back in a short pony tail.

This particular bar wasn't the kind he liked to associate with but, after tonight, he wasn't picky about where he settled his nerves. It all tasted the same, anyways. He'd have one, maybe two, drinks before he made his way home. The last boxes of his belongings awaited their new home in the trunk and backseat of his car. It was a miracle nothing had broken in the skirmish.

He slipped into one of the recently vacant bar stools and nodded at the bartender. "Whiskey, neat," he ordered. His throat was dry and his voice low and gravely from the remnants of adrenaline.

As he waited, his eyes drifted around the room. There was nothing particular or unique about this bar—just a bunch of underage teenagers, inexperienced college students, and a few adults trying to drink their sorrows away.

Then it caught him—a sharp, knowing gaze that rooted Alastor to his spot. Leaning against the frame of a booth table, ankles and arms crossed, hair tussled slightly, was a man whose smirk bordered on cocky.

Alastor instantly hated him.

His eyes examined the man with extreme scrutiny. He wore loose white pants with a single red stripe running down the outer sides. The edges slimmed at his ankle into thick black boots that looked almost identical to Alastor's—another reason to hate him.

He wore a similar-looking white sweatshirt with the same bold stripes running along his arms and cuffing at his wrists. The sleeves were white but center was black with red accents, and an embroidered apple and serpent sat over his heart.

It was a simple, laid back attire but the attitude of the wearer was anything but that. His eyes surveyed Alastor was the same level of scrutiny, running up and down his figure as he nursed a golden drink of his own.

"Here ya are." The bartender said over the noise and placed Alastor's whiskey with a thunk on the wood. Alastor gripped the smooth glass and took a sip, prolonging his glance back at the man in white. When he finally did look, he found he was still being stared at.

The man smiled and Alastor felt something like a jolt of electricity zipping down his spine. Alastor's own smile tightened and the man jutted his chin up in acknowledgement of Alastor's stare, but Alastor did not return the gesture.

The man licked his lips as he lowered his glass and his smile suddenly widened into a smirk. He surveyed Alastor again, but this time in a way that made Alastor's skin crawl.

Alastor gripped the glass harder and looked away. Whatever this was, he wasn't going to play into it.

Mood properly soured, he finished his drink, paid the bartender, and stood. At least he had something in his system to ease his nerves while he drove back to his new apartment. But a silky voice caught his attention.

"Leaving so soon?"

[selasshelves]

a malevolent affection (or, the mechanic and the general)

nothing ever happens on tatooine. at least until the most beautiful warship you had ever seen fell out of the sky, nearly on top of your home.

you first noticed the orange, fiery mass plummeting out of the atmosphere when you happened to glance out of your window, elbow deep inside of an astromech that wandered into your shop that morning. you just had to dig out an irritating hunk of metal that got stuck in her wiring somehow. the mech was a girl, of course. she moved in a silly, feminine way, spinning around in apparent boredom. funny how machines oft developed their own little habits of personality, typically from their owners.

"oh my stars..." you whisper, horrified to see that whatever was falling out of the sky was steered directly towards your little shop on the outskirts of mos eisley. "fuck is that... are you seeing this shit?" you exclaim in disbelief, pointing out the window.

the astromech whirs in agreement, pointing its little spherical head at the window.

at first, the object seemed to be falling slowly, but now you could see it gaining momentum, now you could make out the rounded hull with thousands of fires breaking out. a spaceship was in serious fucking trouble, and it was about to cause you some serious fucking trouble by crashing into your backyard. backsand. backdesert. whatever.

"you're gonna be fine if i leave you for a sec, right hon? you'll be fine, just stay here." you tell the astromech, carefully detaching your arm from the interior of its silver and pink body and sitting it up on its feet. you could hear the ship now, whooshing through the air. the metal was cracking under the immense pressure, and you see hunks of steel plating hurtling to the ground out of the corner of your eye.

grabbing a messenger bag full of med supplies and tools, you hit the ground running, skidding around a corner and rushing out the door.

find the survivors. get them inside. pray to whatever gods in the universe that would help you.

your first guess that the ship would hit your shop was a miscalculation. it's going to hit your little moisture farm in your backyard. it's not necessarily a farm, more so a well. it's still going to cost thousands of credits to repair, and you curse yourself for thinking of money at a time like this. at least its far enough away from your house to- CRASH

the shockwave from the impact of the ship hitting the earth sends you flying backwards, landing awkwardly on your back, spread eagle on the ground. you got the wind knocked out of you too, dumbass. should have waited in your house.

coughing, you shakily get up to your knees, pushing yourself off the ground. a sight of pure carnage is laid out in front of you. the ship broke into two parts when it hit the ground, it seems. a rounded hull connects to a pointed bow, while the slightly smaller bridge section lays broken apart, a good distance away. smoke begins to roll across the desert, and you frantically start digging in your bag for a gas mask. you're jumped by beeping from behind you, and you whirl around to see your new pink mech buddy rolling towards you, the gas mask you had been looking for held in its robotic arm.

"didn't i tell you to stay inside!" you snap at the droid, but gratefully taking the mask it offers to you. "thanks for the mask, little buddy." you tell her, ruefully shaking your head. the smoke stings your eyes, but you're sure that the desert winds will clear it away. for a ship that broke its way through the atmosphere and drove itself into the sand dunes, it's in remarkably good condition. cautiously, you make your way towards the rounded hull portion.

blue paint markings tell you that this is a confederate ship. your pounding heart eases slightly at the thought that you'll be dealing mostly with droids. hopefully there were only a few organic life forms on board. flesh was much more difficult to put back together than wires.

speaking of droids, several are starting to wander out of the crashed ship. a small explosion fires off from within the ship, sending metal hunks flying. the head of a B1 battle droid rolls towards you and stops at your feet. picking it up, you brush it off and shake it gently. the droids that are ambulatory are carrying blasters, and you don't trust them to ask questions first. for all you know, they could be under instruction to fucking shoot anyone who approaches. you unclip your gas mask and shake it onto your neck.

"droid, are your vocal functions intact?" you ask the head you're holding, and feel slightly silly doing so. you blow the dust out of the speaker on it's mouth area, and would you look at that, the damn thing starts speaking.

"bzzt. bzzt. HEY. YOU'RE NOT A DROID." it's mechanical voice box says to you in its nasally tone. you suppress a giggle at its obvious statement.

"nope. i'm a doctor. and a mechanic. and if you want me to put you back on a body, you've got to tell me if there were any organic life forms on your ship."

the droid seems to process this. a few of the droids that can still walk around have noticed you and are now approaching with their blasters ready, but not pointed at you yet. small blessings.

"bzzt." the droid seems to struggle speaking. you would too, you suppose, if your head had been forcefully separated from your body. "just the general! but uhhhhhh"

you briefly ponder why a droid would be programmed to say "uhhhh".

"he's prooooobably fine."

you snort, tucking the head under your arm. "tell your buddies not to shoot me, would ya? they don't look too happy to see me."

the droid head vibrates as it speaks more loudly. "DON'T SHOOT. DO NOT SHOOT THE HUMANOID. THEY'RE A MECHANIC."

the droids look at you, several scratch the backs of their heads. you marvel again at the oddities of their programming, wondering if their general also has the same tic.

"roger roger" "roger roger" "roger roger" comes the cacophony of responses from the droids, all of them relaxing their arms.

you hum and walk towards the ship, wary of any more stray explosions. the ship is huge, and you guess it to be a destroyer. it's not quite big enough to be a frigate, but it's larger than a supply ship. probably a recusant class destroyer, if you had to guess its model. the hull that the droids are spilling out of (mostly wrecked bits of droids) is decently fucked, but the bridge seems to be mostly alright. the impact would kill most life forms, and you find yourself starting to doubt the droid head that told you their general was "probably fine".

the aforementioned droid head exclaims from its perch in your arm, "hey! look, it's my body!"

there are a lot of droid bodies, most of which have been dragged out by the B1s which are able to walk. their commitment to retrieving their fellows is commendable, but you're quietly dreading putting all of them back together. it would take months of nonstop work to repair the ones that just need to be put back together, let alone any that were damaged enough to be rewired, or have bits of their circuitry replaced altogether. not to mention each astromech, maintenance droid, protocol droid... you'll have to pray that the separatists will take their junk with them when they come to extract their general. you could probably spend a lifetime combing through the remains of this ship for things to fix. the prospect is almost nice.

"that one?" you point at a body with yellow paint that matches your droid friend's head paint.

the head buzzes in response. it seems happy enough, so you walk over and kneel to affix the head back onto its neck. the droids are almost... flimsily made. it's more like clicking the premade pieces into place rather than screwing or welding them together. it's obvious to anyone with an affinity for mechanics that the droids were made hastily and without much care. putting them back together would be easy enough for a child.

within thirty seconds, your task is complete. the droid shakes his arms like a dog shaking out water from its coat and you chuckle at the B1's antics. he flexes his fingers and stands up to his full height, towering above you. damn thing must be well over six feet tall. it's gangly too, and it's conical head is still goofy when it's attached to its body. you pat his shoulders affectionately and the thing tilts his head at you.

"so," you start, surveying the hulking mass of what used to be a ship. "how many of your buddies were on that ship of yours?"

the droid smacks the back of its head a few times, shaking dust out of its plates. "uhhhhhhh. the recusant's crew consisted of five thousand B1 battle droids, as well as several hundred super battle droids in our storage hull."

"don't just tell them that!" exclaims another droid, marching over to the guy you just put back together. this one has green circles marking his body, which seems to indicate a higher rank. "they could be a republic spy!" the green droid smacks the yellow one with the butt of his blaster.

"owwwwwww."

the green droid turns to face you, and you stand up a little taller.

"B1 battle droid, please provide your rank and model number." you tell him, trying to sound both detached and commanding. you're not sure if it's working, but the green droid does acquiesce your request.

"B1 6689-2, Commander of fleet 734. what's your problem?" he nudges you with his blaster, although much more gently than the way he hit his inferior droid.

"eight-nine, huh? well, i'm a mechanic. and my problem right now is you crashed into my yard!" you say to him, poking him in his metal chest. you sling your arm around the yellow droid, giving him a friendly squeeze. he seems befuddled. "your buddy here was just telling me how many of you i'm gonna be fixing up."

"fixing???" the green droid- eighty nine, exclaims. "well why didn't you say so!"

"...i did. i did say so."

if eighty-nine were a humanoid, you'd say he shrunk under your gaze.

"right. roger roger."

you let go of yellow and peer around. "i need to tend to organics before i manage your situation. where is your general?"

eighty nine shrugs, if droids can shrug. "he should be in the bridge! but i don't know where the bridge is right now, uhhhhhhhhhhhhh miss...ter mechanic."

you raise your eyebrows at him. "mechanic is fine, eighty nine. huh, that rhymed."

"well, B1 6689-1193 will help you find the bridge, and i'll take care of the situation here!" the green droid says, seemingly eager to pawn off the responsibility of the bridge to his inferior.

"WHAT! WHY DO I HAVE TO GO TO THE BRIDGE?" the yellow droid shouts. the two droids dissolve into debate about the responsibilities of a commander versus a captain that consists entirely of circular reasoning.

"hm. you're all eight nines. i guess yellow can be called eleven, then. or yellow. or something like yeleven. that works." you muse to yourself. "come on yeleven, let's get moving." you grab the droid and pull him away with you. the bridge is only a few minutes of walking away, and you start to jog towards it.

just as you reach it, an ominous rumble spreads through the air.

"uh oh." yeleven intones, raising his arms to shield himself from whatever's about to happen. you duck behind the droid, peeking around him. your astromech tucks herself behind you and does the same thing.

you arrived just in time to watch the bridge slowly collapse on itself, an avalanche of rubble descending onto the desert. you have a quicker reaction time than the droid, and pull him back while trying to move backwards as quickly as you can. the result is you, yeleven, and your mech piled on top of each other while the sea of rubble surrounds the three of you. smoke pours from the mess, encouraging you to reaffix your gas mask until it clears.

you pull yourself and yeleven to your feet, then grab your astromech as well. mentally, you decide her name is pinkie. she deserves a name too after dealing with this pile of dogshit.

"still think that your general is probably fine, yeleven?" you ask your droid friend halfheartedly. to your surprise, he nods.

"oh, yes ma'am-sir. he's survived much worse than this."

you chuckle at his mixmatched way he addresses you while brushing off your clothes. "i don't know too many species that survive ship crashes, 'leven. just because some of you droids made it out doesn't mean an organic being could take that."

"uhhhhh well about that-" the yellow droid is interrupted by something you don't quite understand. he jumps back in fright, clutching his blaster closely. a... metal? hand punches through the mass of metal rubble, clawed fingers clenching together to make a powerful fist. the patch of rubble shifts, and you can hear what is undeniably an organic being coughing and choking beneath the sea of scrap.

"what the fuck. what the fuck. what the fuck." you swear under your breath, stumbling through the scrap pile towards whatever is clawing its way out of the debris. scrabbling over sheets of metal and broken light panels, you reach the outstretched arm. planting your feet firmly on a semi-stable sheet of metal, you grasp the arm firmly and pull as hard as you can, praying again that this being is not too far gone, that it's all going to be okay.

cold metal fingers, no, cold metal claws wrap around your forearm, sinking into your skin far enough to draw blood. you cry out in pain, but grit your teeth and grab the arm with your other hand, determined to haul out this lone survivor. with a loud BANG- another fist pushes a sheet of black steel out of the way, revealing what seems to be, but can't possibly be, the body of another droid?

a third arm emerges from the rubble to shove more scrap out of the way.

a fourth extends from the depths to grab your shoulder.

you screw your eyes shut and haul the general of the crashed ship out of its remains.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Goretober

Well yall, its that time of year, and me feeling angsty while also wanting to work on my ability to describe things has led me to decide that this is clearly the best thing to do with my time. With that said, here is your warning. I am going to attempt to keep up with the prompts for the next little bit, so if that ain't your thing, best just steer clear of anything I post with 'Day XXX' on it. That said, for those of you who like this stuff, enjoy.

Day One: Stabbed

“Optimus!” The Prime was rushing forward to stand between the team and the enemy, completely unable to slow at such high speeds. Ratchet felt his very spark blaze in sheer terror as he saw the look of dawning realization reach Optimus’s optics in time for the dooming hiss of creaking components to echo in the area. There was no stopping it as the harpoon fired from one of Shockwave’s newest weapons and sliced through the air with the precision and speed of a sniper rifle. 

There was no time to think, there was no time to act, not as the glint of deadly steel sped across Ratchet’s straining optics. In reality, it must have only been a terrifying two or three nanokliks… However as medical protocols were activated, Ratchet saw the proceedings in terrifying detail.

Optimus’s face was the embodiment of true terror as the harpoon sliced through abdominal armor, its serrated edges catching on wiring and protoform as it spun like a torpedo. It all seemed like a sickening slow-motion holofilm as outer plating was ripped apart in a spray of energon which was only accentuated as the harpoon tore past secondary and core layers of supposedly blast-proof armor. Protoform all but exploded in a sea of shattered components, quickly leading internal organs to squelch out from the harpoon’s entry point in a horrifying display. Then as time began to speed back up, the still spinning harpoon tore its way out of Optimus’s back, sending pieces of spinal column, wiring, and entrails flying out onto the stone beneath their pedes.

Distantly he could hear Bumblebee and Bulkhead screaming, and somewhere Arcee was dealing suppressive fire as Ratchet threw himself into action. A thousand warnings complicated his sub-processing routines while he skidded to his knees, running scans even as he assessed the damage and focused on trying not to purge. The Prime was in a quickly growing pool of his own energon, and thankfully the harpoon had broken all the way through his frame and thus was not stuck within him to aggravate affairs further. That of course was merely a small mercy though as every medical protocol Ratchet knew was reviewed and activated. 

His digits shook as he struggled to decipher where to even begin his emergency repairs. Optimus was obviously in shock. His optics were blaring and his venting halted and tried to sputter back into regularity desperately. The Prime’s intake hung open, his face plastered into horror and quickly morphed into one of undiluted agony. Despite that, he couldn't scream, not as his entire frame struggled to continue functioning with the gaping hole in his abdomen. 

From where Ratchet knelt trying to frantically start welding shut weeping fuel lines, he could see internal organs pulsing and contracting as they tried to function even while all but destroyed. Small wires grasped at the air they were never meant to be exposed to as charge and energon crawled along them. Oils spilled from devastated purification systems and mixed with the unholy combination of components, organs, and half-processed fuel that was only growing larger within the wound and around Optimus’s frame. Shattered pieces of skeletal protomatter and yellow spinal fluid joined the mess and dug into angry lacerations. 

“Hold on Optimus! I’ll fix this! I will fix this!” Ratchet pleaded, trying to comfort himself more than the rapidly fading Prime before him. Deft digits reached into the wound and he began to carefully remove shards of metal that infested the damaged areas, all while doing his best to maintain composure. Wires clung to his digits as he worked and again the organs pulsed, all in time with Optimus’s distressed attempts to vent. There was too much damage and too little time.

“Frag it all, hold on Optimus!” Ratchet all but begged while finishing up what cleaning he could manage out in the open. He then proceeded to try to ease his churning tanks with a deep vent while pulling out half-destroyed organs to try and weld the wounds shut for the time being. If he could just stop the bleeding, he could get Optimus back to base and put him into emergency stasis until he could work something out-

“RATCHET! WE NEED TO MOVE!” Arcee screeched as blaster fire echoed nearby. Ratchet ignored her as he worked to tend to the pulsating organ within his grasp. His tanks churned with even more urgency as the organ which he assumed to be part of the fuel tank, oozed a mix of blue and rust-colored substances. It stained his servos and the texture had him shaking horribly as he welded the weeping component into a semi-stable state and hurried to try and at least cauterize the rest of the wound until he could do more. 

This time, Optimus did scream and the nauseating scent of burning energon and protomatter had Ratchet gagging while he worked. However, he did not dare stop, even as Optimus spasmed, only held down by Ratchet bodily holding him in place as his welder dealt with the worst of the wound. Grasping wires seared and withered, weeping wounds sizzled and closed up as molten metal forced them into place, and the ghastly concoction of bodily fluids within the wound smoked until they were reduced to ash. 

Eventually, Optimus stopped screaming, his frame falling limp. At some point, Ratchet dragged his ailing Prime back to base. Then next he knew, Ratchet stood beside the medical berth his Prime lay on, a syringe in his grasp and ready to plunge into an exposed fuel line to ensure Optimus did not wake during what was bound to be a very grim and unsettling series of surgeries.

Extra

Optimus over here like:

[belosmobilityscooter]

Another draft which funnily enough is the original concept to the first one I posted, I ended up changing it from readers’ to belo’s pov because I thought that was more interesting and I didn’t like the originals pacing. Also felt like the end had some off topic inner rambling too. Anyways this was written before thanks to them came out and is kinda old so sorry for odd phrasing. Anyways enjoy this scrapped draft!!

Your hands gripped the wheel tightly, trying to will away your slowly ramping hysteria.

You didn’t exactly want to spend the night in the creepy serial killer woods, but what other choice did you have? It wasn’t like there were any motels around, or any internet connection to find one. Your gaze gloomily peered out of the rain bombarded windshield, scanning the upcoming road for anything past the millionth tree.

In the midst of your third mental crisis of the night, just at the edge of the treeline a flash of movement went unnoticed.

You were screwed weren’t you? You were going to die a horribly grizzly death out in the backend of nowhere because your dumbass decided to drive the full way back home-

Without warning, a large shape barreled across the asphalt at full speed.

Your eyes widened, foot trying to hit the break.

Large, blazing blue eyes turned to look directly ahead, and a thrill of horror shot down your spine.

Metal screeched as it was torn from its hull, a heavy body battered against the vehicle and everything was sent astray. You were thrown forward, your foot holding down the break as something, smashed against the glass and skid across the cracked blacktop.

Fear tore through you as you were flung forward, only caught by your seatbelt as your head collided against the steering wheel. The car was sent into a spin, the wet road propelling it. You were moving- and then your foot stomped on the break desperately.

Things came to a stop with a shrill screech of tires and you were thrown forward again, the seat belt digging into your skin.

And then, there was just silence.The sounds of music crackled in the air, the heavy hum of the car’s engine running as rain continued to fall. However, none of that was hardly heard by you.

Your heart pounding so loudly in your ears it was deafening, shock stilling your body. You couldn’t move, muscles stiff as you sat there. Your eyes drifted up to your windshield, which oddly was the first thing you noticed at that moment.

There was a large crack that rippled across the sheet of glass, and.. Something wet, and black was smeared across the fractured surface. You stared some more.

“ What the fuck, “

The hoarse string of words, which sounded more like a geriatric swan getting waterboarded, came from your lips.

What… What just happened? Your skull pounded painfully, like the bone was stuffed full of cotton, you wondered if you hit it or whether that was just the adrenaline. Neither mattered.

Slowly, you forced your hands to release their death grip from the steering wheel, noticing the visible tremble in them. You touched your forehead, a low hiss coming from your gritted teeth as the searing throb in your head returned with much more force and warmth spread wetly across your fingers.

When you spun out you hadn’t even realized you hit your head. Shit, did you have a concussion? Could you even get a concussion from banging your head on the steering wheel? What if you got a brain aneurysm from blood filling up your brain and you died? What if you were already dead? Suspiciously, and still in shock, you patted yourself down to just make sure. Your eyes fell back to the cracked window, then to the side as you tried to peer out the rear view mirror.

After a short moment of recuperation, the sudden weight of reality came crashing in on you. Oh god did you hit a deer?

Your stomach lurched dreadfully at the thought, you didn’t do well around dead animals, not since you were seventeen and accidentally hit the neighbor’s dog with your car. You still felt awful about it, although you didn’t see the elderly beagle when you were backing out of the driveway. That cataract-blinded dog never saw your 2008 honda civic coming.

Oh my god what if I hit a person? You paled, that was possibly even worse. What if it was some stray hiker who was trying to get help and you accidentally just killed them? Swallowing hard, you slowly unbuckled your seat belt. Whatever it was you ran over, you weren’t sure. It was far too… large to be someone.

The memory of those huge watery eyes staring ahead glossily at you replayed in your mind, as you stared ahead at the dark road, the brights of your car pointing aimlessly into the silent woods.

Unless absurdly huge hikers running across the road in pitch black was a common occurrence in this part of Connecticut.

No, it wasn’t a person, you decidedly answered yourself. Maybe it was the fact that this had happened so quickly, or that when you hit your head a few screws came loose, but the rational part of you wasn’t thinking correctly. The rational part of you should have booked it out of there, being a responsible citizen be damned. But again, you weren’t thinking rationally tonight.

You popped open your glove box and rummaged through the assortment of old receipts and trash, the sound of crinkling wrappers falling to the floorboards audible as you withdrew a flashlight. You had been given it the day you left for college and had only used it one time since, that one time being when you had just moved into the house and were rummaging through the attic looking for anything salvageable to use as furniture.

That was almost a year ago now, and too many years to count since dear old dad gave you the thing. You were going to need it to see the damage.

Leaving the car running, you hesitantly opened the car door and stepped outside.

Immediately you became aware of the immense cold of the rain as it cascaded down around you, pooling in a small puddle at your feet as you felt the warmth in your body follow with.

Your hand nervously fidgeted with the weighted flashlight as you turned it on; the beacon sputtered to life, illuminating the darkness with a streak of fluorescent light you were thankful for, your unease dissipating ever so slightly. Although your heart rate never decreased in the time you had stopped, the repeated pounding in your ears was putting you even more on edge.

You turned the light towards your car, cringing as the wrecked state of the front was revealed in the sharp glow.

The front bumper of the car was definitely busted, the once sleek metal was crushed along with the left headlight. The silver paint had been scrapped and chipped, leaving a sharp gouge in the color. However, it seemed like nothing was wrong, nothing that you could tell anyways that would cause it to explode when you started driving. Still it was going to be a pain in the ass trying to get fixed though.

The glass of your windshield hadn’t completely splintered under the impact of- whatever hit it, although it also needed to be replaced. You sighed heavily, trying to ignore the future headache you would have when you were going to have to call the auto shop.

You moved to turn, but paused, feeling something catch the bottom of your soles.

“ What the… “

You whispered, lifting your foot and watching as something black, almost like tar dribbled down the underside of your boot, coating your shoe and the blacktop below in an inky substance. It streaked across the ground in a messy skid, covering the wreckled front of your car and beginning a trail on the darkened road.

Your immediate thought was that it was blood, and you felt bile rise in the back of your throat. However, you forced yourself to move on. A wet squelch resounding as you walked past.

Following the new trail, you carefully rounded the side of the car, on the lookout for a body of some sort. As grim as it was you needed to check to see what you hit and if it still even was alive.

Your grip tightened around the heavy light and you stopped.

The rain had long since soaked through your black formal wear and you were shivering, a part of you wished you hadn’t even gone to the funeral at all. Your eyes narrowed with confusion and tension, drawing the light to shine down; the trail ended here.

That’s strange, where's the body?

Your thoughts were pierced by a weak animalistic sound that came from ahead of you, causing your head to snap up.

“ Who’s there? “

You called out, although you knew it was stupid, what did you expect it to respond with?

Ah yes, maybe you can help me because- YOU HIT ME WITH YOUR FUCKING CAR‘

You moved with dread, shining the flashlight ahead as you anticipated what would inevitably be the sight of a wounded and possibly dying animal.

And yet, that wasn’t what you found.

For the second time that night you almost screamed. Because there on that paved road you did not find an animal.

[uneducated-author]

Dazai learned to drive from Oda.

Well, it wasn't so much learning as harassing Oda to give him lifts home (Oda dropping him a street away from the most expensive part of the city and then Dazai carving his way towards the container) and Dazai fixated on Oda's hands. How they adjusted the different features, where Oda was looking, how the way his balance shifted gave away the pressure on the pedals. Oda never mentions or gives away that he understands Dazai's ulterior motive, but he must pick up on it, because after the third time his movements become more obvious and defined, and he starts talking out loud about his own driving.

So Dazai steals a car every now and again. He starts with slow loops and then longer journeys. Graduating from backroads to highways. Until he can traverse the whole city, perfectly, safely and accurately. It's all patterns and reading, and it's so much easier in a car. All he has to do is look at the wheels and angles of a machine to know where a person is going to move to.

Then comes the fun part. Because once Dazai learns how to drive well, he gets to learn how to drive badly.

He learns how to skid and angle, drive double the speed limit without looking at the wheel, steering without hands, with his feet. He drifts in the middle of a motorway and does donuts until his tyre marks have left a tattoo in the concrete.

And then, when he's totaled two cars and wrecked four, when he could drive a car and put the passenger through hell, but get them to purgatory safe, he brings Chuuya along.

It's not planned. They're booking it on a mission, not gone wrong, but gone wild. Dazai spies a car, and a little voice inside him says 'now!'

Chuuya doesn't know why Dazai is suddenly going in a different direction, but like hell he's letting his partner go off alone, so like always he follows, throwing himself into a car that neither of them know how to drive.

'What the f*ck is your plan Mackeral' he intends to say, but he gets cut halfway through because the car shrieks and Dazai tears them away like a bat out of hell, and for a second Chuuya shouts for Dazai to go back because he thinks that he left his soul behind.

But Dazai is fierce and vicious and whoops as he turns the wheel much to far, spinning on the edge of a cliff like he's the one with gravity powers, and Chuuya can't breathe but the light flickers through and forges a light in Dazai's eye that he never sees unless they're quiet and alone.

And Dazai looks at Chuuya prepared for his partners screaming and clinging, hoping for it in fact. Or maybe he'll yell at Dazai, wondering where the hell he learned to drive. But instead the boy is smiling, face cracked open like a watermelon, whooping and shooting out the window and shouting for him to move and Chuuya will never stop surprising him will he?

The two tear away and it's reckless and dangerous, but they're built for these moments, covered in blood surrounded by fire, and both lay back panting, catching each others eyes just to erupt into laughter because 'can you believe we just did that?!'

Dazai can't help but smile when Chuuya angles himself so they can't break eye contact and asks for another ride.

Later Dazai teaches Chuuya to drive, except not really. The haze has worn off, and there's not really anything all that special about the dumb machine. He points out the gears and indicators and then veers off. The exhilaration had been fun, he guesses. But he can't expect it to last.

Two weeks later Chuuya shows up with a bike he's stolen, black and vicious, but Chuuya's brought him a hello kitty helmet, that Dazai will wear, just to be a brat. But his partner is smiling and reckless, with the spark that means he thinks Dazai is about to be outplayed, and invites him to take a ride too.

Dazai joined the Port Mafia because he wanted to find a reason to live. He never found one that stuck. But sometimes he remembers his partners screaming and that horrible ride where Dazai had no control but was forced to put his life in Chuuya's hands, and he thinks that he may not have found a reason, but there were seconds that he lived.

[jiubilant]

cw: brief blood mention, horror elements

By the time Colette Marence circles back to his lightless, airless room, the new Archmage of Winterhold has ransacked it.

“Ah,” he rasps with brittle brightness. “Good. Help me with this.”

He’s levering the chest of drawers in the corner—which could very well crush him, thinks a staring Colette, if it wobbles the wrong way—away from the wall with that stupid staff. He’s already upended the bed. It lays in the middle of the room like an overturned beetle, legs in the air; in the bedclothes, trampled and kicked across Colette’s fine, clean floor, sits the flask still filled with his sleeping-draught.

Her colleagues can accuse the man, Colette thinks with exhausted indignation, of spinning a spider’s tale: ghosts, a magic mask, a showdown with the witch-king of buried Bromjunaar. They can accuse him of scheming with Psijics, with Falion and poor Mirabelle, with the Dominion diplomat they’ve dumped into the sea.

But of lacking industry, never.

“Mother’s mercy,” she says with venom, and snaps the door shut behind her. She seldom has the patience to deal with this man, much less this man as a patient—and she has other wounded to tend, and has all night, and will all day tomorrow. “What in the world do you think you’re—”

The Archmage silences her with a sharp wave of the hand. Urag had donated an old tent of a bathrobe, too big, to the cause of clothing him in something clean; dressed in that and bandages, his face haloed all about with filthy hair, the man looks like Galerion’s ghost.

“How does one kill”—he plants his good foot against the wall and, with a rigid smile, heaves his makeshift lever like an oar—“what’s already dead?”

He’s been cracking strained jokes since they peeled him, a few hours ago, from the Hall of the Elements’ floor. Some people are like that when they’ve had a shock, Colette reminds herself, and Ancano had probably given him several.

“I don’t know,” she says virtuously. “How?”

“You don’t know?” The Archmage looks at her over his shoulder, surprised. “You’re Mistress of Restoration—”

The chest of drawers crashes to the floor like a calving glacier. Colette’s hand flies to her mouth. In the incredible silence that follows, the Archmage stands immobile, ears pricked and listening, his face as full of shadows as the corner of the room now bared to air.

“Suppose it rode in on my cloak,” he says, and laughs: a high, quivery laugh, all wrong. “All the way from Bromjunaar. Clingy. Buy a man a drink, first—a little light, please, dear heart.”

He’s talking, Colette realizes with terrible pity, to the staff. He cups it as if shielding a flame. An infant star sizzles to life at its tip, cradled in his palm—then shivers, exhausted, and sputters out.

“That’s all right,” the Archmage murmurs, as if to a child. “You’ve done plenty.”

He props the old butter-churner on the doorjamb and, for reasons unfathomable, picks up one of his boots instead. That does it.

“They’ve put such blather in your head,” Colette snaps, as though it’s his fault. She strides to him and snatches his elbow, steering him back to the storm-tossed bed; at a glare from her, it rights itself and skids sheepishly back against the wall. “Archmage just because you fetched that stick. Well, when I was a girl, I had a terrier—”

The Archmage trails after her, obliging as a terrier himself, though he keeps twisting around. He stares with dreadful resolve at the darkest corner of the room, behind the splintered chest. “Lettie, hush a moment—”

“Sit,” Colette jabs back, ignoring him, “so I can see to your side”—which he’s reopened with his redecorating, she thinks, scowling at the rusty stain spreading across his bandages—“and tell the truth, while I’m at it, about where you’ve been all this—”

The Archmage reaches for her arm. Then he hesitates, thinking, no doubt, what she is thinking: whatever’s caked under his fingernails should not encounter her sleeve.

“Lettie,” he says, his face terrible and calm. Ever his own tyrant, Colette thinks. Only the tremor in his hand, hovering over her wrist like a suspended spider, gives him away. “Aren’t we friends?”

He’s come back a stranger, this man Colette’s quarreled with all year. The skin of his face is stretched taut over the bones like leather on a scraping-horn—and there are new lines in it, tormented and deep, as if the scraper had been careless with the knife. Colette can almost believe that he’d seen spirits, stepped through time, stolen that stupid stick from a king beneath the earth.

“I suppose,” she says, hoarse, blinking. She hadn’t known it before. But a healer anticipates sudden complications; she clears her throat and rallies, the needle of her voice rising to prick. “Yes. And I’m telling you, Ravila, as your—”

The Archmage’s hand settles, with gentle desperation, on her wrist.

“Be my friend, Lettie,” he says, leaning close enough for her to count the bruises on his throat. She hadn’t noticed them before. “Be”—his eyes skitter around the room, and he swallows—“quiet.”

Colette Marence opens her mouth.

Then she closes it.

Then, in the darkness and the silence, something scrapes.

The Archmage’s hand tightens on Colette’s wrist. She holds her breath and listens. In the perfect silence of their vigil, something in the room moves again: scraping, scuttling, scratching in the corner by the chest of drawers.

A rat, Colette thinks, and takes a breath to berate him. All that for a rat.

Then she sees the look on the Archmage’s face, constricted and close to sickness, and something pricks at her chest. She gives him a meaningful look. He stares at her for a moment, struggling with an uncomprehending smile—then the smile jumps once, twice, like a thread being tugged. He nods tightly. Like reflections of each other, they stalk in predatory synchrony to opposite sides of the fallen chest—

—and Colette, with all the pent-up force of five weeks of disaster, gives her side a tremendous kick.

The thing behind the chest bursts out, scrabbling away from Colette’s foot. The Archmage, with a bark of strangled triumph, pounces with the boot: thunk, thunk. Thunk. Thunk—

“It’s dead,” says Colette, alarmed, and circles the chest to catch his arm. “Ravi, it’s—land’s sakes, Ravi, it’s dead.”

The Archmage, his face a rictus, clears his throat as if trying to dislodge a laugh. He coughs on it, instead. “Let it know, and I will be obliged.”

In the darkness, the thing that had been hiding behind the chest looks like a lump of shadow. It has too many legs to be a rat. Colette bends, with a mixture of revulsion and real worry, to inspect the corpse. “I thought you liked spiders—”

She stares. Smashed at their feet lays the crushed carcass of a hand, severed at the wrist, its skin sloughing from the bones like burnt leather.

[melles1276]

Excerpt:

Chapter 5 - Ambush

The shock wave knocks Bucky off his feet, the heat of the explosion sweeps over him, and he’s hit by several flying rocks. Luckily, he has enough presence of mind to immediately get up and dive into the Humvee. "Drive back! Go back!” he shouts at Bell. "Back! Away from here!"

Bell frantically puts the car in reverse and floors the accelerator. The wheels spin for a moment before the vehicle lurches into motion and skids over the uneven terrain. Another mortar shell hits where the Humvee had been just moments before, creating a huge cloud of dust. Debris rains down on the vehicle, some of it bouncing off the bulletproof windshield.

Bucky orders Steve and Dave to get on the floor. Fortunately, behind them there’s a wide bay just a few meters away, which is used as a checkpoint by the American forces and now enables them to turn around. Then he instructs Bell: “Turn around! You have to turn around!”

Bell nods excitedly, stops, shifts into gear, and turns the steering wheel. The heavy vehicle reacts slowly, but powerfully.

Steve and Dave are thrown around in the rear seat, their bodies colliding.

The next shell hits, missing the Humvee by only a few feet spraying the vehicle with rocks and debris. 

“There’s a turnoff ahead!” Bucky points in the appropriate direction.

“But what about-” Bell asks, his voice filled with fear. “Master Sergeant Miller!”

The young soldier has not yet grasped the magnitude of the attack and is obviously in shock. Bucky shakes his head. “There is nothing more we can do for them. We have to get out of here!” He uses the radio to contact the nearest base and relays their approximate location and current situation.

For Steve, everything seems to be happening in slow motion and, yet, so many things are happening quickly that he is unable to grasp the severity of the situation. He hears Bucky's panicked voice, but he doesn't understand the words. His brain seems unable to process the surustion. He and Dave are jolted roughly as the Humvee speeds along the rough and dusty road.

Meter by meter the off-road vehicle climbs further up the hill. The path takes them through wooded area lined with boulders. The mortar fire has stopped, but Bucky obviously is still worried. Their adversaries are well-connected and every man in the area now knows that a Humvee is on the run, and the only road that leads away from here will inevitably move them from one danger zone to the next.

Bucky unconsciously wipes sweat from his face again. As he lowers his hand, he pauses, blinking. It’s bloody. Apparently a splinter hit him in the face. He quickly wipes his hand on his pants and feels the left side of his face. A burning pain becomes noticeable when he touches a spot on his cheek below his eye. Yes, something definitely hit him and left a bloody cut. He runs his jacket sleeve over it again and jumps in shock when a handkerchief is handed to him from behind. He glances over his shoulder and peers at Steve. He nods silently to him, takes the cloth, and presses it to the wound.

[sychosid]

I've prayed enough, I rolled the dice.

"Hangman" Adam Page/Swerve Strickland

[Ao3 Link]

Swerve nearly runs over an unfamiliar face, and lands himself in an familiarly unfamiliar place.

Ancient Names, Pt. II.

The chain itself didn’t quite move. There was simply something about holding it that gave Swerve direction…at times. 

He couldn’t exactly hold it in his hands when handing his car back to the car rental company, but Swerve knew he had to change cars. He needed something older, with an analog radio receiver.

Somewhere right outside of Portland, Oregon was where he found it. A Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, from 1981. He barely even remembered getting to the dealership, although he was pretty sure he just took an Uber there.

None of that really mattered. There wasn’t a car at that dealership older than 1985.

“The ‘81. Good choice, and it’s a Trans Am. Reliable, fashionable. It’s really in style right now you know. Only a couple years old.” The dealers were a pair of brothers, Dale and Johnnie Redmayne. Johnnie was the one who was striking the deal. Dale had been quieter when they met, and said he’d take care of paperwork.

“There aren’t a lot of these. And you’re selling it for $9900. This rare-ass car.” There was an accusatory tone to his voice.

“What can I say?” Johnnie shrugs, “We got good deals. The Phantom Riders know how to ride.” 

Swerve scoffs at that, but reaches down to touch the car. Black, glossy finish. It was allegedly used, but looked brand new. Still, he saw there were a few thousand miles on it. It was the thing that called out to him. There were other rare cars on the lot. Old Bentleys, Rolls Royces’, Porsches, hell even Aston Martins. 

The Pontiac needed him, and he needed it. Yeah it wasn’t low-key. But it was Swerve Strickland, and that’s all the reason he needed.

“Yeah, I’ll take her.”

“Good man! Now, I’m sure Dale has the paperwork all sorted out, let’s get this thing going.”

Dale was a quiet man, much like Swerve expected. Thorough, surprisingly soft spoken for the way he looked (that was one nasty scar on his face, running from the left side of his mouth up to his scalp).

Johnnie was a weird guy, but he was nice enough. He drove Swerve to pull the cash from his bank, didn’t pull a damn thing. Chatted the whole way through, about things Swerve didn’t really tune into. Not that the younger man seemed to mind or care much; if he even noticed.

Hell he even drove him to the DMV and paid for the taxes and registration fee. It was weirdly nice, but Swerve found himself rolling with it.

Johnnie had some quirks to him. He smiled a lot, joked around, and charmed just about everyone. Guys like that were the most dangerous, but if he tried to pull anything Swerve was ready for it.

The shoe never dropped though. It didn’t matter, ultimately, he didn’t have time to question it and he didn’t feel a need to.

Soon enough, Swerve was on the road again.

The Pontiac drove like a dream. Heavy and smooth, the road felt like it was flying by underneath them. 

Suddenly the radio crackled, and Swerve watched the dial turn on its own. It certainly wasn’t the weirdest thing to happen to him, but strange nonetheless. He reached his hand over before his eyes flicked back up to the road. There was a man walking across, and it was dark. Suddenly, it was very dark. He couldn’t remember how bright it was before, but there was a man, with close cropped hair and a trimmed beard, and bright blue eyes, and Swerve hit the brakes while turning his steering wheel with a hard left. The tires screeched as this man stumbled back out of the car’s way. 

Knowing he was skidding pretty hard, Swerve kept the wheel going and slowly released it, easing up on the brakes as he did, not letting his foot completely lift off the pedal. The car finished spinning out, as Swerve put the car in park and killed the engine, taking the key out of the car’s ignition and pocketing it into his leather jacket. 

He stepped out, walking over to the side of the road where the man he nearly ran over. The man looked a bit dazed.

Swerve was nonplussed. He leaned over and offered his hand, which the other man took.

“You good?” Swerve asked, tilting his head back. The man looked fine to him, and somehow he knew he was too.

He took Swerve’s hand, and he pulled the man up to his feet. The man brushed the dirt off himself and looked at Swerve.

“Mind if I hitch a ride?” He asked.

Swerve raised his eyebrows. “I almost hit you.”

“Yeah. What does that do with me trying to get a ride?”

“...Yeah sure, least I can do.”

“I’m Mox.” The man introduced himself. “Or Jon. Prefer Mox though.” 

“Okay Mox. Get in.”

The man did just that, clumsily trying to get into the passenger side seat. He swept a leg over the seat, before pulling out. He tried it again, failing to duck enough and hitting his head, grunting as he pulled back and rubbed it. Finally, he ducked low enough to get into the car, torso first and adjusting awkwardly into the seat.

Swerve was impressed. That was the worst he’s seen anyone try to get into a car.

Much more smoothly, Swerve got into the driver’s seat. He put the keys into the ignitions, and corrected their course, heading whatever way he was heading. Swerve wasn’t sure if he actually knew. He only could feel the chain in his backseat, as if he knew where the next link was. The next part of the puzzle laid in front of him.

There was still the static of the radio trying to tune itself. 

“KRRRSH–a haunti-KSH-tune–KSSH–well tha–KSHHHRK–W. Justine wi–”

“The radio is still tweaking, just started doing that.” Swerve’s eyes flicked down towards the radio as he spoke. “Its why I nearly hit you.”

“Here, let me get that.” Mox reached over and touched the dial, his fingers holding onto the knob as his hand and wrist worked to turn it. It struck Swerve how intricate a structure the wrist was. Skin met muscle met tendons met bone. A connection of ball and socket, fine bones and soft tissue. It was pretty easy to dislocate or injure or break. His thoughts were broken up by the radio tuning into things that weren’t just static.

“–mic ash and blackend b–beam’s–show your fa–outta the grave–oth-dimensi-–”

“Damn thing. I think…here.” Mox mutters, mostly to himself as he turns the dial some more.

The radio crackled into a clear voice, with a deep southern accent.

“–ith Frozen Pines. A beautiful, haunting track isn’t it? Don’t you feel a chill down your spine every time you hear it? I know I do, folks. This is Tubbs Tarbell  at Whispering Pines Studios. Now I think it’s time for a commercial break…”

Swerve turned the volume down.

“Frozen Pines.” Swerve mused on the two worlds, rolling them around on his tongue like he was savoring the taste of them. A chill down his spine just from the words. Plenty of pines around this area. Plenty of pine trees they were driving through. Cold. He wore heavy jackets in the winter. 

It could snow plenty in the Pacific Northwest. Swerve didn’t hate the snow. Hell he enjoyed it at times, especially as a kid. A snow day always felt like a treat. It was rare in Seattle, but common surrounding it. They were driving south, so the snow would be dry and wispy, powdery and building. 

Like it was now. Whipping around them as they drove by. The snow had built up quite a bit, maybe too fast. How long had they even been driving?

The steering wheel was cold like the chain. It was the chain. He was leading it, where he needed it to take him.

“Hey–” Swerve turned his head to look at Mox, but the man wasn’t there. The chain was. It was freezing over, a thin white layer of frosty ice building over it, slowly. Cracking around where the links met.

He hits the brakes. The steering wheel was a normal steering wheel. The one that belonged to the Pontiac.

The volume on the radio increased. It was a different voice from before. Whoever it was talked similarly to Tubbs.. A facsimile of his voice, save for the accent and pitch. It wasn’t as heavy as a drawl, more of a tenor than a baritone.

“Alright folks, thanks for hanging on tight. Speaking of hanging, our guest has arrived! You may know him, or you may not. You may love him, or you may hate him! Here he is, “The Hangman” Adam Page!”