#then realising that the steering wheel was actually a pool float

[glomscrooge]

I rewatched s1e7 and I find glomgold's development as a character so funny... he's very competent in the pilot (probably because he's more focused on stealing the jewel rather than one-upping scrooge?), and imo a bit more low-key compared to his later characterisation, so infernal internship is the first time the audience Really gets to see how his mind works, and like. Holy Shit Dude

[boop-le-snoot]

marmalade taffy

Helmut Zemo smut & feels. Soft!Dom Zemo, non-superhero!AU, Zemo being the weird uncle of college!Maximoff twins. This was written on a whim so if someone signs up to beta-read, I will shower you with affection and reminders to drink water. The Reader is addressed as "you" and is not described - race/age/body type neutral. The language I used for Sokovian is actually Serbian. Word count 2,8k.

Fun fact: I have mild synesthesia. Emotions/feelings and some people have an assigned color (and sometimes smell) for me. That's how the name of the fic was born. This fic feels like the colors of marmalade and taffy, look them up. This fic is dedicated to my lovely @slothspaghettiwrites , the shining beacon in my misty, rocky beach. (You're a periwinkle for me, by the way. I thought you might ask.)

When you first see him all you do is raise an eyebrow. His sleek, well-maintained vintage car stands out almost grotesquely amongst the various sedans and mom vans on the campus and you can see the glint of his wristwatch even from afar. Wanda's and Pietro's sheepish smirk only makes the situation worse - the girl's attire obviously screams "liberal arts" and her twin brother doesn't seem to have anything better to wear than tracksuits.

The man behind the wheel is unfazed. He is calm and collected in that European way, not conceited, just waiting. For what? You don't know. His eyes trail over you but he doesn't smile, simply gives a tiny polite nod. If you hadn't had extensive conversations about cultural differences with Wanda, you'd say he was extremely rude.

Shy, quiet Wanda, who's eyes lit up seeing her favorite not-actually-uncle. In a surprising dash of energetic agility, she hopped right into the car, her numerous scarves a bright flash of saturation against the campus grayscale. You giggle and wave at the departing car, snorting when Wanda's hand reaches over to briefly honk the horn, causing the driver to swerve the tiniest bit, his eyes trained on you in the rearview mirror.

He comes and goes often. Almost always in a different perfectly restored vintage car, mostly with the same polite mask of bored contentment. You know he's royalty in his home country and can't help but wonder how frivolously the twins act around him - no, free. He gives all the appearance of a silent, strict man.

You're proven wrong rather quickly. Freshman year left behind you, you and Wanda decide to ditch the dorms for an apartment - she finds one rather quickly and it's just you two in it even though it is ridiculously huge and the rent amount she requests is equally ridiculously small. Not the one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you pretend nothing is out of the ordinary and buy yourself a new pair of shoes.

Helmut - Wanda finally formally had introduced you two - doesn't come by often, however the visits are always... Eventful. He's not at all what it seemed to be; in the quiet of your apartment, a witty, incredibly clever man resurfaces from under the stoic façade. The Slav in him easily lets him consume alarming quantities of alcohol together with Pietro, who opted to stay in the dorms with his idiotic football team, and - you couldn't believe your eyes at the time - dorkily dad-dance squat in the middle of your living room, unfazed by your and Wanda's cackling.

The way Helmut is absolutely unbothered by the audience and the laughter, pale face flushed from the wine and a little smirk stretching his thin lips into expression almost catlike. The maroon turtleneck stretches nicely across his chest, as thinly as your lip that you worry between your teeth.

Pietro raises an eyebrow. You shrug.

"Got something in your eye, no?" He teases playfully and you shrug again, taking another swig of your nice, European beer.

There are more gatherings, more parties and quite a few rides in his car, when the wind blows your hair in all directions possible and intermingles it with Wanda's as you giggle and squeal in the back seat. Helmut always indulges you two; the word 'no' simply does not exist in that man's vocabulary. He insists politely but firmly on a dinner with all three of them on your birthday and the gifts he brings make your eyes pop out and your face heat.

"A woman like you makes any sensible man want to shower you with the finest gifts," Helmut's voice is quiet and his accent is thick and somehow, it makes it all that harder to refuse. He smiles like usual - tiny and a little secretive, as he pecks your cheek, filling the air around you with the smell of his cologne. It makes your mouth water and your fingers clench helplessly around the half a dozen of silk paper-wrapped boxes.

The summer rolls in and it's hot and humid and finally you don't have to worry about waking up at the crack of dawn or classes or the annoying boys who can barely take a no for an answer. The invitation to Helmut's villa doesn't come as a surprise; Wanda had been riled up over it since early May and Pietro and his whole damn football team were equally as thrilled.

You pack flowy dresses, daisy dukes and swimsuits. The expensive jewelry and handbag Helmut had gifted you, too, since the villa is surrounded by a whole neighborhood meant solely for the rich and famous. Wanda is absolutely unbothered by her own bohemian chic and you quietly envy her; the longer you get to know her, the more you realise of how much actually she does not give a fuck about anything besides her paintings and sculptures.

It's admirable, really, because she is talented. And Helmut knows it, too, having had collected and kept every single work Wanda had made, showing it off in the various rooms of his two-story mansion. The abstract fits in well and is a great conversation topic for him and his equally important friends. There's an endless stream of them in the first days and Wanda isn't overtly happy, choosing to run away to laze around the pool with you more often than not.

Helmut's friends stop at the glass wall between the inner side of the house and the pool to stare at you two, too, causing something dark and tense flash across his features. There always had been a sort of tangy obscurity in him, you've noticed, but not nearly enough for you to grow concerned. It added the bittersweetness, the flavour and consistency to the modest man.

Although calling him modest might have been a mistake. The moment you can't shake off one of his friends after a polite chit-chat seems to never end, Wanda nowhere in sight, dread and unease digging their sharp, spindly fingers in the soft flesh behind your rib cage, Helmut is suddenly there, arm wrapped almost possessively around your waist.

"Draga mea, Wanda is looking for you. She says it's urgent," He stares the man down with the eyes of a vulture. "I believe we haven't been properly introduced," Helmut seems to not realize he's still clutching you in a grasp of steel as the man opposite you rumbles out his name, few syllables you'd forgotten seconds after he spoke them for the first time.

"Baron Helmut Zemo," the fingers brush and squeeze once, gently, over the valley of your waist before letting go. You miss the rest of their peacocking, walking away with a fight and fire inside of your hammering heart. Anxiety and longing and confusion mix and blend, combining into a cocktail that has you beelining for the bar like a woman parched.

The next day you're sleeping off the hangover, first in your bed and then by the pool - Wanda had run off into town for one thing or another, and knowing her, she'd be back home at the crack of dawn. It was blissful peace, the soothing balm for your troubled heart and your aching head.

"Hungover?" Helmut's voice was quiet and a little bit teasing. None of the Eastern Europeans had ever showed the signs of having any ill effects from the alcohol they drunk, unlike you.

You stretched, too blissed out to care about the skimpy strings and straps of your bikini, basking in the gentle morning sun. "Mmm, not anymore," a swim in the cold pool had done wonders.

Your soft pink float rocked as Helmut's footsteps quieted, giving way to a short splash and the sound of his breathing somewhere in your space. Just as you cracked open your eyes, he reached out a hand to steady himself next to you. "I wanted to apologize for the situation yesterday. That man was stepping out of line. He is not welcome in my home anymore."

You stare at him and then you snort. The blunt was he usually speaks is so easy, it flows oh so effortlessly. No mind games, just honesty. You want to pay him back in kind. "Don't worry, Helmut. I just had a bit too much to drink," that was the truth. Any other time and you wouldn't have hesitated to unapologetically steer clear of any creep. Heat and bubbly don't mix and that was your own mistake.

"No, printsesa," the man in front of you let loose some of the delicious darkness, eyes growing stormy, hand gently resting over yours. "Some men are fools, they are nothing but animals. You deserve to feel safe, especially in my home." His lips stretched into a smile, water dripping down his jaw and making tiny circles form in the azure of the pool.

"I can't argue with that," you replied, catching the stray liquid and following the trails it made with your eyes. His forehead, dripping down over his eyes, making Helmut blink the stray drops away until they landed on his lips, trickling down his chin.

You swallowed, opting to dip your toes into the cool pool water before you could make a fool of yourself. The water splashed towards him, making a mischievous grin grace his usually serious face, as me made a half-hearted attempt to splash back weakly, making the water sizzle on your sun-kissed skin. Never the one to back down from a challenge, you knitted your eyebrows in mock offense, eagerly letting the water wash over you as you abandoned the float in favour of creating waves with your whole body.

The temperature contrast was delicious and Helmut's laugh even more so as it echoed in between the high walls of the building surrounding the pool. The sun was nearly at its peak, shining over your head in a beacon of heat that almost matched the one inside of you, the one that had blossomed there months ago and finally grew into a steady smolder, shooting sparks whenever you were around the baron.

It was hot and wet, the same feeling chasing you two when you finally kissed. His hand firmly planted on the side of your neck, his nose softly brushing against the underside of your jaw, Helmut was in no rush to taste you, to savour every millimeter of your sun-kissed skin. The man left you with your fingertips trembling and heart scrambling for purchase somewhere in the deepest pits of your belly.

"What are you so hungry for, mmm?" Helmut's voice rumbled next to the shell of your ear; you could barely focus, skin singing underwater, where he held onto you like a lifeline. "You have hungry eyes, ljubavi, tell me what it is and I'll give it to you," your bodies pressed flush against each other, his eyelashes flittering against your cheek.

"You," the maximum capacity for your brain was one-syllable words and you used it sparingly, failing to suppress a gasp when Helmut's mouth latched around a particularly sensitive spot right under your jawline.

Teeth scraped over it before he soothed the sting with his tongue. "All the things in the world, I could give them to you. And yet..." He sounded almost disappointed. Perplexed, just as you were at the strange admission. "A woman like you would have men fighting for your attention yet you give it to me so freely," he murmured softly, capturing your lips in a slow, fluid kiss once more. "I will make sure you have everything you could ever want."

Helmut's touch grew bolder as he steered the two of you towards the shallow end of the pool. The taste of him was intoxicating, like the sweetest, most alluring poison you'd ever tasted: you knew that once you had one small bit, you'd be addicted, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. His words were clever and his mouth even more, making the short stumble upstairs last hours.

A wall, baroque tapestry, marked with the wetness of the pool water, where you allowed yourself to be pressed against as he leaned into you with the entirety of his broad frame, domineering the kiss effortlessly.

You panted as your back hit the soft, million-thread count, unmade sheets of the baron's bed, staring up into his eyes and finding your own reflection in his pupils, blown wide with lust. The tiny smirk was back but now his unexpressive face was marred by a gleem, accentuating his moist, puffy lips you'd licked into and bitten in a heated frenzy.

"Beautiful, printsesa," he stated with quiet firmness, leaning over into you to unclasp and toss away the upper part of the bikini. The bottoms followed suit, flung carelessly somewhere. His hands ran over your as it sang, every tiniest nerve hypersensitive, coming alive with a fervor borne of months of longing, complimented by the summer heat and cool waters.

"Helmut," your voice wavered, flowed on the syllables as his clever, clever mouth trailed hot down your chest, briefly submerging each nipple into the sear of it. Goosebumps rose over your exposed body, highlighting a trail for him, a trail he followed eagerly. Kisses were candy sweet and marshmallow soft.

Hot breath at the apex of your thighs had you mewling and arching into it, having abandoned all shame, and Helmut found it amusing. The petite chuckle made an appearance, his fingertips ghosting over the part of your lower lips; he was as amused by your impatience as he was enthralled by the youthfulness of the gesture. "Shh, ljubavi, I will make it feel better," his accent as thick as clover honey and just as saccharine.

The first movements were tentative, brief and so light, the demanding moan slipped out of your mouth along with a growl of frustration. You felt continuous chuckling, slight stubble rasping along the sides your thighs; you felt him pick up pace and steady his hot hands on your hips as you attempted to trash against the overwhelming stimulation your pussy was receiving.

His moans, loud and wet, drove you closer to the edge like a drunk drove a Ferrari; Helmut's skill was unparalleled but it lacked precision as he lost himself in the moment just as much as you.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm- I'm so close," you managed to grunt out before the crescendo hit, eyes rolling back into your skull as the influx of more, more, more hit every nerve ending in your body. You could do little more than rest your legs on his shoulders as the noble man, the quiet storm lapped up every drop of your release.

He made the inside of you weak.

In seconds, Helmut was back on top of you, grinding his arousal into you desperately, almost begging for it and all you could do was let your body respond, mimic your lover, clench around nothing just as you felt him twitch.

"Tell me you're mine," he demanded hooking one of your legs over his hip, eyes boring into yours with everything in them plain on display. It was a terrifying thing: as if your heart had suddenly grown legs, stood up and walked out into the bare, wide world, open for all to see. "Ti moa, skaži eto," his native tongue made his voice even more hoarse, you couldn't resist anymore.

"I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours," you chanted the words like a prayer, hoping he'd be merciful - and he is. No, there's only a hidden tenderness in his hands as he drives into your with increasing force that shakes you and makes your core quiver, igniting your flesh once again like the color red; it's messy and it's sloppy and you're barely aware of Helmut muttering something into the crook of your neck as you feel yourself clench down on him with a choked moan.

"Fuck," hearing him, the polite composed man, bite the end of his own orgasm into a curse made a wave of magenta hot rush travel through your body at lightning speed, his cock pulsating and coating you, claiming you from inside out so sweetly you couldn't resist a shallow gasp into his cheek, a gasp he mirrored as his own oversensitive flesh was once more assaulted by your combined lust.

The tide of his breathing was high; both of you spent yet still drunk on the newfound sense of togetherness. It was clear as a summer's day that in your arms laid a man who'd once lost something important and you - you were a someone who's never had anything of significance and perhaps, this time each other's arms would let you both keep whatever it was that you missed.

[smolstrawberrychara]

Desert Radio

MonthlyKlance March Prompts - Day 1 - Beginning

A.K.A. The Beginning of the Fic! This month I’m doing one fic and relating the chapters to the prompts as well as the general aesthetic to the fic! Updates will be roughly every other day! It���s about cyberpunk, magic, deserts and radios~

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17964041/chapters/42429002

When Keith crash lands in a desert, his only way back to civilisation is to follow the signals of a radio show.

Alarms. Lots of alarms. Keith yanked the steering wheel upwards, standing nearly vertical with how far he was pushing his chair back and how fast he was falling through the atmosphere. Fire was licking up the windows, orange spilling across the dashboard and glinting off the pressure gauge that shook like a bug staring down a lion. Keith shoved a hand against his forehead, whipping back his long straggles of hair and flicking sweat onto the glass. He was going to crash. Engines were down. Wings alight. It was only a matter of survival now.

Keith let the wheel bounce back into place with a clank, hissing at the increase in wails given out by the dash. He slammed his hand onto the back wall, finding the seatbelt before yanking it down and strapping it tight across his heaving chest. Land was visible below – barely through the amount of flames whipping at the ship. Keith knew, he just knew, he should have refuelled at the last pitstop. But then there was the endless queue and that child who wouldn’t stop looking at him with his weird bug eyes. Keith favoured his chances at making it to the next planet rather than deal with that and an undoubtedly awkward conversation with the mother who thought her child was oh so cute.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

A red light flashed up signalling fifty feet to impact. Last chance. Keith took a deep breath before ripping out the emergency cord. Immediately, he was choked by the seatbelt. The ship practically froze around him as he hung off his chair in the centre like an abandoned puppet. He craned his neck and there above him, instead of blue sky, was a large white circle, blooming like a mushroom. Keith slumped against the belt. Thank goodness.

The ship took a more leisurely descent now, floating to the ground like a feather in the breeze. Keith sighed, swaying gently with the movements as his heart finally slowed down. He’d been in more crashes than he’d care to admit, but they never got easier. And this time for sure he thought he had been heading for the light.

The ship nosed the ground, rocking back and forth before finally toppling over with a shudder. Keith bounced back into his chair with a huff. Upright was an underappreciated state. He decided to sit in it a while longer, waiting for the blood to stop rushing down from his head. When he was sure his vision was no longer swaying, Keith unclipped his belt and pushed at the window. It creaked, hot against his fingertips, but popped open none the less. Cool air rushed against his skin and Keith smiled to himself, lifting his red-trimmed goggles to his forehead. This was a warm welcome. He climbed out into the fresh air, settling against the metal opening to just bask. The sun beat down on him from high in the sky and there wasn’t a cloud in the way to stop its warmth revitalising his every cell. He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes. Space travel wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Sometimes, Keith wanted nothing more than a mouthful of fresh air. And right now, breathing seemed like the greatest thing in the world. Just existing. It was strangely enough.

Satisfactorily calmed, Keith hopped out the ship, landing on a squirming, golden landscape. Sand spread from his feet in every direction, rising and falling in smooth hills all the way up to the sky. There appeared to be no buildings for miles and zero tracks indicating transport. By the looks of it, Keith had landed in the middle of nowhere. He clicked his tongue. Of course. He had to bust up his ship on the one planet without civilisation.

Turning back to the ship, Keith frowned. It was still smouldering, black smoke puffing around the crumpled edges of the bonnet. Maybe it was just aesthetic? He threw open the bonnet, and immediately staggered back. The smoke billowed, and he had to pull his jacket over his nose just to stop himself choking. That wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He waved the worst of it away, before rounding the back. The jets were covered in ash, one having melted from its usual cone shape into a sad u. Keith crouched down to take a closer look, poking at the wrinkled metal pooled at the base. It was safe to say, the thing was completely wrecked.

“Sorry Shiro,” he whispered, biting his lip. Keith’s brother had been very clear about one thing when he gave the boy his ship: ‘Don’t crash.’ And this had been the seventh time this year.

It wasn’t that Keith was a bad pilot. He had actually been top of his class back in school. No, it was that he was a bad human being. Well adult. Young adult. Trainee? The point was Keith could have avoided every single one of his crashes if he’d just acted with maturity. Or with a brain. He could hear Shiro’s lecturing now.

‘You know you should never fly past a fuel stop with less than half a tank.’

‘A guy looking at you smugly isn’t a challenge for you to outfly him.’

And the same old deep sigh paired with a long worn out voice saying, ‘Keith. If you’re not sure you’re allowed to fly in a certain area, for the love of God, just ask someone. Don’t crash into them.’

Keith rolled his eyes. Shiro may love him and all that crap but he really had to be deep in denial if he thought Keith was socially adept enough to face that kind of situation.

Keith stroked his hand against the black stripes of the ship. It was a nice ship. Shiro’s beloved Black. He’d given it to Keith as a kind of heirloom. Pass on the memories. And Keith had made a lot. He’d flown to hundreds of new planets, seen thousands of new stars and made about a billion more enemies. Well, it wasn’t his fault people found his to-the-point attitude rude. Or that a lot of planet’s had poorly designed infrastructure.

Keith sighed, looking out to the desert again. The life-saving parachute twisted against the ground, rolling with the wind. Keith decided to start simple and gathered it up in armfuls. Dumping it back in the emergency hatch, he told himself he’d fold it properly later. That was, if he even got the ship fixed. Looking over the beat-up metal he realised this wasn’t one of those repairs he could do on his own. He needed a mechanic, maybe even an engineer. At the very least he needed a tow.

Keith sighed, before clambering back into the cockpit. Picking up the mouth-piece from the communications hub, he punched the emergency signal. The thing didn’t even give a hint of a response, gaping at him like a guppy. Keith pushed the button again. Nothing. Keith rubbed at his forehead, fiddling with the adjusters on the flat square of disappointment. This would work right? Had to. How was he going to get out of here otherwise?

Keith tried again, pushing the button in as far as it would go. He knew it wouldn’t work but he couldn’t help but try. It was beginning to dawn on him that he may be in actual trouble here and he wanted to avoid facing reality for just a second longer. After a painfully long minute of pressing, the communicator still gave no response. Keith frowned. Then he threw the mouthpiece back into place its place and kicked it with his boot. The ship gave a judder, and Keith grabbed the seat as it sank deeper into the sand. Luckily, it only shifted an inch or two, but Keith had lost enough of his life on that shock to stay a sitting duck. He dove behind the seat to grab his rucksack before hurrying out.

Landing back on the sand, he upended the bag, shaking its contents out onto the ground. It was a disappointment to say the least. Keith’s pathetic hoard of supplies pooled at his feet in more of a dribble than a mass. In total, there was:

Three tins of baked beans

A half-eaten cereal bar

One tissue (used)

A threadbare t-shirt he’d last used as a rag to clean up oil

Half a bottle of water

A lighter

One empty thermos

Its broken cup

And a pocket radio.

Keith cursed his lack of social skills. If he’d just gone into the fuel station he could’ve restocked. Then again, he wouldn’t have needed to, given his ship would have had enough fuel not to go plunging through a foreign atmosphere. Keith dropped to the ground. There was the emergency pack too. Signal flares, first aid kit, warning lights and traffic cones.  But Keith had enough dignity not to beg for rescue and enough sense to know that nobody else would be driving in the desert. Or at the very least, anyone driving by would probably notice a crashed ship without it needing to be lit up like a Christmas tree.

Keith sadly repacked his belongings, taking the water bottle out to refill it by the onboard tap. Then he took a long swig, practically inhaling the cool liquid, before refilling it again. He felt more alive after that. Like he could finally think straight instead of dehydrating in the blazing heat.

All he needed to do was find civilisation. He knew it had to be somewhere nearby, he had been heading towards a populated landing zone before the whole fuel-deficiency thing. He had no communicator so he couldn’t call anyone though. And he refused to use the signal flares. Those were for life or death situations and Keith was currently not in a life or death situation. Plus, in all honesty, he doubted anyone would see it in the vastness of the desert. He looked down at the bag. Maybe he couldn’t call anyone, but they could call him?

He reached in to grab the radio. It was a small thing – a red arch bleached peach by the sun with an inner yellow rainbow for the speaker. There were two knobs at the bottom and an old pixel display between. He slid the on button and the numbers 000.00 popped up. Twisting one dial, digits flickered past and a buzz erupted from the speakers. Well that was a start.

Keith shifted until he was sitting comfortably on the ground, back against the warm metal ship and knees bent to balance the radio. Then one by one he checked every station, hoping for a break in the buzzing. If he could just find a signal, proof of civilisation, he could track it. Then he’d be out of this desert and back to travelling the stars.

Hours. Hours must have passed. And all Keith had heard was static. His back ached and the sky was beginning to darken. The radio had revealed precisely nothing and Keith’s stomach was starting to rumble. He eyed his rucksack. Could he afford to eat the beans? His stomach gave a pathetic gargle and Keith decided he was too miserable to care. Lunging forward, his back popped as he reached out for the brown fabric. His fingers glanced against the top and he growled. He bounced forward again, stretching his arm achingly far. Just as he hooked his finger around the open zip, his chest knocked the radio. It rolled off his leg, landing in the sand in a dull plop.

Then there was a sudden eruption of noise. Keith jumped, whipping around. Music! The signal was mixed with static, but it was undeniable. Keith grabbed the radio, brushing off sand and staring at the numbers, burning them into his mind. He twisted the dial carefully, plunging the desert back into a buzz. Then he turned it back and with every click the music became clearer until it was undeniable. Guitar strums rang out across the desert, drum beat stirring up the sand as the bass pumped through his fingers. Keith could cry. It was so familiar. So welcome. He slumped against the ship, staring at the radio. Then the sound was fading, and a voice was fluttering along the cooling desert wind.

“That was Town Called Malice, by The Jam!” The announcer called, voice bright and cheerful and clear against the deepening sky, “and you’re listening to Desert Radio with Lance! Hope you’re feeling good!”