#ground base grid

[rootedandroaming]

A Soft Revolution of Light

For the ones who feel the call of the new Earth… There is a quiet stirring beneath the noise of the old world. A vibration hums through the hearts of the awakened.Not all can hear it yet,but those who do are being called home. Not to the homes we’ve known,but to the ones we are meant to build. Small, conscious communities are being created—not by strategy, but through divine inspiration.Not as…

[fanficgirl429]

Jealous Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Prompt: Bucky gets jealous when Torres flirts with Y/N

--

The hum of fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the East Side briefing room of the Helicarrier hangar. Equipment cases lined the walls, gear sorted and labeled with precision, and the scent of metal, oil, and sterilized fabric filled the air. Sam stood at the table in the center, hands braced on either side of a glowing tactical map.

Y/N leaned against the edge, tying her hair back into a messy braid, a black combat vest snug over her base layer. Her movements were quick but unhurried—second nature. Bucky watched her from across the room as he adjusted the shoulder harness of his stealth suit. His fingers moved slowly, distracted. He'd already checked his gear twice.

She caught him looking and gave him a soft, secret smile. The kind of smile that said I'm okay.  The corner of his mouth lifted in return, subtle but real.

“You two gonna kiss or kill something?” Sam asked, not even looking up from the map.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You know which one I’d prefer.”

Y/N rolled her eyes with a half-laugh, walking over to Sam’s side as Joaquín Torres pulled up a holographic overlay from the nearby terminal.

“Guard rotations are clockwork,” Torres said, pointing. “Three-man teams sweep the corridors every twenty minutes. Entry point’s here, west stairwell. You’ll have a five-minute window to get past the security grid.”

“And once we’re inside?” Y/N asked, leaning in, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. Bucky’s gaze followed the motion.

“Split and sweep,” Sam said, already sliding into briefing mode. “Y/N and I take the server room. Bucky clears the vault corridor. We regroup at extraction in twenty.”

“Sounds clean,” Torres said. Then his eyes flicked to Y/N. “Wish I was going with you guys. Could use someone with your instincts on my team.”

Y/N raised a brow. “You calling me predictable or reckless?”

“Neither,” he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. “Just saying, if I had someone like you watching my six, I might not get shot at so much.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed.

Y/N laughed it off, casually stepping closer to Bucky without seeming to realize she’d done it. But he noticed. He always noticed. The subtle way her body leaned toward him when someone else was around. The way her hand rested on his forearm briefly, grounding both of them.

Torres was still grinning, oblivious. “You ever think about switching teams, Y/N, let me know. I could use a partner who looks that good and knows how to break a guy’s arm in two seconds.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the air. “She’s not switching anything.”

The room stilled for a second too long. Sam looked up, eyebrows raised. Torres blinked and took half a step back, holding his hands up in defense. 

Y/N let out a slow breath and gave Bucky a look—half amused, half warning.

“Just saying, man. No offense,” Torres said. 

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked toward the lockers, snapping his gloves tighter than necessary.

Y/N followed.

When they were out of earshot, she leaned against the locker beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” she said softly.

Bucky looked down, then back at her. “Yeah. I know. Doesn’t mean it’s easy watching someone else talk to you like that.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You think I care what Torres thinks? I let you zip my vest this morning.”

His eyes flicked to her chest, then to her face, his voice lower now. “Yeah. That was the highlight of my day.”

A smile played on her lips. “I can give you another highlight, but we’ve got a mission in ten.”

“Damn timing,” Bucky murmured.

She stepped closer, hand brushing lightly against his side—right where his arm met flesh. “I’ll be careful.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” she whispered. “I don’t want you losing your mind if someone so much as looks at me funny again.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered, then softened. “But I’ll keep it together. Just… stay close. And come back to me.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his lips, unseen from the others. “Always.”

Sam called from across the room, “Time to move out, kids. Jet’s hot and ready. Let’s go look cool and kick ass.”

Y/N turned with a wink. “Let’s go make some noise.”

Bucky watched her walk away—confident, calm, dangerous as hell. And his.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and followed.

No one would ever get close enough to take her from him.

Not on his watch.

--

The mission had ended hours ago.

Madripoor had been chaotic—twisting alleys, cold steel corridors, fire flashing off concrete and bad choices. But they’d made it out. Banged up, bruised, a little breathless, but alive.

The quinjet hummed softly as it cut through clouds somewhere over the Atlantic. Sam had passed out three seats back, his arm thrown over his face, muttering occasionally in his sleep. Bucky sat near the front, freshly bandaged, bruised, quiet.

Y/N sat curled up across from him wearing one of his hoodies and her tactical pants, legs tucked beneath her. She’d changed out of her suit, hair loose now, damp from a quick shower at the airbase. Her eyes had been on Bucky since takeoff—not in worry, but something else. Something quieter. Deeper.

He looked tired.

Not physically—though the gash on his shoulder was proof enough the mission hadn’t gone easy—but emotionally tired. Like he’d been holding onto something all day that still hadn’t been said.

She crossed the aisle and slid into the seat beside him, saying nothing at first. Just letting the silence speak.

He glanced at her, then looked away. “You should sleep.”

“You should talk to me.”

A beat passed.

He exhaled. “You could’ve been killed today.”

“You say that like it’s not part of the job.”

His voice dropped. “It’s different when it’s you.”

Y/N turned in the seat, facing him fully. Her hand reached over, fingers brushing his knuckles—just barely. But he felt it like a jolt.

“You saved me. Again.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” His jaw flexed. “I should’ve cleared the corner faster. Should’ve—should’ve gotten between you and that guy.”

“Bucky.”

“I saw the way he raised the gun. He wasn’t aiming at me. He wanted you. And all I could think was—”

He stopped himself. Chest rising, falling. The words stuck somewhere between his lungs and his heart.

“All I could think was, what if this is the last time I see you?” he finished, softer now. “What if I lose you before I ever get to tell you…”

Her hand moved to his jaw, thumb tracing the stubble just below his cheekbone.

“Tell me what?” she asked.

He met her eyes, blue and stormy and full of something that cracked her open inside.

“That I love you,” he said. No hesitation now. No fear. Just the truth. 

Y/N’s breath hitched. She was already smiling, already blinking away tears she hadn’t realized were there. “Took you long enough.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Guess I’m still learning how to say things before I almost lose them.”

She cupped his face, pulling him in gently, and kissed him—slow and deep. When they parted, her forehead rested against his.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Even when you’re brooding and jealous and act like you invented angst.”

His lips curved against hers. “I did invent angst, actually. 1943. Patent pending.”

She laughed, and he held her close, letting the sound soak into his skin.

They stayed curled together for the rest of the flight, her head on his shoulder, his fingers tangled in hers. No words needed.

Outside, the storm had passed.

But inside the quinjet, something far more powerful had settled.

Peace. And love.

[the-mortuary-witch]

GRIMORE IDEAS

INTRODUCTION:

A book blessing.

Table of contents.

ABOUT ME:

Your current path.

Your personal beliefs.

Your spiritual journey.

Superstitions.

Past lives.

Favourite herbs/crystals/animals/etc.

Natal chart.

Craft name.

Astrology signs and their meanings.

Birthday correspondences (birth tarot card, birth stone, etc).

Goals.

SAFETY:

Fire safety.

What not to burn.

Toxic plants and oils (to humans, plants, and animals).

Crystals that shouldn’t be put… (in sunlight, in water, etc).

Things that shouldn’t be left in nature (glass, salt, etc).

Potion safety.

How to incorporate blood in spells.

Smoke safety.

Wound care.

Biohazards.

Spirit work safety guide.

CORE CONCEPTS:

Intention and how it works.

Directing energy.

Protection.

Banishing.

Cleansing.

Binding.

Charging.

Shielding.

Grounding.

Centering.

Visualization.

Consecration/blessing.

Warding.

Enchanting.

Manifestation.

Meditation.

What makes a spell work.

Basic spell structure.

What not to do in spells.

Disposing spell ingredients.

Revitalizing long term spells.

How to cast spells.

What to put in spells.

Spell mediums (jars, spoken, candle, and sigils).

Spell timing.

Potion bases.

Differentiating between magick and mundane.

Common terms.

Common symbols.

Intuition.

Elements.

Basic alchemy and symbols.

Ways to break spells.

Laws and philosophies.

CORRESPONDENCES:

Herbs and spices and their uses and/or properties.

Crystals and their uses and/or properties.

Colours.

Liquids and drinks.

Metals.

Salt and their properties.

Numbers.

Tarot cards and their meanings.

Elements.

Trees and woods.

Flowers.

Days.

Months.

Seasons.

Moon names, phases, and their meanings.

Zodiacs.

Planets.

Incense.

Teas.

Essential oils.

Directions.

Candle colours and their meanings.

Animals.

Symbology.

Bone correspondences.

Different types of water.

Common plants.

ENTITIES:

Deities you worship.

Pantheons.

Pantheons and deities closed to you.

Common offerings.

Epithets.

Mythos.

Family.

Worship vs work.

Prayers and prayer template.

Deity comms.

Devotional acts.

Angels.

Demons.

Ancestors.

Fae.

Familiars.

House, animal, plant, etc, spirits.

Folklore entities.

Spirit etiquette.

Graveyard etiquette.

Boundaries.

Communication guide and etiquette.

Spirit work safety guide.

How entities appear to you.

Circle casting.

Servitors.

Mythological creatures (dragons, gorgons, unicorns, etc).

UTILITY PAGES:

Gazing pages.

Sigil charging station.

Altar pages.

Intent pages.

Getaway pages.

Vision boards.

Dream pages.

Binding page.

Pendulum board.

Throwing bones page.

Divination pages.

Mirror gazing page.

Invocation pages.

Affirmation/manifestation pages.

Spirit board page.

OTHER PRACTICES:

Practices that are closed to you (Voodoo, Hoodoo, Santeria, Brujeria, Shamanism, Native practices).

Wicca and Wiccan paths.

Satanism, both theistic and non-theistic.

Deity/entity work.

Religious paths (Hellenism, Christianity, Kemeticism, etc).

Animism.

TYPES OF MAGICK:

Pop culture Paganism/magick.

Tech magick.

Chaos magick.

Green magick.

Lunar magick.

Solar magick.

Sea magick.

Kitchen magick.

Ceremonial magick.

Hedge magick

Death magick.

Gray magick.

Eclectic magick.

Elemental magick.

Fae magick.

Spirit magick.

Candle magick.

Crystal magick.

Herbalism.

Glamours.

Hexes.

Jinxes.

Curses.

Weather magick.

Astral magick.

Shadow work.

Energy work.

Sigils.

Runes.

Art magick.

Knot magick.

Music magick.

Blood magick.

Bath magic/rituals.

Affirmations.

DIVINATION:

Tarot cards.

Oracle cards.

Playing cards.

Card spreads.

Pendulum/how to use one.

Numerology.

Scrying.

Palmistry.

Tasseography.

Runes.

Shufflemancy

Dice.

Bibliomancy.

Carromancy.

Pyromancy.

Psychic abilities.

Astrology.

Auras.

Lenormand.

Sacred geometry.

Angel numbers.

Ornithomancy.

Aeromancy.

Aleuromancy.

Axinomancy.

Belomancy.

Hydromancy.

Lecanomancy.

Necromancy.

Oneiromancy.

Onomancy.

Oomancy.

Phyllomancy.

Psephomancy.

Rhabdomancy.

Xylomancy.

TOOLS:

Crystal grid.

Candle grid.

Charms.

Talismans.

Amulets.

Taglocks.

Wand.

Broom.

Athame.

Boline.

Cingulum.

Stang.

Bells.

Drums.

Staffs.

Chalices.

Cauldrons.

Witches ladder.

Poppets.

HOLIDAYS:

Imbolc.

Ostara.

Beltane.

Litha.

Lammas.

Mabon.

Samhain.

Yule.

How to celebrate the Sabbats.

Esbats.

Deity specific holidays.

Religious holidays (Christmas, Easter, Dionysia, etc).

Celestial events.

ALTARS:

Basics of altars.

Travel altars.

Deity altars.

Spirit altars.

Familiar altars.

Ancestor altars.

Self altars.

Working altars.

Sabbat altars.

SELF-CARE:

Burnout prevention.

Aromatherapy.

Stress management.

Coping mechanisms.

Meditation techniques.

THEORIES AND HISTORY:

Witchcraft history.

Paganism.

New age spirituality.

Cultural appropriation.

Thelema.

Conspiracy theories.

Cults.

Satanic Panic.

KJV.

Witches in history.

Cats in history.

Transphobia in witchcraft circles.

Queerness in witchcraft circles.

OTHER:

Recipes.

How to get herbs.

Foraging.

Drying herbs and flowers.

Chakras.

Reiki.

Witches alphabet.

Runic alphabet.

Guide to gardening

Your witch tips.

Resources.

Other tips.

List of spells.

Cryptids and their lore.

What is a liminal space?

How to start a dream diary. 

Recording/writing rituals.

Wheel of the Year. 

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT next: love in withdrawal

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

listen to the inspo song!!!

[heyitspapayaontop]

It's in our Blood.

Based on this ask <3

Spa-Francorchamps, 2042.

Clouds rolled over the Belgian circuit, the kind of moody sky that had seen generations of legends rise and fall. And now, it was her turn.

“Alright, kiddo. Helmet. Now.” Max’s voice cut through the controlled chaos of the garage like it always had—firm, a little sharp, but laced with something unfamiliar. Worry.

Y/N Verstappen—seventeen, fiery, and stubborn like both her parents—shot her dad a grin that was way too calm for someone about to start her very first Formula 1 Grand Prix.

Kelly Piquet stood beside them, arms crossed but smiling proudly, while Penelope—who was a model like her mother. She smiled, watching her baby sister fawn over her own pink helmet.

“Max,” Kelly said softly, nudging him, “breathe. You’re not the one getting in the car.”

He ran a hand through his slightly graying hair, muttering something about she's gonna get shoved or they'll drive her off the track.

In the garage, engineers buzzed around, the noise a familiar song. But for Max, nothing about today felt normal.

His little girl, —who used to zoom around the paddock in her tiny kart suit, who once called the pit lane “the zoomy hallway”—was now sitting in a real F1 car. Her car. Not his anymore. Number 33. And she looked terrifyingly at home.

“Dad.” Her voice cut through his thoughts.

He turned, and she was looking up at him from the cockpit, visor still up, eyes bright.

“I’ve got this.”

And God, she did. She always had. Max nodded, stepping forward and placing a hand on her helmet.

“I know you do. Just… be smart. Keep your elbows in. And if anyone gets too close in Turn 1—”

“—I’ll handle it.” She smirked. “Just like you taught me.”

As the mechanics rolled her out onto the grid, Max stayed rooted at the front of the garage, arms crossed, jaw tight. The second the lights went out, he was pacing. Muttering. Gripping the back of Kelly’s chair like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Oh my God, she went for the outside line—Y/N, no—”

“She made it stick,” Penelope grinned, not even pretending to hide how impressed she was. “Iconic behavior.”

Laps ticked by. Raindrops flirted with the edge of the track, and strategy became a game of roulette. But Y/N held her own. Smooth. Aggressive. Confident.

With three laps to go, she was battling for a podium. Max looked like he might combust.

Finally he groaned and looked at Kelly and Penelope, “Why are you two so calm!?”

“Love, we've been watching you race for ages. This is no different.” Kelly murmured, half amused, half exasperated.

Max didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the screen, eyes flicking between sector times, tire data, and the tiniest GPS dot that was his daughter.

Final lap. Turn 18. She held off a last-second lunge from the reigning champ and crossed the line P3.

The garage erupted.

Max? He just stood there. Completely still.

Then: a grin broke across his face. Wide. Unbelieving. Proud.

When Y/N pulled into parc fermé, jumped out of the car, and ripped off her helmet, she was already beaming. The cheers were deafening, but she only looked for one face.

And Max was already running.

He crushed her in a hug the second she made it past the fence, lifting her off the ground like she was five again and had just won her first karting trophy.

“You were amazing,” he said, breathless. “I’m so—”

“—Told you I had it,” she teased.

Penelope got the moment on video: Max and Y/N, forehead to forehead, Kelly clapping through happy tears, the whole team around them. A new Verstappen on the podium, and a father finally understanding what it meant to watch your heart race around a track.

History repeated. But better.

This time, Max wasn’t the future of Formula 1.

Y/N was.

A/N: TYSM to @russellbby for requesting this! it was super fun to write!!!

[jungwnies]

F1 GRID | Independence Day

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @runnergirl234) : celebrating the fourth of july with your f1 boyfriend <3

୨ৎ : genre : comedic romance & fluff ୨ৎ : tws : fireworks??? idk... ୨ৎ : word count : 3148

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : you guys should know how much of a sucker i am when it comes to introducing someone to a different culture, this was so so so fun to write🥲

ʚ・max verstappen

max didn’t get it.

“so, you just eat a lot and blow things up?” he crossed his arms, eyes narrowing like this was some elaborate prank.

“pretty much,” you said, handing him a beer.

he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “you americans are insane.” but he cracked open the beer anyway.

the backyard was packed. the grill smoked, the table was buried under piles of burgers and hot dogs, and a guy in an eagle tank top was aggressively tong-flipping ribs like his life depended on it. kids sprinted past with sparklers, and someone had already set off a rogue firework that nearly took out a lawn chair.

max surveyed the chaos like he was analyzing a new circuit. someone shoved a hot dog into his hand, and he stared at it like it was an untested setup change.

“no cutlery?”

“no, max. just eat it.”

he sighed but took a bite anyway. chewed. nodded slightly. “not bad. bit plain.”

he grabbed the mustard and squeezed way too hard. a horrifying amount of it slopped onto the bun. he stared at it for a long moment before taking another bite. his expression didn’t change, but you could see the regret.

“this was a mistake.”

when the fireworks started, he barely reacted at first, just tilting his head to watch as red and blue bursts lit up the sky. the next one was louder, the kind that rattled your ribs. he flinched, just a little.

“bit excessive,” he muttered.

someone handed him a sparkler, and he held it like it might explode in his fingers.

“just wave it around,” you said. “it’s fun.”

max verstappen does not “wave things around for fun.” but after a few seconds, he started moving it in small, cautious circles, still frowning in deep concentration. then, like it was a matter of principle, he traced out the number 1 in the air.

of course.

you laughed. he shot you a glare. “say nothing.”

the grand finale kicked in, launching fireworks in rapid, ear-shattering bursts. max, now fully resigned to the chaos, took a long sip of his beer and gave a small nod.

“alright,” he admitted. “i kind of get it.”

another firework exploded so hard it shook the ground. he blinked.

“…still think you’re all insane, though.”

ʚ・lewis hamilton

lewis adjusted his bucket hat, surveying the backyard scene with an amused but slightly wary expression. smoke curled from the grill, country music blared from a bluetooth speaker, and someone was setting up a folding table for what had been described to him as “competitive beer pong.”

“you lot take this holiday seriously, huh?” he mused, sipping on an iced matcha he had brought himself.

“it’s america’s birthday,” you said.

he chuckled. “right. and what’s the game plan? burgers and blowing things up?”

“basically.”

lewis shook his head, grinning. “so, absolute carnage, then.”

he fit in better than he probably expected. within ten minutes, he was deep in conversation about plant-based grilling techniques with someone’s confused but intrigued uncle. he took over the aux at one point, replacing the country anthems with smooth r&b, nodding along as he flipped a veggie burger with the confidence of a seven-time world champion.

when someone handed him a sparkler, he twirled it effortlessly between his fingers, making little figure eights in the air. “alright, i see the appeal,” he admitted, watching the light trail behind his movements.

then came the fireworks.

lewis leaned back in his chair, watching the first one explode across the sky. his sunglasses, which he had no reason to still be wearing at night, reflected the red and blue bursts.

“these are, what… not regulated?” he asked as another one screamed into the sky.

“not really.”

he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “man, if i did this in monaco, they’d fine me and take my yacht.”

still, he looked genuinely impressed. when the grand finale hit, shaking the ground with an almost comical level of intensity, he let out a low whistle.

“alright, america,” he said, tipping his hat slightly. “you do know how to put on a show.”

just as he said it, someone behind him lit an illegal firecracker that shot sideways, barely missing a parked truck. lewis instinctively dodged, years of racing reflexes kicking in.

he stared at the scorched grass for a long moment, then slowly turned back to you.

“yeah, i’m gonna stick to silverstone celebrations.”

ʚ・george russell

george arrived looking like he had just walked out of a country club. polo tucked in, hair perfectly styled, white sneakers that had clearly never touched a patch of grass. he took a slow, deliberate look around the backyard. shirtless guys were shotgunning beers, someone was wrestling with a grill that was clearly too hot, and kids were launching bottle rockets dangerously close to a tree. he exhaled through his nose and adjusted his watch like he was mentally preparing for what was about to unfold.

"alright," he muttered to himself. "let’s see how this goes."

at first, he took the polite approach. he asked well-structured questions about barbecue techniques, nodded attentively as someone explained the art of smoking ribs, and accepted a plate of food he clearly didn’t recognize with a determined sort of curiosity.

then he saw the keg stand.

he narrowed his eyes, watching as a group of guys hoisted someone upside down, beer pouring straight from the keg into his mouth while the crowd chanted encouragement.

"what exactly is happening there?" he asked, arms crossed.

you explained. he blinked. "and people enjoy this?"

before you could answer, someone clapped a hand on his back. a very large, very enthusiastic man in an american flag tank top grinned at him. "you're up next, british boy."

george let out a small, nervous chuckle, glancing at you like he was waiting for an escape. you just grinned. "it’s tradition."

for a moment, it looked like he might back out. then something shifted in his expression. that familiar look of determination. the same way he looked before attempting an impossible overtake. he squared his shoulders, handed you his drink, and nodded once.

"alright. if i’m doing this, i’m doing it properly."

what followed was the most technically flawless keg stand anyone had ever seen. a perfect lift-off, immaculate form, and balance so steady it looked choreographed. when he landed back on the ground, he wiped his mouth, adjusted his polo, and looked around.

"was that acceptable?"

the entire backyard erupted.

by the time the fireworks started, he was fully committed. the polo had been replaced with a ridiculous red, white, and blue hat. he accepted a plate of chili cheese fries without hesitation. he was even chanting “usa! usa!” along with a group of strangers like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment.

as the grand finale filled the sky, he leaned over to you, shaking his head with a laugh. "i have to admit, you lot know how to celebrate."

then someone behind him misfired a roman candle. the fireball shot sideways, missing him by inches. he spun around, hands on his hips, eyes wide.

"right," he said, voice slightly higher than usual. "and that is where i draw the line."

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos had questions.

"wait, wait, wait," he said, holding up a hand as he surveyed the absolute chaos of the backyard. "so, today, we eat like… ten hamburgers, drink cervezas (beers), and then we throw fireworks at each other?"

"pretty much," you said, handing him a beer.

he exhaled through his nose and shook his head. "los americanos están locos, eh? (you americans are crazy, huh?)"

but he cracked open the beer anyway.

carlos adapted quickly. within ten minutes, he was fully involved in the grilling process, standing next to the guy manning the barbecue with his hands on his hips, nodding like he was strategizing a pit stop. when handed a hot dog, he examined it critically.

"where is the jamón? (ham) no chorizo? (spicy spanish sausage)" he asked, looking personally offended.

"just eat it, carlos."

he sighed dramatically but took a bite. then another. his expression didn't change, but he gave a small nod.

"okay, está bien (it's okay). but if i put aceitunas (olives) on this, it would be better."

then he saw the fireworks table. his eyes narrowed. "who is in charge of this? porque esto looks very unsafe (because this…)."

before you could respond, someone lit a firecracker that immediately fell over and shot straight across the lawn. carlos flinched, ducking like it was a rogue piece of debris from an f1 crash. his head snapped toward you.

"¡ay, madre mía! (oh my god!) this is allowed?"

you shrugged. "kind of."

his hands went to his hips again. he muttered something in spanish that you were pretty sure included words not suitable for broadcast. but by the time the real fireworks show started, carlos had finally given in.

reclining in a lawn chair, beer in hand, he watched the sky light up with red, white, and blue. he exhaled and shook his head with a small smile.

"okay," he admitted. "es un poco loco… pero me gusta. (it’s a little crazy… but i like it.)"

then, just as he said it, another rogue firework went off sideways. this one nearly took out a folding chair. carlos was on his feet in seconds.

"no, no, no! that is not normal! esto es peligroso! (this is dangerous!)"

you couldn't stop laughing as he pointed accusingly at the guy holding the lighter.

"¡hermano, tú no sabes lo que haces! (brother, you don’t know what you’re doing!) give me that thing!"

and just like that, carlos sainz was suddenly in charge of the fireworks, directing the entire show like an engineer over the radio.

ʚ・charles leclerc

charles was trying very hard to be polite.

it was his first fourth of july, and instead of some wild backyard rager, you had brought him to your family cookout, thinking it would be a nice, relaxed introduction to the holiday. that was your first mistake.

he had been handed a plate piled with enough food to feed a small country, your uncle had already declared him an honorary american, and your grandma had called him “such a handsome young man” at least three times. charles was handling it all with his usual charm, smiling and nodding as your family quizzed him about monaco like he was an ambassador rather than a formula 1 driver.

“you ever driven one of them nascars?” your cousin asked, chewing on a rib.

charles hesitated for half a second. “uh… no, not yet.”

“bet you’d be real good at it.”

he smiled. “i hope so.”

your cousin nodded seriously, like he had just made a groundbreaking discovery, then handed charles a sparkler. the wrong end.

charles, being charles, took it without question.

the second the lighter touched the tip, he yelped and dropped it straight onto the grass, shaking out his hand like he had just suffered a catastrophic brake failure.

“oh! merde!” he blinked at his fingers, then looked at you, eyes wide with a mix of betrayal and confusion. “it bit me.”

your cousin cackled. “man, you gotta hold the other end.”

charles gave him the most unimpressed look you had ever seen. “yes, i see that now.”

despite the initial trauma, he tried again, this time holding it the correct way. he watched the sparks flicker and pop, his expression turning thoughtful.

“this is actually nice,” he said, moving it gently through the air. he traced out a shape, pausing, then tried again. “i was trying to do my number, but i think i made a… fish?”

you leaned in. it was, indeed, a fish.

"close enough."

the fireworks started just as he got comfortable, your dad setting them off from the driveway like it was a carefully planned operation. charles leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the sky as red, white, and blue bursts lit up above.

for a moment, he was quiet, just watching. then he exhaled and smiled. “this is really beautiful.”

you were about to agree when another one went off way too close to the ground. charles flinched so hard he nearly spilled his drink, eyes darting toward the launch site.

“is it supposed to do that?”

your dad waved him off. “eh, it’s fine.”

charles did not look convinced. “i don’t think that is fine.”

another firework whistled sideways into a bush. charles shot up out of his chair.

“no, no, no—this is not normal!”

your cousin just laughed. “welcome to america, man.”

ʚ・lando norris

lando had never looked more out of his depth in his entire life.

and that included the time he got stuck on a beach in monaco.

you had brought him to your university’s fourth of july party, thinking it would be a fun, casual experience. that was your second mistake. your first mistake was underestimating how unhinged your friends were.

“okay, so let me get this straight,” lando said, standing in the middle of a backyard that looked like it had already survived three different safety car restarts. “you guys drink an obscene amount of alcohol, eat way too much food, and then you—what? just set things on fire?”

“yeah, pretty much.”

he blinked. “that’s mad.”

and yet, here he was, already double-fisting a beer and a plate of nachos, blending in like he had been here all semester.

the night started off fine. he played beer pong, overthought his technique, lost anyway, and then blamed the table for being “not regulation size.” he had his first ever corn dog, called it “weird but kinda amazing,” and then proceeded to eat three more. he even wore a ridiculous red, white, and blue cowboy hat that one of your friends had aggressively placed on his head.

everything was going smoothly. then someone handed him a roman candle.

“wait, what am i supposed to do with this?” he asked, inspecting the long tube like it was an unfamiliar steering wheel.

“just hold it and point it up,” you said, already realizing this was a mistake.

your friend lit it, and lando immediately panicked.

“oh my god, it’s on fire—IT’S ON FIRE.”

“yes, lando, that’s the point.”

“I DON’T LIKE IT.”

“JUST HOLD IT STILL.”

“I CAN’T.”

the first fireball shot out, straight up into the air. the second one did not.

instead, it veered at a slightly concerning angle, skimming past the roof of the house and nearly taking out a string of decorative lights. lando let out a full-on shriek, dropped the roman candle, and sprinted five steps away like the thing had personally offended him.

the candle, now abandoned, continued shooting rogue fireballs across the yard. your friends scattered. someone dove behind a cooler. one of your more chaotic friends cheered. lando, meanwhile, had his hands on his head, looking like he had just witnessed an absolute strategy disaster.

“oh my god,” he wheezed. “i almost died.”

“you did not almost die.”

“that was the most unsafe thing i’ve ever done, and i race at 200 miles per hour for a living!”

despite the near-death experience, lando stuck around. mostly because someone handed him another beer, and he was too emotionally drained to do anything but drink it. when the actual fireworks started, he stayed a healthy distance away, sipping his drink and shaking his head every time one exploded a little too close to the ground.

by the end of the night, he had recovered enough to join in on the chanting. he even put the cowboy hat back on.

“alright,” he admitted, exhaling. “that was actually kinda fun.”

then someone suggested doing sparklers. lando immediately held up both hands.

“no. absolutely not. i’ve learned my lesson. you lot are psychos.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

oscar piastri was trying his best.

you had invited him to your family’s fourth of july cookout, reassuring him it would be a relaxed evening with good food, nice company, and minimal chaos. that had been a lie.

now he was sitting on the porch, gripping a lemonade like it was a contract extension, watching your uncle aggressively flip burgers on the grill while your little cousins ran barefoot through the yard with sparklers. someone had already spilled an entire bowl of potato salad, your aunt was yelling at your dad about lighter fluid, and a bluetooth speaker was blasting country music at a volume that should have been illegal.

oscar took a slow sip of his drink. “so this is normal?”

you nodded. “completely normal.”

“right,” he said, nodding slightly. “that’s concerning.”

to his credit, he was doing his best to fit in. he helped carry the extra chairs outside, listened to your grandpa tell a very long-winded story about how “kids these days don’t know how to drive,” and politely answered every single person who asked if he knew daniel ricciardo.

he even attempted a game of cornhole. it did not go well.

“mate, you’ve got to actually aim,” your cousin said as oscar’s beanbag completely missed the board.

“i am aiming.”

“then why does it look like you’re throwing a penalty kick?”

oscar’s next toss went even further off course. he turned to you, deadpan. “i don’t like this game.”

the real trouble started when your little cousin, clearly taking advantage of his foreign guest status, decided to hand oscar a firework. not a sparkler. not a small fountain. a full-blown roman candle.

oscar held it with both hands, staring at it like it was an unexploded bomb. “am i being set up?”

“just light it and hold it up,” your cousin said.

oscar frowned. “that sounds fake, but okay.”

he did as he was told, but the second the first fireball shot out, he visibly tensed, gripping the firework like he was on the final lap in monaco. another fireball launched, and he let out a quiet but very real “oh no.”

“it’s fine,” you reassured him.

“it doesn’t feel fine,” he said, carefully adjusting his stance like he was bracing for impact. “how long does this last?”

“maybe ten more shots.”

oscar sighed. “great. love that for me.”

when the roman candle finally fizzled out, he let out the slowest exhale of his life and handed it back like he had just completed a dangerous mission.

“alright,” he said. “i have now contributed to the chaos. that should fulfill my american initiation, yes?”

the night ended with fireworks, which oscar watched from what he clearly deemed the safest possible location—standing just inside the house, one foot over the threshold in case he needed to make a quick exit.

when someone asked if he had fun, he paused for a moment, considering his answer.

“well,” he said, taking another sip of lemonade. “i still have all my fingers. so i’d call that a success.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 27)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Hypothermia

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: vivid descriptions of hypothermia; desperate!Bucky; Hydra; slight mentions of Bucky’s past

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

Pang. Pang. Pang.

It’s almost rhythmic, the way Bucky’s metal fist hits the strong, reinforced door of the room you’re trapped in.

You stand off to the side, pressing a finger to your earpiece, trying once more to summon aid.

Only static answers you, sharp and grating, hissing in your ear. You grit your teeth.

Bucky lets out a frustrated grunt and slams his fist harder.

You step forward, intending to tell him to stop, to conserve his strength, to redirect his anger into a better plan since the door doesn’t seem to budge at all.

But then you notice it, the faintest shift in the room.

Your skin tingles at the back of your neck and underneath your tactical suit.

The air is sharper. It’s colder.

You glance up at the small vents near the ceiling and find their slotted mouths releasing thin, ghostly fog that drifts downward.

Your stomach plummets to the ground.

“Bucky,” you say, voice quieter than you intended, eyes still on the vents.

Bucky doesn’t turn, but his hits have stopped. His metal fist rests against the door. You make out his head tilting slightly, acknowledging you.

“Bucky,” you repeat, more insistent, more warningly. “Look!”

He does turn now, his eyes on you before moving up to where you are looking. His gaze narrows as the fog becomes more visible, coiling in haphazard spirals before dissipating.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his jaw tightens, the way his body turns to solid stone says he understands.

He then takes a step toward the control panel, his metal arm flexing instinctively. “We need to figure out how to shut this down. Fast.”

But you don’t know how fast you can make it.

The room already feels smaller, the walls seeming to close in, their cold presence pressing against you. You rub your arms, trying to ward off the frost spreading in the air.

But your cheeks start to sting and your skin tightens.

You are trapped in the sterile and metallic control room of a Hydra facility.

And if that wasn’t bad enough already, it’s not just a control hub. It’s also a containment chamber, and how it looks like, designed to neutralize intruders by pumping in freezing air when someone attempts to tamper with the control systems.

And since that’s the only reason you are in here, you fell for it.

Surveillance suggested the base holds remnants of sensitive data Hydra has been safeguarding, with a high likelihood that it could detail sleeper agents or hidden cells.

Bucky and you were paired and tasked with accessing the main control room, disabling the security grid, and providing an opening for the rest of the team to neutralize the facility.

And well, that didn’t go as planned.

Hydra has always been cruelly inventive and the freezing protocol seems as effective as inhumane to you.

Bucky immediately started to react the second a low beep emitted from the console, followed by an ominous hiss as the lights overhead flickered and shifted to an emergency red glow.

And he would have made it out before the heavy door slammed shut behind you since he’d been guarding the entrance.

But only without you.

And that didn’t seem to be an option for him.

You tried again and again to call out to the team.

Though it was futile from the start.

The base’s interior is heavily shielded, preventing outside communication.

Your teammates had a backup plan to breach the outer defenses if you two went radio silent, so they wouldn’t immediately realize something was wrong until it was too late.

The frost freezes up the walls, tiny ice particles wandering along the surfaces.

The air you draw into your lungs feels sharp, like shards of ice scraping the back of your throat.

Your muscles contract, huddling inward in a futile attempt to shield themselves.

Stiff and numb fingers try to tap against the slowly freezing metal of the console, but your movements are turning clumsy.

Bucky walks over to you. He seems to hold up better than you, but you see that this situation gnaws at him. His frown is in place, his shoulders are rigid and you don’t want to know the places his mind is traveling.

After all, this is not his first encounter with Hydras frost for him.

He looks over the consoles in front of you, glancing over the wires and frozen circuits.

“I don’t think p-punching it will help.” You try to say it lightly, bringing in some humor in your situation but your voice is shaking as much as your body.

Bucky gives you a sidelong glance. “You’d be surprised how often that works,” he deadpans.

You try to laugh but it falls flat.

The icy mist tumbles through the air so innocently, making it colder and colder, and then pounces on you so piercingly intense, it makes your breaths falter.

Warmth feels so far away. Seconds are stretching.

Bucky doesn’t glance back at the console.

He is watching you with furrowed brows.

His flesh hand brushes over your arm, trying to gauge your condition.

“Hey,” he says, almost sharply, but so full of concern. “You with me?”

You nod, but it’s sluggish. Unconvincing. Your teeth chatter as you try to speak. “I’m- I’m fine.”

Bucky grits his teeth, his jaw working roughly. “Don’t lie to me.” His voice sounds thick.

He pulls you close then. His arms wrap around you with a firmness that feels protective, desperate even.

You don’t resist, wouldn’t even have the strength to, and lean into him. Your body is shaking against him, your muscles seizing violently. It drains you rapidly. You do your best to try and let the warmth of his body temperature battle against the cold settling into your skin and sinking deep and even deeper into your bones.

It crawls into your ears, turning them numb and unresponsive. Sounds seem muted, as if the chill has even frozen the air’s ability to carry them.

The temperature drops and drops so rapidly.

You feel Bucky’s head right beside yours. His breath fanning over your cheek. “Stay upright, sweetheart. Alright? Don’t sit down. Try and move your legs.”

With that order, he brushes a trembling hand against your cheek for a split second before reluctantly letting go of you and storming toward the door again with clenched fists.

Another pang sounds out as Bucky slams his fist against the steel door again, each strike reverberating through the room. His hits are more frantic than before and there is no rhythm at all.

“Come on!” he shouts, his voice cracking.

The door doesn’t budge and he lets out a guttural roar, his fist slamming against the unyielding surface one last time before turning back to you.

You really tried.

You tried to follow his orders and stay upright, perhaps move through the room and keep yourself in motion.

But your knees were so weak and you let them crumble.

With an anguished sound that might have been your name, Bucky rushes back to you, dropping to his knees.

Your head dips forward before jerking back up, fighting to stay conscious.

“No! Y/n! You’re not doing this. Stay with me.”

You try to smile but it’s weak. “I’m just- just tired,” you murmur, voice slurring.

“No,” he snaps, shaking you just enough to make you focus on him. His eyes are wide, frantic. “You don’t get to sleep, you hear me? You sleep, you die!”

He’s pressing you against him, holding you so tightly.

The cold claims your flesh and veins. Your blood feels slowed.

His flesh hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your freezing skin in a way that’s almost tender, though his voice is anything but soft.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” he growls, his lips close to your ear. “You don’t.”

There has been pain. In your toes, your fingers, your ears.

But you feel it fade. And you know you should panic, because this is a terrible sign. But your mind becomes singular in its focus, so obsessed with the absence of heat, the ache of it so intense and pervasive, there is no room for much else.

Exhaustion tries to close your eyes. It weighs you down, trying to make you stop moving at all.

But you fight. You fight against your own body.

Bucky’s flesh hand trembles against you, though whether from the cold or the panic, you’re not sure.

His eyes are jumping across the room, from the control panel, to the vents, to the door, and back to you.

Bucky’s breath comes fast, visible puffs of white in the freezing air. You hear him faintly mutter to himself. Or rather curse.

All you manage is to let out a sigh. The exhale lets a tiny ghost rise before your face. But it fades too quickly. Your breathing began to slow already.

Bucky presses his forehead against yours, rocking you slightly in his lap, tightly cradled against his chest to keep you moving and give you more of his warmth. His stubble brushes against your icy skin.

You meet his eyes, but your gaze is weak.

His gaze is wild. Darting between focus and frenzy. His brows are knit together so tightly, forming deep creases that dig into his forehead like scars of desperation.

“Stick with me, alright? We’ll get outta here,” he breathes. But he barely even managed that. And it sounds more like a plea than a promise.

You nod faintly against him. Your eyes fall shut for a moment.

“No, no, no,” he croaks out, rocking you more forcefully. “Eyes on me, doll! Come on.”

Your eyelids feel frozen together but you manage to break through. Though it takes so much energy.

But looking back at Bucky’s expression might even be harder.

His lips are trembling at the corners. His eyes are glassy and so intense, shimmering with a desperation so vivid, it seems to cry out silently.

“Hold tight, sweetheart.” He swallows. “There’s gotta be somethin’ we can do. Something to stop this.”

His words are fierce, determined, but his gaze says something else entirely as he sweeps his frantic eyes across the room once again.

You’re trying your best to help, scanning the space through the haze clouding your vision, coming from the freezing mist.

You notice something. It’s barely noticeable against the frost-covered wall but the sight of it roots you in place, not from the cold this time.

Since Bucky’s arms are still pressing you to him, he feels you stiffen against his chest. But to be real, he would have noticed if you were across the room. His sharp instincts are always in tune with you, even more so in this freezing hell.

“What is it?” he demands, his voice rough with concern. His flesh fingers brush your face, coaxing your attention back to him. “You got something in mind?”

You don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you shake your head faintly. A weak denial, that falters the second you try to hold onto it.

“Doll,” he warns, his tone low, his desperation edging in. Your silence is unnerving him. “Talk to me. What is it?”

You let out a shallow breath. It’s fragile, just like you, trembling and on the verge of breaking.

Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

“C’mon, sweetheart. I really need you to talk to me.” His voice is strained. “If you’ve got an idea, tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll make it work.”

The frost crackles in the background.

You let out a sigh and nod faintly, reluctantly, toward the corner of the room. Toward the frozen console that glints from the crystals of the ice.

“If we c-can short-circuit that p-panel,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “it might s-stop the c-cold.”

Bucky’s eyes dart to the console the second you mention it, then back to your face, searching it as though he could pull the rest of the plan from your expression alone to spare you the energy to talk.

But your expression falters and his brow is furrowed so tightly it’s hard to look at.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So what’s the problem?”

You shake your head, your body sagging further into his. He shifts to hold you better but his gaze is fixed on your face. “But-” you struggle, the word escaping you as a faint breath, lips trembling from more than just the cold, “it might fry your arm.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Bucky-”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head firmly, muscles straining in his face. His flesh hand wraps around your shoulders like it could anchor you to him. “I’m bein’ dead serious. I don’t care what happens to me. I don’t care what happens to my arm.”

Those are the words you expected to hear. And you hate them.

His voice is hard, but his gaze softens when he sees your expression. There is something determined there, but also something tender, something so soft, something unshakable that makes you want to bury deep into his chest and never leave it again.

“I’ll be fine, doll. Promise. But I have to do this.” His voice is soft. Gentle. And he lets his lips brush against your cheek.

You try to protest. Try to shake your head. A faint whimper leaves your lips.

“Don’t care what happens to me. Only care about you, doll. And I’ll get you the fuck outta here.”

His hand again cups the side of your face and holds your gaze with so much intensity, blue eyes piercing you more than the cold, it leaves you breathless.

Then, he moves into action, setting you against the wall so carefully, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness none of the others had ever seen him with.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his voice pleading. So earnest.

You do your best to give him a nod and watch as he strides toward the console.

His broad shoulders block your view for a moment, but you can see the resolution in every movement, the way his metal arm flexes as he tears away the frozen panel with one single tug.

Sparks erupt as he rips at the wires, and the sharp scent of burning metal fills the air.

All you can do is watch with your heart frozen in fear.

The console flickers violently, the room trembling slightly as the system begins to overload.

Bucky grits his teeth. His arm is sparking wildly by forcing the wires together, his entire body braced against the surging energy.

“Come on,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice barely audible over the crackling noise. “Come on, shut it down!”

And then, with a resounding hiss, the freezing air stops.

Bucky stumbles back. His metal arm twitches erratically.

“Bucky,” you whisper, fearing for his condition.

He only turns and crosses the room to you in a few strides, pulling you back into his arms.

Your face is pressed against his neck, his lips are by your ear.

“Told you I’ll be fine, doll,” he whispers, his voice a low rasp, thick with relief that feels like it’s been dragged from the depths of his chest. But it’s unsteady. It’s strained. There is a tremor in it that betrays him.

Because you are still so cold.

So cold in fact, it feels no longer like an invader. It becomes everything. It consumes you. It swallows your awareness. Leaving only the faintest sense of resistance. It’s so thin and fragile, you can barely remember why you’re still holding on.

His breath brushes against your temple, warm compared to the chill that has settled into your body. But it’s not enough. Not even close.

Your skin is ice beneath his touch and the tremors that whacked your body before are gone now. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You can’t tell where your body ends and the cold begins. It’s inside you, crawling through your veins like liquid frost, winding tighter and tighter with every slow beat of your heart.

Your skin doesn’t feel like skin anymore - it feels like glass.

“Hey,” he exclaims a little louder, his flesh hand soothing over your hair in a gesture so gentle it could shatter you into a thousand frozen pieces. “You’re okay. You’re with me. We did it, doll. You did it. The others will know something went wrong. They’ll come looking for us. You just have to hold on a little longer, yeah?”

His breaths are tangled in his words, rushing in too fast or skipping beats entirely. It makes his speech uneven.

But you can’t respond.

You want to reach for him, to speak, to swim in the warmth of his voice. But it’s impossible.

You know he’s holding you. You know he has his arms wrapped around you. You know you are pressed against his chest. The erratic pounding of his heart is by your ear. The weight of your body is resting against him. But it all feels so distant, like trying to recall details of a dream that is already fading from your memory.

Each gasp you try for feels farther apart, each exhale weaker than the last, dissipating into the air like it had never existed at all.

And you know Bucky feels it. Feels the way your body is slipping into a stillness that seems to terrify him enormously.

His breath catches.

“Don’t do this,” he grounds out, voice sharp and urgent. “No. Don’t you dare do this, Y/n!”

His metal arm curls tighter around you, and the steel, usually so cold itself, feels like a furnace compared to the icy skin underneath your suit.

He shifts you in his arms, his movements sluggish and frantic. Your head lolls against his shoulder and his flesh hand is at the back of your neck, fingers threading in your hair.

You feel so heavy. So impossibly heavy. You don’t even know where your hands are. Where your toes are.

“Don’t leave me,” he pleads, his voice cracking.

But your eyelids only flutter. They’re so heavy.

Bucky’s voice is there, somewhere in the muddle of your mind, but the words don’t land right. They sound muffled, like he might speak to you from underwater. Or as though you have fallen too far away to reach him anymore.

Lips press roughly against your temple. His hands try to rub warmth into you.

“No,” he growls, the anger in his tone masking the helplessness that causes him to shake his head and shake your body with it, due to the force, as if sheer denial could change the reality in front of him. “You don’t get to check out on me. Stay with me, Y/n. Fight for me. Come on. I know you can do it. Please! I know you can fight this.”

He gasps between phrases, trying to pull oxygen into lungs that refuse to expand fully, each sound on the verge of dissolving into sobs at any moment.

He buries his face in your hair, squeezing you against him.

“Sweetheart, please,” he cries, his words a single prayer to whoever will listen, so vulnerable and laid bare in a way Bucky Barnes rarely allows himself to be.

It elicits that faint, resilient ember beneath the frost you are succumbing to and you do your best to nurture it. It burns. Just a little. So small. But it’s there. And it burns because of him - because of Bucky.

The hectic rise and fall of his chest against you, the cracks of desperation in his hold on you, the tremble in his voice when he repeats the words stay with me and please, Y/n over and over, as raw and real as the ice in your veins - they make you promise to keep trying to hold on.

And you will. For him.

[starlightdelrey]

the view between villages

platonic ! f1 grid x reader

summary: f1 is a dangerous sport - it's common knowledge. but accidents - bad accidents - aren't as common. seeing the youngest (and only female) driver crash and not immediately respond is something the boys never thought they'd have to experience, and the rest of the world is just as devestated.

cw: major accident, graphic descriptions of injury and vehicular damage, graphic descriptions of car accident, mentions of death, blood and gore, negative emotions such as sadness and regret, angst, mentions of religion,

song pairing is "the view betwen villages" by noah kahan

(not based on any particular race)

today's race felt off to begin with. When y/n had attempted to leave her aging yorkie, comet, in her hotel room - like she had done for the past couple months - he began to whine.

"poor baby," she mocked, but turned the small TV on and switched it to the channel that would be broadcasting the race live. "look, com. watch me on the tv."

the dog had complied and jumped onto the un-made bed, but when she left and closed the door, he had whined once or twice before calming down.

she made a mental note to get him checked out at the vet, but got distracted when she showed up to the paddock and got a look at the track.

"the weather wasn't as shit yesterday during quali," she said off-handedly to max verstappen, who was chatting to the engineers.

"are you worried?" y/n was a good racer, it was clear - but whenever max saw how small she looked in comparison to everyone else on the team he had a small sense of dread. it wasn't new, just annoying.

"nah." she grinned at him, her hair already pulled back into a french braid for ease during the race.

---

"lights out.... and away we go!"

the lights blink out and y/n is already gunning it, attempting to bypass the boys from mclaren.

she discovered early on that locking up would be her main issue today, and she made it clear on her radio.

"i keep locking up."

her voice was calm but shook a little as she struggled to steer, and she spoke only in short sentences to prevent stuttering.

"copy."

finally, she worked out a system to braking that prevented the struggle, but in speeding up, found that she'd made her way into a mass of cars.

"watch out, y/n. keep out of trouble - wait until everybody else has moved out of each others way."

"ok. pulling back-" the radio crackled and then went silent as a car careened into the side of her.

---

the audiences at home got to watch a replay of the impact.

somewhere in australia, a family consisting of two parents, a teenaged boy and a little girl are watching the race.

the boy reacts first, jolting. "was that logan sargeant and y/n y/ln?"

"yeah... turn up the volume?"

the mother grabs the remote and obliges, terse.

"was that the girl driver?" the barely 5 year old asks, brows furrowed.

"baby, go play in the other room." her father dismisses her, and when she slowly shuffles out, eyes trained on the screen as the commentators relay the details, her dad huffs.

"now. and don't look at the screen anymore."

she squeals and runs out, and the boy starts to jiggle his knee up and down as they wait for more information.

across the world, houses go silent.

---

"and it looks like logan sargeant attempts to pull away from the crowd but misjudges the distance between himself and y/ln. we can see him here slam right into the right side of the body of her car, and she goes spinning out, right into barricades. oh! and if we slow it down, you can see that the force of her chassis hitting the barricades not only forces the car to lift fully off of the ground, but it also tips - the top of the vehicle flips up into the barricade until it falls back into place. that is a nasty hit for rookie red bull driver y/n y/ln."

the commentators keep talking, thinking nothing of the accident, until the cameras switch to the red bull team, who are trying to get into contact with the girl.

"y/n, are you okay?"

silence.

"can you respond? y/n we need a vocal response. anything, okay kid? even if you can just hold down on the radio button so we know you're there."

no response.

the commentators continue.

"and it looks like we're getting no response from red bull driver y/n, who has just crashed."

---

his whole body jerks on the impact, and he spins out off the track, coming to a shaky stop.

"shit, shit, shit!" his voice cracks.

"are you okay, mate?" the radio crackles at him as he's fighting back tears.

"yeah - was that y/n i hit?"

"yes, we can confirm the crash involved both you and y/ln. we are receiving word that it is a red flag crash."

"is she okay?" he doesn't get a response at first, so he tries again. "is y/n okay?"

"no word yet. sorry, logan."

"fuck! i'm so sorry - i really thought it was clear, i just... fuck."

"calm down, sargeant. wait for pick-up and keep yourself collected. we'll tell you as soon as we find anything out, okay mate?"

"sure."

he lifts himself from the smoking chassis and the world watches as he kicks it out of frustration before letting his head lower.

there's a sickening feeling in his stomach as he sees the girls unmoving vehicle.

he pictures her inside, and the fact that she's so much smaller than the older men cause his mind to unravel with pictures of her limp and unconscious.

---

inside the car, y/n blinks her eyes open, groaning.

her ears are ringing and her head hurts, and the body of her car is so warped that it's vacuum sealed her into the vehicle.

in the back of her mind, y/n feels the pain in her right thigh and left ankle, and her right shoulder feels dislocated.

"kid, we need an answer." the radio's muted and crackling, and when y/n tries to respond, she realizes that something on her end is fucked because they're still begging for an answer.

she goes to climb out of the car, but a sob tears out of her chest at the immense pain that suddenly blooms throughout her whole body.

she falls heavily back onto the seat and pants, closing her eyes.

she feels slight relief from the pain when she fully relaxes and closes her eyes, and nestles into her seat a little to get comfortable.

the need to sleep takes over her and she obeys, nodding off.

---

inside her hotel room, comet's ears pull back in concern as he hears his owners name being called out repeatedly from the television.

---

"red flag, max. we need to restart the race."

verstappen stills, his ears suddenly ringing. he has a bad feeling about the red flag but just can't place it.

"what's happened?"

"there was a crash between a williams and y/n. to the pit lanes, please." the voice on the other end seems calm, but there's a waver to it.

"fuck, are you joking? are they both okay?"

"the williams driver... logan sargeant, we're hearing, is up and out of his chassis. we've heard nothing from y/n yet."

he'd fight them, ask for more information, but knows that red bull would be the first to hear anything.

"tell me if you find anything out."

"copy."

as he drives to the pit lane, max replays her grin at him as she reassures the dutchman.

"nah." her nose is scrunched and hair pulled out of her face.

he thinks about how bulky the helmet looked on her, the barely 20 year old driver somehow never managing to put on any muscle, no matter how hard she tried.

he prays to jesus, zeus, allah, and even the virgin mary - surely she'd have sympathy to max's prayers, as she's lost someone dear to her before. any deity he can think of is immediately begged to ensure the safety of his partner.

---

a whining noise pulls y/n back into consciousness, and she furrows her brows.

"i'm trying to sleep, com. shut up." when she opens her eyes and sees the battered cockpit in front of her, she realizes that she's not hearing her dog cry, it's just the ringing in her ears that are back.

and then suddenly all she can see is comet waiting for her. comet, waiting in a hotel room that she'll never re-enter. what's gonna happen to the mutt if she dies? her parents are over-seas, she has no boyfriend to look after him. comet would be all alone.

and then all the guys on the grid are flashing through her head. she knows, vacantly, that logan crashed into her. he'd never forgive himself if she died. verstappens win streak would be fucked if he was grieving over his teammate. even lewis hamilton, who was the first driver to openly back her as the only woman on the grid.

she screws her eyes shut and lets out a heavy sob, steeling herself.

---

the commentators are no longer focused on the race.

"and i think i can speak for all of us when i ask, where is the goddamn safety car and ambulance? young driver y/n y/ln has been stuck in the wreck for about a minute and a half now, and there has still been no aid for her. which is a cause for concern about the overall safety of f1, as- oh my god!"

---

charles is already on his way back to the pit lanes, muttering manifestations under his breath for y/n to be okay.

he's shaking, filled with lead and a lump in his throat. he and y/n aren't super close, due to their team differences, but every time he spoke to her she had a certain gleam in her eye that one only had when they weren't afraid of death.

this worried him. racing was her life - would she succumb easily? it was a known fact that many drivers drove as if they had nothing to lose.

the idea of her choking on mortality in her chassis scared him more. maybe her body was broken, and the pain was all she could feel as the life drained from her? he worried for those that would have to witness the blood and bruises when she was pulled from her car.

"we've got an update on y/n."

he was pulled out of his mind. "tell me. please."

"she's getting herself out. the paramedics were taking too long, so she took it upon herself, apparently." a startled laugh falls out of charles' lips as he cheers back.

---

muscles screaming, y/n forces herself to lift out of the cockpit, allowing her body the only relief of rest once her upper half is slung over the halo. for about five seconds she stops, before she forces herself to continue.

the safety car and paramedics are here now, and camera crew for the live footage plus the netflix crew are close behind.

people are shouting at her to stop, but she continues to claw her way out of the wreckage.

she's crying and praying to a god she never knew she believed in as she forces her broken legs out of the car, sliding over the side to the ground.

she stands and looks around at the medical crew who are advancing towards her and tries to take her helmet off. she can't, and they're reassuring her that they'll do it for her.

y/n looks out at the audience and raises one arm to greet them. she's met with immediate raucous applause and, swaying for a few seconds, she falls.

---

"you would never believe it. this lady is pulling herself out of her car. as the camera zooms, you can really see the absolute strength this is taking her - hold on, we're getting audio now."

the world watches with bated breath as the coverage of her climbing out of the car begins to play. you can hear the agonised screams she lets out as she forces herself to exit, and just how broken some of her limbs look. her left ankle hangs limply, and she has to use both arms to force her right leg out of the cockpit.

"what a magnificent scene. y/n y/ln has kissed death, and still lives to tell the tale. we see her now, standing on the track as the medical staff come to her aid, and she falls. a very fair response to what she has just gone through. a round of applause to y/n y/ln, the girl who kissed death!"

---

"so lando, congratulations on p4. obviously, the whole crash between logan and y/n caused a damper on the overall race. how do you feel about it?" the interviewer pushed a mic at his face.

"the crash? yeah, it was terrifying not knowing if she was okay or not. i'm not surprised she ended up climbing out of the chassis herself," he laughs softly. "i've never known her for being patient."

"how do you feel about her new nickname?"

"nickname?"

"people are calling her 'the girl who kissed death'."

lando can't stop a high-pitched laugh from escaping. "girl who kissed death? that's stupid. oh god, i can't wait for her to find out about that. she'll be proper pissed off."

"right, well, thanks lando. have fun celebrating!" the interviewer bids him farewell.

---

a few months later:

over the healing process, y/n was forced to give multiple statements, post social media posts, and even a quick video from the hospital bed, but when she sees comet, her resolve finally fails.

she begins to tear up as the scruffy dog barks at her, jumping up and down.

"someone's excited to see you," lewis hamilton, the temporary guardian of the dog, grins.

roscoe stomps his feet and licks y/n, panting at her.

"awe, little babies. i was so scared of dying and leaving comet all alone, but i think he would've been fine."

lewis glances down at the kneeling girl in front of him and tsks, nudging her with his foot. "don't say that, y/n. nobody would've been fine."

"yeah?"

"yeah. have you seen all the tiktok edits of your crash? people were terrified. i was terrified."

y/n doesn't say anything, but stands to hug the british man.

he holds her back, before clearing his throat. "save that love for death. heard you've kissed it before."

"fuck off."

--- la fin ---

[aaron04jpg]

Elms guide for Logan Sargeant fans

Starting with what is the European Le Mans Series (ELMS):

It’s a European series of endurance races reserved for cars such as "Le Mans Prototypes" and "Le Mans Grand Touring". The ELMS presents three different categories: LMP2, LMP2 Pro/Am, LMP3 and LMGT3.

CATEGORIES

* There are 4 categories

* All 4 categories run at the same time on track

* The cars that are performing in those classes are all different in terms of weight, size, engine

Lmp2- Race Number Background Color: BLUE (what Logan is driving !!)

* The category below the top LMH class of the FIA World Endurance Championship (WEC) "Le Mans Prototype 2" (LMP2) is a key part of the “Endurance" family

* Each driver line up must have at least 1 silver or bronze driver, two platinum drivers can not be entered in the same line up

* it allows teams and drivers to progress to the highest level gradually.

* 1st and 2nd LMP2 competitors will be invited to the 2024 24 Hours of Le Mans.

Lmp2 pro/am- Race Number Background Color: CYAN

* In 2021, the LMP2 grid included a separate trophy and title for competitors whose cars included a bronze driver in their line-up. This was known as LMP2 Pro/Am.

* In a change for the 2023 season, the LMP2 Pro/Am category will be run as a separate class

* a lineup of 2 or 3 drivers must include at least 1 bronze driver

* The cars will be the same as run in the LMP2 category.

* 1st LMP2 Pro/Am competitor will be invited to 2024 24 Hours of Le Mans.

LMP3- Race Number Background Color: PURPLE

* LMP3 was designed as a training ground for endurance racing, an arena in which drivers, team members, engineers, and mechanics can hone their skills and prepare for the 24 Hours of Le Mans and the FIA World Endurance Championship.

* lineup must include 1 silver and 1 bronze or 2 bronze

* from what I understand, it is a feeder series similar to f2/f3

Lmgt3- Race Number Background Color: ORANGE

* Le Mans Grand Touring Car, is a set of regulations maintained by the ACO and the FIA for Grand Tourer race cars designed for use in the ACO/FIA motor racing series. *LMGT3 cars are based on production road car models that are built and sold at the time of homologation.

* Cars eligible for the LMGT3 class must be built by a partner manufacturer recognized by the ACO/FIA

* a lineup of 2 or 3 drivers must have 1 silver and 1 bronze or 2 bronze and no more than 1 gold or platinum driver

TYRES

* LMP2, LMP2 Pro/Am, and LMGT3 competitors run with Goodyear tyres. LMP3 competitors run with Michelin tyres.

* LMP2, LMP2 Pro/Am, and LMP3 competitors have one dry and one wet tyre specifications. There are two dry and one wet tyre specifications for the LMGT3 category.

* Unlike Formula 1, any equipment for warming the tyres or keeping them to temperature is forbidden.

RACE WEEKENDS

WEEKEND SETUP

* Free Practice: two Free Practice sessions of 90 minutes.

* Bronze Test: one session of 30 minutes exclusively for FIA-ranked Bronze drivers.

* Qualifying: one qualifying session of 15 minutes per category, which defines the grid order.

* In LMP2 Pro/Am and LMGT3, only Bronze drivers can qualify for the car, whereas in LMP2 and LMP3, it's up to the competitor.

* Race – which lasts 4 hours.

RACES

* Each driver must drive at least 40 minutes during the race. (One stint)

* The winner is the car that covered the greatest distance in their category.

RACE NEUTRALISATION

* If the race needs to be neutralized or stopped for safety reasons, multiple procedures can be decided by the Race Director:

FULL COURSE YELLOW

* Intended for short neutralisations, mainly for interventions lasting equal to or less than one lap.

* Cars must slow down to 80kph.

* The pit lane entry is closed when there is a Full Course Yellow (FCY)

* No overtaking

VIRTUAL SAFETY CAR

* Intended to secure interventions and used for an approximate duration of two laps before deployment of the Safety Car (SC).

* Cars must slow down to 80kph.

* Access to the pit lane will remain open for the duration of the VSC.

* No overtaking

SAFETY CAR

* Intended for long neutralizations.

* All cars must follow the Safety Car and adapt their speed.

* The pit lane entry is closed for three laps when a Safety Car (SC) is announced.

* Overtaking is permitted under defined circumstances.

RED FLAG

* All the cars must head back to the pitlane or stop on track according to the conditions.

PODIUMS

* Each category has its own podium for the three first competitors.

STANDINGS

* Cars and drivers have their own classification in each category.

* One point is awarded for the pole position in each category.

* Points are awarded to the following scale:

1. 25 point

2. 18 points

3. 15 points

4. 12 points

5. 10 points

6. 8 points

7. 6 points

8. 4 points

9. 2 points

10. 1 point

AUTOMATIC INVITATIONS TO THE 2025 24 HOURS OF LE MANS

Okay, like I said before- the teams in these series get invited to WEC Le Mans.

* LMP2: 1st and 2nd placed competitors in the overall classifications will receive LMP2 invitations.

* LMP2 Pro/Am: 1st placed competitor in the overall classifications will receive a LMP2 invitation.

* LMP3: 1st placed competitor in the overall classifications will receive a LMP2 invitation.

* LMGT3: 1st placed competitor in the overall classifications will receive a LMGT3 invitation

TEAMS/DRIVERS

* 44 cars are to race during the 2025 season of the European Le Mans Series

* Line-ups are composed of two to three drivers per car.

* 14 LMP2s, 7 entries in the LMP2 Pro/Am class, 10 LMP3s and 13 LMGT3s.

* to take part in the European Le Mans Series, you must be a categorized driver (based on the FIA Drivers’ categorization.)

* the categorization can be adjusted following the pace of the driver during the current season and his/ her results in the series he/she is taking part in.

* The drivers can be rated in 4 classes: Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Platinum. 


PLATINUM DRIVERS (just some basics)

* has held a Super Licence (for Formula One)

* has won the Le Mans 24 Hours in a professional category (LMP1 / LMGTE Pro)

* has been a Factory Driver, paid by a car manufacturer, with results to match

* has finished in the top 3 in the general classification of an F3 international series or major international single-seater championship

GOLD DRIVERS

* has finished in the top 3 in the general classification of a secondary international single-seater series

* has won the general classification of a regional or national single-seater series

* has competed in the FIA F2, GP2, GP3, FIA F3 or Super Formula series since 2012 and has finished on the podium on three or more occasions in one calendar season.

* is a driver whose average lap time has been consistently as fast or faster over the majority of the season than the average lap time of Gold drivers competing in the same event of the season

SILVER DRIVER

* driver aged under 30 and not satisfying the criteria of categories Platinum and Gold

* driver who has finished in 1st place in the general classification of regional or major national championships or international series, or has won a major endurance race

* driver who has won a non-professional drivers' series or a regional, national or international single-make lower category series organized by a Manufacturer

* has competed competitively in high-level international karting competitions

BRONZE DRIVER

* Any driver who was over 30 years old when his/her first license was issued, and who has little or no single-seater experience.

* Any driver over 30, previously categorized as Silver, but with no significant results (titles, pole positions or race wins) and whose performance has been shown to be that of a Bronze driver in a monitored series.

* Any driver under 30 years old with a license issued for the first time during the same year as their first categorization and who has not competed in high-level international karting competitions.

WHERE IS LOGAN

now that we have that info dump, let’s find out where Logan fits in

Logan is going to be racing the number 18 (Ls2 SAR18)

He is racing with IDEC Sport Racing LMP2

His teammates (all three will be racing under #18)

Jamie Chadwick - 3x W Series Champion, Formula E test driver, Formula 1 Williams development driver, Indy NXT race winner

Mathys Jaubert - I don’t a lot but he is 19, finished in the top 3 of Porsche championships

Please feel free to correct me or add things in reblogs/replies :) I am very new so I will be learning with everyone 🙌

[onlyangel4]

Toto Wolff with wife reader. Lifting the shorter one up so they can be seen in photos and always teasing her about her height but only him could do it. No one else was allowed. Thanks!! :))

little one. toto wolff.

toto wolff x author wife!reader

in which you are five foot tall and toto finds it the cutest thing ever or a few moments with toto based on your height.

warnings- cursing. fluff. smut. size kink. unprotected sex in a very established relationship. fingering.

author's note: i know this request was meant to be cute and full of fluff but i may have gotten a little carried away. please do keep on sending requests, the more detailed the better! i write written fic and smaus for most of the grid and a handful of associated people.

"papa she is doing that thing again", jack spoke. your son had seen you pulling a chair over to the kitchen cabinets and knew exactly what you were about to do. something that your husband had made clear he did not like you doing.so jack had made a beeline to toto's home office to go and get his father so that he could deal with it and help you.

"okay son, i've got it from here", toto spoke a slight smirk on his lips. toto made his way through the house and to the kitchen where he found you on a chair that you had dragged next to the cabinet. "schatz", he tutted softly making your head whip round to look at him, "what have i told you about doing that"

"well i wanted biscuits and you put them at the top to hide them from jack and i couldn't reach them. and you are busy so i didn't want to bother you", you spoke still standing on the chair. "issue is i still can't reach them, they are right at the back", you spoke a pout now on your lips making your husband laugh.

"i'll get them but first get down", toto spoke his arms wrapping around your waist and effortlessly moving you from the chair and onto the ground. he then reached up and easily found the biscuits placing them in your awaiting hands.

"you need to stop doing that, you could fall and break your neck"

"don't be dramatic toto", you spoke shaking your head at your husband. he approached you his arms wrapping around your waist pulling you into him so he could place a kiss on your forehead. "i just worry schatz"

"i know but not all of us are blessed with being six foot five", you laughed softly.

"i will get people to lower the cupboards if it makes you stop climbing on the counter like a cat little one", he laughed softly.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

deep down toto loved the height difference between you both you were so small so delicate especially contrasting against toto's hulking figure. it was so obvious a fairy and her giant.

toto was completly captivated by it and there were sometimes where toto could not help himself.

this particular time toto had come home from work to find walking around the house in just one of his white button up shirts with only your favourite white lace thong underneath it. you had been icing cupcakes that jack had helped you make before your parents had come to pick him up for the weekend. you had icing sugar dashed across your forehead, hair pulled up into the messiest ponytail to keep it away from your eyes.

toto cleared his throat alerting you to his presence. your face turned to look at him, "evening love", you chirped looking at him, "the kitchen is a bit of a state jack wanted to make cupcakes before going to see my mama but we didn't have enough time to ice them", you spoke but from toto's gaze you could tell that he was looking at you but not listening, "you alright love, what are you thinking?"

"that i should burn all of your clothes so you have to wear mine all the time", it was so matter of fact, a bold statement from your husband. once that made you blush. you moved to approach him, your arms tugging at his collar so he would bend down to kiss you. which he did. but usually these kisses after work were an innocent greeting but this one was anything but. there was heat behind the movement of toto's mouth. he was putting his all into the kiss, his hands moved to your waist large hands gripping handfuls of your ass. as he pulled away from the kiss he looked down at you, "i need you now little one. is anything in the oven?", he spoke not wanting to cause a fire in the house. when you shook your head that was the green light that he needed to pick you up by your waist and you wrapped your legs around his waist.

toto quickly walked you both to the bedroom, once inside he pressed your back against the wall and allowed his lips to run up and down your neck nibbling and biting at it, glad that you were currently in the middle of writing a book so you had no public appearances, meaning that he could leave all the marks he wanted to on your skin. he kissed from your neck back up to your ear, "I am going to fuck you in my shirt schatz", he whispered huskily in your ear. his eyes were blown with lust as he moved to throw you down onto the bed, this manhandling making a wetness form between your legs.

you loved being reminded of your husband's strength and simple acts like this were the perfect examples of this. you laid back on the bed watching as your husband moved to hover over you, "you look so pretty in my shirt little one. it swamps you and you look so perfect. makes me want to fuck you just so you know how much i love you."

"i know how much you love me toto"

"sh just let me show you", he whispered as his hands moved to bunch the shirt up at your waist revealing your clothed pussy to him, "isn't she pretty", he cooed as he pulled the flimsy white lace down your legs discarding it on the floor. toto placed a kiss on the inside of each of your thighs before he moved his thumb to your sensitive clit. he began to rub circles on your clit relishing in each moan that tumbled from your lips and the way that your hands fisted the bed sheets.

"let those moans out little one, i want to hear them", he spoke before pushing one finger into your pussy, thrusting it at a steady pace. "fuck, you are so fucking tight princess, such a good girl taking it for me", he praised.

"toto", you whined, this was the warning that your orgasm was near, so he began to use more pressure on your clit as he fingered you and soon enough that wave of pleasure came crashing down on you soundtracked by a moan of his name leaving your lips.

toto was feral by this point, all he wanted was to be inside of you, and you knew it. so you moved your hands down to the belt holding his slacks up and unbuckled it. he then helped you pull his trousers down. he was rock hard. "i can't wait to be inside of you my love", he spoke softly before kissing you again, full of love and passion.

toto tapped your clit with his cock before he pushed inside of you, an all to familiar groan falling from his lips as he did so. you were so tight, fucking you after all of these years still felt like that day he took your virginity. it was such a perfect feeling to be so deeply connected with his wife.

toto set a steady pace with his hips, he still had his shirt on and you were still wearing that button down that made him go feral. you were so desperate for him that you did not care that you were still fully clothed. "that's my girl. taking me so good", you growled in your ear as his hips pistoned against you. your back arched the feeling of pleasure washing over your body. getting to be intimate like this with the man that you loved was such a blissful feeling, it left your mind reeling.

toto bit down on your neck hoping to leave a pretty little mark there and that was the point where you lost all control, "toto", you moaned softly, "i'm so close"

"i know schatje, i know", he whispered softly in your ear, "come with me darling"

and with that your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks a loud moan falling from your bitten lips, that was all toto needed to push him over the edge and he found himself emptying inside of you.

"such a good girl", he praised, "you always take me so well", he spoke as he pulled out peppering kisses along your neck as he did so before he pulled you into his arms letting his body protect yours.

you both laid there incredibly content and so unbelievably in love.

[wandascrush]

Is it really you?

Pairing: Sharon Carter x f!reader, Avengers x f!reader, Natasha Romanoff x f!reader, HYDRA x f!reader

Part 11 of the DIWK series!

Tag list: @esposadejoyhuerta @kissesfornat @ayrtonwilbury @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff @caffeine-pup @seventeen-x @blacatto

Warnings: violence, murder, guns, blood, explosions, fire

It had taken Sharon four months, but she finally found you.

The lead had come from a corrupt Europol contact—one she had to break fingers to get talking.

A flash drive, encrypted with information on something called Project Nightshade. HYDRA had set up an operation deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Remote. Isolated. Off the grid. The kind of place you disappear into and never come out.

It was only when she finished reading that she realized you were the project.

Carter spent weeks monitoring the perimeter, tracking movements, listening to intercepted comms. The base was heavily fortified, tighter than even some old SHIELD black sites. HYDRA wasn't just hiding a prisoner.

They were hiding a prized possession. They were hiding you- Asset Nightshade.

Cold hands tightened around the scope of her sniper rifle, positioned on a high ridge overlooking the facility. She had no backup, no official sanction. Just herself, her weapons, and you at the end of this mission.

She peered through her scope, scanning the compound’s exterior.

Armed patrols at every entrance. Sniper nests on the rooftops.

Security drones circling the perimeter.

Getting in was going to be a nightmare.

Getting out with you?

Even worse.

Her earpiece crackled—an old mercenary contact she had bribed for blueprints.

"Carter, you got about a ten-minute window during shift rotation. After that, they lock it down tight."

Sharon exhaled slowly, lowering her rifle.

Ten minutes. That was all she’d have.

"Ten’s all I need," she muttered, pulling down her mask and slipping down the ridge.

Sharon moved through the forest like a shadow, boots silent against the damp ground. The air was sharp with the scent of pine and rain-soaked earth. She timed her movements with the shifting patrols, slipping between blind spots, ducking beneath sensor towers.

The moment the guard at the back exit turned his head, she struck.

A knife to the throat.

A quiet, clean kill.

She dragged his body into the shadows, stripping him of his access card.

——————-

The facility was a fortress. Deep underground, lined with reinforced steel, the kind of place where things went in and never came out.

But Sharon wasn’t looking for a way in.

She was looking for a way out.

She found you in a cell guarded by two burly men—

The guards fell easily. It was almost disappointing.

You didn’t react when the cell door hissed open.

You should. Your training demands it. But there’s no tension in your shoulders, no shift in posture. Just blankness.

You sit on the metal cot, hands resting on your thighs, still as stone.

Sharon steps in, gun raised, breath tight in her chest.

She barely recognizes you.

Your hair is damp, messy from sweat. Your face thinner. Shadows cling to the hollows of your cheeks, and bruises bloom beneath your skin like wilted roses. But still, Sharon thinks to herself, still beautiful.

“Y/N,” she whispered, her voice tight with urgency.

Your head lifted slightly, eyes unfocused.

Recognition flickered—but not enough.

Sharon’s stomach twisted. They had done something to you.

She knelt beside you, hands gripping your face. “Listen to me. It’s me. It’s Sharon.”

You blinked slowly.

“You’re an intruder.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

“No, no, no. Not an intruder, L/N.”

A flicker of softness flashed in your eyes, a moment of recognition from your last name.

Sharon’s voice softens, but only for a second, “Yeah babe, that’s right. It’s me, I’m your friend. And we need to move.”

When you didn’t immediately stand, she pulled you up, throwing your arm over her shoulder.

The moment your legs buckled, she knew—they had weakened you. Drugged you. Rebuilt you.

But they hadn��t taken all of you.

Not yet.

Sharon shoved a gun into your shaking hands. She trusted you wouldn’t hurt her.

“Think you can still shoot?”

Your fingers curled around the grip automatically. Muscle memory. Second nature.

You exhaled shakily.

She watches as your hands flex—calm, methodical—ready for a fight if need be. But there’s no recognition in your face.

No hesitation.

No warmth.

Only the mechanical precision of a weapon awaiting orders.

She swallows hard, her heart breaking in real time.

“Lets get the fuck out of here.”

Your gaze flickers, an almost imperceptible shift, but she catches it

A small crack.

But then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say flatly.

Sharon doesn’t hesitate.

She raises her gun and aims it right at your forehead.

“You don’t get a choice.”

Her voice is firm, her grip steady. But inside, she’s terrified.

The alarm blasts through the facility and chaos erupts. The sound of boots running starts to grow close.

They know. Fuck, they’re coming.

Sharon curses under her breath, grabbing your wrist. “Move.”

You don’t resist. Not exactly. But you don’t comply either. Your training demands submission to orders—and right now, there are two voices in your head.

One is Sharon Carter.

The other is the voice of HYDRA. Your maker.

Your steps are too silent, too controlled, moving like a predator as she drags you through the corridors. No fear. No hesitation.

Even in escape, you are efficient.

A beauty designed to obey.

Shots whiz past, bullets pinging off the metal walls as guards flood into the corridors.

Sharon ducks behind cover, returns fire with deadly precision, taking out two men before yanking you down with her. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps. “Help me!”

But you just stare at her.

Your fingers flex—your mind foggy, uncertain. You were always trained to protect, to fight.

And then—

A voice crackles through the HYDRA comms, sharp and authoritative.

“Agent Nightshade. Don’t disobey your makers.”

Your body seizes. Breath hitching.

Another, sickly sweet voice cracks through the comms, “Sister’s Keeper.”

In an instant—your brain goes blank.

Sharon sees it happen. Watches the point of control in your eyes get ripped away.

You strike first.

A kick, inhumanly fast, meant to take her down.

Sharon barely blocks, stumbling backward, disbelief flooding her veins.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N!”

But you’re already moving.

It’s like you can’t even hear her.

Her gun is kicked from her hands before she can react.

The fight is brutal. Precise. You don’t miss.

But neither does she.

You were trained together, years ago. Before the Avengers. Before the lies. Before all of this shit.

Sharon knows your patterns like the back of her hand.

But this dark, grimey, underworld has changed you.

She blocks a blow aimed for her throat—

And makes a split-second decision.

She doesn’t dodge.

Your fist slams into her jaw, and she crumples.

You stand over her, chest heaving, fingers trembling. Your body stills. Your mind flickers. The world slows.

Sharon Carter is on the ground.

You put her there.

The fog in your brain stumbles, just slightly. Something pangs in your chest, not physical pain. But sadness.

Her voice, hoarse, breaks through the static.

“You’re still in there.”

Your vision swims. The alarms blare.

Sharon reaches up, pressing something into your palm. A small silver device.

A trigger.

She gasps, coughing from the impact, but her eyes never leave yours.

“Press it, Y/N.”

Both sides of you are screaming

You press it. And the entire HYDRA facility explodes.

The walls around you shudder, a deep groan echoing through the underground facility as fire licks up the hallways, chasing oxygen like a starving animal.

You’re still standing. Somehow.

Your breath comes out in ragged gasps, and something unfamiliar twists in your chest.

Emotion.

The numbness isn’t gone—but it’s cracking. Fractured.

And Sharon is still there.

She’s coughing, one hand pressed to her ribs, but she’s alive. Alive because you didn’t finish the fight. Alive because you stopped.

She stares at you through the smoke.

“Y/N,” she rasps, voice fraying at the edges. “We have to move.”

You hesitate.

Your body can’t move. The trigger words won’t allow it.

But the base is burning. Second by second, the walls crumble and flame.

And the only voice left in your head now is hers. Samantha’s.

Sharon knows she has little to no time left, and in your frozen state she whips the back of your head with her gun. Your limp body is practically thrown over her shoulder like a rag.

She carries you through the ruins of your prison, her legs are so tired they nearly give out.

You two are so close to an exit tunnel when someone pops out of the smoke and dust.

A slow clap echoes throughout the burning hallways.

“Touching,” Samantha’s voice coos, sickly sweet and venomous. “The rogue little blonde came all this way for the broken one.”

Sharon’s spine goes rigid.

Still holding you in one arm, she slowly reaches into the back of her belt with the other—fingers wrapping around the grip of her sidearm.

Samantha steps through the hallway, firelight dancing along the steel of her knife.

“I should’ve known you’d come for her,” Samantha muses, circling closer. “I always wondered what happened to that little SHIELD rat. The one who didn’t quite belong anywhere. Auntie Peggy must be oh-so disappointed.” She feigns a pout.

“Funny,” Sharon murmurs, rising to her feet and easing your unconscious body gently behind a half-fallen support beam. Her voice is steady. Low. Lethal. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Samantha grins. “She was always going to belong to us. You never stood a chance. Project Nightshade has been years in the making. By coincidence, Y/N came to us, betrayed us, and became our perfect weapon. It was meant to be.”

Sharon lifts her gun.

Samantha lunges.

It’s fast—almost too fast—but Sharon is faster.

The first bullet catches Samantha in the side.

The second one lands in her leg.

She stumbles, but keeps coming, teeth bared, blade flashing. “She’s ours”

Sharon ducks the swing, slams her boot into Samantha’s knee, right as a knife plunges itself into her ribs. A scream rips from her throat but she doesn’t stop, and fires again—this time point-blank.

The bullet tears through her chest.

Samantha staggers, choking on blood.

“I used to tell her about monsters like you,” the blonde slowly walks to look over Samantha’s body.

She tries to speak, but blood is gurgling out of her mouth and nose.

Sharon puts her last bullet between Samantha’s eyes.

She doesn’t look back.

[study-diaries]

How To Study Multiple Subjects

As someone who had studied 4 subjects plus 2 languages and additional courses and extra curricular when i was homeschooled and in high school, obviously i got used to studying multiple subjects. It's fairly easy and interesting.

Here's the thing, multiple subjects is a blessing in disguise. It's easy to study many subjects because you have variety. Your brain loves variety. So, here's some tips...

Maintain Good Study Material

The mistake most students make is that they don't have the basic ground foundation. They don't know what's on the syllabus, how its structure is. Literally nothing. Many students i know, only search for their materials like two days before their exam and they panic. So, gather the following at the beginning of the school year/semester:

Textbooks (If you have any)

Practice papers

Previous year papers

Extra reading materials/ Reference books

If you don't have any textbooks. Go through the topics that you have and gather resources from different sources.

Different Notebooks For Every Subjects

I really don't understand the concept of using a single notebook for like 5-6 subjects. Like, you literally can't manage it. Even if you divide sections in the book, it will get confusing and sometimes the pages won't even be enough. So, just get a notebook for each subject. It will help you stay organized.

Divide Subjects.

Every subject is learnt and graded in a different way. You can’t use the same study techniques for every subject you have. You have mostly 3 types of subjects:

Memorization based

Practical/Question based

Theory/Essay based

You use different study techniques for different subjects. Memorization based subjects require more revision. Practical/Question based subjects require more practice. Theory based subjects require you to learn how to format your information.

Read up more: Division Of Subjects

Easy VS Difficult Subjects For You

Take a paper and write all your subjects. Now, draw a line and write your difficult subjects on one side and easy subjects on the other side. And then rate it from the most interesting to the most boring and categorize it. And then rank them on which ones take the same place. You'll get an idea of where you stand with your subjects and now you can study accordingly.

2 Subjects Per Day

This is the most important one i always recommend. If you're studying, then only 2 subjects per day should be taken up for it. Pair an interesting subject with a lighter one. If you hate accounts or find it difficult but you love English, then that's your combo. Make combinations and write them down. You can change them any day based on mood or you can keep them the same. It's up to you.

Standard Subject

I usually like to have at least one standard subject every day. That was accounts for me because i was so bad at it. The goal is not to ignore the subject until it is harder than usual. The goal is to study it every day. That subject must be your weakest one.

Breaks

Breaks are really necessary. I advise you to not allot a certain time limit for the break. Rather take a break when you actually feel tired. If you've worked for 2 hours straight, then you deserve an hour of rest. If you worked for just 30 mins and you feel tired, take 15 mins as your break. Divide your work time by half and that is your break time.

Subject Alignment With Energy

Your weakest subject must be done in your highest energy in order for you to grasp the actual concepts. That's the main aspect of it. Low energy = Easy subjects. High energy = Harder subjects. You have to identify your core energy grids and align your subjects accordingly.

Chunk Information

Group all your facts together. Instead of studying like everything is completely unrelated, study like it's all connected. If you want to learn something, chunk all your facts together. Create a visual chunk. Make everything related.

Use Mnemonics & Storytelling

Learn with these two. These help you to remember easily. Make stories and catchy phrases to remember points/facts. These are like the building blocks of studying anything. Stick small notes to your books writing the small stories and phrases beside the topic so the next time you want to revise it, it's easy.

Cheat Sheets

Create small cheat sheets. Write them down. No digital notes. Because you have physical copies. Make formulae sheets, theories, everything for every subject you are learning and keep them in different folders. Don't mix your sheets. You'll get overwhelmed. During revision, this will help a lot.

Fake Exams & Improvement Sheets

Create a fake exam environment. Sit on your desk with a timer, take a question paper and act as if you're actually writing the exam. Do this at least once and note everything. How much time you take to answer each question. What are your mistakes. Which section is your weakest. Note them down and most importantly, your overall improvements you should make.

For me, I did this for accounts, and it gave me so much clarity especially the improvements. I used to go through this improvement sheet before my actual exam and i did not repeat even a single mistake again. The trick is to keep updating the sheet by adding improvements from your actual exams too.

Testing At Random Times

I did this mostly during travel time. If i learnt a specific topic some time ago. And if i had nothing to do then I'd just mentally ask myself a question about that topic and answer it. Many times, even i am surprised the questions i ask, it gives a deep understanding of the topic. I used to even connect it to other concepts. Ask questions relating both. It's even better if you jump from one subject to the other.

Connect Similar Topic

Connect all your related subjects. Everything in school is somehow connected. I usually used to connect economics and business studies concepts. Sometimes even computers so... Connect them.

Practice Subjects Need More Time

Subjects like Accountancy, Physics, Chemistry, Economics, Maths need more time because they are in one way more practical. They require practice. Whether it be experiments o through sums. Invest more time in these subjects.

PYQ's

Use past year question papers because nothing shows important topics like pyq's. Note and mark the repeated questions and review them repeatedly. This really helps.

Read up more: How do you actually use previous year question papers

__________________

Hope this helps :))

[obscure-entity]

your shading is AMAZING specially when its conveying organic forms..... do you have any tips for people who dont know wrf going on (with shading)

ok so HI. hi. my old tutorial pisses me off so i will make a new one

i made a guy whose sole purpose is to be shaded so dont worry he likes it. and his name. his name will be mr. Boob. mr boob does not have to be blue

theres probably way better explanations of how to do it but unfortunately trying to "emulate" shading does ask you to somewhat understand ur character in a 3d way. like what would the 2d shape be if you "sliced" it? mr boob is made of so many circles. his tail also does a kind of weird perspective foreshortening thing because its pointing at you. is this being conveyed

you obviuously dont have to draw a horrendous grid on your characters skin to do this . BUT it helps you put down (or at least envision) the lines of the form shading :

dont worry about cast shadows or the shading color because this is FORM SHADOW time only. think about what surfaces of the character are obviously facing away from the light source and put down the "separation line" of the shading based on that. thr most important thing is that youre trying to separate light from dark

im going to pick the first one for cast shadows bc it will be the most obvious to me

ok so. his ears and snout are blocking other surfaces of his body from the light, which means a shadow is cast!!!! bam. i saw someone describe cast shadows as what the light's pov "can't see." his entire body is putting down a cast shadow on the ground too

im impatient so i blended the form shadows now. its usually the easiest to just NOT blend cast shadows as a way of conveying that they are still cast shadows. but you can still blend them if you want to show "distance" between the obstruction and the surface its blocking. but its just a way of saying form and cast shadows should not be treated the same even if their softness coincides

im going to lump reflection and ambient light together because theyre like. similar. reflections dont just happen in mirrors

since the sky is blue, making the ambient lighting, i tinged mr. boobs existing shadow to be a bit blue. (*this is kind of important because it can help you decide a shading color, which should USUALLY be based on the environment) (unless your character is just in the transparent void then it doesnt matter)

since the ground is pink, i made pink light bounce off of him. pointed and labelled. i dont rlly know how to go more in depth than that

contact shadows are literally shadows formed from direct-touching contact. very little light can reach in there, even from how reflections disperse, which means youre free to use the darkest color available (black). in this case mr. boob is making contact with the floor. because he is sitting on the floor.

i touched him up a bit and wow!!!!!!!!!! look at mr. boob!!! he is so beautifully sculpted.

and one more thing

thats right. i made mr boob PINK. hes fucking ruined now. just kidding i would never say that to him

what im trying to convey here (its the easiest with really light colors) is a transitional color. this can also show subsurface scattering depending on how you use it which is fun to look at. the mistake i made on my last tutorial was "Just pick a warm saturated color!" which is really wrong in examples like Blue mr boob. because it would be weird to use a warm color to transition from blue to blue.

if you have a character that isn't bright enough then obviously the shadows wont be as visible. its BEST to bring more attention to highlights and reflections to reveal the form a bit. they play the biggest role with darker colors

thats all i can think of. fun things to look up:

structuralization + contour lines + foreshortening etc. 3d lingo

form shadows

cast shadows

ambient light

contact shadows

subsurface scattering

im also just speaking out of my ass otherwise. i didnt look up any of these terms until the end now im inferring and hoping i got them right

and remember every time you shade mr boob will be rooting for you

[akawifeyy]

reputation | smau (CS55)

description: ...and in the death of her reputation, she'd never felt more alive. the story of y/n l/n, and how one scandal altered her life forever.

tropes: us against the world, reinvention, age gap (25 and 30), mv33!ex, popstar!reader

face claim: sabrina carpenter

trigger warnings: suggestive content, swearing, hate speech & misogyny

| note: currently clowning as i wait for the release of reputation (taylor's version), so i wrote a fic based on it!

comments (9103):

@ user1: diabolical coming from a man who looks like sid the sloth 🤨

@ user2: I don't listen to Y/N L/N's music, but she deserves more credit than what Max is giving her.

-> @ user3: I agree, you don't get famous from nothing. she put in a lot of work and Max is invalidating that

@ user4: no way bro is reducing her to just a pretty face when he lacks that 🗣️

@ yourusername: was i just a fool?

tagged: @ yourbffusername

comments (3742):

@ user5: We love you Y/N 🫶

@ user6: don't listen to the haters y/n we absolutely adore you

@ yourbffusername: my flawless queen 👑

@ user7: Everything Max Verstappen says about you is true, you sound like a dying whale every time you open your mouth

comment deleted by @ yourusername

Interview with Max Verstappen (2025):

After being asked about his opinion on his ex — Y/N L/N —'s newest single, Max Verstappen grew visibly agitated and attempted to change the subject. When forced to reply, he scathingly responded, "She used me as a stepping stool to reach the next level of fame, and she got what she wanted. The past is in the past, and I don't care about her anymore."

comments (29458):

@ user3: Insinuating that Y/N slept with him to become famous is repulsive, and I hope Max gets what's coming for him

-> @ user8: didn't he literally cheat on y/n?? 😭

@ user9: "I don't care about her anymore" the eyes never lie chico, we know how you really feel

@ user10: I've never been a MV33 fan and this just adds fuel to the fire.

@ user11: can someone PLEASE explain to me what's going on? I know Max and Y/N were together at one point but I got grounded and had my phone taken away for a loooong time so I don't even know anything anymore 🙂‍↔️

-> @ user8: @ popculturetea just made an amazing timeline explaining everything!

@ yourusername's Private Instagram Story

@ popculturetea's Timeline

@ f1ynlover: mama y papa, mama y papa

tagged: @ carlossainzjr, @ yourusername

comments (4852):

@ user12: I bet Y/N doesn't wanna touch another F1 driver with a ten foot pole, but this pairing would absolutely devour 😜

-> @ user8: he would 100% match her freak

@ yourusername: i do love chili peppers 🌶️

@ yourusername: we're balling not bawling

tagged: @ yourproducer, @ carlossainzjr

comments (3832):

@ user13: OMG

@ yourproducer: Next big song is on the way!

@ user14: Carlos Sainz tagged is crazyyyy

-> @ user4: he's definitely the mystery man 🫣

Text messages between Carlos and Y/N (2025):

@ grillthegrid: The difference between Max Verstappen (c. 2022) and Max Verstappen (c. 2025). Crazy

tagged: @ f1, @ maxverstappen

comments (49325):

@ user15: NOT THE OFFICIAL GRILL THE GRID ACC PIPING IN ON THIS DRAMA

-> @ user16: it's the loss of y/n effect 🤗

@ user17: Cheating on Y/N will do that to you lmaoo

@ user18: Sid the sloth ahh 🥱🥱

@ carlossainzjr: F1 drivers were given a second chance, and I wasn't going to screw it up. Más que feliz de ser su pimiento picante para siempre. Happy 2 months, mi amor.

(More than happy to be her spicy pepper forever.)

tagged: @ yourusername

comments (7392):

@ yourusername: you're so much better <3

@ user1: soooo cute 🥲🥰

@ user19: Spicy pepper and firecracker, a dream made in heaven

-> @ user20: They're perfect for each other omg 🥹

─── ୨୧ ─── THE END ─── ୨୧ ───

[k-hippie]

SIMS 3 WORLD - LOST COVE 2025 ( bold redux )

First, few words related to howto with Lost Cove ;)

There will be 2 posts : one general about the World itself, the ANTS ( Absolute Necessary Things & Stuff ) - the CC used - the stories around Lost Cove - the DL link ... And then a second post related to Lots ( both residential and community ) - the credits - our own CC we made ( yep ... we made some xtra stuff for your eyes only ) <- incredible isn't it ? :D But let's start with some pictures ;)

No way to avoid it, this is a boldy bold update for the 10th anniversary, of Lost Cove, because it has been completely remade from scratch, based on an alternate Isla Paradisio, with new textures, new lots, new ( almost ) everything, and old cc fully remade to be sure to not loose anything this time ;) We tried to re-compose the old Lost Cove. But this time, we cleaned everything which had to be and left the Hidden Lots, the Dive Spots, 4 Ports, and even the Smuggler's Lair :D

Lost Cove has a whole story. And Lost Cove IS a whole story in itself ;)

Lost Cove is born in 2015, from a simple picture posted by SimCookie of their world : the famous and fantastic Sunset Died, an apocalyptic Sunset Valley world, 12 years ago. At this time, I never approached CAW and sims 3 worlds creation before. And frankly, I had no time for this. But the picture of the broken Twinbrook Hall was like an appeal … to do more with the best Sims franchise :D

I wrote to SimCookie to ask them if I may use the same way to place the Twinbrook broken Hall but into a complete different kind of world. They agreed. And so, I began working on Lost Cove during my vacations, based on an empty Isla Paradisio maxis world. I called it the Red Path project.

6 weeks long, I learned intensively the basics of CAW. My world was not intended to have a lot of lots, so I concentrated my efforts on textures, trees and objects. I failed a lot of exports. I used both CAW and Super CAW. I woke up at 6 in the morning each day, and worked on Lost Cove hours and hours, all days long :D And then, on a summer hot day, Lost Cove was there. At last ... May we say proudly Lost Cove is the natural child of Sunset Died ? YES !

Lost Cove is a post-apocalyptic world, swallowed by nature, forgotten by time. It all began 28 days after the Sunset Died event : no more electricity, no more roads, no more comfort. Just ruins, silence … and survival.

Like in every sci-fi book or movie, the Sims went too far. Maybe. It was an experiment gone wrong. Or a slow, quiet collapse under the weight of pollution and hubris. A virus ? A comet ? Nuclear fire ? No one really knows. The old world didn’t end with a bang, just a thousand overlapping catastrophes. And Before was over.

The world cracked open. The sea rose like a hand closing around the archipelago. Bridges collapsed. The downtown core sank. Entire neighborhoods vanished underwater. Only one broken road remains now : winding, overgrown, half-erased by time. The islands are no longer connected. No ferries. No cars. Just water, and what courage it takes to cross it. Most Sims never dared.

But nature didn’t wait. It took back everything. Technology ? Forgotten. Trees pushed through asphalt. Ferns choked stairwells. Roots claimed living rooms. Earthquakes opened old wounds in the ground, and storms swept away what was left standing. Power grids failed. Satellites went dark. Digital voices fell silent.

And amidst it all … the Sims adapted. They hid. They learned.

28 weeks later ... By 2020, we released a small and quick update. Nothing fancy just a nudge forward. Something had shifted. Sims weren’t just scavenging. They were rebuilding. Lost Cove had once been a small, tightly-woven community before the Fall. When the end came, many fled inland. They disappeared into the continent in search of family, safety, a future.

But others stayed. Maybe because they couldn’t leave. Maybe because they wouldn’t. A few were stubborn. A few were hopeful. A few were just too tired to start over somewhere else. So they stayed and planted seeds, literal and otherwise.

They started small. A gathering spot. A drink shared under candlelight. A warm body next to yours by the fire. The Bloody Way Bar came first. A place to talk, argue, cry. A spark in the dark. From there, ideas ... Rebuilding, on their own terms. No rules from the old world. No pretense. No mayor, no tourists, no schedule. Just something real. Something possible.

The Nature School came next; rough, messy, entirely unorthodox. A place to pass on what they remembered, and maybe invent something new. Nothing is like it was, but it was a start. And in Lost Cove, a start means everything.

28 months later ... And here we are, present day ;) Life is ( just barely ) better in Lost Cove ... Some homes have been patched up with scrap. The Dispensary is cleaner, stocked with whatever tinctures, herbs or bandages locals could gather. The Nature School is functional, if improvised. The streets ? Still nonexistent. The power grid ? A dream. Forget supermarkets. Forget cars, Forget comfort.

Your Sims hike, every time. Miles of forest, frost, or scorching sun between them and their destination. Every trip is a decision. Every hike is a risk. There are no easy visits, no casual get-togethers. Lost Cove is beautiful, brutal, and endlessly wild.

Winter hits hard. Snow blankets everything. Lakes freeze. Frostbite is real. Wander too far and you might never come back. Even summer, with its open skies and lush overgrowth, hides its dangers. There are forgotten places in Lost Cove — old ruins, sealed bunkers, silent islands — waiting to be uncovered. Not all of them should be.

Some Sims dream of electricity returning. Of clean water, instant noodles, digital music. Others say that dream is over. That the future lies not in recovery, but reinvention. A new way to live. One that belongs here, to this broken place. Tensions rise. Power is shifting, slowly. Questions are whispered in every fire-lit home : Can this fragile community hold together? Will the lights ever come back ? And what will the children of Lost Cove believe in ?

This 2025 Lost Cove update is more than just a patch: it’s a 10th anniversary redux ! As we previously said, we rebuilt Lost Cove from scratch using a heavily modified Isla Paradiso map. New terrain textures. New routing. New or remastered lots. More than 3500 hand-placed trees and plants. All previous custom content has been reworked, nothing lost this time ;D

Lost Cove has now 30 lots : 15 community lots ( + 2sheep fields ) and 15 residential lots. And there are still empty lots here and there :) Lost Cove is unpopulated. But we provide 2 save games :)

1 unpopulated file with very minor details change

1 populated file with different kind of families

The map retains its soul : the hidden islands, the dive spots, the collapsed downtown, and the iconic broken Hall. But there’s more. More decay, more discovery. More survivor hubs, weird spaces, overgrown secrets. We added new spots, simple gathering places for Sims to talk, dream, share — maybe even rebuild something better than before.

Play Lost Cove your way :

Long summers, short winters — for a gentler survival game ...

Harsh winters and sparse supplies — if you want full-on post-apocalyptic realism.

No libraries. No grocery stores. You want to eat ? Grow your own food or barter for it at the tiny Freshy Market. You want to learn ? Grab any rare books at the Oldy Flee Market. You want to live on water ? Build a houseboat. You want to live in the wild ? There’s plenty of space. You want to change the future ? Start now.

You want a more grungy despair ambiance ? Uglify the world.

Lost Cove is yours to rewrite ... In Lost Cove, every journey is different ... Will you build a peaceful village ? A cult ? A commune ? Will you try to bring back the old world ? Or bury it for good ?

Freeze it, evolve it, change it. Make it breathe. And have Fun !

LOST COVE : ANTS & CC YOU NEED

We made a folder with everything which improve the Lost Cove gameplay :)

the ANTS are :

Cyclonesue | Airlock Doors, Windows and Decor

Cyclonesue | Banged Up! Prison Build Set

Cyclonesue | Barbed and Chickenwire Fences

Cyclonesue | Decor for Factory Windows

Cyclonesue | Factory Windows

Cyclonesue | Industrial Tanks and Silos

Cyclonesue | Porta-Potty portable toilets

Cyclonesue | Scaffold-Truss and Steel Columns

Murano - gazstation fuelcan

Murano - gazstation gasbottle

Murano - gazstation gaspump

ATS3 object_festival counter

ATS3 object_festival general register

ATS3 object_julesvernepark stairs

ATS3 object_uglifyyourtown concrete bench

ATS3 object_uglifyyourtown concrete barrier

ATS3 pattern_metal destroy

blackysimszoo-Fischnetz

blackysimszoo-Fischstaender1

blackysimszoo-Fischstaender2

blackysimszoo-FishermansDekoZaun1

blackysimszoo-FishermansDekoZaun2

blackysimszoo-Ruderboot5

blackysimszoo-Ruderboot6

BuffSumm LineaNatura Arch

Cemre PoorandHappy-OldSofa

Gosik Bordeaux Standing Glasses

Murfeel TW3 sheep pack

Granny Zaza Metro Floor1 by GZ

Granny Zaza Metro Floor2 by GZ

Granny Zaza Metro Walls4 by GZ

Granny Zaza Metro Walls5 by GZ

( we put both .sims3packs & .packages for those ones )

Store : AlFrescoMarketSet

k-hippie square Rabbit Holes

1 CC folder with packages to put into your mods/packages folder

( this one is not mandatory or ANTS since many things are encapsulated into the world and every lot via .sims3packs, but we strongly recommend to use it. It's almost the one we use in all our worlds :) Very useful indeed ! )

Due to the difficulty sometimes to get the good links for many things related to the Sims 3 stuff, most of the whole cc stuff is included into the cc folder provided. Some others are just links for a direct download :) So, always thanks the all mighty creators who made a fantastic work for our pleasure since 2009 :

Awesims - Blams - Bluefunk - Gamefreak130 - Jynx - Misty - Nilxis - Qahne - SimAddix - sweetdevil

A quick word for those who are used to play our Sims 3 Worlds : we almost always use the same cc. So you won't have to replace the whole cc ! Just have a quick look ... in case ;)

Inside the packages folder : there are our UPDATED patterns : they are not mandatory at all. We modified the old Lost Cove lots to be free cc compliant BUT ... We made a bunch of 46 walls and 2 floors in a full destroy/metal/oldstone style :D Have fun to use them to recolor containers and houses :D

Oh ! Almost forgot !!! Lost Cove ( and our other worlds ) have now their OWN loading screen ( see the related post ) ... We included the file into the cc packages folder. It's really really great :)

Gamefreak130_LoadingScreenOverhaul

And now ... Welcome to Lost Cove ! :D

Download Lost Cove ( World )

Download Lost Cove ( CC )

Download Lost Cove ( Save Games )

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