#Concrete Mix Machine

[mudmixersblog]

Mobile & Electric Concrete Mixers For Sale

https://mudmixer.com/ - When you have a DIY construction project or you own a small construction business, mixing concrete is essential. Do you enjoy how labor intensive it can be? Surely, the standard wheelbarrow method or using a cumbersome barrel mixer isn't ideal. You've probably just been tolerating it, right? How else are you going to get the job done? What if you could decrease labor requirements, increase efficiency, get rid of those annoying mixing methods, and end up with a continuous and easy-to-clean mixing system?

Introducing the MudMixer!

The MudMixer® is the most easy-to-use, fast operating, multi-use mixer on the market today among portable electric concrete mixers for sale. Featuring a fully-adjustable water input designed to be used with concrete, mortar, stucco, grout, and more – it quickly and effortlessly provides reliable consistency wherever it’s needed. The market's fastest, easiest multi-use mixer, processing 45 80lb bags an hour, featuring innovative water input, transforming tasks, eliminating inconsistency, reducing workload by over 50%, and securing more projects with continuous mixing technology for increased earnings. With this mixer, you can achieve reliable material consistency in a quick and effortless manner. The MudMixer® was built with durability in mind. Its heavy-duty, high-strength steel body surrounds a powerhouse of components supported by two large Marathon flat-free tires. All this comes together to create the only one-of-its-kind mud mixing machine. It’s sure to decrease labor costs and increase the number of jobs completed all to save you time, money, and energy.

For questions about our electric mixer for sale, including our portable concrete mixer price, call 806.515.4683 or email orders@mudmixer.com.

[constructionequipments]

Inline Concrete Batching Plant Manufacturer in India

Weber Construction Machinery is a leading manufacturer & supplier of inline concrete batching plants in Ahmedabad, India. Our stationary type concrete mixing plant delivers high-quality concrete with the output capacity of 30 m3/hr.

[bangur]

Concrete Mix Design: The Role of Cement Mixer Trucks and Machines

In any construction project, it is very necessary to get the right type of concrete. Concrete mix design is the process that helps builders decide the exact proportions of cement, sand, aggregates, water, and sometimes chemical admixtures so as to ensure that the concrete meets the strength, durability, and setting time required for the job. Once the mix is ready that is the time when a cement mixer truck comes into play so as to transport the concrete to the site while keeping it fresh and workable.

What is concrete mix design?

Concrete mix design is the process of deciding how much cement, water, sand, gravel, and any extra additives should be used to make concrete that’s just right for a particular job. The goal is to create a mix that’s strong enough, lasts long, and is easy to work with and the proportions are carefully chosen to suit the specific needs of the project.

[smitholivers]

Concrete batching plant working - Atlas Technologies

This video shows the working of concrete batching plant. This is a ready mix machine of 60 cum per hour capacity.

[libingan]

IM BACKKKKKKKK

i was rewatching b99 and theres this one scene w captain holt that gave me the inspiration to write LMAO

something about reader being able to read simon like an open book is just so amusing to me

the base is buzzing with its usual sounds—radios crackling, distant chatter, boots hitting the floor in rhythmic patterns. you’re used to it all by now, the routines and rhythms, the way everyone moves around each other like parts of a well-oiled machine. today, though, there's an odd tension in the air, a stiffness lingering on the faces of the others.

you spot johnny and gaz huddled together, throwing glances at ghost, who stands near the far wall, still as a statue. he’s in full gear, mask in place, eyes dark and unreadable beneath the skull pattern. his shoulders are squared, his stance firm, his gaze fixed somewhere distant. there’s a quiet intensity to him that feels like it could crack concrete if he willed it. with his arms crossed over his chest, the black fabric of his sleeves stretching over his muscles, he looks every bit the silent, unapproachable specter he’s known to be.

johnny tilts his head in ghost’s direction, muttering something to gaz, who nods back, looking genuinely concerned. you drift closer, catching pieces of their conversation as johnny’s low, accented voice reaches you. “tell me that doesn’t look like a man on the edge,” he says, eyeing ghost. “i don’t remember the last time i saw him lookin’ this grim.”

“maybe he got some bad news,” gaz adds, brows furrowed. “you think he’s about to lose it?”

you glance over at ghost again, taking in the hard line of his jaw beneath the mask, the set of his shoulders, the way he seems to radiate an intensity that could send most people scurrying. but to you? nothing feels particularly unusual. you’ve seen ghost like this enough times to know when he’s actually having a rough day—and this isn’t it. so you shrug, looking back at johnny and gaz with a small smirk.

“bad day?” you say, trying not to laugh. “he’s in a good mood.”

the two of them whip their heads to stare at you, disbelief clear on their faces. “a good mood?” johnny echoes, brows shooting up. “that—ye’re tellin’ me that right there’s him happy?”

“yep.” you give a simple nod. “trust me. i can tell.”

johnny and gaz share a bewildered look, glancing back at ghost with renewed confusion. “so… that’s his version of cheery?” gaz says, more to himself than anyone else.

before they can keep speculating, ghost’s gaze shifts over, locking onto the three of you. there’s no warmth in it, but there’s a strange steadiness, a weight, that makes it clear he’s noticed your conversation. he starts toward you, his steps slow, measured, each one landing with the faintest thud on the concrete floor. when he reaches you, he stops just a few feet away, gaze flicking to johnny.

johnny clears his throat, glancing nervously at gaz before finally blurting out, “l.t., we were just wonderin’... somethin’ wrong today?”

ghost’s eyes narrow slightly, and his head tilts just a fraction. “wrong?” he repeats, sounding almost amused. “no. i’m havin’ a good day, actually. got an extra hour of sleep this morning.”

you can feel the stunned silence coming off johnny and gaz, both of them frozen as they process the idea that ghost—a man they’re used to seeing as an impenetrable wall of silence and scowls—has just announced he’s in a good mood. you can’t help the grin that creeps onto your face as you turn to them.

“told you so,” you say, crossing your arms.

johnny looks from you to ghost, and back again, a mix of disbelief and exasperation coloring his expression. “bloody hell,” he mutters, shaking his head. “how… how d’ye know that?”

you just shrug, catching ghost’s gaze for a brief second. there’s no clear expression there, but you swear there’s the slightest glint in his eyes, a hint of something only you seem to recognize. you don’t need words or explanations—you just know.

[memorycycle]

(at the construction site) hey man can u mix this concrete for me

my buddy: yea

my buddy: (turns the machine on and hears what sounds like me giggling from inside the mixer)

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 19

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

A.N: I have recieved such wonderfull messages! You guys are the absolute best! I really appreciate it! I love reading your thoughts and comments about the story! Keep 'em coming!

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16 • Part 17 • Part 18

• ··········· • ············ •

The first sense that came to you was smell. A mix of antiseptic, alcohol, and cleaning products. It was pungent enough to give your brain a jolt and bring you back from the land of darkness and silence.

Next came the noises. Distant conversations, the click-clack of shoes on the ceramic floor, whispers coming and going, beeping machines, and the constant sound of light snores.

With a sigh, you opened your eyes. The room was bathed in evening low light, giving you enough light to scan the room, but not being soft enough not to give you a massive headache.

You recognize the patterned tiles adorning the lower half of the wall in front of you. Pilltover’s General Hospital. The proximity to the Academy made it the go-to choice for any accident that needed immediate care. However this time, instead of the common wards, you'd been taken to a nice private room.

As you kept looking around the room you noticed flowers adorning the bedside table and a mop of brown hair lying on the side of your bed. 

Viktor was hunched uncomfortably on a dodgy hospital chair. Head facing away from you, on top of his arms, and snoring softly. Sometimes one of his fingers would stroke your arm softly. 

You lifted a heavy hand and stroked Viktor’s hair softly, entangling your fingers on his tresses and flexing your fingers gently on his scalp. He made a small throaty sound of satisfaction and after a few seconds of this makeshift scalp massage, he turned his sleepy eyes to you. Somewhere between being hazy from whatever drugs they'd given you and being drained from using the rune, you found it was a good idea to keep your hand on Viktor.

As he laid his head back down on his crossed arms, you let your hand fall on his cheek, stroking the top of it slowly. He blinked lazily and stifled what looked to be a painful yawn.

“What happened?” Your voice was croaky and slurred.

He blinked again, trying to keep the sleep away, but allowed your hand to warm his cold face.

“You got hurt. Instead of Sky.” He spoke softly, his golden eyes moving around your face. “There was something in the room. A rune I presume.”

You nodded and craned your neck to look at the ceiling as if the white concrete would help you remember. And when a flash of a rune appeared there, it did jump-start the memory reel of that event.  Bolts on the wall, Sky on the floor, the rune, the lack of control over your body, the transference of injuries.

Instinctively you moved your hand to touch the place where the wounds were, hidden under the blankets.

“Don’t.” Viktor's hand twitched but didn't move past that. The look in his eyes though was enough for you to stop. “Please, let it heal.”

"It doesn't hurt." You noted as if that meant anything other than the hospital supply of painkillers was doing its job.

"There is still blood on the tile cracks" He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. "A very ugly shade of brown I might add."

"I'm sorry." You stroke his cheek, grabbing his attention again. He opened his eyes again and shook his head.

"I have a suspicion you were unaware of the results of the rune. So, in all senses and purposes, it wasn't your fault."

“I imagine the council is having a field day with this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it." He moved his head again, so his forehead was touching his arms, his eyes hidden from you and his voice muffled. "Jayce is taking care of the needs of the council.”

“How bad is it?” You raised an eyebrow, as you placed a strand of hair behind his ear.

“I may have threatened Salo’s well-being if he threw the word incompetent around one more time.” YOu heard a groan coming from him and tried your best not to chuckle, but something next to a snort came out and he looked up at you. “No…no. Do not laugh. It is not funny. I threatened the life of a Council member. ”

“I would have paid good money to see that.”  The tiniest smile appeared on his face, but he forced it away. “How’s Jayce? Sky? Oh Gods...my mother..."

Viktor sighed again, moving his head so his chin was touching his arm instead of his cheek. You placed your hand on top of his cold one. His thumb intertwined with yours.

“Jayce has been driving himself mad with guilt over hurting Sky and you. It's a bit unnecessary now that the deed is done, but he's a stubborn one.” He turned his gaze to you, softening his golden eyes to almost liquid form. “Your mother has been trying to keep calm, but having another one of her children in the hospital must bring back bad memories. I believe once she knows you are awake and in good spirits, she’ll relax.”

“And Sky?” 

“Miss Young is certain she was the one impaled. We’ve been trying to convince her that it was probably the shock of seeing the accident, but she's adamant. Perhaps when you get a chance you might want to talk to her about it.”

“And you?” You poked his jaw with a finger and he frowned.

“Well, two people almost died in my lab because my fool of a partner forgot the basic safety precautions over his hurt ego.” It was like a dam broke and Viktor rambled, his eyebrows furrowing and his eyes shifting away. “I'm rediscovering my dislike for hospitals. You know, I have been sitting in this chair for 2 days. It’s uncomfortable and squeaky. I was tempted to ask Jayce to bring me my bench."

"You could've gone home." You suggested and let out a puff of air.

"You were hurt and there was nothing I could do but watch, so...I watched. I must say, I don’t like that very much…You being hurt and me not being able to help.”

Viktor took a deep breath and you knew he was about to continue with the exhaustion-motivated tirade. You reached for his ear and tugged it gently, making him look at you a stop his rant before it began.

“We’re fine. I just feel like I want to sleep for a week. There’s no pain and we are all alive and kicking.” You smiled gently and he rolled his eyes in both defeat and exhaustion, but mostly exhaustion.

“Please don’t do it again.” He leaned into your hand.

“I'll try.” You offered him a reassuring smile and he nodded.

"Good enough."

The door to the room opened and Viktor quickly straightened his back, a little too quickly judging by the pained look on his face. 

“You know…” A familiar-looking nurse walked inside, not looking up from the clipboard in her hands. “It would have been nice to know who you were the first time around.”

You chuckled slowly at her very faint accent. Viktor eyebrows raised at her and looked between you two confused and curious.

“I thought throwing family names around when I was cuffed to a bed would seem a little pedantic.” 

The nurse nodded and grinned, placing the clipboard at the foot of the bed, throwing a glance at Viktor, who was watching everything like a hawk. She squinted at him and then looked at you.

"So you did know each other...interesting." She gave him a cryptic smile and looked back at you. “I am Nurse Alena. I’ll be checking in on you while you are staying with us.”

“How formal.” You joked, she rolled her eyes.

“You are no longer cuffed to a bed.” She grinned and walked over to the side of the bed Viktor was. "I have to keep my views and personal preferences in check now."

You made a defiant sound in your throat as she rolled her eyes. Viktor had to move away a few feet. She showed you her gloved hands and you sighed.

“You’re going to hate this part, but I have to do it.” You nodded as she placed her hands on your face and grabbed a tiny flashlight. “So, which was it?”

“What?” As soon as her hands touched your face, your head started to become weary, and hyper-vigilant.

“The true reason for you to be here.” She placed a hand on the side of your face and you gasped, almost whined. “According to some people, it was just a simple accident at the Tallis Lab. But! according to the rumors...well...”

You heard Viktor huffing and shuffling around to get to the other side of the bed. When he reached you, you felt his fingers lightly trace the back of your hand in a soothing pattern. Alena’s hand shifted from the telltale golden hues.

“What rumors?” You asked, your voice showing obvious signs of distress. 

“Well…we have an assassination attempt by a Zaunite as a middle finger to Topsiders.” She pulled away, earning a relieved sigh for you, and counted with her fingers. “There’s the one where a machine turned against the people in the lab and you saved them…again. My favorite though? A lover's quarrel between you three and the other pretty councilor.”

“That one is your favorite?” Viktor’s voice was a mix of curiosity and judgment.

“Of course. The drama. The affair...It's a very topside reason to end up in the hospital.” She winked at you and you grinned at her, stealing a glance at Viktor's appalled face.

“There was no lover’s quarrel…or assassination attempt…Someone was hurt!” Viktor’s eyebrow knotted in his forehead as he argued indignantly.

“So it was the machine.” The nurse raised her eyebrows and squinted her eyes at him and you tried to chuckle, as she stepped away, clicking her light off.

“No…and I would appreciate it if you and everyone else would stop circulating such preposterous notions.” You saw a redness come in his pale cheeks as he argued.

“Lanky and cranky…deadly combination.” She looked at you impressed, a smug grin on her face.

Viktor opened his mouth to retort back, but sighed, probably realizing that he was in fact both cranky and lanky.

"I apologize. I am in fact...both lanky and cranky."

"Quite alright. I would be too if I'd refuse to leave this chair for the last couple of nights." Alena's expression softened.

He placed his hands on the mattress and leaned into them. His face was a mask of resignation and tiredness. It saddened you to see him like this. A shadow of the other Viktor dangling in front of your vision. A constantly tired and in pain Viktor.

In, what you thought was a bold, yet needed, move, you touched his waist, his head immediately snapping to your hand, arm slightly up to look at where it was. You finger prodded his ruffled clothes and found what you were looking for, the edges of his back brace. A deep breath escaped you as you tapped it.

“Go home, take a warm bath, get out of the leg braces, put some cream on your back brace, and lay down on a proper bed.” You told him softly.

Viktor’s eyes quickly shifted from your hand, still warming a spot on his waist, to your eyes. He took a deep breath and nodded.

“I apologize once more.” He straightened his back the best he could, looking at an amused Alena.

“No worries.” she shrugged, raising her hands like she had done to you weeks prior. "If you need to, go to the doctor at the end of the corridor and ask him for something to help you with the discomfort. Tell you I sent you."

"Thank you, there's no need for that. I'm already used to the discomfort."

The nurse nodded, grabbed his crutch, and handed it to him. He accepted silently, turning his face towards you still unsure. You nodded and smiled reassuringly.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” He slowly walked towards the door, his face a mask of visible discomfort.

“You sure he’s gonna make it home?” Alena asked and swayed your head in doubt, your face now a mask of concern.

“Or the Academy. Whichever is closer.”

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies

[chericos]

SHUT UP AND DRIVE CHAPTER ONE: gear up

masterlist. || 2.2k

The scent of gasoline filled the garage. Sunlight streams through the oversized glass doors, pooling onto the polished concrete floor and glinting off the sleek frame of your car. Your pride and joy—a beast of a machine with a matte black finish and deep pink accents—sits waiting for your attention. Tools are scattered across the workbench nearby, a chaotic mix of wrenches, sockets, and screwdrivers, each coated in a fine sheen of oil.  

Hunched over the open engine bay, you work with the kind of precision that comes from both necessity and obsession. Your hands move deftly, tightening a bolt here, testing the throttle there. The faint purr of the engine vibrates through your chest, grounding you in the present for the first time in weeks. For a fleeting moment, excitement stirs in you. It’s familiar. Comforting.  

The peace doesn’t last.  

“You know, hiding in the garage isn’t going to fix everything.”  

The sharp voice startles you, and you glance toward the open doorway. Utahime stands there, clipboard in hand and exasperation etched across her face. Her sharp, professional outfit—a deep navy blazer and pinstripe slacks combo—looks wildly out of place against the gritty backdrop of the garage.  

Without looking up from your work, you twist the wrench tighter and mutter, “I’m not hiding. I’m working.”  

Utahime steps inside, her heels clicking softly against the concrete. “Hiding. Working. Same thing at this point,” she says, her tone dry. “You haven’t been to a single event since the... incident.”  

The word makes you freeze, it barely lasts a second, but it was just long enough for her to notice. Gritting your teeth, you keep your focus on the engine. “Can we not call it that? It’s not Voldemort.”  

“Fine,” she snaps, crossing her arms. “What do you want me to call it? The breakup heard ’round the racing world? The reason you’re trending on Twitter every other day? Because that’s what it is to everyone else.”  

Setting your wrench down with a clang, you finally meet her gaze. “I’ll show up. I always do.”  

“Oh, really?” she says, arching a brow. “Because last I checked, showing up means more than tinkering with your car like it’s a safety blanket.”  

“It’s called preparation,” you counter, the bite in your voice sharper than you intended.  

“Preparation for what?” Utahime throws her hands up in exasperation. “To stay in here forever?” Her tone softens as she lets out a sigh, but the frustration lingers. “You’ve been cooped up here for weeks. You can’t half-ass this season like last time. Le Mans isn’t just a race; it’s the race. No more late-night runs for thrills, no more headlines about your ‘personal life.’ Focus.” Racing isn’t just about the car. It’s about you. Your mindset, your presence. And right now, the scouts for Le Mans are seeing someone who’s gone completely radio silent.”  

You groaned, reaching for the rag to wipe your hands, avoiding her piercing gaze. “I am focused. Just because I’m not making dramatic speeches about it doesn’t mean I’m slacking off. And just because I’m not broadcasting my every move doesn't mean I’m “radio silent,” 

Utahime arched a skeptical brow, glancing over her clipboard. “First qualifiers are next weekend. Maki’s already clocked two practice runs, and Nobara’s been studying every corner of the Le Mans track like it’s her SAT. Meanwhile, you’ve been—what? Fixing your car?”  

“Hey, Camie is more than a car. She’s a masterpiece, and now she’s offended. We’re focused, stop worrying.”

“Focused,” Utahime repeated, her skepticism dripping from her voice. “Focused would mean you’re out on the track, working on your times, not holed up in your fortress of solitude.  

“Maybe I like my solitude,” you mutter, tossing the rag onto the workbench, a pout making its way onto your face.  

“And maybe it’s not doing you any favors,” she fires back. “Look, I get it. The whole thing with Megumi—”  

“Don’t.” Your tone is sharp, cutting her off mid-sentence. The room feels heavier now, the words hanging unspoken between you. “This isn’t about him.”  

Utahime’s expression softens, but she doesn’t back down. “Whether you want it to be or not, everyone else has made it about him. About you and him. If you don’t remind them why you’re you, you’re going to lose control of the narrative. And worse? You’re going to lose that Le Mans spot to him.”  

Now that… that hit. You clench your jaw, glaring down at the open hood of your car as if it might offer some magical solution.  

“I’m not going to lose to him,” you finally say, your voice low but firm.  

“Then prove it,” Utahime challenges, stepping closer. “Because Megumi’s out there training like his life depends on it. He’s not distracted by social media, drama, or whatever it is you’re doing in here. He’s racing. And you? You’re stalling.”  

Her words sting more than you care to admit, and for a moment, silence blankets the garage. The hum of the engine seems distant now, overshadowed by the weight of her honesty.  

Finally, you sigh and slam the hood of your car shut. “Fine. I’ll hit the simulators later. Happy?”  

“Ecstatic,” she deadpans, though there’s the faintest hint of relief in her expression. “But don’t just hit the simulators. Go upstairs. Talk to your team. They’ve been trying to drag you out of this funk for weeks.”  

You smirk faintly at her choice of words. “I don’t do funks.”  

“Call it whatever you want.” She gives you one last pointed look before turning to leave. “Just show up. That’s all I’m asking.”  

As her footsteps fade, the silence of the garage settles in once again. The car gleams under the sunlight, a testament to your meticulous care—but it isn’t enough. Utahime’s right. Racing isn’t just about the car.  

Grabbing your (empty) water bottle, you take a deep breath and head toward the house. It’s time to face the world, whether you like it or not. And you were going to show them that you’re better than ever.

You push open the door to your house, stepping into the chaos you call home. The sharp scent of motor oil clings faintly to your jacket, but it’s quickly replaced by the clean, crisp scent of the indoors. The foyer opens up into a spacious living area with polished marble floors that gleam in the soft sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The stark white walls are adorned with framed posters of old racing events, rock concerts, and abstract art, all splashed with animal prints and neon pink. At the center of the room sits a large black leather couch, adorned with a fluffy pink throw blanket draped over one arm and mismatched pillows shaped like skulls and roses.

The coffee table is littered with evidence of your late-night antics—half-empty energy drinks, stray playing cards, and a small stack of glossy magazines featuring you and your teammates in various articles. In the corner, a tall, potted snake plant struggles to survive, its leaves curling as though begging for more attentive care.

The open-concept kitchen flows seamlessly into the living room, with gleaming black marble countertops and pendant lights hanging from above, their matte black and tarnished gold fixtures adding a touch of flair. A pink neon sign reading "Eat Fast, Drive Faster" hangs over the stove, casting a soft glow across the room. The place is clean—for now—but the faint smell of burnt toast lingers, evidence of Nobara’s recent cooking attempt.

The grunge charm extends to the little details: a shelf near the staircase crammed with trophies and medals, the pride of the team, and a mishmash of knick-knacks—a chipped pink skull figurine, a tiny replica of your car, and a Polaroid of the team from your first big win, framed in black. 

As you step further into the house, the faint thrum of bass from Nobara’s room upstairs mixes with the sound of simulated engines roaring from the game room. Somewhere, Panda’s deep laugh echoes, followed by the unmistakable crash of something heavy hitting the floor.

“Who broke something this time?” you call out, kicking off your boots by the door and hanging your jacket on the hook labeled ‘Speed Demon’—a label you swear you didn’t put up.

In the kitchen, Maki is sitting at the counter, sharpening one of her knives with a whetstone. She glances up as you walk in, her expression as sharp as the blade in her hands. “Just your ego, probably,” she says with a smirk.

“Still babying that car of yours?” she teased as you walked in.  

“Better than babying a weapon collection,” you shot back, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “What’s the deal with the knives anyway? Planning on taking out the competition?”  

“Just prepared for anything,” Maki said with a smirk. “You could learn a thing or two about that.”  

You smirk, walking away from the fridge. “You’re hilarious. Keep working on that. Maybe one day you’ll have fans like mine.”

“I don’t think I want any of those. I’ve got a blade and a flawless record.”

“Good for you, Miss Terminator,” you shoot back before making your way to the living room. It’s alive with energy, the heart of your chaotic little universe. You settle onto the black leather couch, its cold surface softened by the worn-in comfort of the pink throw blanket and a plush skull pillow you hug to your chest. Nobara is sprawled across the opposite end of the couch, her legs dangling lazily over the armrest as she scrolls through Twitter. Panda is cross-legged on the shaggy pink rug, fiddling with a miniature die-cast model of your car, occasionally making it "zoom" across the table to annoy Nobara.

Maki—finally leaving the kitchen—has claimed the pink velvet armchair in the corner, her posture rigid and imposing as she continues sharpening her knife. 

“Did you see what people are saying about you and Megumi?” Nobara says, looking up from her phone with a grin. “Twitter’s on fire about you two. Apparently, someone spotted him at the circuit yesterday, and now everyone’s debating who fumbled who again.”

You groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “Can we not? I’m tired of hearing about him.”

“Oh, come on!” Nobara teases, tossing her phone onto the coffee table. “You have to care a little. The people want to know: did you dump him because he couldn’t handle your vibe, or did he dump you because he realized he peaked?”

Panda snorts his laugh so loud it startles Maki, who glares at him. “I’m Team Megumi fumbled,” Panda announces, raising his hand (paw) like it's a vote. “The guy’s too moody to handle someone like you. You’re all speed and chaos. He’s... whatever the opposite of fun is.”

“Broody?” Nobara suggests.

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for the support, Panda. Super helpful. It’s totally not like you know the whole situation firsthand.”

“But,” Panda adds with a mischievous grin, “you did ghost him at that after-party last year. So maybe it’s mutual fumbling?”

“That party doesn’t count,” you retort, throwing the skull pillow at him. “I had better things to do than listen to him complain in the corner all night.”

“Like what?” Nobara smirks, dodging the pillow Panda tossed her way.

“Win a race, maybe?” you reply. “Something he didn’t do that night, by the way.”

Maki lets out a sharp laugh from her chair, finally looking up from her knife. “You’re all idiots. Who cares about whatever high Twitter wants to get off on? Just get over it and focus on the qualifiers.”

“Thank you, Maki, the only voice of reason,” you say, raising your water bottle in a mock toast.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Maki responds. “You’ve barely touched the simulators, and from what I hear, Megumi’s been practically living at the circuit. If you don’t get serious, he’ll wipe the floor with you.”

The room goes quiet for a moment, the only sound is the faint bassline of Nobara’s playlist drifting from the speaker.

“I’m not worried about Megumi,” you say finally, your voice steady. “He can train all he wants. I’m still faster.”

Nobara raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push further. Instead, she leans back, stretching her arms over her head. “Alright, enough yapping. Let’s hit the simulators. If we’re serious about this season, we need to start acting like it. And Y/n, if you’re not on that track tomorrow, I’m dragging you there myself.”  

You give her a halfhearted grin. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“I’m calling dibs on the first run.”

“Dream on,” you say, standing up and tossing the skull pillow back onto the couch. “If anyone’s going first, it’s me.”

“Oh, so now you’re serious?” Nobara teases, following you toward the stairs.

“Always was,” you shoot back with a smirk.

The energy shifts as the team heads upstairs to the simulator room. The playful banter fades and it's replaced by the sharp focus that comes with a race. Even with the change in vibe, the camaraderie is there—an unspoken reminder that, no matter what happens on the track, you’ve got each other’s backs. There’s only one thing left to do.

It’s time to gear up.

break room!

I still suck at dialogue... but there is SLIGHT improvement (I think)

anyway! the break room is just gonna be the teams' hobbies!

maki has a knife collection, she guards them like they're hr birthed children. no one knows what she uses them for...

nobara runs a youtube channel, she mainly does blogs around the house but sometimes she streams game nights

panda has an insane amount of pokemon cards. he has pushed people on the streets while trying to find them on pokemon go (yes this is based on one of my friends)

megumi was definitely only at the circuit trying to get over it

get ready to turn on the ignition

taglist!

@brideads @sweettenderheart @sh0ot1ngst4r @bertqut1 @favbisexualh0e @Fushiguruzzzz @anonymity222 @harryzcherry @Janneeeexdxc @veevei @lightshowerrr @jasminasblog22 @gumims @samshine03 @yeehawnana @starrysho @1l-ynn @dovellici

if your tag isn't working please fix your settings or you will be removed!

also please comment if I can use you as a twt user!

[thehmn]

I’m currently listening to Maren Uthaug’s book 11% about a world where most men have died. I should probably wait until I’ve finished the book but I’m so fascinated by the world building.

As of now it’s still unclear why the men died but when the story takes place there’s a mix of older women who fucking hates men and young women who have only met drugged up men at “breeding centers” and imagine “males” as violent boogeymen but otherwise don’t really care and just want to live in the new seemingly perfect society their grandmothers fought for. The only people who still fight for men’s rights are witches who believe masculine energies are as natural and Of Nature as feminine energies, but even they sound more like animal rights activists, standing outside breeding centers with signs every Friday. Their most provocative sign is a picture of a man with Human written on it.

Christianity has been completely transformed and is now run by priests (they don’t call themselves priestess) who can only hold ceremonies when they have their periods and snakes are their most sacred symbol because they gave knowledge to Eva and God is called The Mother.

Trans men exist but are referred to as Man Women and they all seem to be sex workers who have functional silicone penises, though I’m not far enough into the story to know if they have other jobs. They generally also still have breasts because working as a wet nurse is another source of income for them. Testosterone treatments is not an option because it would make them too masculine and dangerous to be allowed into society but they all have male names and everyone use male pronouns for them.

A really fascinating aspect of the world is how people want to get rid of the old “patriarchal architecture” of straight lines and boxes but refuse to tear it down with machines, instead insisting on letting Mother Nature reclaim it. Only Rat Girls are actively trying to destroy the old buildings by releasing hoards of rats into them and planting bamboo to break up the concrete. New buildings have round shapes and are build in ways that make them blend in with cultivated nature and inside they’re painting in beautiful colors with no hard edges. They sound a lot like colorful hobbit homes. Also, locks are considered uncivilized and of a time when violent men roamed the earth and made life unsafe so nothing, from front doors to bathrooms, have locks. For a while after most men died women would go for Night Walks to relish in the fact that they no longer had to be afraid, though they liked to visit the witches at night because it felt a little spooky, which the witches thought was good fun.

The story is naturally about a middle aged witch who is hiding a young boy illegally and gets milk from one of the trans men in the red district while also sleeping with a Christian priest who struggles with her sacred job because her periods are irregular.

I’ll come back with follow up thoughts once I’ve finished it. Unlike what you might think, Maren Uthau isn’t a scary man hater. I’ve listened to most of her other books and this isn’t a recurring trope so clearly she has something to say specifically with this story and it’s rated pretty highly by both male and female readers. I think I’m in for quite the ride.

[readerstories]

When You Touch Me - Wolverine x male reader x Deadpool 10/?

Hello hello! Excited for new chapter, a little more world-building adjacent, hope y'all like! Before I posted this chapter I've also gone back and added some more details (and fixed some grammar/typos whoops), like reader wore gloves a lot of the time, so they wouldn't be able to meet their soulmate(s). (AO3) (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9)

Warnings/tags: male reader, canon-typical violence, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn

Wordcount: 2569

Summary: You’ve heard many stories about how people met their soulmates. Everyone crazier than the last, ranging from typical meet cutes, meeting with one of them at death's door, in war, meeting at your soulmate's wedding to another, and everything in between and outside of that. You had just never expected to add yours to the crazy list, meeting yours in a fight, only realizing after trying to kill each other for at least half an hour. And you certainly don’t expect to have another.

Yet again, in hindsight, you should have stayed longer. Waited until they were both awake, maybe even slept some more while you waited for them (mostly Wade, since you had apparently woken Logan), and then made more concrete plans. The unplanned movie night and nap had helped, but it still didn’t take it all away, your body still aches as you unlock your apartment door.

Closing it behind you, you lean against the wall for a moment, massaging your head. It feels tender, so you press the heel of your hands over your eyes, groaning. You feel better, but not okay. Part of you wants to go back, to make it even better, but a bigger part of you wants to ignore all this soulmate shit.

So instead of leaving again, you take your shoes off, padding into the kitchen to fix yourself some coffee. It’s getting lighter outside, and it’s technically morning, so you might as well stay up.

While you wait for your coffee machine, you stick your hands in the pockets of your jacket.

There’s a piece of paper in your pocket. 

That definitely wasn’t there before.

Taking it out, it turns out to be a pink post-it note with a phone number and a small chibi drawing of Deadpool holding a gun.

Wade must have slipped it into your pocket while you slept. How deep were you sleeping for him to do that without waking you? You must have been really out of it. Or Wade just has really nimble fingers, a thought you do not let yourself expand on. 

Because, the frustrating thing is, under almost any other circumstance, they would have been your type. Two strong men who are skilled with weapons, and a little insane, you would have gladly taken either or both to bed. But mixing in the soulmate thing? Fuck that.

You crumple up the piece of paper, but throw it into your junk drawer instead of the trash, ignoring the other brief flash pink from Wade’s bandana in there. Your coffee is done, so you take your cup and walk over to the couch, the plan now being to watch some tv before going for a workout.

—---

You last about six hours before you think about the post-it again. In that time you’ve drank three cups of coffee, eaten breakfast, worked out, showered, and started watching some TV.

It’s when you spot a loose thread in your shirt and go to grab a pair of scissors from your junk drawer that you spot the post-it again. You stop, staring at the little piece of pink paper.

You should contact him. Not a call, but text him at least. Start the conversation so you don’t get as bad again. You’ve felt a lot better today, and looked it too, well enough that Dave had told you as much when you ran into him at the gym. (“Hey, look who’s not looking like he’s been chewed on and spit out by some monster! Looking good dude!”)

You spend several minutes crumpling and uncrumpling the little piece of paper, before you’re interrupted by your phone ringing, making you jump. You throw the post-it back into the drawer and slam it shut, grabbing your phone to answer Evelyn.

“Hello.” 

“You busy?”

“Nope.”

“Great, lunch? There’s this new bakery I’ve been dying to try, but Olivia’s busy today even though it’s my day off, so I’m taking you.”

“How dare she. Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice then.”

“Nope! I’ll text you the address.”

—----

When you turn up at the place, it looks like a cute little spot. Flowers in the windows, and if you didn’t have the address, you could have followed your nose to the place. It smells of freshly baked goods and expensive coffee.

Evelyn arrives less than a minute after you, dragging you inside instantly. You chat about what to get, in the end you get a chicken sandwich, blueberry muffin, and coffee. She gets a green tea, BLT, and a slice of lemon cake.

After getting your orders, you find yourself led to a booth next to a window, where you end up sitting across from her.

“So, what’s up with you?” 

“Not much, why? What about you?”

“Just the usual. But I asked you first.” You furrow your bow as you take a bite of your sandwich, chewing a little before answering around the food in your mouth.

“And I answered.”

“Yeah, but only with ‘not much’.” You squint at her, swallowing and putting your sandwich down.

“What is this really about?” She picks at her sandwich, and takes a deep breath.

“You haven’t been looking real good lately, even avoiding working out with Dave-”

“You told me to avoid it-”

“Not for this long. But now Dave told me you’re better. You still look rough, but better.”

“Thanks.” You snort.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“You’ve stitched me up enough times to know I’m often in trouble.”

“Not like this. Not like lasting trouble.” She looks worried, truly worried, not in the annoyed way she gets when you turn up on her table too soon after you promised her to keep out of anything that would need her help. 

You drag a hand over your face, biting your lip.

“It’s not….. trouble, really. Lasting for sure, but…..”

“Could you be any more non-specific or cryptic?”

“I met someone….”

“Okay…. What does….” She looks down on your gloveless hands, you fight the urge to hide them. “Oh!”

“Yeah.”

“Who? When? Where?”

“Remember the guy who slashed my chest and stomach?” You take a sip of your coffee as Evelyn stares at you with wide eyes.

“The guy you killed? How are you not- How did you not-”

“He got up afterwards. He heals, he’s some kind of mutant.”

“Oh.”

“And while fighting him afterwards, I touched him.”

“Your gloves-”

“Forgot em’.” Evelyn blinks, and after a few seconds, to your surprise, she begins to laugh. It’s quiet, but enough that she needs several tries to take a sip of her tea.

“Figures you met your soulmate when fighting him. Fitting.” She teases. “How did it go?”

“Not well, he ran, and I fucking had to track him down.” She raises an eyebrow, tearing off a piece of her sandwich.

“And how did that go?” She pops the piece in her mouth, chewing while she stares you down, very much letting you know you won’t be spared her full and undivided attention until you answer. She grabs her tea cup next, keeping eye contact.

“Considering my second soulmate tried to slice me too, not great.” She chokes on her tea, wiping her chin with her sleeve, mind too preoccupied by gaping at you to grab some napkins.

“Second?!?” You grimace.

“Yeah.” This time when she laughs, it’s a full on cackle. You feel your face heat up as she’s far from quiet. She draws the attention of quite a few other patrons, but quiets down after you kick her under the table.

“So the universe does have a sense of humor after all.”

“I don’t think it does, I just think it likes to be annoying.”

“Of course you do. But you gotta admit there’s some sort of irony in not wanting soulmates in any form, and then you get two. Do you know if it’s just strictly platonic or not?” You don’t want to answer, already so done with talking about it, but you remind yourself she’s your friend, she’s asking because she cares.

“It’s not.” You leave it at that, she gives a little smirk, though it quickly transforms into a frown.

“But you’ve been looking and feeling like shit for a while. Which…..” She sits up, leaning on her elbows on the table, staring you down. You feel like you’re in the principal’s office after pulling a prank that’s gone too far. “Have you been avoiding them?” She fucking knows you, so of course it’s an easy guess to make. You grind your teeth, but nod. In return you get your full legal name, which is never good.

“You know you should fucking take care of yourself, even if it means doing shit you don’t want.” She doesn’t grab your shoulders and shake you, but you assume she’s not far from doing it. “Are they not your type?”

“Um, well yes, but-”

“Then no buts, they are made for you, and you for them.”

“I’m not made for anyone, I don’t want the universe to decide for me.”

“Or are you just afraid of being seen?”

“I thought you were my friend, not my therapist.”

“I don’t need to be your therapist to know you.” She jokes, her smile slipping into something more fond as she looks at you picking at your nails. “I’m just your friend, and I just want what's best for you.”

“How do you, or the ‘universe’-” Here you do air quotes with a grimace. “-for that matter, know what's good for me?”

“Do you?” Annoyingly she is right. “But you looked like less shit yesterday, even worked out.”

“How did-” You cut yourself off and cross your arms, hiding your bare hands from her view. “Dave, of course.”

“He was worried about you, as we all were. But back to it, you looked less like shit. Which means….” She gestures at you. “You did go see them.”  You look out the window, watching people pass for a few seconds. You wish you were out there, in the throng of people, not talking about something you don’t want to even think about over the minimal needed amount.

“Well, I reached my limit. Felt like someone had thrown me in a cement mixer with rocks, and then tried to cave my skull in, so I went back to their place.” She sips on her tea as you look back at her.

“And…?” She prompts as you keep quiet.

“Not much. They ate, we all watched a Barbie movie which I fell asleep during, then I left.”

“Left or ran like a dog with his tail between his legs?” Oh, how wonderful it is to have friends that know you.

“Something like that.” 

“Did you even plan anything for the future? It clearly didn’t fully stop you feeling and looking like shit-” She gestures to you, you roll your eyes.

“Thanks.”

“How are you even going to contact them again? Just turn up and hope they’re home?”

“We didn’t plan for much, but I did get Wade’s number.”

“So call him and set up a date.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“Meeting then.” She rolls her eyes. “You need to, literally.” You rub your face, pinching your nose.

“I know, believe me, I am very much aware.” You glance up at her, and her gaze softens. She puts her hand out on the table, palm up, you put one of yours in hers. She turns it over, grasping it with both hands, massaging your palm with her thumbs.

“I’m happy for you though.” You don’t voice your disagreement on that, you know she means well even though you’re sure she knows your response without you needing to say it out loud. “Promise you’ll call?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Or else I would have banned you from dinners for three months.” You gasp over-dramatically.

“You bitch!” You take the offering of being able to dissipate the heavy talk, switching to wax poetically about her wife’s cooking instead.

—----

Several hours and a lot of chatting later, you’re home again. 

Your junk drawer still holds the post-it note, the pink paper being easy to spot on top of all sorts of bits and bobs.

You grab it, unfolding it again. Taking a deep breath, you pull out your phone. You decide to just start with a simple ‘Hi’ signed with your name.

Then stare at your phone for ten seconds as it almost instantly starts ringing, Wade’s number shining up at you.

“Fucking hell.” You mutter to yourself. “Hi.” Is what you start with as you answer it.

“Fucking finally, was starting to feel like a prom queen stood up during homecoming, I even wore my good panties!” You have to hold the phone away from your ear, as along with Wade’s words, there’s wind blowing into the speaker, crackling.

“Where the fuck are you?” You put the phone closer, luckily having just a minimal amount of trouble hearing him over the wind.

“Ohhhh, are we doing the fun thing of you picturing me somewhere sexy? I am so down for phone s-”

“No Wade, the audio is just awful.”

“Oh, that’s what happens when you answer a phone while riding a bike.” You rub your forehead, feeling a headache forming as you close your junk drawer.

“Is your handsfree that shitty or are you just holding it normally?”

“Nothing I do is normal, pookie, but don’t worry, Logan is the one driving. Say hello Wolvie.” You don’t hear anything except more wind. “He just told me to fuck off for holding my phone in front of his face, don’t think the phone picked up his sexy rumble.”

“It didn’t pick up shit except wind.” You lean your elbows on the kitchen counter, hearing Wade fumble with the phone.

“Logan, stop for a sec! Yes I know we are- Come on! I’ll blow you for being nice later.” Again you don’t hear if Logan responds, but the wind dies down, and now you can hear a bike rumbling, even more clearly as you’re put on speaker phone.

“There we go! Now you can hear both of our sexy voices!”

“You could have just waited, or just texted.” 

“Texting and driving is dangerous!” 

“Didn’t you just say you weren’t driving? And didn’t you have to have an arm free to answer your phone?” You move away from leaning on the kitchen counter, heading towards the couch instead.

“Yes, but texting would have needed both hands loose, I’m a double thumb texter I’ll have you know, and the fabric of the suit is a bitch to get out road rashed skin.” You hear Logan snort, and then a smack. “Anywho, you reached out. Finally missing us?” Your body certainly is, you wince as you sit down on your couch.

“Not in the slightest, but since we’re kind of stuck together, I thought we should at least set up a specific meeting time instead of a vague plan of once a week.”

“I know you said you would see Logan in a week-,” You’re not sure if you are imagining the brief sour tone in Wade’s voice. “-but what about tomorrow at 5 pm? At our place.” Wade offers before Logan speaks up for the first time, his gruff voice almost vibrating through the phone speaker.

“We got dinner with Peter tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah! Hmmmmm, day after, noon, our place?” Logan doesn’t object at the time, so you agree. 

“Sure.” You don’t know what to say next, but are saved by hearing something nearing in the background. It takes a beat for you to realise what it is.

“Are those sirens?” 

“Whoops yeah, that would be our sign to get going.” You hear the rev of the bike’s engine, then the wind starts back up. “Kisses and smooches, pookie, don’t be late!” Wade hangs up, leaving you staring out into space.

What has the universe gotten you into?

[adddddiiii]

Could you do Jason Todd x Male!Reader who grew up on the streets together before Jason was adopted and meet up again when Reader signs up to be one of Hood’s goons to make money to feed fellow street kids?

Reunited Under The Hood

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long! Also made it gender neutral reader since I usually write in second person, hope you don't mind 💕

Contents: Jason Todd x gn!reader

Warnings: One use of y/n

The back alleys of Gotham hadn't changed much, not in the ways that mattered. The same cracked concrete, the same faint stench of garbage and rain, and the same desperation in the air. It felt familiar. Comforting, even, despite everything.

You tugged your jacket tighter around you. The cold night crept through the broken windows of the old factory you were waiting outside. You leaned against a pillar, trying to blend in with the other new recruits.

You had heard rumours about the Red Hood — how he ran his operations like a well-oiled machine, an obscure mix of vigilante justice and ruthless crime. You didn't care much about the reputation. You cared about the paycheck.

The kids back at your shelter needed food, clothes, medicine. You'd scraped by for years, keeping them safe, but things were getting harder. The only way to make ends meet now was to take a risk.

"Alright, listen up!" A commanding voice snapped through the warehouse, cutting through the low murmur of conversation. Heavy boots echoed as the man himself entered. His red helmet glinted under the dim lights.

You froze. That walk. That posture. It couldn't be.

"Look alive," he continued. His modulated voice made it impossible to hear any familiar tones. "You're working for me now. Mess up and you're out." He walked till he was right in front of the new recruits "Or worse," he added casually.

As he paced before the group, your chest tightened. Every move, every subtle tick. It was him. It had to be him.

"Jason?" you muttered, almost to yourself.

The helmet snapped toward you instantly. He stopped dead in his tracks and the room went silent as all eyes turned in your direction.

"What?" His voice was lower now, laced with something sharp.

You took a small step forward. Your heart was pounding. "It's me."

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he grabbed your hand. And then immediately, he led you dragged you inside the abandoned factory, to a secluded corner.

"Jason, it's really you, isn't it? Do you recognize me?" Your speech was faster, rushed.

He stood before you and you could tell his eyes were narrowed. He reached up and removed his helmet.

The sight of him — the scar along his cheek, the streak of white in his hair — made your breath hitch. He looked older, harder, but there was no mistaking the boy you'd once run the streets with. The one who'd scraped his knees climbing rooftops and shared stolen sandwiches with you under moonlight.

"Y/n?" Disbelief flashed across his face.

"Yeah," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, "it's me."

For a moment, the two of you stared at each other, the years of separation hanging heavy in the air. Then his expression shifted to a mix of anger and worry.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Trying to keep some kids alive," you said bluntly. "The same way you kept me alive back then."

Jason's jaw clenched and he looked away, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You shouldn't be here. This isn't for you."

"Neither were the streets," you stepped closer, "but we didn't have a choice, did we?"

He met your gaze with stormy blue eyes. He said nothing. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, "You always did know how to get under my skin."

You smiled. Some of the tension eased away just slightly. "Some things never change."

Jason's lips twitched upward. "Fine. You're in. But you stick close to me. Got it?"

Relief washed over you. "Deal," you agreed.

The two of you started walking back out to the other recruits. As he put his helmet back on, you couldn't help but feel a strange sense of comfort. You might have taken different paths, but here you were again, standing next to each other in the shadows of Gotham. Suddenly the years between you didn't seem so far apart.

[pellucid-constellations]

angstober (4)

Prompt: "Just Breathe"

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

A/n: More angst!! I appreciate all the support for these little drabbles sooooo much!!

angstober masterlist here ♡

~~~

“Come on. Come on!” 

Bucky was panicking. 

How had you fallen so fast? So suddenly? 

One moment you were beside him, the next you were mixed between cracked concrete and metal pipes—falling, falling, falling. Who knew bridges were so unreliable?

“Wake up, sweetheart. Come on, please,” he pleaded. Begged. His hands kept moving, kept pushing life into your chest as tears mixed with the saltwater on his cheeks. “You don’t get to leave me.” 

Steve was somewhere near the shore, fighting off whatever creature had blown up the bridge. And thank god for Steve, because Bucky would sooner let the creature from space eat him before he left you. Before he let you die. 

In some cynical, self-hating part of his brain, Bucky registered that you were already dead. 

He pumped his arms more steadily, applying more pressure, willing your heart to start beating. You weren’t dead. You weren’t. Because if you were gone… well, Bucky felt the repercussions of such a thing as he stared down at your waning, wet skin. Your lips were turning an unnatural shade and Bucky felt the reality, this reality, sink into his very bones. 

Sand bit into his knees where the torn material of his pants failed him, but Bucky felt it like lidocaine had been injected right to the site. A sob wracked his chest, almost crippling him as he gave his breath to you, and Bucky decided right then and there that nothing in his life had compared to this. 

The way your body moved was making him sick. You only budged when he forced the motion into your limbs, your neck only turned when he tilted it up to try and save you. 

This was awful, unimaginable. 

“I love you,” he whispered, shaking hands coming to brush the hair from your forehead. You hated when it fell into your eyes. “I love you, honey. Please.” 

His words broke, so Bucky kissed your skin instead. Your cheek, your neck, your shoulder—he kissed you to quell the unevenness of his own breath, and then he restarted compressions. 

“You can’t—” he struggled. “—you can’t let a little water take you out. I love you so much, it doesn’t work like that.” 

But, in real life, it did work like that. 

There was nothing supernatural pumping in your veins. You were human, breakable, and while Bucky was used to this truth, he had never felt it as strongly as he did in this moment. 

Somewhere, Steve called his name. 

Bucky was only listening for one sound, and it wasn’t Steve. 

Grief invaded the deepest parts of him, and it was slowing him down. Bucky never felt slow. Bucky was a machine. He could fix things and make them right. He had strength and invincibility and power.

Bucky could fix you, too. He could make you right. 

Couldn’t he? 

His crying had turned unintelligible, just small words lost between tears and gasping breaths. You’d cried like this one time. Right now, Bucky couldn’t remember why, but he’d held you and told you he’d never leave you. He’d run gentle fingers across your temple and stayed awake when you fell into a fitful sleep. 

Bucky was alone as he cried. 

“I can’t do this without you. I can’t.”

You coughed. It started small and then grew into a hacking, choking sound. Bucky startled, took a split second to watch the way your chest moved on its own, and then he pulled you forward with vigor. Your chin slotted over his shoulder and his hand made an imprint in the wet material at your back. 

“Hey, hey,” he breathed, shaky and softer than he had ever spoken. “Just breathe. You’re okay. Breathe, I got you.” 

Your fingers curled into his shirt, ripping at velcro and kevlar as you fought for air. Bucky held you through it, pressed his nose to the warming skin of your head and rocked the two of you without realizing it. Grief was still pounding in his bones. He wasn’t sure if that would go away anytime soon. If the weight of you being dead was ever going to leave him, even as you sat in his arms and choked out breaths. 

“Bucky,” you eventually wheezed out, pulling back from his grasp. “I—” 

“Shhh,” he hushed. Because as much as he wanted to hear you speak, hear proof that you were lucid and knew him and loved him, you were struggling. “Don’t try to talk. You’re okay. You’re okay, right?”

It sounded like a question no one could answer. 

But you nodded, and Bucky pulled you back into his chest. “Just breathe, baby. You’re okay.”

[knoepfl]

A Human Touch

Characters:

Rick Sanchez: The eccentric and reckless scientist with a penchant for chaos.

Reader (You): A newly created human who instinctively feels compelled to care for Rick, unaware of his identity or past.

Trigger Warnings: Alcohol use, implied reckless behavior, existential themes.

Masterlist

Words: 571

---

The garage was a chaotic blend of buzzing machinery and scattered tools. In the corner stood the "HUMAN MAKER 3000," recently used by Morty to create his own girlfriend. Rick staggered through the cluttered space, frustration boiling over as he glared at the machine. “Ugh, typical Morty,” he grumbled, taking a swig from his flask. “Can’t even conjure up a decent girlfriend without screwing it up.”

Leaning heavily against the workbench, Rick felt the alcohol warming him from the inside. After a few more swigs, he decided to take the plunge himself. “What if I made… a companion?” he slurred, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “Someone to help me with this mess!”

With determination fueled by liquor, he stumbled toward the machine, fingers clumsily pressing buttons with reckless abandon. The machine hummed and whirred, lights flashing in chaotic patterns. Just as he leaned in to observe, his hand slipped, sending his tequila bottle crashing to the floor. “Crap!” he shouted, collapsing into a heap on the cold concrete.

Hours later, the machine completed its work, and the lights dimmed as the door slid open with a hiss. You stepped out, feeling an unfamiliar sense of awareness. The garage was filled with strange devices, and your instincts drove you to explore. But first, you noticed a figure sprawled out on the floor.

“Hey… are you okay?” you murmured, kneeling beside him. Your voice was soft, laced with concern. You shook him lightly, but he only groaned, shifting slightly.

With a sense of urgency, you hoisted him up and carried him to the sofa in the living room. The warmth of his body felt strange and comforting, an instinct pulling you to take care of him. You laid him down gently, brushing a stray hair from his face, and took a moment to assess the chaos surrounding you.

Compelled by an instinct you couldn’t quite place, you began to tidy up the clutter, putting tools back in their places and tossing aside the remnants of his late-night escapades. The smell of alcohol hung heavily in the air, and you wrinkled your nose at the sight of empty bottles. Leaving everything in disarray felt wrong.

As you cleaned, a mix of curiosity and concern swirled within you. You didn’t know who this man was or why you felt so compelled to help him, but it felt natural. Each action, each tidying movement, was instinctive—like you were meant to be here, meant to care for him.

Once you finished, you returned to the living room, glancing down at the man who had created you. He was still asleep, but his brow furrowed, and he mumbled incoherently. “Morty! I said no more pickle juice!” he shouted in his sleep, his face twisting into a grimace.

You couldn't help but chuckle softly at his antics, finding the absurdity of the situation oddly endearing. This man was in a state of vulnerability, completely oblivious to your presence, yet you felt drawn to him.

Just then, you heard a sound—a low groan escaping his lips. You leaned in closer, your heart racing. Would he be angry, confused, or perhaps surprised to find you here?

As the seconds ticked by, you felt a strange thrill in the air. Something about him ignited a sense of connection you couldn’t explain. You wondered how he would react when he finally woke up to find you—his unexpected creation—taking care of him.

---

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this exploration of Rick’s character and the unique dynamic with his creation. If you have any thoughts or requests for more stories, feel free to share!

[bloodycotton]

Okey day 15. You are alive btw, dont worry.

Prompts by: @raven-cincaide-words

(Englis is NOT my first language)

Day 15.- Pressure

Otto Octavius x Fem!reader

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

The mechanical tentacles writhed violently around his body, like metal snakes gone mad. The pressure in his head increased with every second, as if his skull was about to explode.

"You must finish what you started," one of the voices whispered. "She's a threat to the project!" shouted another. "You left her alive... weak," hissed a third.

Otto staggered backwards, his tentacles thrashing against the rusty walls of the warehouse. The water beneath his feet churned, further distorting his fragmented reflection. The pressure. Always the pressure. He had felt it all his life: the pressure of academia, of his colleagues, of his superiors, of his own expectations.

And now... the pressure of these artificial voices, mingling with his own thoughts until he could no longer distinguish which were really his own.

"Kill her!" roared one voice. "The project!" insisted another. "Weak, you've always been weak," sneered a third.

Otto shuddered, the artificial voices echoing in his head like a hellish chorus. But there was another voice, softer, more human, whispering from some corner of his consciousness, maybe it was your voice, but he really wasn't sure "She's hurt... she's really hurt..."

A tentacle slammed into the wall, tearing off a chunk of concrete. He wasn't sure if he had done it or if the machine had acted on its own. The voices were becoming more and more mixed with his own thoughts, but that small voice of concern persisted.

"The bleeding..." he muttered to himself, remembering the moment your body had hit the ground. He had seen the blood, hadn't he, or maybe it was the reflection of your red suit? Voices screamed so loudly that details became a blur.

Another tentacle moved erratically, knocking over old boxes. The sound made him cringe. Had it sounded like that when it hit you? That's how violent he had been?

"She's a menace," the metallic voices insisted. "She was my student," he replied loudly. 

"She's an enemy!"

"She's hurt..." 

"GET RID OF HER!" 

"She could be dying..."

The sirens sounded further and further away. Were they heading for the hospital? Were they taking you? The thought made his stomach twist.

"The project is all that matters," the voices hissed. "But she..." " CONTROL YOURSELF!" "What if she's..."

Otto staggered backwards, his tentacles screeching against the wet ground. The artificial voices shouted louder and louder, but that small human voice, that soft voice, kept whispering, "Come back. Check that she's all right. Just once. Just to be sure."

His hands were shaking. When had he started shaking? The tentacles moved erratically, mirroring the battle raging in his mind. Every passing second was torture, torn between the villain he was supposed to be and the kind man he once was.

"Just once," he muttered. "Just to check..."

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