#airstream build

[customairstream]

An aesthetic Airstream build offers salon owners a host of benefits, from mobility and marketing prowess to reduced overhead costs and eco-friendly appeal. If you’re looking to take your salon to new heights, consider the limitless potential of an Airstream on wheels. Read our blog to know more!

[chillydownhere2]

Source Me laf@ilyF ❤️

[naffeclipse]

Desert Light

Cryptid Sightings/Signs of Life Crossover

Commission Info

My dear friend @jackofallrabbits commissioned me for a darling little crossover of Cryptid Sightings and their fic, Signs of Life, with @maudiemoods's permission, of course. If you haven't read Signs of Life, you really should and you can find it right here! I had so much fun writing both the cryptid hunter and the scientist interacting, and both monster boys are delightful here! I hope you enjoy <3

———

At nightfall, the desert is dipped in inky blues under a starry sky spilling over the entire expansion over your head. You forget how big the desert feels without trees or mountains to cut into its horizon as if the very heavens are staring down at you with twinkling eyes. The dry ground becomes darkness littered with muted sagebrush. The road is cracked and sunbleached, rocking your dark green truck and airstream. Along the lonely stretch of road, a convenience store with fluorescent lights cuts through emptiness like an oasis of gasoline, candy bars, and potato chips.

Moon hunches low in the passenger seat. Pale eyes gaze at you through the dimness within the truck's cabin. Patches along his nightcap catch on stray starlight, winking on the stitches you sewed by hand.

“It’s late,” he rasps in a low voice.

“I know, sweetie,” you sigh and rub your eyes while keeping one hand on the wheel. “We’re almost there.”

“You’re tired.” His hand strays across the seat to rest on your leg. His cool digits jolt you gently back to alertness.

“It’s only half an hour more,” you give ruefully. “Let’s stop here. I’ll grab a soda then we’ll be on our way.”

He grumbles, vibrating his animatronic vessel with displeasure. A word against caffeine is surely on his tongue, but the jostling from pulling the truck and airstream onto the cracked pavement underneath the almost neon-white light of the gas pumps cuts him short.

The desert hosts paranormal encounters ranging from the chupacabra to aliens. The latter is why you ventured here. Without F.E.I. providing you exact intel and evidence, it’s up to you to conduct your research and discover possible sightings but what you’ve unearthed so far has been solid.

This one in particular speaks of an alien. A towering but thin, long-limbed being spotted around a motel just as remote and lonely as this convenience store. You throw the truck in park and hop out. A lone car is parked alongside the building and another is parked further away, as if trying to hide away from the lights.

Soundlessly behind you, despite the bells tied around his wrists with ribbons, Moon appears like a metallic shadow. Hopefully, the convenience store attendant isn’t against animatronics in their store. He tilts his head for a moment towards the outermost vehicle, his pale optics narrowing before he follows after you.

If he sensed a heartbeat hiding in the darkness, he would have told you.

You pull open the door with a quiet jingle announcing your entrance. A small sign, old and worn, on the checkout counter promises the attendant will be back in a few. You deflate slightly. You had hoped to ask someone in this area about the sightings.

“There’s someone here,” Moon murmurs close to your ear like a breath from a ghost.

Quiet footsteps echo back beside the fridge section of drinks, concealed by shelves of beef jerky, peanut butter cookies, and chocolate bars. Curious, you strive forward. You might still have a chance to speak to the lone employee who may be restocking the cases of beer or soda, but when you round the corner with a cool presence at your back, you stop still.

A person straightens, clutching a few water bottles to their chest, their eyes immediately landing on you, framed in glasses. You look down to the hoodie they wear: dark fabric with a green alien face; a charming, stereotypical depiction of extraterrestrials. Do they sell those here?

“I like your hoodie.” You smile. “Do you work here?”

The person immediately fixes their glasses and beams. “Thank you. It’s a bit too warm for this climate but it’s cute. No, I don’t work here. Is that an animatronic with you?”

You blink but turn back to allow Moon more of an audience with the curious stranger. He regards them with a coolness but no malice. You give a slow nod.

“This is my friend, Moon.” 

The stranger steps closer, studying him with vim and vigor before adjusting the many water bottles in their arms. Underneath their arm, tucked into their armpit is a notebook. They lift a hand towards Moon.

“What model are you?” they ask, eager. “How long have you gone without maintenance? Your wires are exposed and your endoskeleton could use a polish.”

Moon stares. A slight twitch runs through his limbs. You step back between Moon and the stranger, your pulse jumping slightly at the spew of questions—many that have no good answers. Could they be familiar with where Eclipse found their half-burned, abandoned vessel?

You introduce yourself quickly, keeping Moon behind you and out of reach of the stranger. “What’s your name?”

They slowly lower their hand, disappointed. “Ah.” They’re silent for a moment, and you can see the gears working in their mind before decidedly saying, “You can call me Doc.”

That’s funny. Surely it must be a nickname though you have no qualms with a stranger giving you whatever moniker they please, but Moon’s hand falls to your shoulder. His digits curl slightly over your collarbone, as if in warning. Right.

“Alright. Doc,” you smile.

They smile back. “Is your animatronic—”

“I’m sorry,” you say, very apologetically but firmly, “but I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about happenings in this area.”

Doc grows still, their expression guarded. You catch their eyes flickering towards the door and then landing back on you.

“What are you referring to exactly?” they ask tentatively, almost nervously.

“There have been reports of unusual occurrences in this part of Nevada.” You wish you bought your book of cryptid information with you. If they’ve seen anything, you will need to write it down. Instead, you focus on slowly bringing them into your question. If you went around asking any person if they saw aliens right off the bat, no one would take you seriously. “Have you seen anything strange or simply unexplainable?”

“UFO sightings in Nevada are very common,” they say so bluntly, it causes you to blink. They set the water bottles down on a shelf occupied with chip bags and shift the notebook closer to their chest, holding it like a shield. “Did you know that Nevada has the highest rate of UFO sightings per capita in the U.S.?”

“I did know that,” you say, impressed that they know it as well. You lean closer in your curiosity. Do they believe in cryptids? “Have you researched such things before?”

They fix their glasses and lower their hand back to their book only to lift it again and fidget. 

“Recently I have,” they admit.

A coolness radiates behind you. In the corner of your vision, Moon tilts his head. The bell on the end of his nightcap falls over his shoulder. What doesn’t he like? Surely they can’t be a rulebreaker. Moon would have reacted much less pleasantly to such a person. 

They touch their glasses again, and the frames fall slightly askew on their face. “Have you heard anything about an alien?”

You brighten with the question. At last.

“Yes. That’s why I’m here,” you hold a hand to your chest, “to locate any confirmation or evidence about an alien sighting near a motel a little ways from here. Nothing has been reported as violent, but it’s most likely an incident will occur soon unless properly dealt with.”

Their hands furl and unfurl, anxiously touching their glasses, pushing them up the bridge of their nose, and shifting. Are they alright?

“Most of the time sightings of cryptids, including aliens, are just everyday objects seen from a weird angle,” they ramble slightly. 

You pause, watching them. Are they afraid to tell you what they saw? You’ve encountered poor, terrified people who fear even speaking a word of what they’ve experienced will mark them as unstable and insane. Even worse, it might somehow lure the presence that frightened them in the first place back.

“Yes, that’s true,” you admit, but only half of the time. There have been a plethora of hoaxes, pranks, misunderstandings, and of course, misidentifications of objects that have been spun into debunking the cryptic world, but you carry the scars from a true encounter at the base of your thumb. “But have you witnessed anything you would consider to be unearthly?”

Do they know something they can’t seem to tell you about?

Doc shifts again. Their hand strays to the notebook they carry, and touch the well-worn spine. Is it as important to them as your cryptid book is to you?

“No,” they fidget a few times anxiously, “Is there anything I can do to help you with your animatronic? I am an engineer.” 

Moon twitches behind you. Their eyes immediately fall to the movement and frown.

“Are you experiencing a malfunction?” they ask, and start to reach out again. Moon clenches your shoulder tighter.

“No, no!” You hold up your hands defensively. “That’s very generous to offer, but Moon is fine, thank you.”

They frown. Unconvinced, they continue to pry around your person to stare at the cryptid possessing a vessel. You’ve never had this problem before. So many people are put off by the strange, inexplicable presence of a demonic cryptid—a sixth sense warning of danger, but Doc heeds no such deterrents.

“He is experiencing micro spasms which may be a symptom of a conduction failure in his wires or a deeper issue within his processor.” They face Moon entirely, and he stares back unblinkingly. “When was the last time you went in for routine maintenance?”

“We don’t need maintenance,” he rasps. You cover his hand as it clenches you tighter still. A coolness swells around him and you hope Doc mistakes it for the coolness of the fridges.

Confusion twists their brow. Doc parts their lips to offer a rebuttal to a clear inconsistency with their framework and the fact of the matter, but Moon twists behind you. His grip never leaves your shoulder, his fingers digging into your collarbone as the jingle of the bell at the front of the store rings.

Then the lights flicker. A sharp fade of every light bulb overhead and even the light within the fridges drops the convenience store into darkness. Your heart tumbles in your chest. You didn’t bring your crossbow or your detector. Only a knife sits strapped to your hip, hidden by your patched, green jacket. 

Your eyes flash to Doc. You take them by the arm and their expression shifts to alarm behind their glasses.

“Move,” you whisper sharply. “Stay with me and be quiet.”

“I need to leave,” they say, strangely focused, but they don’t struggle when you guide them down the row of fridges to the last column of shelves in the back of the store. They don’t understand. Something else is here. Something not of this world. You must protect them from it.

Moon follows quietly behind you, his fingers spasming as they curl like claws. His pale eyes dip into crimson, alert and vicious. 

“Not a heart,” he mutters, and you glance at him. “Something else… Something strange.”

He stands between you, and your entire body clenches. A towering being begins to prowl under the flicker lights, slipping in through the door. You used to fear your dear friend placing themselves between you and the threat, but they are far more terrifying than any cryptid you have hunted.

The sharp contrast of the fluorescent light bulbs and the sudden darkness spears a sharp ache into your eyes. Carefully, you place Doc behind you, but they offer another protest again. 

“Be quiet,” you murmur firmly, “It’s going to be okay.”

“Ah, you don’t understand.” Doc’s eyes fall past you, towards the frosty doors of the fridges. “He’s—”

A sharp scratch of nails cutting over glass causes your shoulders to hunch up and a grimace to twist your face. You free the knife from your hip. It is the only defense you have for you and Doc. You should have been prepared for the alien to strike here, so close to the original sighting site, now creeping in close to find more precious victims to devour.

Doc reaches out, past you.

“You have to let me pass,” they say calmly. “He wants me.”

You turn to look over your shoulder, confusion painting you in flickering lights.

“Who does?” you ask.

The glass scratching stops. You stiffen, reading your knife as Moon tenses. Creeping from the row of fridges, a figure straightens. Tall and spindly, but with an unnerving aura of strength to his long limbs, an alien stands before you. Deep red and galaxy-speckled skin coats him, and you catch a strange symbol on one of his hands, like the moon eclipsing the sun. A dark hoodie with an alien ship covers his lanky form poorly—not unlike Doc’s. A sharp crown of jutting adornments sits upon his head. A waving veil of starlight falls behind his skull. 

His three eyes, bright and glinting, like a predator about to bounce, immediately find the person behind you. One eye is dark. His grin splits into a wide, hungry thing with razor-sharp teeth.

“My light,” his voice is low and dangerous, “I have been waiting for you.”

Behind you, Doc looks up at the towering, otherworldly beast, but there is no fear in their eyes.

“Stay back,” you immediately brandish your knife. Moon spreads his arm, ensuring that there is no passing him without going through him.

A dark chuckle falls from the creature.

“You dare think you can keep my light from me?” He spreads his arms, four limbs of sinew and bone, claws flashing with a desire to rip flesh from a body. “I will give you one chance to let my light go.”

Moon stands tall between him, silently gauging him like a proper opponent. Is the alien taller than your sweetie in their true form? You’re afraid he is.

“No,” you breathe, “You’re not taking them.” 

A soft sound arises behind you, distress mingling with breath. Doc must be terrified of the abrupt encounter. How could they have ever known an alien would mark them as his quarry?

A snarl rips through his chest, deep and vicious. His hands grope the surrounding shelves, fitting between cookies and candy bars. His hand swipes a few basic camping supplies, spilling ropes and canisters onto the ground. He catches a stainless steel one in his lower set of hands. In effortless brutality, the alien concaves the metal before his claws pierce the container entirely, crumpling it as if it were a soda can. Your gut clenches. 

“I will paint this tasteless floor in your blood,” the extraterrestrial growls, gnashing his teeth.

In response, a sharpness erupts from the sides of Moon’s chassis. Shadowy appendages, seeping black ooze over bony limbs with hands and claws of crimson, stand at the ready. You suck in a sharp breath.

“You will not touch a hair on our heart’s head,” an abysmal sound leaves the animatronic, layered and demonic.

The alien tilts his head, eyes widening at the challenge. 

“My, my, and what are you? No matter, I will tear you apart.” He laughs again, echoing with chilling amusement. Dread hooks deep into your belly.

“Eclipse, it’s okay.” Doc moves underneath your arm. 

Your knee-jerk reaction is fierce. You catch them by the back of their hoodie, scrunching fabric in your fist to keep them tethered close to you. They stop and look back at you. When they smile, it’s heavy. Guilt touches their edges, anchored by worry. 

“Ah. I know he’s frightening, but he’s not going to hurt anyone.” They tug on their hoodie, trying to loosen your grip. “You can let me go.”

“Yes, let them go,” the alien licks a dark tongue over his teeth, “and I might spare you all.”

“What—no, he’s…” you stumble over your tongue then stop, confused. “Do you know this cryptid?”

“Ah. Alien,” they correct you. “Yes. Eclipse would like me back now, please.”

Moon glances at Doc. Confusion pulses in his crimson gaze. The end of his nightcap falls over his shoulder. 

“They’re not afraid,” he rasps. He stares down at Doc’s chest. He can sense a heartbeat, the rhythm of it, and how fast it gallops in a person’s chest.

Your lips part wordlessly. 

There was a time when you believed cryptids were only monsters. Machines capable of great destruction and horror. You never dreamed a demonic cryptid would be capable of kindness and goodness, and care so much for little ones.

Your fingers slip from the fabric. Moon allows Doc to sweep underneath his arms. Their eyes fall to their shadowy limbs, and their hands shift to their notebook. Your heart clenches, caught in the camaraderie urge to take notes of your sweetie’s true form and fearing what Doc would do with such information. F.E.I. is still out there. There are other cryptid hunters. 

But they stop themselves. Fixing their glasses, they quickly step back into the alien’s reach. You clench the knife tighter, afraid as four pairs of hands descend upon them.

“We need to leave quickly,” Doc says as the alien kneels and hunches lower to look over the human, combing for harm or mistreatment. “We’ve already made a mess and stayed here for too long.”

“This isn’t a mess. Yet,” the alien answers, his voice murmuring like a lover in the night. The threat is not lost on you as Moon growls a warning. The alien flashes a smug smile, all teeth, and arrogance before he concludes his checkup on Doc. “Let’s go, my light.”

Doc nervously looks back at you, almost as if they would look to say more, explain, or even ask you about Moon’s extra, shadowy arms. Instead, they weakly wave, like this is a goodbye they wish didn’t have to happen.

The alien lifts them into his arms as if they weighed as much as a feather.

“Wait,” you step closer. Two arms, one metallic and blue, one shadowy and crimson, stop you. He keeps you back from the otherworldly being. “Are you safe?”

The alien scowls at you. Doc only smiles softly. 

“Yes, friend.” Their eyes linger on Moon. “You’re so impressive. I would love to know more about you.”

A ripple of what you think is jealousy takes over the alien. He turns away with a flash of teeth, and steps quickly, sweeping through the store and out the door with a sharp jingle. In moments, the alien carries the small human out into the night. You stand there, stunned. 

Moon straightens. “Their heart is still steady. They feel safe with him.”

Oh.

Moon slowly faces you, two arms touching your sides and holding you close. You lean into his embrace.

“I hope they are,” you murmur. The lights stop flickering in the gas station and the stars outside shine brighter in the darkness. A car speeds away, down the desert road.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Opportunity to own a piece of Rock Royalty for only $452K. "Kate's Lazy Desert" was crafted by B-52's iconic singer-songwriter Kate Pierson and her artist wife Monica Nation. It can be a trailer park, camp ground, or motel. Completely decorated vintage Airstreams plus a homestead cabin for the owner, caretaker, or guests. Check out this gem in Landers, CA.

"Roam if you want to," all trailers feature colorful retro design.

The all have a picnic table, barbecue grill, and a frame for an awning.

I like this one.

This one's set up a little differently. And, it has Tinkerbell on the wall.

This one's cute. Wonder why the wallpaper in the kitchen is so bubbled.

They all have pretty big baths, for a trailer.

This one has a nice bath, too.

Looks like a small, above-ground pool.

The private cabin for the caretaker, etc. The Love Shack!

It's a 10 acre lot, and the adjoining 5 acre lot has a cement slab w/all utilities connected so you could build a house or something.

The trailer park setup.

And, it's close to local attractions like Joshua Tree, Pappy And Harriet's, The Integratron, Giant Rock Boulder, and the critically-acclaimed restaurant La Copine.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/58380-Botkin-Rd-Landers-CA-92285/299170786_zpid/?

[mybeingthere]

Ceramic artist Josh Copus, USA.

Copus completed the Professional Crafts Program at Haywood Community College, and then enrolled at UNCA, getting his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. He won the Center for Craft’s Windgate Fellowship, and used the $15,000 grant to make a down payment on some land in Marshall, buy an old Airstream trailer, and build his first wood-fired kiln.

“That first summer was the hardest I’ve ever worked in my life,” says Copus. “I was so determined to be an artist that it was almost unhealthy. I was so broke all the time, living in the trailer or sleeping in the studio and just trying to get a start.” He eventually got a gig tending bar at Wedge Brewing Co., but notes, “I would still work more than 40 hours in the studio every week.”

[staticspaces]

Walden North

Find the video tour here!!

Today we on to Vernon's office, we check out some of the bedrooms as well as some more exterior views!!

Hidden away on the east side of the Coast Mountains within British Columbia, Canada, lies this fortress of an abandoned house. Sitting atop a cliff overlooking a creek the mansion which was built in the 1970s by Vernon Pick, is slowly rotting away.

Vernon was born in Wisconsin in 1903 and left home at the age of 16 and joined the US Marines a year later. He was a gold miner in Manitoba before running an electrical company for 17 years in Minneapolis, then moving back to Wisconsin, there he built a hydroelectric generator to power a derelict flour mill which he then converted into an electrical workshop. In 1951 a fire destroyed his workshop, so he and his wife Ruth bought an Airstream and headed west.

Then at the age of 48 he spent nine months prospecting for Uranium in Utah Canyonlands. When down to his last $300, he then lucked out and struck it rich, this catapulted him into wealth and nationwide fame and he was given the name “Uranium King of America”.

He sold his mine for $10 million and with this new found wealth, he bought an estate in California and renamed it Walden West, he converted it into a research facility and staffed it with scientists to try and develop a cheap source of nuclear power.

In 1965, with the Cold War era in full swing, Pick chose to abandon Walden West and decided to build a compound in the rain shadow of the Coast Mountains of BC, since the area would be heavily protected from nuclear fallout. He named it Walden North, there were two homes, a workshop/laboratory, a hydro electric dam as well as his mansion on the cliff that was accessible by a tram.

Vernon died in 1986 from cancer. Pick's belongings and equipment were auctioned off and the mansion has seen little use since.

The property is active with the hydroelectric dam still producing 16 MW of power which is enough for about 8000 homes.

As for Vernon's home, the current owners have built stairs to the roof, presumably to do repairs, hopefully this house will get to live another day.

[omgthatdress]

I’m assuming Maryellen’s Vacation Playsuit is meant to go with her Airstream trailer, campfire cook set, and hiking accessories, even though it looks like it’s much more suited to playing at the beach instead of a rugged hike through the woods. Would really like to see a proper hiking ensemble for her, but the playsuit is fucking adorable so I’m just gonna love it.

And her airstream. OMFG WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT. LOOK AT HOW FUCKING ENORMOUS IT IS.

Trailers, campers, RVs, and mobile homes were popularized in the 1950s as outdoorsy home-away-from-homes for the middle class. You could tow one behind your car and have a way to travel and go camping that didn’t involve actually experiencing discomfort.

People figure out pretty quick that they made for decent living spaces, and they were actually advertised as being a mortgage-free way to own a home.

Anyone who grew up in America knows that “trailer” quickly became synonymous with “trash.” To show how the mobile home went from an object of middle-class luxury to one primarily associated with poverty, I’m going to trace the history of what was once the skankiest trailer park in Seffner: the Scarab Trailer Park.

The property was bought in 1951 back before Seffner suburbanized, and it was primarily orange groves and scrubland. It had several trailers permanently parked there, as well as a couple of small office buildings. It rented trailers for the week, so families living in Tampa who wanted to get away for the weekend could come out and enjoy nature.

By all accounts, it was a really nice place, and had it been preserved, the trailers there would have been excellent relics of mid-century design. Along with vacationing families, the single-week rentals made the trailers popular abodes for the migrant farm workers who came in to work the orange groves.

Soon, Seffner went from being out in the boonies to being the suburbs. Two strip shopping centers were built on either side of the park. Families didn’t want to vacation here any more. The week-long rentals meant that the park was now primarily being occupied by the very poor and transient. In the 1970s, the property was sold to a new owner who was very uninterested in keeping the park the nice place it once was. One of the other things about living in trailers is that they weren’t built to last like a proper home is. They started falling apart, and their tenants didn’t have the money to make repairs. By the 90s, the Scarab Trailer Park was fucking gross.

In 2004, the property was once again sold, and the new owner evicted the tenants on very short notice, leaving them effectively homeless.

The trailers were torn down, and today the property is a Tractor Supply Store. Landlords are scum of the fucking earth. Capitalism must be destroyed.

[bacony-cakes]

East German spy trying to tap the phone line but his numbers station radio won't turn off: Nein! NEIN! Schalte es aus! Den Mund halten! [fumbles the dial on the radio to maximum volume] NEIN! Scheiße! Scheiße verdammt! Schalten Sie es sofort aus! Es ist zu laut! Die Amerikaner werden mich finden! [the dial on his shitty soviet radio breaks off] NEEEIIIIIN! [his giant spy hat falls off in anguish]

The president of the United States of America: Hello is this the Pentagon? So i've been thinking... after i finish irreversably fucking over the economy, what do you think i should do next? Turn ketchup into a vegetable? Oh, i like that idea! Devilish as always. I've also been thinking that we should attach a laser that causes AIDS to a jumbo jet, maybe? I think it'd go well with that nuke-what-makes-you-gay project. ...Yes, i know the English are breaking new ground with their chicken-powered frozen wood plane, but trust me on this, AIDS Force One is the future of warfare. No, no, the laser gives who it's POINTED at AIDS, not the people operating it. Listen here, you son of an expletive, even if my brain is turning into a cauliflower, i am STILL the smartest man in the world, and I COMMAND you to build a machine that preserves me indefinitely like Mister House from Fallout New Vegas. ...Also, are you having an Oktoberfest party without me? I hear yodel music.

Guy who works at the Pentagon: No, mister president, we are not having an Oktoberfest party. From what i'm hearing, it's you who is having the Oktoberfest party. No, i'm not lying- I'm NOT a communist- DON'T put me on the no-fly list. Mister president, if you would- If you would listen for just one second, not only is a plane flying around and giving people horrible diseases cartoonishly evil, we cannot build a giant laser of any kind, because we've just used up our giant laser budget for faking the moon landings. Yes, but Neil Armstrong- Turn down your music, i can't hear you. No, Neil Armstrong- His name is not- He and those other guys got angry and went there for real. I don't know? Lock them in an airstream or something. No, the moon does not give you AIDS, for fuck's sake. There are not gay communist aliens on the moon that- We are- We are NOT building a "Hexagon" right next door to here that contains only people who listen to you. Also- God-emperor of the dominion of the United States of- Shut up, mister president. Fallout New Vegas doesn't release for what, thirty years? Mister pre- No, i am not going to wiretap the- Yeah, we could probably do that instead- And kill his wife too? That's kind of- Could YOU please turn down the music, mister president? For the last time, you're the one- Plan B? Ok, let's hear it. Hit me. Fly two planes into the- Mister president- What is this supposed to achieve- The good guys from Rambo 3? Mister president, what in the hell- And a third one into- A FOURTH one? Jesus Christ, what's wrong with- Can't you just use explosives or something? What do you even have against- Of course it's fucking about oil. It's all you think of. Every day it's "oil, oil, oil"- Pizza Hut is not communist- Mister president- Listen- No, don't you dare-

It will be done, my lord.

[wing-ed-thing]

Mutilated (Sasori x UndergroundDoc!Reader) Part I

Synopsis: Sasori get gravely injured in the early days of his and Deidara's partnership. Luckily, the Akatsuki have a roster of resources to help in case of emergencies. During his stay at your underground clinic, Sasori gets a bit more invested than he intended.

Word Count: 5.6k

Tags/Warnings: Underground Doctor Reader, No Reader Pronouns, Younger!Sasori, Timeline Liberties, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Fake Medical Talk, Kinda Fake Engineering Talk, Prosthetics, Minor Original Characters

Notes: Sometimes, I like to think about if the Akatsuki were treated like One Piece villains. When they're not in the main plot they just go off and became small-town heroes somewhere.

Deidara knelt away from the airstream, holding Sasori’s unconscious form on his back. His blond hair whipped around his face as the wind rushed in his ears, keeping his scope trained on the city below for a place to land. The buildings were packed together. The clouds were thick, and while they provided excellent cover for Deidara’s clay, winged beast, the absence of a moon only proved to impede his landing strategy. 

The giant bird descended, flying quietly among the tall fixtures of the village. Without proper light, the obstructions only became visible as Deidara grew near. Deidara’s bird managed to maneuver them all, artfully dodging tall buildings, statues, and poles with limber aerial acrobatics. 

When it finally grew as close as possible to the ground, Deidara dropped between the buildings with Sasori on his shoulders, landing in a kneeling position as the winged creation swooped back up and out of sight. 

Sasori groaned, causing Deidara to tilt his head to look over his shoulder. Sasori’s eyes were still closed, the slightest bit of tension collected on his furrowed brow. Deidara clutched a small paper between his fingers, holding it up to his face as he tried to reread it in the dimness. He brushed the pad of his finger over it, hoping to get an idea of the writing from the deep pen indentation. 

And in one last moment of deliberation, Deidara hooked his arms around Sasori’s legs and ran off into the night in search of a doctor to help his injured partner.

The streets were empty, and the night would have been still if it weren’t for the wandering searchlights that periodically swept across the roads. Deidara ducked around a corner, squatting by a dumpster as the bright circle of light paced across the road before disappearing at the other end of the street. 

Deidara dashed across, scurrying through the maze of alleyways between buildings with the note clutched in his hand. He kept his eyes on the hanging signs above his head. He rushed past a few circular ones, perhaps a few rectangles, as they wavered in the slight breeze of the night. Those businesses had closed hours before the sun had set.

He took a turn, ducking down next to a compilation of scrapped palette boards as another beam of light flickered across the ground. Lost in the darkness, Deidara had no idea how he managed to stumble upon the oddly shaped sign that hung over a dip in the alley. He could barely distinguish the shape of a snake, the head and the tail hanging by two thick chains connected to a metal rod.

Deidara looked again at the paper, but it was too dark to read. But as the searchlights flashed overhead, Deidara took the leap, descending the steep stairs into the ground where the darkness only deepened. 

A solid mass smacked him in the forehead, his grunt of pain all that seemed to exist in the void. He leaned forward, unhooking an arm from Sasori’s leg to grope around in the shadows. It was a door, a wooden one, and with a few more taps, he managed to find a wobbly doorknob. Deidara turned it, only to smack into the unmoving door again as the knob spun, rattling in the socket with little resistance. Sasori began to slip. Deidara smushed his cheek against the solid wood of the door, fidgeting as he tried to adjust his partner. 

“For being splinters and string, you sure are fuckin’ heavy,” Deidara muttered as he tried again at the knob. Pushing the handle inward seemed to do the trick as he stumbled forward, barely catching himself before the door creaked shut behind him. 

The room was pitch black, even darker than the moonless night outside. Deidara heaved a steady breath, eyes scanning his surroundings for a hint of anything. He fiddled with his scope; sure enough, the green night vision revealed a long hallway before him. Deidara blew a few strands of hair away from his face. They settled back where they had just been. 

“Okay,” he muttered, adjusting Sasori again on his back. “We’re gonna find someone to put you back together again, hm, Humpty Dumpty? Then you owe me big time for makin’ us have to come to a place like this.” 

He started down the hall, and the sound of water rushing through pipes resounded all around, reverberating off the cement walls. He could hear his footsteps and labored breathing as he traveled deeper into the abyss. The single pathway turned into a stairwell, the rusting metal clambering under his step as he nearly tumbled down the two flights. 

Deidara traveled through the cement labyrinth for what felt like hours with nothing to go off of other than the sound of trickling water. His scope showed half battery in the corner of his vision as he took random turns, each hall almost identical to the last. It was cold cement in front and an incomprehensive abyss of darkness behind him. 

Deidara pressed on, running down the halls quicker, turning the corners more sharply as he ran deeper and deeper into the underground network. He had gone too far to turn back now.

His efforts seemed to pay off. Just as the battery of his scope lost another bar of health, he found himself standing in front of another wooden door. The same snake sign hung above this one, the same thick chains connected to the head and tail like the talons of a hawk lifting it into the sky. Deidara adjusted Sasori on his back once more, and with frustration-fueled determination, he kicked down the door. 

The wood flew forward, knocking against a metal railing before tumbling halfway down a set of steel steps. Light flooded into Deidara’s scope, causing him to recoil and move swiftly to turn it off. He looked back into the large room, his eyes adjusting to the warm lantern light. Harsh shadows swiped across his face as he moved to the top of the staircase, the startled people below looking up at him warily. A mother collected her sick child in her arms, already backing toward the opposite exit. 

“Yo!” he exclaimed, kicking his foot onto the lower railing. His brow was furrowed with tension, and his clenched jaw betrayed his cocky smile. “We need the Doc!” Deidara bit the length of torn cloth that hung from Sasori’s shoulder, proudly displaying the red clouds of the Akatsuki organization from his lips. 

You had scrambled from your makeshift office on the ground, staring up at the sight as your breath hitched in your throat. 

“Mercenaries,” you mumbled to yourself. “I should have known.”

“A little help over here!” Deidara called, and you stormed out from under the balcony to make your approach.

“Second room to your right!” you called, and someone threw your medical bag toward you. You caught it without having to look. Deidara turned to his left, despite the railing in his way and lack of platform. “Your other right! And you better have brought quite the sum of cash if you’re bargaining in here and breaking things in my clinic!”

Deidara found the room as you reached the top of the steps. He left a trail of blood in his wake. You made wordless eye contact with a member of your community who had been leaning against the railing just outside the exam room. As a doctor caring for the underprivileged people in your city, they held you in high regard. 

“Go into the Warren and make sure this idiot didn’t leave a trail straight here.” 

She nodded, departing past a few people already working on fixing the broken-in door. 

“Don’t worry, Doc, Kakuzu will shell out for anything your little heart desires.” Deidara laid Sasori down on the table as you entered. 

“I’m sure he would be thrilled to hear you say that,” you scoffed, washing your hands. 

You pushed a few trays of supplies forward. Deidara had no idea what any of them did but considered them to look more like torture tools than medical devices. He tore away Sasori’s robe, balling the blood-soaked fabric in his hands and throwing it into the corner of the room. 

But you didn’t have time to scold him for dirtying your sterile exam room. If you were less composed, your hand might have shot to your mouth in disgust and horror at the sight of Sasori’s shirtless form. You had seen many things during your time in the medical field: stab wounds, projectile wounds, amputations, and raging infections. And yet…

“What the hell happened to him?” Your voice nearly cracked as you immediately put on a pair of gloves. 

“Sword to the liver?” Deidara shrugged, his nonchalant attitude making you stop in your tracks. All of your disbelief manifested in one slow blink. 

“Are you fucking kidding me—?” You shooed him toward the door as you hurried about your little room, pulling all the supplies you’d need for a no doubt lengthy procedure. Even with your complex knowledge of medical ninjutsu, liver damage wasn’t anything to stick your nose up at. “And what about the rest of him?” You adjusted the mask on your face with your shoulder. 

“Eh?” Deidara sounded rudely, cheek scrunched against the lower part of his eye as his nose wrinkled. 

Your eyes darted across Sasori’s body, holding a surgical towel over his side wound as it bubbled with blood.

The man didn’t have any limbs. 

At least not true limbs, nor any prosthetic you had ever seen. All of them appeared to be wooden. The left had been damaged, leaving everything below the elbow missing. You had seen prosthetics before. Hell, you had a good friend who made them for your patients, but these were not prosthetics. 

The joints where the wood met the body were covered with flesh, perfectly soldered to the torso. You could see the intricate network of veins through his pale skin; all inflamed in a mutilated mess of blood, flesh, and wood. His condition was critical, although his partner didn’t seem to understand that. 

“So, can you fix him or not?” Deidara asked from behind you. His footsteps grew nearer. 

“Out!” You turned, pointing toward the door. He tried to protest. “Out!”

With all further distractions out of the way, you began your work. 

***

Sasori awoke about a day later after the exhaustion of a good chunk of your chakra and a few hours of your labor. The ambient noise from the large room rattled around in his pounding skull, his muscles aching as he sat himself up on the cot under him. 

He had been moved from the makeshift exam room upstairs to a cot in the open on the main level, not that he remembered. Two different colored curtains on rusty wheels provided flimsy walls around him. Sasori glanced up at the cement ceiling, making accidental eye contact with various loitering patients staring down from the metal balcony above. He twisted his neck to the side, allowing an audible crack to pop from his joints. Only when he moved to brush over the thick bandages on his torso did he notice the bundle of splinters his forearm had been reduced to. 

“That’s not a kekkei genkai.” You appeared in front of Sasori’s cot, hands tucked in the pockets of your white coat. You didn’t bother hiding your blatant staring as you studied his wooden limbs. Sasori collapsed from his palm to his elbow, fighting back the flinch that scrunched the skin around his eyes. You looked him up and down from where you stood. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s no way to talk to someone who just saved your sorry ass.” With three long strides, you moved to the side of Sasori’s cot, placing a palm between his collarbones and pushing him back down against the pillow. Sasori couldn’t help the grunt that escaped his chest as the wound on his side suddenly stretched. 

“Arhg!” Sasori glared at you from behind, squinted eyes, groaning and cursing from behind clenched teeth. You stared at him from above with disdain. You frowned, letting the choice insults roll off your indifferent demeanor. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sasori struggled against you for a moment before he sank into the white sheets in exhaustion. Color drained from his face, leaving him even paler than his complexion usually was. 

“Deidara!” Sasori barked with a snarl. His voice rang out, bouncing across the high ceiling. He moved to sit up again, only to be slammed back down once more. 

“Your partner is busy. Lay back down, or I’ll knock you out myself. I’m not here to catch an attitude.” Sasori huffed, breathing shallowly as his head began to spin. “You need your bandages changed. Or if you insist on being difficult, I can throw you out into the Warren. I’m sure the rats will appreciate eating you from the inside out starting here.”

You pressed down on a section of his bandages, causing a guttural howl to escape his throat. Sasori didn’t acknowledge your threats, dizziness warping his vision. You snapped your fingers in front of his face, but he didn’t appear to respond. You fiddled with something under his cot to Sasori’s left, causing the upper section to decline slightly back. He didn’t fight you as you worked methodically at his bandages, not that he probably could. 

His vision had turned to static, the prickling sensation extending down his numb face to his shoulders. The nerves that connected his flesh to his wood parts tingled and popped, leaving him sore around the circumference of his artificial limbs. 

Your hands were cold as they worked across his torso. He could feel his muscle tissue being stitched together with chakra, leaving an itching sensation in its wake. 

You had him cleaned up and rewrapped just as the dizziness began to fade. Appearing over him, a blue aura radiated from the palm you held over his forehead. 

“That feels much better, doesn’t it?” Sasori blinked as you withdrew. His breathing had returned to normal, and as you popped the cot back to standard elevation, he hardly felt a tugging at his wound. His muscles were sore, but the pain had faded. “I have never seen prosthetics like these before.” You traced the seam where the wood met skin. Sasori shivered. “Were you injured in one of the bombings?”

“They aren’t prosthetics,” Sasori said, brushing you off. He held his right arm up, watching the wooden joints as he flexed his knuckles. “They’re my art. I didn’t lose anything anywhere.” He peered at you from between his fingers. 

“You did this to yourself?” 

Sasori propped up on his elbow with a deep frown. Unlike last time, you didn’t try to stop him. 

“I detest what you’re insinuating,” he sneered. Sasori managed to support himself on his palm before he collapsed against the pillow at his back. He could just barely get himself into a sitting position. You didn’t bother to help. “Like a medic who lives in a cave has any right to criticize my craft.”

“Doctor,” you corrected, receiving a scoff in return. “I would have thought that with your level of medical ninjutsu, you could have done the patchwork yourself.” You trailed off, distracted as Deidara ran across the other side of the room with a restocking of sterile bandages. Sasori squinted from his bed, wondering if he had seen his partner correctly. “Overall, I’d say it was good that the kid brought you here. No matter your skill, self-operation would have been quite the undertaking.”

Deidara appeared on the upper balcony with a rag in one hand and a bottle of cleaning spray in the other. He wiped down the railings. 

“He’s working harder than he ever has in the Akatsuki, that’s for sure,” Sasori muttered. He shifted to take the strain off of his tender wound. “Maybe you should keep him.” You let out a shallow chuckle, holding up your hand with a shake of your head. 

“Oh, no, you Akatsuki boys can keep to your own. We already have enough dogs sniffing around this city without you all making a ruckus.” You sat at the foot of the bed, the both of you lost in watching Deidara clean upstairs. You hummed to yourself, turning to glance at Sasori. “You’re sure recruiting them young, huh?”

“I didn’t recruit him at all.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re trying to pawn him off.” You sighed, and with a slight heave, you stood. With a roll of your shoulders, you stretched, surveying the room. “You should get him out of here quickly once you feel better.” You turned to face him with hands in your pockets. “People don’t take kindly to bombers around here. I’ll check on you sometime tomorrow.” 

***

Sasori took the day to mend his arm with a rare disregard for time. He dislodged the ball socket from his bicep before opening one of his scrolls for spare parts. A white puff of smoke materialized over the marking labeled “left arm,” and with a bit of tinkering, he managed to isolate just the hand and the forearm. The extra bicep was sealed back into the scroll. 

The new forearm and hand were lighter in color compared to the battle-worn part they were replacing, but the replacement limb clicked into place without fuss. Sasori was still tightening the joint when two new patients entered the clinic. He could hear you speaking to them from your office, which consisted of little more than a cluttered desk and a few thin metal panels. 

“You just missed him. Shig left yesterday for Rain country,” you said. Your voice was muffled, but Sasori could just make out your words from across the room. 

“Is there anything you could do for her? She can’t even walk. Her legs are giving out on her,” another voice pleaded earnestly through the thin walls. 

“I’m sorry; I wish there was something I could do to help, but that’s just not my field of expertise. The best I can do is let you know when Shig is back.”

“Doctor, please. If she lost her legs again, I—” The second voice’s breath hitched. Light shuffling sounded from your office before Sasori heard a sniffle. —“With everything going on, I just… She can’t make it down the evacuation route. Please, Doctor, they’ve already taken so much from us.”

Sasori perked up as the second voice grew softer. He slowly rose from his bed, crossing the large room on bare feet as he listened closer. 

“Believe me, I understand what the stakes are. My heart goes out to you, and if I could help, I would, but that doesn’t change the fact that I simply don’t know how to fix this. If you’d like to pack some things from the surface, you’re welcome to stay in the Warren until Shig’s return.”

Sasori stopped in front of your office, paying no mind to the other patients in beds despite their gruesome burn scars. He stared at the door, listening to the conversation behind it. 

A metallic click sounded to Sasori’s left, and instinctively, he pivoted into a battle stance, fingertips already spinning chakra threads as he heard a soft thump. But no enemy was to be found. Instead, a young girl cowered on the floor.

Her legs consisted of a dark wood supported by small metal pieces. Or her legs would have been supported by small metal pieces if they weren’t hanging loosely from her knee joints. One appeared worse than the other, as if someone tried to fix them but only served to break the parts further. 

Her eyes widened at the very sight of Sasori, eyes glued to the seam where his torso met his arms. A little gasp escaped her as she tried to stand, but her legs gave out. Sasori frowned; he could see the problem. She scooted back, no doubt at Sasori’s deep scowl and grotesque appearance. 

“You should really know how to fix those things yourself,” he spat, eyes glued to the busted parts of the hastily made joints. If he had to give this Shig character credit for anything, it was the creativity of the build. A union of metal and wood, the girl’s two legs looked more akin to two artisan clocks than a simple and functional prosthetic. The designs were hardly symmetrical, likely because the materials looked like they were dug out of a scrap bin. That was the first issue.

He sighed, squatting down only for the little girl to scoot back. Sasori’s expression sunk in vexation, and the girl’s nervous gulp went unnoticed. 

“You call this art? They’re pitiful.” With a grunt of effort, Sasori sat down on the cold cement floor. The child eyed him skeptically, paralyzed with hesitancy like a groveling deer. 

“Are you Mr. Shig?”

“Hell no.” Sasori’s fingers pressed a few points on his bicep, and the girl watched in disbelief as a panel of Sasori’s wooden skin rose and moved to the side, allowing him to pluck out a small, slender box. Her mouth shut quickly as Sasori’s attention returned to her. He continued to frown, gesturing her toward him as he plucked up a few long tools in his slender fingers. “Do you want your legs fixed or not?”

She approached him warily until she sat with her feet adjacent to Sasori’s waist and her hips next to his knees. Her gaze was glued to Sasori’s own wooden limbs. She paid little mind as Sasori reoriented her legs to face forward, but the broken socket continued to spin. 

He studied the engineering up close. It was unique, nothing like he had ever seen, and most definitely nothing like the standard shinobi-grade prosthetics he had seen in the past, but he could still follow the design. Sasori sat in silence, studying the craftsmanship, and he did not doubt that these makeshift limbs, while they could likely get the job done, were made with thrown-together materials at best. 

“You don’t know how to fix them, do you?” A tiny voice broke Sasori from his deep thinking, much to his disdain. The girl sat up straight at the sight of Sasori’s seething expression. 

“Of course I can fix them,” he snarled, and the child almost jumped. Sasori tugged one of his legs in, tugging one of the girl’s broken ones outward to form a right angle. “You see this? That’s called a nut.” He jiggled one of the loosest parts with his finger. The girl nodded, which, according to Sasori, apparently wasn’t an adequate response. “I want you to say it out loud. This is called a nut.”

“This is called a nut,” she repeated. Sasori hummed in approval, spinning the nut off the bolt before removing the bolt altogether. The girl instinctively lurched forward as a section of her leg weakened.

“This is a bolt.” Sasori tapped the bolt, and with another pointed glare, the girl quickly repeated the word. He didn’t acknowledge her acute panic. Unsure of herself, she repeated his words for the second time.

“That is a bolt.”

Sasori paid little mind, plucking a few items from his little box. He compared them to the size of the existing bolt, placing a few metal pieces back before holding three round items between his thumb and pointer finger. 

“What’s this one?” He gestured to the thicker of the pieces.

“That’s, uh, that one is a nut.”

“Good. This one—” Sasori offered the girl the thinner rings. She held it in her hands, brushing over the smooth surfaces with the pads of her fingers. —“Those are washers.” 

“This one’s a washer,” she repeated with a determined nod. Sasori held his hand out again, and she dropped the washer into his wooden palm. 

“Now, Shig used a bolt that was too big for this joint. Show me the bolt—” The girl pointed at the bolt and received a slight nod. —“And a nut that’s too small. And because this section is made of wood, we’re going to use a washer.” The girl pointed at the washer. Sasori blinked slowly, almost having to collect himself for a second. “Yes, good.”

He placed the washer on the bolt, slotting it back into place. His other hand secured the loose parts of her leg. He held up a second washer and a nut, waving it in front of the girl's face before placing both on the end of the bolt. Sasori gave them a few twirls as they worked down the thread length. The washer dropped to the very end. He gestured toward the half-secured nut, maneuvering his arms out of the way to allow the girl access to the section of leg he was still keeping secured in place.

“You try.” The girl reached down, winding it down until the small nut was secured against the flat wood. “The washer is going to prevent the head of the bolt from digging into the wood. Twist it tight, as tight as you can go.” Sasori reached back into his box to retrieve a small wrench.

“Now repeat after me—” Sasori tightened the bolt. —“‘Only an idiot can’t use a fuckin’ nut and bolt.’” 

“My mom doesn’t let me curse.” 

Sasori looked up from his work with a roll of his eyes. He sighed with a heave of his shoulders. She stared into his honey-colored irises.

“I’m letting you.” He blew a few strands of hair away from his face, nodding with certainty before tinkering again at the inside of the joint. The girl puffed up, gathering courage in her breath as Sasori continued the more intricate repairs. She swiveled her head. 

“Only an idiot can’t use uh— can’t use a f— can’t use a fucking nut and bolt!” she stammered with red cheeks. Sasori didn’t even look up as he offered his hand, and she slammed her hand down across his fingers in victory. 

When you and the girl’s mother exited your office, she was already standing. The two of you stopped in your doorway, exchanging glances as she raved. You tuned it all out, standing at just the angle to make eye contact with Sasori as he sat on his cot. He averted his eyes with a grimace. 

“And Mom! They don’t even squeak anymore! They’re all fixed because only an idiot can’t use a fucking nut and bolt!”

“Reiko!”

***

He thought you’d approach him after the pair left, and Sasori always had a strong intuition.

“Assassins are teaching little kids curse words nowadays?” you mused, a hint of a laugh lacing your voice. Sasori’s closed eyes fluttered open to look at you before closing again. He shifted on his bed, hands nestled behind his head. You were staring up at the door, thumbs looped in the pockets of your jacket. “Is that why you got stuck with the blond kid?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Sasori refused to look at you, instead tinkering away at something under his artificial skin. Several panels rose from his arm, alternating up and down like waves before settling back into his shoulder. He thought that if he ignored you, you would leave, but you stood at the edge of his parallel curtains, simply watching him as he worked. 

Sasori spared a few glances toward you, careful not to meet your gaze. He observed you from his peripheral like an animal, withdrawn and cautious. You didn’t seem to share his tension as you loitered, not even hiding your interest as you watched Sasori tinker. The silence passed for a moment. A low rumble of footsteps and mutterings bounced off the high ceiling. 

“Can I help you?”

“You did a nice thing.” 

Sasori made the mistake of looking up. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he repeated. His eyes flickered back up to your face, his expression drooping at your indifferent demeanor. Sasori huffed, shifting to let one leg hang over the side of his bed. “Are you here to heal me or stare at me all day like some circus freak?”

“Have you ever considered making prosthetics?” 

“Tch, you’re annoying.” Before you could retort, Sasori stood up on his cot, the crosssections under the thin sheets popping as chakra threads manifested at his fingertips. They wrapped around the upper railing, and you gaped, stepping forward as he shot up to land expertly on the balcony.

“You better not reopen anything!” You instinctively stepped forward. The catwalk creaked, clamoring metallically as Sasori strode toward the back exit. You backed up a few steps.

“It’s a good thing there’s a doctor in the room.”

He had just settled into a corner against the wall when you appeared at the top of the stairs. Sasori heaved a deep sigh, taking his time standing as you rushed up to him. 

“Are you always this awkward when you do good things?”

“Jeez, you ask a lot of questions.” Sasori walked briskly down the length of the balcony, and you followed. 

“I’m a doctor. I’d say having an inquisitive nature is a positive.”

“Is that what you call it?” Sasori stopped short, realizing suddenly that the metal walkway didn’t wrap around the room. Instead, one stairwell connected a balcony to the front entrance, and another connected a separate balcony to the back entrance. He pretended not to notice, leaning on the railing and observing the room from above. 

Sasori could see all the patients in their makeshift rooms, all in much worse condition than he was. Some milled around the lower floor, hobbling on makeshift crutches and wrapped in bandages. An overwhelming amount of patients had one thing in common.

“What happened to them?” he asked. His eyes darted from person to person, counting how many lost arms, legs, and eyes before turning to you suddenly.

“We’ve had a serial bomber in the city for quite some time.” Your voice was soft and somber as you stood next to him. You almost melted, shoulders slumping as your chest rose steadily. You leaned forward, gazing out over the room, and Sasori watched, mesmerized by your body language as you tucked a few strands of hair behind your ear. “A lot of these people are poor and underprivileged. When they get caught up in the blasts, there’s no one to take care of them, so they come here.”

You shrugged, nodding at him a few times. Sasori frowned.

“Why?” 

You looked at him in confusion as he studied your face. You watched his eyes dart over your features, taking in every fold, tick, and pore. 

“Why do they come here?” you questioned, glancing to your left and right before meeting Sasori’s eye. Were you missing something? Sasori’s expression didn’t change one bit. He simply stared, searching. You took a breath, choosing your words with a hum. “They don’t get adequate care in this sector—”

“Why do they come here?” Sasori leaned forward, his eyes unyielding. Judging. You drummed your fingers on the railing, looking back down at your room full of patients. You let out another sigh.

“You’re passing through. I highly doubt you’re all that interested in the politics of a country that barely makes it on the map.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sasori interjected harshly, evident impatience adding force to his tone. You shook your head slowly in defeat. You had given him the disclaimer. 

“Well, it’s very simple; people hate the poor…!” You almost laughed, the truth sounding silly in the way it fell from your lips. Your smile faded into a bitter look, and you shook your head again. “For a very long time, you had to make a certain amount of income to vote. It took a lot of fighting for the Senate to balance out like it has, but some members of the old party have resorted to underhanded preventative measures to keep this sector from the polls. I guess that’s the skinny of it.” 

“The girl and her mother?” You turned to gauge Sasori’s reaction again, but he had none. He stared blankly at the patients who rested and milled around on the lower floor. 

“They weren’t even trying to vote. Just… wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I see…” Sasori mumbled but said nothing more. He looked bored, and it made you wonder why he bothered to ask, given his clear indifference.

“Look—” You began again, turning to him with your hand splayed across your chest. —“I know it might not matter much to you, but I believe that everyone has a right to make decisions about the country they’re living in and have access to healthcare. Especially when their government is bombing them left and right; that’s why they come here. That’s why I’m a doctor.”

Sasori remained silent, thinking to himself for a moment. He turned toward you, shoulders somewhat squared with a huff. Sasori took a half step toward you with one hand on the railing as he cocked his head toward you.

“Heal me the rest of the way. I want to get out of here tonight.” 

He brushed past you, heading toward the stairs. 

“I have other places to be, you know. You can’t just make demands—” You stopped short at the sight of Sasori’s severe scowl and menacing expression. You clenched your teeth, the tip of your nose wrinkling. —“Fine. Whatever. I have other patients, and I’ll charge your organization double for your treatment.” 

You stormed forward and down to the lower level as Sasori watched you carefully.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: I will say, writing the Sasori and Deidara partnership during a timeline where Deidara is 14 and Sasori hasn't completed his puppet body is a guilty pleasure of mine. Maybe someday I'll finish that Sasori x Witch!Reader series.

[dr-lizortecho]

my secret santa gift for @greentealycheejelly, a malexa fic that examines an alternate start to season two that gives them more space to breathe before falling together, with examinations of a lot of the group dynamics and echo in the background! I hope you enjoy it and that the angst isn’t too heavy handed, but I listened to a lot of My Chemical Romance while writing and plotting and I’m sure that shows (in the title at the very least)!

The last few days had been rough, everyone’s emotions strung high from a grief larger than one man’s death and ready to be cracked wide open at any second. From the desperate grasps of one of Alex’s best friends to not get left behind again, to actually have her second chance at the family that had been ripped out of her grasp since she was old enough to hold something in her tiny fist. To the puffy eyes and dark circles of his ex-lover as he forwent sleep and food, spent hours huddled in a dark corner of a bar drinking himself numb or in his bunker hunched over his console angrily muttering under his breath.

Alex knew both of their fragile states- had witnessed them up close and personal. From Liz asking him to steal a corpse to Michael slurring his words as he helped him climb onto the wafer thin mattress in his airstream. Had shown up to install the grotto’s new security system to find Michael glaring at the shimmering console like it had killed Max itself, a beer bottle held tight in one hand and tear tracks glistening on his face. Alex hadn’t asked about the fresh tattoo his rolled up sleeves showcased or the book that had been thrown across the room, brand new by the looks of it, not even a crack in the spine.

Now that grief had drawn back. Leaving a deceptive calm over their group's unresolved emotions. Like the shoreline before a storm.

Both Liz and Michael seem bare and exposed in their exhausted states. The ever present crease on Michael’s brow is smoothed over, pure exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders as he sleeps in an armchair pulled up to the bed. Liz is standing at Max’s other side chewing on her bottom lip, the skin broken from her constant worrying, clipboard held in her hands. As if staring at the data will make their chances less slim, would make the muscle in Max’s chest stronger.

Both not three paces from where Alex had left them the night before.

“Long night?” Alex asks, his voice is still rough from disuse. He was tired himself, barely getting any sleep for the last few days, since he’d stood in the viewing room and watched Max flatline. Had seen Michael collapse against the wall and slide to the ground. Heard Liz’s broken sobs ringing through the high pitched scream of machinery.

For a moment Alex had tasted despair, felt completely powerless to save his loved ones again. A steady uptick to the list of people he couldn’t ever quite save.

He’d wanted to laugh, a dark cruel kind of sound, the kind he used to make around a mouthful of blood or when his ears were ringing so bad he thought he might never hear right again. But he had Maria, her soft warm hand had slipped into his and grounded him. Softened him. Kept his cool facade from breaking as he’d stared a nightmare in the face.

“Mikey just feel asleep,” Liz says, voice soft. Not defeated yet, but weak. Weary of joy it seemed.

Alex nods curtly, hand tightening around the coffee tray he had brought in. Three, just incase. “He needs it.”

Liz nods, concern flashing in her eyes as she gives Michael a glance. “After the days spent hunched over building Max a pacemaker-“ her face looks sour at that thought “-he has to be exhausted.”

read on ao3

[customairstream]

Customize your dream Airstream trailer with our Airstream build process carried out by our professional team. To get your own Airstream, visit our website now!

[chillydownhere2]

Body Shop...

Source Me laf@ilyF ❤️

[cerebellam]

Something Worth Living For - Chapter 6

Ash Williams x Female Reader

Summary: Feeling hopeless, you decide to drown away your sorrows. Turns out you can’t handle your liquor (or ketamine)

Warning(s): Language, alcohol consumption and intoxication, accidental drug use (ketamine), sexual themes and language, large age gap, feelings of negative self worth

Masterlist: X

A/N: Sorry for the delay as always. This chapter was really fun considering I’ve been on vacation drinking A LOT, so I had some inspiration 😂 More to come soon! 😉

A blonde highlighted bartender approached you at the bar top, a glass in his hands. The man had an almost ‘surfer boy turned stoner’ type of charm to him. He gave you a friendly grin. 

“Hey there, what can I getcha?”

“Something strong please. Anything.” You almost pleaded, a half-smile on your lips. 

The man winked. “One Pink Fuck, comin’ right up!” He flipped the glass in his hands and set it down on the counter. Huh, that was the drink Ash had mentioned the other night. 

You returned a smile, watching as the man assembled your cocktail. You saw him pour a myriad of different alcohols, the liquid becoming a pretty shade of pink lemonade.

You felt someone approach your side. Ash’s blue shirt came into your peripheral vision. 

“Ugh. Chet, what the fuck are you making? Don’t give her a Pink Fuck!”

The bartender, Chet, shrugged. “She wanted something strong, man! Who am I to deny a pretty patron?” 

You blushed, turning to Ash. “Yeah, the pretty patron needs something strong.”

He sighed. “Look, Y/N. I know this is a lot. Let’s just get back to the airstream and talk about this, huh?”

“I don’t think talking is going to change the fact that I’m engaged, apparently.”

Chet perked up at this, offering a goofy grin. “Oh hey congrats!”

“No, you idiot. It’s an arranged marriage,” Ash sighed, voice dripping with exasperation.

His smile fell. “Oh. Yikes.”

You nodded in agreement. “Yeah.”

You both watched Chet finish making your drink in silence. He placed the drink in front of you. 

“There you are, an Elk Grove specialty. Don’t waste any time, now. Throw that baby back!”

Ash’s mechanical hand suddenly reached across to block you. “Y/N, I’m warning you. Don’t drink that.”

You scoffed, pushing away his arm. “Or else what? What are you, my dad?”

Seriously, who did he think he was? You were engaged to a fucking demon for heaven’s sake. You were allowed to mourn this more than unsavory union in your own way.

Ash frowned and leaned in closer to you. “Watch it, or else daddy’ll have to teach you a lesson.”

You shrugged, trying your best to ignore the heat flushing over your body and in your core at his threat. You quickly took the glass and raised the rosé colored liquid to your lips before he could protest. It was sweet, leaving a slight tingle on your tongue.

You turned back to Ash and he sighed, defeated. He watched you, dumbstruck, as you sensually licked the remaining alcohol from your lips. “And what lesson is that?”

Ash was at a loss for words.

You winked, casually turning back to the bartender. You raised the glass in your hands and inspected its contents. “That’s pretty good, Chet! One bartender to another- what’s in this?”

“Vodka, strawberry liqueur, grenadine, lemonade, ketamine, a little sprinkle of orange zest and nutmeg…”

You almost choked, coughing on your final gulp.

“Did you just say ketamine?!”

“Only the special-est K for my customers!” Chet beamed. 

You blinked, setting the glass onto the countertop with a ‘thud’. You turned back to Ash with wide eyes.

“Hey, I warned you.”

The tingle on your tongue had now turned into a full on numb sensation. There was no way this was going to end well for you.

Ash’s annoyance quickly dissipated into a chuckle. The damage had been done.

“Seriously, have I ever steered you wrong before? You have to build an immunity up to this stuff. Chet, go ahead and make me one.”

“Already ahead of you, brother.”

Chet poured two more servings from the silver cocktail shaker, passing a glass to Ash. They raised their cups in a cheers.

“To kicking evil’s ass. Seriously, Y/N. We’re going to get this fucker. No worries.”

You gulped. “Well now I’m not worried about that, am I gonna like…have a heart attack now? Die or something?!”

Ash and Chet shared a look before joining in together in an uproarious laughter. “Yeah no, but seriously, you’re in for a treat.”

You rolled your eyes, making your way over to an empty barstool. A very warm feeling suddenly began to spread over you, flushing your face and heating your chest. 

“Woah…” You took another step forward and almost missed your footing completely. Ash quickly caught you in his arms as you stumbled forward. 

“Yeah, okay, champ. Let’s get you out of here.” 

“Mhmmm,” you giggled. “You’re strong.”

You sloppily dragged a finger down his bicep.

“And you’re drunker than who shot John, come on.”

A feeling of euphoria had taken over you, and you could hardly see straight. All you knew was that the man holding you in his arms right now felt strong, safe, and…ridiculously handsome right now.

You both were soon approached by Kelly and Pablo, leaving Ruby to sulk alone at her table. 

“Is she okay?” The two looked at each other knowingly. “Pink Fuck,” they said in unison.

Ash nodded. “Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and get this one back somewhere where she can’t do anymore damage.”

Kelly eyed you, sighing wistfully. “Yeah, remember the first time I tried that stuff?”

“Yeah, you KO’d pretty hard, Kel,” chuckled Pablo.

“But it felt so nice! Lemme have a glass-“

Ash quickly cut her off, struggling to keep you standing straight. “No can do. No more room to babysit tonight.”

She rolled her eyes, turning back to the bar. “Ugh, fine. Fuck it, bring on the beer I guess.”

“That’s my little alcoholic.”

She quickly turned back to flick Ash off. Pablo smiled.

“Get her home safe, Jefe! We’ll brainstorm some ideas on how to get Baal.”

“Thanks Pablo. You’re a real pal.”

~

Your vision was completely blurred as you crashed down onto a soft surface. Where were you? You giggled, smoothing your arms over what you could only assume was a bedspread. You were in the Airstream. On Ash’s bed. This could be fun.

“Alright, you can sleep this off here. I’ll take the couch. We’ll go back to killing evil tomorrow.”

You quickly sat up to the edge of the bed and reached a hand out, grabbing his. You smirked and with one swift move, pulled the man standing before you to his knees.

“Y/N, what are you-“

“Shhh,” you whispered, sloppily hanging a finger on his lips. “Kiss me, Ash.”

The older man gulped, staring at you intently with brown eyes. “Y/N, you’re very very intoxicated right now. And depressed. That’s a combo that equals no bueno.”

You pouted, trailing your fingers across his jaw. The alcohol and apparent drugs running through your system gave you a surge of confidence you didn’t normally have. “Ash, please.”

He shook his head. “I can’t, Y/N.”

Somewhere deep inside of you wondered if he didn’t want you. What kind of man like him, a Jefe, would want just some girl like you?

He stood to his feet, turning to leave. You didn’t want to see him go quite yet.

“Ash?”

“Yeah, doll?”

“Will you at least sleep next to me? You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” you slurred.

“I’m not quite so sure that’s a good idea-“

“Please? I’m afraid of seeing him again in my dreams…Baal.”

He couldn’t resist the e/c, doe-eyed look in your plea. Ash wanted nothing more than to have taken you up on your offer, and make sweet sweet love to you all night long. But he knew better.

A deep reluctance filled his veins as he defeatedly crawled into the bed next to you, and you immediately inched to his side. You snuggled into his chest, breathing in the faint smell of aftershave and motor oil. You snaked a leg around his and held him close.

“Thank you,” you breathed, slowly drifting off into a deep sleep- the safest you had felt in days.

-

Chapter 7 coming soon!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This property is a little funky and overpriced, but there's something about it, that I like. You have a choice of living in the main house, a cabin, or a vintage Airstream trailer. It has 3bds, 2ba, and they want an unfortunate $1.45M b/c it's located in Topanga, CA.

The house is clearly built on a hill, so it's a tall structure.

It's like a tree house. You'd think that it would be illegal to build a completely wood home in such a forest-y area on a mountainside, but I guess not.

It has a nice corner wrap-around deck. Big windows. Nice, right?

Tiny kitchen, though, and no dishwasher for $1.45M.

I would say that this is one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Look at this cute little room overlooking the mountainside.

Would've been better if they left a little more room to step into this tub. Love the leaded glass windows.

This dome is my favorite room. It's even got a loft. But, are those plastic walls?

Here's a 2nd bath. At least you can get into this tub.

There are several decks with different views.

This deck has a view of the cabin above.

Here's a small sitting area.

Here we are at the cabin.

It's a little open- you can see the toilet, and it appears that the bathroom may be one with the kitchen.

Rustic living room.

Has a little raised area here.

Up here at the highest point, is the vintage Airstream with a deck on the roof.

It looks like there's a little opening in the trees there. It's a great property, a .41 acre lot, but the price is outrageous.

https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/19828-Grand-View-Dr_Topanga_CA_90290_M13647-19981

[malcohen]

where: cole's airstream who: @colemonroe & malcolm cohen

He sat in his car for a good ten minutes before finally building up the courage to head over to Cole's door. Seven years sober, he'd almost forgotten how intense the cravings could get, especially when most of his days passed by without a single thought dedicated to his former vices. That wasn't to say he never felt the sting of addiction haunting him on the odd day, perhaps if he saw something that reminded him of Hannah or even something as simple as a hard evening at work. However, considering that his deepest shame had just been announced to the masses, it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise -- he felt desperate to use again.

"Hey." Malcolm greeted the other male, unable to meet his gaze as he entered. "I'm -- I'm sorry to put you out or whatever. I don't even..." Brows knitted together, shaking his head. "I know I should have a sponsor to deal with this shit, I've just -- I thought I was doing better, thought maybe I could be okay without one right now, but...this shit is messin' with me."

[staticspaces]

Walden North

Check out the fresh new video here!!

Let's begin this incredible location by taking a look at the living room with the coffered ceilings, the kitchen with the avocado green appliances as well as a some exterior views!!

Hidden away on the east side of the Coast Mountains within British Columbia, Canada, lies this fortress of an abandoned house. Sitting atop a cliff overlooking a creek the mansion which was built in the 1970s by Vernon Pick, is slowly rotting away.

Vernon was born in Wisconsin in 1903 and left home at the age of 16 and joined the US Marines a year later. He was a gold miner in Manitoba before running an electrical company for 17 years in Minneapolis, then moving back to Wisconsin, there he built a hydroelectric generator to power a derelict flour mill which he then converted into an electrical workshop. In 1951 a fire destroyed his workshop, so he and his wife Ruth bought an Airstream and headed west.

Then at the age of 48 he spent nine months prospecting for Uranium in Utah Canyonlands. When down to his last $300, he then lucked out and struck it rich, this catapulted him into wealth and nationwide fame and he was given the name “Uranium King of America”.

He sold his mine for $10 million and with this new found wealth, he bought an estate in California and renamed it Walden West, he converted it into a research facility and staffed it with scientists to try and develop a cheap source of nuclear power.

In 1965, with the Cold War era in full swing, Pick chose to abandon Walden West and decided to build a compound in the rain shadow of the Coast Mountains of BC, since the area would be heavily protected from nuclear fallout. He named it Walden North, there were two homes, a workshop/laboratory, a hydro electric dam as well as his mansion on the cliff that was accessible by a tram.

Vernon died in 1986 from cancer. Pick's belongings and equipment were auctioned off and the mansion has seen little use since.

The property is active with the hydroelectric dam still producing 16 MW of power which is enough for about 8000 homes.

As for Vernon's home, the current owners have built stairs to the roof, presumably to do repairs, hopefully this house will get to live another day.