#it’s echo-y and electronic and gross so

[utterdrip]

ok yeah i wanted to post this before i slept bc making videos is So Fun. especially. when the audio corrupts. and u have no idea why. bc shit taken before and after are just fine. so yeah

have robot astarion

[zmediaoutlet]

fic: survivors

Title: survivors Rating: E Wordcount: 4466 Relationship: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester Warnings: Season/Series 13, Post-Episode: s13e22 Exodus, Established Relationship, Happy Sex Summary: After getting all the refugees out of the apocalypse world and leaving Lucifer in it, Sam and Dean take some we-time.  (from @sketchydean ‘s prompt: all survivor, no guilt.)

This was my first time posting in Salt, Burn, Porn -- thank you so much for the timing, because I wouldn’t have been able to knock out this fic on like any other night this week, haha.

*

(read on AO3)

There's like a hundred people in their house. Dean's not—he doesn't hate it, at least not for the night, but he sure as hell could do with a little privacy. And, okay, it's not a hundred people—it's not even a house—but it's theirs, and he never really thought of it as a boarding house, a halfway station on the way to—what? He doesn't know, and he doesn't think any of them do either. Bobby, or at least this guy who's passing for Bobby—he's in charge, more or less, and so Dean just does what he always does. He checks out the situation, he makes a list, he does what needs to get done.

Ketch disappears fast; so does Charlie (other-Charlie), for some reason. Mom's looking after a lady who it turns out might be pregnant, and Dean's not touching that situation with a fifty-foot pole. Castiel talks to Rowena, and Jack—Jack ain't talking to anybody, and Dean looks at Sam and Sam's already looking right at Jack, his eyebrows tugged into a flat straight line over distant eyes, and maybe Dean's not touching that with a pole of any length at all, at least not right now. Everyone's drinking up his stash and they're gonna need more food, more blankets, more cots, more space, but for right now, he needs to smell less like apocalypse-ash and grave-dirt. He's smelled enough of both for a lifetime; not fair to bring it home with him.

Shower's empty, somehow. Refugees swarming his halls and they haven't found the whole bunker's best friggin' feature. Well, Dean was due a lucky day. He boils his skin off for about ten minutes, just glorying in hot water, in water pressure. He swabbed his ass with a literal rag in a literal bucket over in Shitville. If all the refugees actually make it back with a plan to save the day, he hopes for their sake it involves some kind of legit plumbing. When he feels sufficiently disinfected he brings the temp down, grabs the soap, lathers up. Scrubs his scalp all minty-fresh and rinses off and feels like an entirely new person, and when he's free of bubbles he drags pruny hands over his face under the water and opens his eyes and there's Sammy, leaning with his ass against one of the sinks and two glasses of whiskey on the shelf next to him and a little smile on his face, watching.

"Perv," Dean sputters, like his heart's not turning over in his chest. Sammy.

"Takes one," Sam says, smile tucked up into the soft piled-up fold of his cheek, a dimple carved in deep. Ridiculous, Dean thinks, and watches Sam's eyes drop. He turns around, making sure the water's carving off all the soap bubbles, carrying away all that otherworld nastiness, and knows Sam's watching that, too, and how is it possible that after years of this—after, christ alive, almost twenty years of this—he can still get riled up just from how Sam looks at him.

Water off and he pushes his hair back, and when he turns around he catches the towel Sam throws into his chest. "Everybody settled?" he says, and Sam shrugs. "We're gonna have to clean out a Super Walmart of camping supplies, man. I don't think the Letters planned for a whole village to move in."

"We'll figure it out," Sam says. Relaxed, like he hasn't been in—shit. Dean can't even remember. He dries off, pricklingly aware of being watched. Bright in here. Maybe he can blame the heat in his face on the hot water. "Man. Seriously, did you burn yourself? You're like a lobster."

"Benefit of having an angel friend," Dean says, wrapping the towel around his waist. He steps out of the shower pan and the concrete's cool on his feet, the glass Sam holds out for him cooler, the whiskey inside just the right amount of burn. He licks his lips, scrapes his teeth over his lip, and up this close he can smell Sam: blood and mud, an edge like rotting forest floor. Gross, except that it's Sam. He remembers what he was saying only belatedly. "Got any burns, you can get 'em healed up, lickety-split."

"Lickety-split," Sam echoes, eyebrows pulled up like he's making fun of Dean, and he is, but Dean's found it in himself this last handful of years to be okay with that. To look forward to that. Sam doesn't make fun unless he's okay, and that little dig, that eyeroll before he takes a sip. That's Sammy, a-okay. What a miracle.

"You reek," Dean informs him, soft as a tub of mallow-fluff on the inside, and Sam wrinkles his nose, shrugs. "Yeah," he says, and hands his glass to Dean, and that means Dean gets to watch as he strips out of the unfamiliar stained sweatshirt, his undershirt below smeared with old blood, with vamp juice, with handprints Dean doesn't want to recognize. He drops them to the floor, heels off his boots, and then—belt, jeans, socks, boxers, and he's tanned and naked and whole, unmarked in any way that counts. Dean drains his own glass and sips at Sam's left-behind one, watches Sam under the shower. His eyes closed under the water. The rust-brown streaking away, uncovering the tattoo they share. His hair slicking against his skin, dark almost to black, on his skull and that patch in the center of his chest and at his crotch, his dick heavy and soft, the water limning it, dripping, a pouring river Dean could stop with his mouth, if experience didn't tell him he'd choke on it. Right now he maybe wouldn't mind, but. They got guests.

Still. "What are you doin'," Dean says, real quiet. Sam doesn't hear him over the rush of the water, there's no way, but he turns off the taps and pushes his hair off his forehead and looks at Dean anyway, and they can't, they got work to do and there's too many people around, they both know it. Still.

The Walmart's three towns down the road. Dean doesn't ask Sam to come; he comes anyway. Clean clothes that are his own, that smell like their detergent. Mom and Bobby can be in charge of all the strangers for a while. It's a pretty quick trip, especially with Dean driving as fast as he's driving, and he cranks up Appetite for Destruction and Sammy doesn't even complain, and they don't talk, and with it loud like that the guitar solo's still rattling in Dean's bones when he's moving quick around the fluorescent aisles, grabbing everything he can think of that'll fit in the car. Sam's got his own cart and they see each other on the turns and Sam grins at him, every time, basket fuller and fuller with soap and toothbrushes and pillow cases, underwear in three-packs, socks in ten-packs, bread and cheese, carrot sticks because Sam's a damn rabbit. Dean tells him so, when they pass each other with Dean on his way to the electronics section, and there behind a gondola of basketballs Sam says, "Vitamins aren't the enemy, jerk," and then like it's nothing fits his hand big around the back of Dean's neck and tugs him in for a kiss. It rings through Dean's head, bright as a brass gong. Quick, and Sam's smiling, thumbs at the corner of Dean's mouth and pushes him away and strides off with one janky cart-wheel rattling, and Dean's left in the rubbery smell of the basketballs, thinking, burner phones, but his brain's not quite operating on all cylinders. Call in the pit crew, he thinks, touching his damp lip and thinking of the store cameras, but. If Sam doesn't care then he doesn't, either. So. Burner phones.

They fill the trunk and the backseat besides, piled high enough with crap and three of their good cards burned. Dean revs the engine and Sam says, "my turn," and Dean doesn't object, and with Sam's choice of tape thumping the car body and sailing out through the open windows into the cornfields they race home, clouds scudding over the moon. Dean's never actually known what Bron-y-Aur is, but the song's great anyway, especially with Sam clapping the side of his thigh along with the beat.

At the bunker someone's built a fire in the shelter of the entrance and a few of the refugees are sitting around it, beers clutched in their hands. They stand up fast at seeing the car, fear softening out of their faces when they see that it's just them—and Dean has no compunctions about pressing them to work, either, even if Sam's mouth does a complicated thing. "Food in the kitchen, and you guys got someone who knows how to cook?" A lady scoffs, accepts a bag piled high with crap for sandwiches. "There we go. Yeah, and there's a shower down in the west hall, y'all figure that out how you want, okay? Someone tell Mary we've got some clothes for the kids, and tell Bobby Singer there's a hat in here that won't be frankly embarrassing if anyone else sees him."

"Dude," Sam says, but he's still smiling, and Dean raises his eyebrows like, who, me? Sam rolls his eyes—but then all the strangers have cleared away with all their purchases and Dean fishes out the bourbon bottle he hid up in the driver-side footwell and Sam sighs, but he's still goddamn smiling, like no other day Dean can remember in the past five hundred. He jerks his head and Sam follows him up around the hill over the back of the bunker, the narrow unused path up to the abandoned plant, and through the shouldered-open door to the huge empty cathedral-vault of the thing, and through the archway to the old control room, where there's still a used-to-be-blue couch and an electric lantern from when Dean would hide up here sometimes in rougher days, and where when Dean lights it Sam tugs him around by his hand and tilts his head up and kisses him, not like before in the linoleum-squeaky aisle but for real, like he means it, soft and full, his fingertips on the back of Dean's ear, his nose cold somehow even in the summer-spring air.

Dean breathes him, holds his bicep through the washed-soft flannel. His mouth, tasting clean. "Sammy," he says, when Sam pulls back to breathe, and Sam laughs somehow, happy-sounding. Happy, Sammy. Doesn't go together that often in Dean's experience and he doesn't even know how to countenance it. But who cares, he thinks, lifting up and biting Sam's lip. Finds himself smiling, for his own part, and hell. Who cares, if it's true.

He didn't think about glasses, but it's not the first time they've necked a bottle. They collapse onto the couch in huge poofing plumes of dust, their knees knocked together, Dean's ankle hooked over Sam's by happenstance and then by choice. "Good day?" Dean says, and Sam toasts him with the whiskey, eyes crinkling and familiar even in the blue-white blast of the lantern light.

"Had worse," he says, and sips, and hands Dean the bottle, and Dean can toast right back to that. They've had a hell of a lot worse. Any day where Sam was dead and came back to him, that's—that's a good one. Swallow goes down like fire and he takes the burn, the sting at the corner of his eyes. Sam takes it back from him, takes his hand too. Squeezes, his thumb dragging hard over the bump of Dean's palm, up to the knot of veins where his pulse feels shaky-wobbly as a kid trying out legs for the first time, and Sam’s smile goes from cocky to warm, just like that. "Name a better day."

"That time Lucinda Morris kissed you on a bet," Dean says, promptly, his heart not in it. Sam rolls his eyes. "Or, hey, how about that time with those identical twins, Callie and—uh, the other one, and they wanted—"

"Callie and Courtney," Sam says, "and I thought we agreed we weren't going to talk about that."

"Could've been hot," Dean argues back, for what's probably the dozenth time, but it's not like it matters. Sam still hasn't let go of his hand, and they're not usually—it's been a while. Since it was easy, like this. He almost wants the other shoe to drop, just to get it over with, but oh man if he hasn't been owed an easy night. His heart feels full of helium, soaring up to make a lump in his throat. "Sammy, guess what." Sam's eyebrows raise, dutifully. "You took care of him."

Zero guesses, who Dean means. Sam gets it immediately and his mouth does something all kinds of complicated, his eyelids lowering. "Yeah," he says, like it's somehow sore, and Dean reaches over and grips a handful of buttons and flannel, hauls with all his strength, and Sam comes, pulled over the top of him, half-laughing in surprise, propped over Dean suddenly, his eyes right there for Dean to see. He shrugs, bites the corner of his mouth. Dissembling like it's nothing. Liar. "We don't know what happened. Jack's not talking, you notice that?"

Dean touches his throat, his neck, warm and whole, where he'd seen the lifeblood gouting out of him. "Don't care," he says, and it's true. Jack'll come around, and it doesn't—matter. Not like this does. "I hope Michael took his head off."

Sam huffs, eyes bright. His hair's haloed in blue-white. "I hope it hurt a lot more than that," he says, quiet like it's a secret, but he's smiling bright and wide again. Dean's brother, happy and a little vicious, and Dean's heart could about blow up. Sam's eyes go all over his face, his hand wide on Dean's cheek, his jaw, and Dean touches his chest, feels the swell of his breath. Watches Sam's tongue wet his lip. "That door lock?" Sam says.

Dean spreads his legs, and says, "No," grinning after, and Sam huffs again and dips and kisses him anyway, drags his mouth open, that helium spinning up and lighting through his whole head. He feels drunk, high. Sam's hot, and when he shifts over he's heavy, too, and Dean doesn't want him moving. Sam's thigh settles along his, his hand on Dean's head and his dick riding against Dean's hip, making itself known, and oh, man, it has been too long, been so many days far too long, long enough that Sam could be five feet away in their own kitchen and Dean'd be missing him, life fucking them over like it so often did and not leaving time for this. At least not time to do this right.

"Oh," Sam says, breathes. He drags his thumb over Dean's eyebrow for some reason, his other hand slipping under Dean's shirt to feel his belly. It sucks in without his say-so, tingly shock of sensation. Sam hooks an arm under his lower back, tips his weight in so Dean's dick pushes against his stomach. Dean makes a noise and Sam's mouth quirks, and Dean hits him in shoulder.

"Smug bitch," he says, and Sam says, "Oh, you haven't seen smug," like a promise, and then his brow furrows, even as he's hitching Dean up into his lap in a haul of easy muscle, a show like—like it's five years ago, longer, and Sam was in that body-building phase. Still strong, enough that Dean's seriously straining the limits of what his jeans should take. "Man. Wish we had something, I want—"

He shakes his head. His hands on Dean's ass, big, squeezing, his chin tilted up so Dean can lay kisses on his mouth, his cheekbone, holding his head still for it. Sweat's starting up at Sam's hairline, his body overheating predictable as always, and Dean smiles, presses his lips to the scratch of Sam's sideburn, smells him. "Who's your favorite brother," he says, and Sam digs fingers into his back and clutches like he always does when Dean reminds him of what they're doing—like it was ever in fucking question, like somehow he could ever forget—but then Dean plunges his hand into the super sketchy crack between couch-cushion and -back and comes up with—

"What the hell," Sam puffs out, when he looks at what Dean's pressing into his hand, and Dean shrugs, smiling down. Who's smug now. "Tell me you didn't get this from the hobo couch."

Dean smacks the back of his head. "Dumbass," he says, and Sam raises his eyebrows and smacks his ass in retaliation, light but enough to—ah, yeah. Dean shakes his head, tugs Sam's hair. "No, obviously, but uh, sometimes you need a little privacy, you know, and—look, it's not dried up, don't look a lube horse in the mouth, okay. Gratitude, Sammy."

Wrinkled nose and Sam says, "Please never say lube horse again," and yeah, that's—that's Dean's brother, and it's proved more when he's hauled around again, dumped onto his back, his head bouncing against the dusty cushion. He sneezes, spreads his legs wider, and Sam drags a hand along his thigh, hot through the denim, Dean's muscle flexing up into it without his brain being involved, his heart thudding low in the pit of his belly it feels like, his skin aching. "We don't have time," Sam says, like he's got any goddamn intention of doing a thing but what he's doing. "This is nuts."

"When are we not?" Dean says, inviting, and Sam laughs like he knew Dean was going to say that, and maybe he did, maybe after enough years they're just predictable like this, an old married couple working the same ruts and rhythms. Only—Dean doesn't think most old married couples get days like this, days of forty hours with no sleep and running on fourth winds, days of fighting and killing and saving lives, and definitely they don't get Sammy, whole and particularly, always, himself. That alone makes this something that's all theirs, and he's damn lucky, in this way if in no other, that he gets it. He bites his lip, Sam's eyes dark and watchful. "We can be quick."

Like he has to coax, with that look on Sam's face. He goes for Sam's belt first and tugs, and Sam starts unbuttoning his plaid, shucking it backwards over the edge of the couch by the time Dean's unbuttoned and -zipped, has Sam's dick full and heavy in his hand. God, he loves this thing. Feeling's mutual. Dry warm skin, the edge of pubes crinkling his fingertips when he gets a real pull in, and he tucks his fingers down, brushes Sam's balls where they're still tucked heavy into his boxer-briefs. His mouth waters. "How quick?" he says, answering his own question.

Sam snorts, touches Dean's mouth. Gets his thumb licked, sucked in, and groans for it. Yeah, Dean knows what Sam's after. "Quicker than that," Sam says, though, and dips down, replaces his thumb with his lips, opens up Dean's jeans and lets Dean take care of dragging off his boots—awkward, scraping against floor and wooden couch-edge until they strain over his heels—and then leans back and tucks his fingers in and drags boxers and jeans off all in one go, so Dean's left Donald Ducking it in the warm dusty air, his socks still on. His dick swings lazy against his thigh, his balls full and ready, wanting, and Sam cups them up, out of the way, drags his thumb into Dean's crack. "God," he says, like he didn't mean for Dean to hear, "I thought—"

—and he doesn't finish but Dean doesn't want to hear it, not right now. He knows that look on Sam's face, too, and his nuts and gut and heart all ache too hard to have to think that way. "Sam, get the lube," he says, easy demand, and Sam's eyes snap to his face, his thoughts redirected along safer lines. When Sam's thinking with his dick the easiest thing in the world is for Dean to say that he needs something and Sam—yeah, he shoves his jeans down, pulls his undershirt up out of the way, slicks his dick ready to give it to him. Shining, in the white light, the head heavy, dark with blood. Dean touches it, gets his fingers wet and watches Sam's face flinch—touches himself, between the legs, and smears slick all over, barely dipping inside. "Come on," he says, and doesn't have to playact to put the right need in it.

"Sure?" Sam says—liar, like he's gonna stop—pushing Dean's thighs open right there on the nasty couch, their mom somewhere under the dirt twenty yards below them, fuck, they haven't done this with her in the same state ever before—and it's a shove, the wet head bulling in, Dean holding the backs of his knees and tipping his head back so Sam can't see how it tears at him—but his body remembers this, it knows what it means when Sam's here, when they're together, and he breathes and feels that sticky-parting, the full open shove that means—that it's Sam—

"Oh, fuck," he says, when Sam's seated. Sam laughs again, the crazy bitch, he smears a slick hand over Dean's dick and grips the lapels of Dean's canvas shirt in both hands, tugs him down, bullies himself somehow deeper. Goddamn. "Jesus, Sam, you can't fuck my throat from that side."

His voice is all screwed up, anyway. He gives up on keeping himself open and reaches down, grips Sam's thighs through his jeans, arches his hips and feels the slick fat drag inside. When he tips his chin down Sam's hovering right over the top of him, mouth open but a smile threatening. "Can't hurt to try," he says, dark wild edge in him, and Dean laughs back, helpless, and holds on while Sam churns his hips, when he rears back and starts to fuck for real, when he knocks Dean off this axis and onto a so, so much better one.

Crazy, it's always just—crazy. Sam's body, his heat, the bigness of him that just bowled Dean over. How this made Sam into a new animal—only it didn't, really, Dean came to realize later—this Sam was just as much the normal Sam as the Sam who hunched over in libraries and got wet-eyed over widows and went prissy when Dean ordered a second burger. Dean loves them all, exactly the same. Well. Maybe sometimes he loves this one a little more. Especially like this, driving deep, curved and hitting every possible good spot, his hand on the back of Dean's neck and a grip on his thigh keeping him open, making it so all Dean has to do is hold on, arch into it, a punching up and in and through, god. He hooks one heel over the back of the couch, tries to breathe. Clutching together, Sam's sweat in his mouth, his taste at the back of Dean's tongue, his breath coming fast and quick and proof, the whole time, proof. Dean tugs him down, kisses him, his hands in Sam's hair, and his dick drags against the scratchy-soft of Sam's undershirt, Sam's jeans pressing into his ass, a sparky hot throb inside that pushes all of those considerations away—that makes it just him and Sam, and really, just him and Sam is all it ever was, and all it ever will be, and oh—fuck, does it feel good, when that's so.

He comes first. Anymore that's always how it goes. Stupid Sam. He jerks, groans, heels digging into Sam's ass, holding him inside. Sam sighs against his jaw, flexing in him. Dean strains rippling for a long held moment, drawing it out, before he relaxes, tugs, and Sam moans into his throat and hammers home. A floaty unhinged ache spreads all through Dean's body, his thighs and hips, his asshole, his throat, his fingertips for some reason, and by the time Sam unloads in him—half-shout, bitten into Dean's shirt—he realizes it's because he's holding Sam's waist so hard that Sam'll probably have ten perfect bruises, fingerprints where Dean lost his damn mind. He lets go, feels the circulation start up in his hands, while Sam jerks in him, his dick and nuts trying to do more than they can. Always makes Dean flush up, tender, stupid. He touches the back of Sam's head, traces a line down the sweat trail along his spine. Hugs his hips, between his thighs, and feels Sam's shudder, inside and out. God, he's missed this and he misses it again, already.

Sam barely rolls off of him. The couch isn't that big and Dean's not letting him go anywhere. Any other day, he'd bitch about being a pillow—and he'll bitch later, probably—but. This is Sammy. What a goddamn miracle. No matter how it came about.

"I think Mom's got a thing for Bobby," Sam says, out of nowhere.

The distant ceiling is a shadowy mystery, not giving up anything to how Dean's eyes have slammed open in horror. "Why," he says, "the fuck," he continues, while Sam starts to shake on top of him, "would you bring that up now?"

Sam's just laughing, not making any sound, his grin pressed against Dean's sweaty chest.

Dean squirms, puts an unfeigned amount of disgust in his voice. "You are the actual worst."

"I know," Sam says, eventually, breathless, and lifts up on his elbow. "Is it better if he's not really Bobby, if he's like—whatever, stranger-Bobby?"

Dean stares at him. "No!" Sam collapses down, laughing out loud this time, and Dean gives up, shoves, and Sam rolls off to land on the dirty floor with a massive thud. He says ow, but not like it hurt, and laughs some more, quieter, his arm thrown over his face. He really sounds drunk, happy drunk, when they never even made it through half the bottle. Dean rolls his eyes, slides his sticky thighs together, tips onto his side. He flicks the back of Sam's arm, and Sam drops it, shows himself all wrinkled-up eyes and dimples. "Sammy, you seriously got, like, twenty-five screws loose. Twenty-six."

From the floor, Sam bites his lip, breathes deep and lets it out long and slow, like the first breath of a clean new day. Dean thinks it's around midnight. Maybe the day really is new. "Yeah, I'm crazy," Sam says, but he says it like it's a gift. Dean smiles at him, takes it like it is.

[bucky-at-bedtime]

The Bet Pt. 7

Summary: You’ve been at college for a year and have managed to avoid the party lifestyle. That is until you meet Bucky Barnes and he decides to educate you on the benefits of being social.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: Fluff and angst lol

Words: 2169

A/n: AHHHHHH I’M SORRY. This fic was so wholesome until now... get ready for a bit of angst. It’s gonna get better from here I promise. Please tell me what you think!! It’s so great hearing from all of you. Shout out to @steverogersbish, @thatsmrsbuckybarnestoyou and @camillechan for your comments on the last chapter, you guys keep me going xx

My Masterlist | The Bet Masterlist

The world was spinning. It was spinning too fast and your stomach protested, lurching violently as you stood up. You really wished somebody had taken that bottle of tequila off you sooner. Waves of nausea rolled through your body and you could already taste the acidic vomit in your throat. Your hands were damp with sweat and you pressed them against the cool wall, stumbling towards what you were pretty sure was a bathroom. You tried to blink away the blurriness, but the fun part of the alcohol had worn off - all that remained was the dizziness and nausea.

You stopped, pressing your forehead against the wall and trying desperately not to throw up in the middle of the party.

It had been a bad week – you lost count of how many assignments you received, and you had mostly stayed holed up in your room, studying for hours on end. Natasha and Wanda joined you occasionally, so did Steve, but Bucky spent the most time with you.

After you realised your feelings for the long-haired idiot, you had planned to tell him. You really meant to tell him. But you quickly realised you were kidding yourself if you thought you could summon the courage.

“I’m waiting for the right time, Nat” You had whispered, sitting across from her in the quiet library.

“Oh my god, toughen up, Sunshine. You’ve been anxious all week and frankly, I’m getting sick of it.” She whispered back, giving you an expectant look.

“Maybe we should just tell him” Wanda mumbled, playing absentmindedly with the rings on her fingers.

“Christ, would you both shut up for two seconds.” You pressed your hands against both sides of your head and looked down, trying to focus back on your work.

“No, I will not shut up. You and Barnes are being ridiculous. For the past week you’ve been all touchy-feely and it is gross,” she hissed. “I don’t think Sam and I will survive another minute of it.” She aggressively flipped the page of her textbook.

“You guys have been… very close recently.” Wanda mumbled, still sitting beside you, apparently having finished her assignments. “You should just tell him to come over, and then – drop the bomb while you’re studying in your room.”

“Are we still calling that studying?” Natasha sassed, giving you an amused, yet still slightly annoyed look.

“…I just– not yet. I can’t do it yet.” You confirmed, giving Wanda a pleading look. You knew Natasha wouldn’t give up. She let out a huff and picked up her books, moving to sit with Sam on another table.

“She’s not mad at you,” Wanda mumbled, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “She just– she knows how happy you and Buck could be.”

You knew you had to tell him soon, so you decided that maybe you would get a chance at the party – plus, a little bit of alcohol in your system couldn’t hurt. Unfortunately, you had drunk more than ‘a little’ alcohol.

It had all started when you were having drinks with the guys at your apartment. You had a few drinks, someone suggested shots and it all went downhill from there. You arrived at the party already pretty drunk – and then you continued to drink.

To be fair, it was not a good party. Electronic music boomed throughout the frat house and girls in skimpy clothing paraded on the dance-floor, doing something that resembled dancing, but it looked more like a baby bear trying to catch salmon. Guys that howled as soon as they saw any sign of bare skin filled the couches and kitchen. The backyard was somehow bogged down in enough cigarette smoke to blind a person and the only place with room to breathe was the bathroom.

This time, Bucky didn’t become your knight in shining armor with a smile and a pair of green crocs.

Bucky was too busy freaking out.

“Are you gonna tell her? If you aren’t going to do anything about this, you have to stop leading her on” Sam muttered, passing Bucky a cup filled to the brim with beer.

“She’s a great girl, Buck,” Steve added, surveying the party and wincing at the sight of it.

“You think I don’t know that?” Bucky practically growled – his temper was not great when he was drunk.

“Of course you know that – but she’s not gonna wait 70 years for you to grow some balls.” Sam punched him in the shoulder to make his point.

He knew he needed to talk to her, but he was absolutely terrified. He had never been in a proper relationship before – until now, he had survived on ‘friends with benefits’ and ‘booty calls.’ He couldn’t even think about doing those things with her. For the first time in his life, this wasn’t about sex. This was about how he felt – and that terrified him.

“I–“ he stopped, sculling more than half of his beer and turning away from Sam and Steve. “Not tonight.” He stated solemnly, wandering into the crowd.

Meanwhile, you were doing another shot. That was a mistake. It burned your throat like a fire cascading to your esophagus and your eyes burned from the impact. You knew you were falling down some horrible rabbit-hole of drunkenness. But you were subconsciously procrastinating a certain conversation and failed to grasp the edges of consciousness.

The blackout was inevitable.

The rest of the night was a blur of stumbling idiots (including yourself) and sugary drinks. Images of dancing and beer pong and overzealous laughter flashed through your mind as music boomed in your ears. Red hair, ring-bearing fingers, a cheeky grin, broad shoulders. Distorted images of your friends but no memory of what really happened. It was all a blur. Until suddenly -  it wasn’t.

So here you were, the world spinning around you as you stumbled to the bathroom.

Your head was still pressed against the wall and your eyes still squeezed shut as your body punished you for your actions. You felt like you were going to die – and then it got worse.

Something pressed up against your back, a hand, maybe a little too low. “You alright, baby?” His voice was deep and slightly slurred, but you were far too drunk to notice the ominous tone behind his words.

You shook your head vigorously, fingernails scraping at the white wall. Your stomach lurched again and felt your hands ball up into fists, nails digging into skin. He wrapped his arm around your waist and mumbled something about “getting you out of here.”

When you finally opened your eyes again, you were leaning into him. The scent of Axe body spray and some sort of cheap whiskey filled your nostrils and your stomach lurched again. He sent you a smile. It seemed to make you feel even sicker.

You reached a door in the hallway and you found yourself surprised when it wasn’t a bathroom. The stranger moved aside to reveal a bedroom, pulling your intoxicated body through the door and up against his own.

You were instantly pretty aware of what was going on, and weakly tried to pull away. He leaned down and pressed his lips against your neck. His hand wandered from the small of your back, lower, pressing against your ass and squeezing awkwardly.

Suddenly you were sober enough to realise what was happening and you let out a yell – an almost scream. You knee flew up, crashing into his crotch and he leaned forward, allowing you to knee him in the nose. He fell to the ground, too drunk to handle this sudden change of events and the door flew open, revealing a very angry Sam Wilson.

He lurched forward, picking the guy up by his collar and pressing him against a wall. “you piece of shit” he seethed.

You didn’t get a chance to hear the rest of the conversation as you stumbled from the room, practically falling right into Steve’s chest.

“Are you okay?” he pulled you into a standing position giving you some room to breathe. “Y/n, hey, answer me, are you alright?”

Steve was standing in front of you a worried look on his face and at first, you couldn’t see past his tall frame, but when he crouched down, trying to catch your eyes with his – you saw the thing that made your heart drop. How could this night get even worse?

Bucky was pressed against the wall in the distance, practically swallowing some chick’s tongue. His hands were on her waist and you blinked, hard, trying to resist the flashback to when his hands were on your waist.

“Y/n?” Steve’s voice was a quiet echo in the distance, a worried whisper that you couldn’t quite hear. You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

His hair was haphazardly ruffled, and you blinked again, eyes brimming with tears as you thought about how similar that looked to when he woke up in your bed. You wished you could blackout again.

Finally, Steve turned to find what you were staring at and he winced. He immediately burst into action – pulling you tightly into his chest, one hand on the back of your head whilst the other wrapped around your waist, leaving Sam to deal with the asshole.

You felt detached from your own being – numb to your senses. You could feel Steve mumbling reassurances into your hair, but you couldn’t hear what he was saying. He steered you away, practically carrying you outside where you immediately leaned over the curb, finally throwing up the contents of your stomach. Steve’s hands rested on your back in an attempt to comfort you, but you were pretty sure you couldn’t be comforted right now.

You stood up straight, breathing in a long stream of fresh air and taking a few steps away from the vomit on the ground. Steve was watching you carefully. You kicked a few rocks off the curb before sitting down, throwing your head back and looking up at the sky. It was still silent and you felt tears well up in your eyes.

“Y/n I– I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to see that” Steve sat down next to you, his arm resting behind you and you let your head fall onto his shoulder.

“I–“ you squeezed your eyes shut and sniffled. “I feel like an idiot” you murmured, opening your eyes to stare into the empty street in front of you.

“You’re not. You’re not an idiot, please, don’t think that.” His voice was gentle, but there was a hint of frustration hidden behind his good intentions – frustration at his dumbass best friend.

“I am though.” You wiped a tear from under your eye and rolled your eyes at yourself. “It was stupid to think– to think that he– that he and I–“ You let out a shaky breath, trying to collect your thoughts.

“Of course he doesn’t like me.” You felt Steve’s arm tighten around you. “It’s Bucky. He doesn’t– He doesn’t do relationships.”

“Listen to me, y/n,” Steve moved so that he could see your face. “Bucky is an idiot – he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling, he– Christ, he has never been good at emotions. He’s terrified – and I know that’s no excuse, I’m gonna kill him, trust me – He is just so scared to lose you, that– that he’s trying to find comfort in what he already knows. Everybody is scared of the unknown, Bucky’s no different.”

It was quiet for a moment; the only sound was the quiet buzzing from the streetlights and the faint echo from the party. You wiped your eyes and stood up from the curb, reaching your hand out to help Steve. “Take me home, Steve”

He nodded solemnly, ordering an Uber on his phone and opening the door for you when it arrived.

“Text me when you get home” he ordered gently, head sticking through the open window. “I’m gonna go… deal with some things.” He gestured to the house behind him and you nodded gently, resting back against the head-rest.

“Thanks, Stevie” you mumbled, closing your eyes as a wave of exhaustion hit you hard. “Don’t kill him, yeah?” You didn’t need to hear his response as the Uber pulled away from the curb, beginning your journey home.

Tags:

Tags for ‘The Bet’: @camillechan @projectxhappiness @fandoms-who @verycoolveryunique @brokenanxiety @confidentrose @bookgirlunicorn @anamcg317 @sebastianstanisagift @imshalida @phenomenalgoober @lilypalmer1987 @nyleveeee @shuris-wakanda @loricameback @captainradicalpassion @sarahp879 @skatinginpr0gress @butifulsoul125 @thefallenbooknerd @notimetoblog @vquezada84 @jasura @carrotcakesblog @msharleyquinn @bigstanfan (Crossed out ones aren’t working)

Tags for Bucky: @marvel-kms17 @ailynalonso15 @ria132love @stan-by-me @faunacea @loricameback @thefallenbooknerd

Permanent Tags: @srgtsprout @redstarstan @just-add-butter @wildefire @dewy-biitch @emilia-dawn

[3amigonauts-blog]

Composer Profile - Kid Koala, 3 Amigonauts

Did you know that the opening and closing theme music for 3 Amigonauts was composed by world-renowned scratch DJ and music producer Kid Koala! We interviewed Eric San, aka Kid Koala to get the lowdown on what goes into creating a super catchy theme song for outer space, and his answers were out of this world! Read the full story below!

What are three words you would use to describe the 3 Amigonauts theme song?

Nostalgic, Future, Funk!

What is the story behind the creating of the 3 Amigonauts theme song?

To start, I was given the series bible and some of the initial designs the Amigonauts crew were working on for Herby, Kirbie and Burt. I also got to see a couple early stage animatics, (they weren’t coloured at that point), but they showed me how everything would move in terms of the style of animation, like how stretchy and squashy it could get. So I kind of had all that swimming around in my head, while I was trying to make a track that could harmonize with the whole vibe of the show.

It was also really helpful to see the characters and the colour palettes the team were using, and their test animation, so I could see how stuff would move. It was very snappy but also very bouncy and stretchy. I knew the music would have to fit that type of animation. If it had been more vectored and cold feeling, I think I would have made something quite different. It seemed like such a joyous world that the 3 Amigonauts lived in, so I just wanted to see if I could match that.

Did the show’s space setting play into the piece?

Of course, the show being set in space always helps! It is funny, they say every musician at some point has to do a space phase, and I think I started mine 8 years ago and I haven’t left. So a space themed show was one of those things that I was actually kind of comfortable with – My last album was called Music to Draw To: Satellite and was set on Mars. And musically I was pretty equipped for the job, because a lot of the equipment I had accumulated and searched for to make said space records, and music, was designed to create spacey sounds. For instance, the most obvious one being the Roland Space Echo.

What instruments, gear and or samples did you use to create the song?

Drums, bass, several synthesizers, the Roland Space Echo – a synth with a tape based delay, so it records sounds that go into and then plays it back slightly later, so you can create spaceship-y sounds. A lot of guitar effects, the record cutter, and turntables. And there were some horns and a baritone sax in there as well.

And just FYI there were no samples used in the track.  For the “three” scream you hear throughout the piece, I just recorded my daughters yelling ‘THREE’. And if something sounds like a sample it’s because I recorded instruments with 1950s microphones and sometimes cut stuff to vinyl on my record cutter and then scratched it back into the track on a turntable.

Even the counterpoint melody line is just me singing though a bunch of robot vocoders.

Above you mention “nostalgia” as one of the words to describe the song… can you expand on how you achieved this “feeling?”

When I was speaking to Kyle, he wanted it to have this kind of dusty sample feel and aesthetic in the music.

So what I would do, would be to play instruments and synthesizers, and then I would cut them to vinyl records – as I mentioned above I have a record cutter in my studio –  I would then use that record and scratch it back in. What ended up happening is you kind of get the feeling like “Oh these samples came from some old record”, when really they are original-made tunes, which were just treated to sound that way.

That’s fun for me, because I’m mostly known for my turntable work, and once a sound is cut to a piece of vinyl, then I’m in my safe place so to speak. I like all the combinations of things you can do, once a sound is on vinyl. So, to have the ability to do that is pretty cool, at least in my recording process, it’s kind of a fun little revolution that I’m enjoying.

How does the process for writing a theme song for a show, differ from writing an original song for an album?

With a theme song you want it to kick off the show and signal, “Hey, this is it, we are heading into Amigonauts land!” A theme song is pretty much the tag of the show, so you need to create a welcoming piece, where the palette of sounds and the vibe of the song reflect the world you are about to go into.

After seeing what the Amigos team had created, and speaking to Kyle about the vibe and the tone of the show, it was pretty clear that the best thing would be for the theme to be joyous and inviting, something that would elicit a smile, and of course, something that was a bit squashy and stretchy in sound as well.

I tried to create sounds that suits the mechanics of the show. For example, Herby, Kirbie and Burt have skeletons that can stretch, so it would make sense that the instruments should be able to have a similar elasticity too! So imagine you hear what you think is a traditional instrument being played, and then you realize “Oh no wait, that is really just someone playing that sound on a record and now they’ve bent it out of the human range!”  

Anything else to add about what makes a themes song different from writing your own music?

Yes! The time limit is a huge factor in writing a theme song. On my own albums I can do an 8 minute song, but here I had to think like “It’s the Amigonauts, we’re going in, we’ve landed and we only have a relatively short period of time to open the doors to their universe and pull the audience in with this piece!”

Is the short time limit challenging?

Well, I have a short attention span for the most part, so I felt kind of at home with the time limit!

Which Amigonaut are you most like:

a) Herby - Heroic, fidgety and blindly confident, Herby is the Amigos’ front-man.

b) Kirbie - A consummate over-sharer with zero filter, Kirbie can come off as kinda gross.

c) Burt - Joyfully mischievous yet supremely polite, Burt is a walking pyrotechnic fun-machine.

Yeah, I’d have to go with Burt. Mainly because of the pyro-mania, also “fun-machine” is a good title. If I ever have an office with big glass walls, with my name and title etched across the door in a big font, I want it to say “Eric Fun-Machine San”. But yes, I did have a minor pyro-mania phase, when I was maybe ten or eleven. I was into lighting off bottle rockets and firecrackers, but I grew out of it.

What was your favourite class in school?

Hmm… to be honest in high school it was physics. They do always say music is physics.

But, my fondest memories are from a course I remember taking, which spanned an entire year, where we had to do woodshop, metal work, electronic, soldering and cooking! That year, in the once class alone, I learned how to solder a circuit board and cook an egg. I don’t remember what it was called, but I think, as far as life skills are concerned, that class taught me the most profound amount of information I’ve actually held with me my entire life! In fact, just this morning I cooked an egg!

Any advice for the next generation of Amigonauts, who also want to become world class DJ’s, Musicians and Turntablists?

Dabble! Dabble in the stuff that you are interested in!

And if you have an idea for a project, if you have an idea for a song, don’t wait, just start. You don’t need a book contract to start writing, you don’t need a record contract to start making music, and you don’t need to have a gig offer to start creating a live show. If that’s what you want to do just start doing it and you’ll always find your audience.

I’m kind of like living proof of the fact that you can do the most weird, left field music and projects, and you’re still going to find an audience that are in your same boat creatively! You have to trust that even if you feel like you are a bit of an outsider with your artistic ideas, you are not alone, and there are other people, that are equally excited about the same ideas as you. In my experience, that is how it has worked! If you put your stuff out there on any level, eventually you being to attract people into your working sphere, who have that same mentality and same enthusiasm for stuff, and then when you start collaborating, that is when really wonderful things start happening too.

People just have to trust in their hearts that they know why they are here, and do what makes them happy!

For more Amigonauts:

Watch on YTV!

See more content on the Amigonauts YTV Website!

Play The Amigonauts Game!

Note: Hyperlapse drawing of Kid Koala done by 9 Story designer, Francis Yeh.