tar pitch

Mistakes

Bucky x Reader

Summary: The risk I took was calculated but man, am I bad at math.

Warnings: angst…like to the max, character death, risking your life, all that fun stuff

Word Count: 1.3k (this is deadass the shortest thing i’ve ever written and it’s still over 1k lmao why am i like this)

Author’s Note: hi hello! guess who’s back and as angsty as ever! this is something that again was floating in my inspo tag and i can’t find the post rn but it is there so when it’s not midnight i’ll go digging through and tag it. ya’ll probably recognize the quote because it’s been through tumblr i don’t even know how many times? but i literally banged this out in like two hours so ??? idk???? anyways, feedback is always welcome (please do i love hearing what all of you have to say) and can i just say thank you so much for all of your lovely responses to Will You Stay? like, they were so beautiful they made my entire life like????? i love all of you so fucking much ???? i can’t even describe it????? anyways enough of my endless question marks, hope you enjoy!!!!


Originally posted by sxy-seabass


The first time, isn’t the last time.

The first time you risk your life it’s for a puppy. Small, golden, scrappy little thing. It’s caught in the middle of the road, yelping every time a car whips by. It’s flat on the ground, trying to make itself small as possible but at the same time sticking out against the pitch black tar. You sigh and drop your coffee into the trash before you run out in the middle of traffic and scoop the dog up before crossing to the other side.

“You’re an idiot,” he grumbles as he stares at the trembling mass of fur. You pout and say you’re sorry before you offer him the reason you nearly got flattened by an eighteen wheeler. He pretends to be angry until about five minutes later when the puppy is licking at his face.

He isn’t angry anymore, especially two weeks later when the puppy has become a permanent fixture in your home.


The second time, isn’t the last time.

The second time you risk your life is on vacation in the Bahamas. A little girl gets caught in the rip tide. Her arms flail as she cries for help but is drowned by the waves. Everyone watches but no one acts. You glance at the life guards who glance at the waves apprehensively before you roll your eyes and dive in. It takes you a while but luckily you’re a strong swimmer and within minutes she’s in your arms and safely on shore.

“You’re crazy,” he mutters as he rubs your back while you cough up salt water but his eyes shine with an emotion more powerful than you have ever seen. It only seems to grow when the little girl runs up to you and hugs you, thanking you for saving her life.


The third time, isn’t the last time.

The third time you risk your life is on a mission in Johannesburg. HYDRA had hit a biotech company and managed to steal information to a bomb that could level a small country. They climb into a helicopter and are about to get away and against Steve’s orders you jump and hang onto the runner of the helicopter. You hang on for dear life until you touch down. Your arms ache but you fight until you can’t feel anything anymore. But you have the files.

It takes them two days to find you. When they do they find you collapsed in an alleyway, dehydrated and living off of scraps from the nearby flea market.

“You’re so stupid,” he shakes his head. He’s angry but he holds your head up as you drink and brushes your hair until you fall asleep on his chest.


The fourth time, isn’t the last time.

The fourth time you risk your life is in the middle of a blizzard. It’s two in the morning and the wind is howling but when your phone rings you answer within seconds. The line is silent except for the sound of heavy breathing. He doesn’t say anything but you already know as you tie on boots and don your heaviest coat.

It takes you an hour to get to him. But you do. You’re pretty sure your car isn’t even parked properly and you’re not sure if you’re on the road or on the sidewalk but it doesn’t matter. By the time you get to him he’s already half way gone. You sit with him until he comes back to you. You sit with him until his eyes are clear and his breathing is normal. You sit with him until he’s yours again.

“You’re a moron,” he growls once his eyes look outside at the storm raging. You wonder if it was worth it but you smile anyway because you don’t care.


The fifth time, isn’t the last time.

The fifth time you risk your life it’s after two months of being locked in a basement. You have bruises on top of bruises, you bleed from different places every day and you can’t remember the last time you’ve had a proper meal. They pull you out every day and tie you to a chair. They spit in your face, they hit, they bite, they scratch, they punch, they shock, they twist, they break. You beg, you scream, you cry. But you don’t give them what they want. They want him but you can’t give them that. He’s everything to you and meaningless to them.

One day you’re bleeding so bad everything is tainted red and you can’t feel part of your face and can’t hear out of one ear. When you feel hands on you, you immediately start to tense and fight but relax when you hear his voice.

“It’s just me, it’s just me идиот,” he soothes you softly as his metal hand trembles while breaking your bonds. You fall into him and can’t find it in you to cry or make a sound. And you wonder if maybe this time, maybe this time it was worth it.


The first time, is your last time.

You risk your life for him and you don’t even think. You see him in danger, you see everyone in danger. But when you see him, when you hear the metal whir breaking through the clamor around you, you don’t think. You hear nothing else. You look at the five midnight black barrels of the machine guns facing him, glinting harshly and you just go. You think you can make it. If you just take that extra step, lose that extra second, you can make it. You two can make it out, together.

But you were always bad at math.

For the second you push him down you know you miscalculated. You don’t hear the shots but you feel them, ripping and tearing through flesh and bone. You feel the blood seep into the concrete floor. But you don’t hear the strangled sob from behind you and you don’t hear the hoarse shot. You don’t hear the bodies drop around you; you don’t hear the knife splitting through Kevlar and skin.

Yet you feel his hands on your face, your chest, your stomach. You feel him fumbling for a solution. He’s whispering fast in Russian, his skin flushed a shade of pink you’ve never seen before. It’s beautiful, really.

“You…you, you stupid, crazy, idiotic, moron,” he shouts with tears in his eyes. His bottom lip trembles and you reach to soothe it. Blood smears against the soft bristles that surround his mouth but neither of you really notice. “How could you do this? How…why, why would you ever you–”

“You’re alive,” your voice is hoarse and choked and filling with something you’re not sure of. It doesn’t even sound like you but he looks at you as if you were the only thing he heard. You think he says something else but the look on his face means he understands exactly what you’re saying.

He’s breathing heavy now. You can feel it in gentle puffs against your face. He’s shaking his head as he stares at you. He keeps shaking his head until his hair forms a dark curtain around his shimmering eyes. “No,” he whispers. “Not without you, not…please–”

You shake your head in response. “You’re alive,” you whisper as darkness begins to creep into your vision. “You’re alive.”

The weight of what you’re saying seems to settle onto his skin and into his bones because he’s looking at you with disbelief and wonder and fear and an ancient sadness that you feel deep in your chest. He presses his lips to your face and a wetness leaks onto your skin and seems to slide right off. “Not without you. я люблю тебя. Not without you.”

You clutch his hand and feel the black begin to spot his face, turning him gray. “You’re alive,” you say finally before your head drops into his metal palm.

Your first time, is your last time.

But God is it worth it.


Translations:

идиот

idiot

я люблю тебя

I love you

2


Words: 3,914
Sammy x Reader
Warnings: death of minor character, disturbing descriptions/imagery, scary situations, mentions of nightmares, anxiety, & insomnia
A/N: Part 1 here! Welp. We’re gettin’ into it now… Hold onto ya pants, kids!


Your name: submit What is this?


Your best friend Jamie was frowning at you softly as she handed you a cup of tea. You accepted it out of politeness but immediately set it down on the coffee table. You didn’t really have the stomach for anything lately.

Jamie noted the action. “It’s not getting any better?” she asked, not really needing an answer.

”No.” Your voice was thin and quiet.

”Still not sleeping?”

You shook your head. “Not really. A little when I’m just too exhausted to keep my eyes open but as soon as I fall asleep it’s like—it’s like slipping into dark, black water. There are nightmares waiting just below the surface.” Your eyes were hollow as you spoke, and Jamie felt a wave of fear for you. “Always…” you trailed off, and your expression was even emptier as your mind crept back to places where Jamie wasn’t sure she could reach you.

Keep reading

sic semper tenebris

@theplagueofstars || CONTINUED: [XXX]

If not to the war against Lucis, the Kingdom of Dis would have crumbled anyway, and that in response to Noctis’ own doing. The Starscourge had taken root in the kingdom, not just in the crown city, but also in the neighboring towns and cities as well, spread through the air and the waterways system, and of course, prior infected traveling to and fro. As no doubt the soldiers of Gordian’s army has noticed, particularly those who have raided the hospitals and infirmaries - there are bodies deformed and warped into monstrosities, dead in the morgues, or worse, upon the very streets. 

Since advancing, the Lucian ranks have also been picked at by the daemons here and there, and the Kingdom of Dis has been in eternal twilight since the Lucian forces have entered its borders. The King they slayed, Noctis’ ‘father’, was leaking thick, pitch-black tar when they killed him. 

When Noctis is ushered out of the palace and toward the Prince Ardyn’s tent, he could smell the bodies of burning daemons and infected. He casts his glance about - still masked under the sentiments of a prince saying goodbye to his kingdom - and the tell-tale smokes of massive pyres and fire pits dot the horizon. Dis was lost even before Lucis came knocking by its doors.

The tent is elaborate and considerable in size, and Noctis is ushered in a bit roughly by the guard closest to him. Once inside he stands, and the Prince Ardyn tries to win him over with niceties and pleasantries. How curious.

And yet Noctis remains standing, hands bound. If he wanted, he could kill him right here - a small and tiny call to his ancient Furvamors magic - boil the prince’s blood, or solidify it where it runs in his veins, red and thick. But that would cut the Plague’s amusement, and his sole occupation has always been destroying kingdoms like Dis. Lucis was next on the slate, and already, those which came in contact with the daemons and infected will be taking the Starscourge into their homes. Noctis need not even lift a finger.

Right now, however, he is an exhausted prince who has had everything taken from him, and he will not sit down, and he can care less for food nor drink.

d-va  asked:

ok but consider that purple girly man kissing another purple girly man

…..

/blushes profusely…

w… we are not talking about this. @ w@;;

kirkfoy-deactivated20170514  asked:

Ludwig, what's your favourite book? [Sorry if it's asked before also I'm in love with this blog ^-^]

[For those not familiar with the story of Frau Holle, here is a short summary: 
In this fairytale, there is a pair of girls who are stepsisters. One of them is favored by the mother and becomes spoiled and idle, while the sister is made to do all the work in the household. One day this girl drops her spindle into a well and jumps after it, finding herself again in Frau Holle’s heaven realm. There she comes across several beings who ask for her help and she aids them all. She meets Frau Holle and is promised a place to stay if she helps Frau Holle with chores. The most important task was to shake the featherbed, because the feathers would turn into snowflakes in the girl’s world. 
When the girl asked to go home, Frau Holle rewarded her for her hard work: as the girl walked out of the gate leading into her own world, it rained gold on her.
Her step sister heard of this and her mother told her to jump down the well too and get more gold. But this girl didn’t help anyone and didn’t do her work for Frau Holle properly, so when she walked out of the gate to go home, it didn’t rain gold on her - it rained tar pitch on her as punishment for her laziness and lack of compassion.]

A list I've found helpful while writing

Some alternatives for colors- keep your writing colorful!

Brown-
Cocoa, hazel, amber, beige, cinnamon, mahogany,

Green-
Jade, lime, sage, grass, chartreuse, forest, olive, willow,

Blue-
Sapphire, cobalt, sky, azure, indigo, teal, navy, turquoise

Black-
Coal, charcoal, night, darkness, ink, pitch, tar, ebony

White-
Cream, snow, milky, cloud, chalky

Red- scarlet, blood, cherry, crimson, flaming, rosy, ruby

Yellow: sunny, gold, lemon,

Pink: blush, fuchsia, salmon, coral,

Purple: lilac, amethyst, lavender, periwinkle, pomegranate

Orange: apricot, carrot, tangerine

anonymous asked:

for that meme thing, pynch and f (an absent look or touch) or e (sharing a drink) please?

I already did E for them, so I’ll do F! Guess who has a lot of feelings about Adam overcoming his conditioning? Only nice touches for Adam Parrish from here on out! You hear me, universe!?

Adam is focusing in close on the feel of the line beneath him when Ronan lays a hand on his shoulder. The touch breaks his concentration, but doesn’t startle him in the way unexpected touches tend to. It may be because Ronan’d set it there so gently. Or it may be because he’s with people he trusts in the forest that he knows will protect him. Both are situations which feel like small miracles to him. People love him. People trust him back. People only touch him in ways he wants to be touched. Ronan–who looks so like he’s made of broken glass and tar pitch, whose thin lips and scarred knuckles are so often a challenge to the world at large–only touches Adam the way he wants to be touched.

Adam tries to pinpoint when this became A Thing. Or maybe A Thing is too optimistic, but it feels like something big to him. It feels like bones knitting back together. It feels like every time he’s ever embarrassingly flinched in front of strangers being written over by a version of himself who is not afraid. Like he finally belongs somewhere. He’s starting to crave this.

God, he’s so needy and it must be so obvious to everyone else.

He looks up from the arrangement of fallen branches he’s trying to finagle into Cabeswater’s preferred design to see if the others are looking at Ronan’s hand on his shoulder with appropriately stricken wonder. The others are not. 

Gansey and Blue are a hundred yards or so away and having a quiet argument over the EMF meter. Noah is perched by the edge of a small stream, taunting the fish by passing his hand over them. It’s the only place where Noah has a shadow and he takes great pleasure in using it to act on the world around him. Adam can relate to that.

Ronan’s hand is on Adam’s shoulder and no one is even paying attention to it. Seriously, when did this become A Thing?

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The Headless Man of Patrick Street.*

We have a headless man in Patrick Street,
and he only goes out once a week,
he carries his head beneath his arm,
and he loves to scare the young and meek.
He loves the stormy nights the best,
when the rain beats down on his old neck stump,
and he and the Banshee sit and talk,
at the corner house on Creevy’s pump.

One night while they were talking,
and a drunk came staggering, wild and blind,
he scared the wits of the Headless Man,
who ran off and left his head behind.
Now the old Banshee, she was thinking fast, 
and she snatched the head and ran back home,
and when the Headless Man came back,
he was lost and blind and all alone.

Now a week passed by and the Headless Man,
he stayed in a garden, among the trees,
such a sorry site was never seen,
as the Headless Man upon his knees.
Now us older kids, we knew him well,
and we made a shelter for him to sleep,
and even though he had no head,
the headless man was heard to weep.

And then one night a storm swept in,
and the Banshee wailed upon Creevy’s pump,
the Headless Man came walking by,
his fingers scratching his itchy stump.
The Banshee waved at him and cried:
“ I have your head, please do not fear”,
and the Headless Man sat down and cried,
as the Banshee combed his windblown hair.

Ambrose Harte
Scattered Thoughts
 
* Creevy’s pump in Patrick Street was the meeting place for all us kids ( Declan, Joe, Christy, Bernard, Ber and Sis, Mick, James and Pat, Martin, Noel,Bobby and myself and many more ) and  many, many stories about the headless man and the Banshee were told around the pump and Creevy’s old stone wall beside it. Indeed, if everyone was to be believed, ( and I believed them all )this was the Banshee’s favorite spot in the whole wide world, and she could be heard there night after night, sitting on the pump, brushing her long, white hair and wailing a warning that some unlucky persons death was nigh. And in the morning, if you heard about an old person from the Street  who had passed away, everyone claimed to have heard or seen the Banshee. I even owned up to having heard her myself ( I didn’t want  to be the odd one out ).
We met by that pump for many happy years of our childhood, and I oft times wish I could back in time and relive those happy, care-free days. For all too soon we reached the age of twelve and thirteen, and we started to drift away, until finally there was no one left. And then one morning we awoke to find that the council had taken the pump away, and all that remained was a circle of drying pitch and tar.  



anonymous asked:

Payed vs paid?

If you’re paying someone money (or some other cost), the past tense is paid:

  • He paid the price for not studying: he failed the exam.
  • I paid $6 for a cup of coffee this morning. It was totally worth it.

If you’re talking about sealing the deck of a wooden ship with pitch or tar to prevent leakage, the past tense is payed:

  • The captain and his crew payed the deck before sailing into stormy waters.

Unless you’re a sailor, you’ll never use payed; you’ll always use paid.

(Krillin latte art source: latte_artist_jk on Twitter; Dinah nodding GIF source: I Need a GIF)