You see these bad boys? They are soft foam knee pads with elasticated velcro straps. They weigh almost nothing. I bought them at a hardware store over 10 years ago for about $3. Since then they have protected my knees from kneeling on thorns and sharp rocks, from several falls, and from getting wet. They deserve at least some of the credit for the fact that, after more than 10 years in the field, my knees are still in pretty good shape. Not bad, considering that for archaeologists, the knees and the back are usually the first things to go.
Shiro was, needless to say, a wreck. There were meaningless syllables cooed to him through their own struggled emotions. Lance had tried to kill himself, it was as simple as that.
Except it wasn’t.
Shiro knew, and the thought that he knew constantly felt like someone was stabbing him in the gut, stealing what pained breath he had and throwing him into space so he could freeze to death. Shiro knew that Lance had tried because of him, because of how the black paladin had scolded him, because of how he told the man to know better. Oh how Shiro hated himself. The idea that in Lances head it was his voice that had morphed into his dark thoughts and actions, it was Shiros voice that told him to end it.
That was definitely the worst. The thought that in Lances final moments before swallowing the pills, in those seconds it was Shiros voice, it was his baritone hissing at him to “do it.”
Shiro was a wreck, this supportive confidant, devolved into a crying, shaking mess.
When the pod hissed open, Shiro was there, to be fair in the multiple weeks that the scrawny blue paladin had been standing, solemnly in the device, the bigger man had hardly left his side. Most of the minutes passed as Shiros elbows dug into his knees, hand cupping his mouth. He looked up as the door swung open and Lances figure slid out, collapsing onto the floor limply. Shiro was at his side in an instant, scrambling over to the gaunt figure, picking him up and letting his arms drape around the blue paladin. “Lance..?” There was a sense of eeriness in how stable his voice was in the silent room. The man beneath him groaned in response, flipping his head to Shiro. He smiled through hazy dull eyes and his voice was rough, like he just smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.
“Are you that desperate to get your hands on me?”
Shiro gave a slightly pained expression, a small smile dancing at the edge of his lips. “Are you ok?”
He was suddenly pulled away by hunk who threw him a scowl that he seemed to have plastered on his face every time he made eye contact with Shiro. It was short lived as Coran called something or other and figures started piling into the area, Hunk picked up Lances weak figure and set him on a table, similar to the one he had been laid on weeks prior.
Shiro stayed where he was on the floor, dazed, rushed voices saying panicked things that he didn’t register.
Lance was fine, and spending a lot of time with Shiro. They would go into the Black Paladins room to talk and Shiro would apologize profusely and cry into Lances chest, Lances fingers would run through his hair and soothe the man to sleep, only to disappear before he woke.
Shiro was mumbling something to Lance as the got ready to go and train. “Stop apologizing for something you couldn’t have stopped.” The blue Paladins voice was steady and confirming, Shiro turned to him with a sigh.
“You tried to kill yourself lance, only hours after I told you off, there’s no way the two aren’t connected!” He exclaimed, sliding on his fingerless gloves that helped grip the blades. “I feel awful and you just accepted the apology like it was nothing! That’s not like you, I know you still resent me for it.” He strapped the velcro over his hand, stretching his fingers absently into the material.
Lance took a step towards Shiro and cupped his face, the two had been close in the week since he had stumbled from the pod. Lance had comforted Shiro and his thoughts, had soothed the open wounds that he carved into himself while the paladin was away. He leaned into the intense touch. “Sometimes you need to forget, to move on, it’s hard but you need to do it. Even if it’s hard because what happened leaves you broken and alone to your thoughts, you can move passed it, regardless of how difficult it is, you WILL move pass it.”
“Thank you Lance.” Shiro could feel his eyes dampening and someone pulling out his vocal chords. When he looked down there was no hand around his neck, even if it felt like he was suffocating.
“Shiro?” Keith’s voice rang from the doorway and the bigger man flipped around to address the raven. He was about to greet him when he was met by a look of pain and sorrow and everything unreadably bad. He took a step back “did…” he raised a weary hand to point at Shiro, the red paladin had tears forming in his eyes. “Did you just…” he couldn’t bring himself to say it, still the strangled vowels fumbled from his mouth “thank Lance?” His voice cracked.
Shiro gave Keith an even, confused look, furrowing his brow and scowling to the smaller man who’s hand trailed to cover his mouth. “Yeah, I did.” He said cautiously “he’s talking to me about… things.” There was a sense of explanation in his voice that met apprehension, Keith didn’t need to know what they were talking about.
Keith very obviously choked on a sob “Shiro?” He mumbled through his fingers “Lance is…” his other hand drew to his mouth as well, his tears welling to the point where they trailed down his cheeks.
“Lance is dead, Shiro.”
Shiro scoffed at him, “no he’s not, he’s right-” the man froze as he turned towards Lance who had disappeared.
…to be continued…
(This is the second last part to the entire story!)
I need more pillow humping in my life!!! Maybe with little!dan, phil walks in on him and makes him keep going? PLEASE
I enjoyed writing this way more than I thought I would or probably should have jfc. I added lots of little!dan activities and some oral fixation bc kinks
it’s going to be a Little Space Sunday when he wakes to find two big, innocent,
brown eyes watching him. Dan’s curled up in the blankets beside him, wearing
the plain black pyjama pants he fell asleep in the night before, with one thumb
in his mouth and the fingers of his other hand curled around Phil’s colourful
doona. He grins around his thumb when Phil’s groggy eyes open and the older
man smiles lazily back.
hello you,’ he says, shuffling a little closer and patting his large hand over
Dan’s curly brown locks. ‘How are you, little one?’
Dan mumbles around his thumb; Phil frowns a little and wraps his fingers around
Daddy told you about talking when something’s in your mouth,’ he says, tugging
gently, and Dan’s wet thumb slides from his lips with a trail of saliva that
Phil tries hard to ignore. ‘What did you say, baby?’
hungry, Daddy,’ Dan repeats.
get you some breakfast then. How do Lucky Charms sound, hmm?’ Phil says,
climbing out of the covers and walking over to the side of the bed Dan has
says, letting Phil take his hand and pull him to his feet.
you dressed first though, okay?’
Daddy. Can I wear my Piglet clothes, pretty please?’
It’s never a good thing when Annabeth paces, not for Percy at least. It usually means he’s a in a great amount of trouble. It usually means he’s about to get an earful. He can see it brewing, below the surface of her tanned skin, below her furrowed eyebrows and her pursed lips, below the steely glances she keeps throwing at him like knives.
“Hold still,” the poor, innocent Apollo camper mumbles as he moves to stand in front of Percy, gingerly inspecting his wrist and blocking his angry girlfriend from view.
Annabeth makes herself heard then, if she cannot be seen.
“I just can’t believe it. How many monsters have we fought and you’ve walked away fine? We literally walked through hell and there wasn’t a single broken bone in your body. And a stupid skateboard gets you? How many times to I have to tell you to wear safety pads? And don’t tell me they’re not cool because that doesn’t stop you from wearing that stupid hat, Percy Jackson.”
“Hey, I like this hat.” Percy touches the rim of the blue snapback he’s wearing self-consciously. Annabeth peers around the Apollo kid to roll her eyes at him. “And I never said they were uncool- OW, motherfu-”
So what if the sugar daddies start buying Jeremy ridiculous, extravagant items and convince Jeremy to wear the fancy clothes they buy him. Except they sugar daddies don’t really coordinate and Jeremy ends up trying to make all the pieces work and suddenly he’s in a cowboy hat, a purple blazer, a... oh.
the rimmy tim origin story that we all needed
It starts with a custom pair of leather gloves, racing
gloves with the half fingers, Velcro straps, and the most comfortable interior
that Jeremy doesn’t even know he’s wearing them.
Ryan got them for him because Jeremy recently bought a
motorbike so he and Ryan can go on that long awaited bike trip up into the country
sometime in the fall. Ryan gives these to him when they’re in bed one night.
Jeremy immediately pulls them on because he wants to and flexes his fingers.
“These,” he says. “Are so damn comfortable. I don’t want to ever take them off.”
Ryan laughs. “What are you going to do? Wear them to bed?”
“Don’t tell me that these don’t do something for you.” To
emphasize his point, he straddles Ryan’s waist and runs his hands over his
chest, along his pectorals and up to his neck. It’s the slightest pupil dilation
that gives Ryan away.
“What about these?”
They’re in the middle of a heist a jewelry store when Gavin
decides to try on expensive aviators. He’s preening like the damn peacock he is
in front of the mirrors, asking Jeremy for his opinion every so often.
Now, Gavin already has several pairs of aviators, one with a
$6,000 price tag. But he’s always looking for something because no one will
tell him no.
“Eh,” Jeremy says. “I’ve seen better on you.”
“Same. But you on the other hand.” Gavin perches the
sunglasses on his nose delicately and has him look himself in the mirror. “I
think they suit you.” Gavin holds him from behind. “Yeah. We’re definitely
taking these with us.”
The cowboy hat comes from a fair. It’s not particularly
expensive or name brand or anything, but it’s a memorable night of stupid fair
games and a fucking trip on the Ferris wheel because Michael can be cheesy as
He wins the hat in a sharpshooter game and perches it on top
of Jeremy’s head. “I was gonna go for the giant teddy bear, but this seemed
less conspicuous. Plus you can actually carry this home.”
They ride the Ferris wheel to the top, and it stops for a
while so they can see the pier and the beach, awash in the setting’s sun
oranges and pinks. Michael throws his arm around his shoulder, and Jeremy
unabashedly snuggles into his side.
“That hat,” Michael says. “Didn’t know you could pull off
the mid-west look.”
“Howdy, partner. Wanna
hitch a ride on my stud?” It’s a terrible Texan accent, but it has Michael
laughing, and Jeremy laughs, too, and soon they’re kissing and it’s absolutely
Every once in a while, Geoff and Jack will take the boys
shopping for suits. They often ruin their tailored suits as soon as they get
them, but what’s the use of limitless wealth if you’re not going to spend it?
So Geoff puts in a call for Jeremy at his personal tailors and hauls him along
with Jack so they can drink champagne and talk about what shade of blue is
Jeremy stands in front of a mirror and has himself measured
at all angles.
“I was thinking something dark,” Geoff says with a catalogue
spread open on his lap that he and Jack are looking at. “Like a deep navy blue.”
“Or a nice dark gray,” Jack muses. “What do you think
“PURPLE?! $6,000 AND YOU GO WITH PURPLE?!”
“GRAY IS FUCKING BORING! YOU NOW HOW OFTEN I HAVE TO DEAL
WITH GRAY AT SCHOOL? ALL THE FUCKING TIME!”
“Well. As long as you’re
happy with it.”
“Pay the tailor, Geoff.”
“The most expensive damn eye sore if you’re telling me.”
Everyone has their look. When they get together to pull off
some crazy stunt and have their faces splashed over social media, they each go
with something striking so that no one will forget them. Jack likes her Hawaiian
shirts. Gavin is glittering in gold. Ryan has his creepy fucking mask. And
Michael has his patented leather jacket.
Now it’s Jeremy’s time to show the people what he’s made of.
He steps out into the garage decked out in his new outfit.
It’s purple. It’s garish. It’s topped with a cowboy hat and
aviator sunglasses. He tugs on his half gloves as he approaches the gang.
They’re all looking at him, wide eyed and smirking.
“What the fuck, Jeremy?”
Jeremy struts towards them, does a little spin and tucks his
hands into the pockets of his suit. “Well, what do you think?”
“What are the cowboy boots for?” Gavin asks.
“To go with the hat. Obviously.”
“Fucking purple,” Geoff moans. “All right. Everybody in. It’s
not like he’s taking tips from fucking Greene, Jesus fucking Christ.”
It’s garish and it’s purple, but Ryan winks at him from under
You had decided to call it an early night that night, not wanting to face Dean any more than you had to.
You got it. It was his job to protect you, and he wasn’t doing that when he was busy doing you. But if he was mad at himself, then that was his own problem, not yours.
When he didn’t want you, sure, it made your chest tighten but you weren’t going to push him, risking what you thought would be further embarrassment. No one made him rush up those stairs after you and pin you against your door. He made that choice–whether good or bad–and he had to live with it.
And for Christ’s sake, it was sex. It wasn’t like you two had killed anyone. And no one had showed up to kill you, so all was fine.
Or so you thought.
Dean was gone by the time you woke up the next morning, and when Cas arrived for his night shift, he showed up with a new partner–Benjamin–a man older than Cas with ashy skin and graying hair. He spoke quietly but with surety, and when you asked Cas where Dean was, you were informed that he was working overtime at the bureau getting ready for the trial on Monday, making sure all necessary precautions were in place.
Not that you doubted that, but Cas had no idea that Dean was clearly trying to avoid you.
It made your jaw clench and head shake. For the first time since it happened, you actually regretted sleeping with him. What had been such a great moment was squashed and destroyed by the fact that Dean didn’t want to even see you anymore.
You should never have made a move. You should have let things be. Sure, he finished it, but you had started it, and clearly that was a mistake. Because whatever it was that seemed to be growing between you two was now dead.
The saving grace to it all was that the trial was quickly approaching and this would all be over soon, and you would never have to see him again.
But as the weekend rolled on, there was a constant a sense of dread in your stomach. Reality had finally set in about what would happen Monday morning as Cas explained protocols–from the moment you left this house, until you were on the stand, you would be in a bulletproof vest with the bold FBI letters stitched across it. Before you even arrived to the courthouse, you would change cars, and do so again once you left, making sure that you weren’t being followed. While waiting to give your testimony, there would be several FBI agents escorting you around the courthouse. There would even be several female agents around so that you were never alone, not even in the bathroom.
By Sunday night, you were mere hours away from seeing Zazel again and being put on the stand. You forced yourself to replay the night in the parking garage, and the day at the flee market, remembering exactly what got you into this mess so that you could end it once and for all. You tried to once again find that fire that had burned inside you, the rage towards Zazel for ruining your life that helped you hold your head high and your will steel, but as the hours ticked by, your determination was waning.
You briefly wondered if Crowley would be there, but you doubted it. Though you had no idea what he looked like, you assumed the FBI did–but what if they didn’t? What if he sat in court as an unassuming spectator? What if he finally saw the woman who was threatening his empire–helping the man that had been trying to take him down since the moment his mother was murdered? Would he try anything? Or just stare you down while you were none the wiser?
You really didn’t know much about Crowley, though you knew enough by now that you were going to be challenging a man who had been spending the last three decades building a criminal empire that hadn’t been challenged until now.
Way to put a fucking target on your back.
There was still no guarantee that once the trial was over, and Zazel was-assuming–found guilty, that you would be able to return to your normal life. There was no promise that just because you finally held up your end of the deal, that you would get the happy-ever-after you so naively believed was waiting for you at the end of this ordeal when you signed your witness statement.
Because at the end of the day, you weren’t playing by the FBI’s rules. You were playing by Crowley’s.
Tomorrow morning you would take the stand, revealing yourself to the world. There was a fair chance that Crowley would come after you, and if that happened, there would be no returning to your normal life. You would be thrown into witness protection, given a new name, a new job, a whole new life where Y/F/N Y/L/N never existed.
You would never see your parents again, or be by your sister’s side once she finally got married, or sit on the sidelines and cheer her on as she walked across the stage as Doctor Lydia Y/L/N. You would miss Mike’s child–who was due only two months from now–or any nieces or nephews that would come after. Your life would be snatched away, with no chance of ever going back.
And as you in bed that night, you can’t stop the tears from prickling your eyes. With no one around to be strong for, you let yourself be weak. Because once you leave this room, you had to show the world that Zazel didn’t scare you, that Crowley was nothing but a name, and you, without a single doubt in your mind, would be there to take them down. You Y/F/N Y/L/N.
But no matter how much you tried to reassure yourself that tomorrow would go exactly as Dean had been promising since the day he knocked on your door, that tomorrow would finally bring an end to this living nightmare, you couldn’t stop the gnawing fear in your stomach that this was far from over.
pairing: spider-man x reader/peter parker x reader
warnings: almost sexy times but no sexy times
word count: 4,684
summary: in which the reader is an avenger and a whole lot happens before peter finds out about it. drama ensues.
He waited for you at the airport, just like he said he would. He waited for you at your hangar and smiled when he saw you walk out, and even though you had only been apart for a few days, it felt like years since you’d seen each other. And you missed him. And when you finally closed the distance in between each other you would drop your one and only small suitcase to hug him, smiling as he wrapped you up in his arms and held you close to him. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and letting your cheek rest against his. Despite your bruises and bandaged wounds from the day before, you let him hold you tightly, because somehow, him hugging against the aggravated abrasions made it hurt less rather than more.
He pulled away slightly and gave you a kiss on the top of your head, looking down at you and loosening his arms around you. He furrowed his eyebrows, bringing a hand up to your face, feeling your cheek. “Did you get into a fight, or something?” He chuckled, and with confusion you eventually realized that someone in your fight yesterday must have hit you seriously hard for a bruise to still be there. It might have been that Panther. He could have broken your cheekbone. Your injuries set themselves, thanks to the serum and you had grown used to the pain that came with a broken bone.
It’s still Christmas night. Harry, Y/n, and Tracie have all watched movies, ate junk food, and exchanged gifts until it was time for Harry and Tracie to go back to see Cara again. Y/n almost cried when Harry packed everything up to leave again. It was her first time seeing him in months and it made her miss him like crazy.
“It was fun, Y/n, thanks for letting us stop by” Harry smiles, leaning down to wrap his arms around her.
She frowns, but tries her best to hug him back as best as possible.
“No problem, it’s Christmas, I wanted you here anyway.”
She shuts herself up before she says anything else.
“And my little Tracie” Y/n laughs, bending down to smother her daughter in kisses. Tracie giggles, kicking her legs up and down in excitement, “I love you very very much, and I hope Santa didn’t let you down this year.”
Tracie beamed at her statement.
“He treated me like a princess, mummy!!!”
Everyone laughed, but Harry said he had to leave before Cara got too lonely. It made Y/n feel like shit, she almost started crying again. She gave the two of them one last hug before she let them free.
Harry carried Tracie into the car, packing up the presents in an organized fashion before driving back to their home.
“What’s wrong, Trace?” Harry questions, watching as her eyes are fixed on her shoes, her body barely moving as he just sees her slumping in her chair.
“I don’t like the way mummy looked” She says, turning her head to look out of her window, “That’s how she looks before she cries.”
Harry feels his chest become heavier, and his breath hitches at the base of his throat. He grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. His blood begins to flow with sorrow, he can feel his veins being poisoned with it. He always hated seeing Y/n sad, because it took so much to tear her down. She was always so strong, she would brush off anything that stood in her way. It was one of his favorite things about her, how the world could be destroyed in a fraction of a second, and she’d still smile, laugh, and say “as long as I have my family”, that was always her reason for being happy.
“Baby, can I ask you a question?” He mumbles.
His shaking fingers reach forward to lower the volume of his music, eyes darting to the rearview mirror to see Tracie playing with the velcro straps on her shoes.
“Of course, daddy.”
He gulps, eyes switching between the road and the mirror every few seconds. “How much does mummy cry?”
“Hmmm,” Tracie hums, her pointer finger stroking her chin as she looks up, “She cries at night, when it’s bedtime. She reads me a book, kisses me, walks out, and cries a lot. It makes my heart sad.”
Harry sucks in a breath, his fingers clenching tighter, his eyes glossing heavier.
“Does she ever tell you why, babydoll?”
What a fucking stupid question, he thinks. She doesn’t need to tell anybody why she’s been crying every night. He knows damn well why she does, he didn’t have to play stupid to get answers.
“Because mummy loves you.”
He nods, lips trembling the second the words leave her mouth.
“Has she told you this?“
“Yes. But she doesn’t know it. Sometimes when I try to give her hugs I see her looking at the picture where you were holding her in her white sparkley dress. You know, the one where she looked like a princess? Sometimes she sleeps next to it a lot, and sometimes when she thinks I’m sleeping, she comes in my room to talk about you. Mumma loves you very much.”
He had no idea this was how it was. He should have known, he did divorce her, he did fall in love with someone else and throw away seven years of dating and three years of marriage, he did become distant with her once he left, but what else was he supposed to do? Live with the pain of knowing what he did to her each day? See what he caused each day of his life?
Something suddenly isn’t settling right in his stomach. It’s like his entire stomach had flipped inside out, and he swears his head twisted for a couple of seconds as well.
“But it’s Christmas.” Tracie breaks the silence, placing her American Girl Doll on her lap, “she shouldn’t be crying on Christmas.”
Harry’s lip close tight in a straight line. He suddenly feels his hands becoming cold.
“You’re right, bubba,” Harry sighs, “you’re absolutely right.”
His bed feels cold. For the first time in nearly 8 years, his bed feels cold. Which is strange, especially since Cara’s arm is hooked around his waist and her lips are so close to his neck he feels the hot air blowing from between her lips. He tried desperately to sleep, to escape the undying feeling of grief that seems to have taken over his every move. But he can’t sleep, he can’t shut his eyes for a second without seeing Y/n’s face. God, how battered down she looked, it’s almost giving him nightmares. She basically admitted he was the reason for this. Hell, she didn’t even have to admit it for him to know. “As long as I have my family” was the reason she was the strong, happy, beautifully well put together woman he fell in love with. And now she doesn’t even have that anymore.
He sighs, rubbing the balls oh his hands against his eyes. There is still an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Even with the closure, even though he finally knows he’s wrong, even when he admitted he was wrong, that uneasy feeling never left him that night. He feels helpless, he can’t even put a single finger on what it is that’s making him all anxious and sick.
But for some reason, his heart called for home. Even thinking about his house with Y/n warms up every bit of him and he’s not sure what it is. It’s like he needs to go home, to see his Y/n. He didn’t know whether it was just a second hand instinct to go to Y/n when he feels this unwell, or whether it was just a sign telling him to see her, but whatever it was, he didn’t ask questions. He slowly detached himself from Cara, rolling off the bed until his bare feet hit the floor. He had one of his shirts from the other night hanging on the edge of the bed, so he took it in one swift motion and out it on over his head. He already had sweatpants on, so all he had to do was put on socks and shoes before he (hopefully) was out the door before Cara would notice his absence.
He hears Cara huff behind him, every bit of his movements stopping, sucking in his breath, praying Cara hasn’t woken up.
“Harry, where ya going’?” Cara slurs, eyes drooping as she lay half awake next to him.
Harry quietly swears, eyes shut in pain, trying to get out of this the best possible way he can.
“Something doesn’t feel right. I’m going to see Y/n, okay? I feel like something’s wrong.”
“What is it? Want me to come with you?”
He shakes his head, finally able to find the strength to cover his feet with some socks before putting on a pair of his brown boots, which are torn on the sides from all the usage, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is Y/n.
“This is something I have to do myself.” is all he says before he makes his way outside.
Harry spent the entire ride trying to figure out exactly what he was doing. He hasn’t had a proper conversation with her in months. He has absolutely no idea what to say. “Hey, just checking up on you”? That sounds so scripted, it makes him want to cry. He almost does cry when he parks in front of Y/n’s house. It feels so strange to him, how he isn’t able to walk right in, say “home sweet home”, kiss Y/n and check on Tracie to make sure she was doing okay. The entire situation seems fucked to him. Knowing he has to knock on the door before he enters her home makes every muscle in his body clench. For the last 10 years of his life he was able to do anything with her without asking.
He somehow suddenly feels far away from her.
Harry unbuckles himself, taking a deep breath before shutting off his car. When he reaches her doorstep, the feeling in his stomach rises and spreads to every part of his body. A sense of horror rushes through him, and just like that, all he knows is that the feeling in his stomach was his sixth sense. He had only ever gotten it with Y/n, only when Y/n was in danger. He experiences this numerous times, all of which when Y/n was extremely hurt. He got the feeling even when he was miles and miles away from her, it was just one of the many ways his body connected with hers. It helped him help her so much, he could have never been more grateful for such a disgusting feeling, because he knew it derived from their love for each other. If the love wasn’t so strong he wouldn’t have sensed anything like that for her.
But now he does, that feeling is all over him and he has to stop himself from breaking at this point.
Knocking on her door is the least of his worries when he pushes the door open so quick he could have sworn the nob fell off. However, he doesn’t look back. How the hell could he not pick up on that feeling before? He should have known the second he felt his stomach knot, but he didn’t. This is so unlike him, he was able to detect when she was in danger like it was second-hand nature. Is this who he’s become? Has he become a stranger to himself and to her?
“Y/N!! Y/N!!” He calls out, just hoping to at least get a noise coming from her.
“Fuck fuck fuck” he mumbles, fingers digging into his scalp so hard he almost draws blood.
He runs upstairs, because he would have seen her if she were down there. He would have at least heard her breathing, but he didn’t get a single sound, and the silence makes him think he’s acted too late. But when his feet land on the second floor, he sees fog covering the air ever so slightly. Y/n always took her showers hot, she said it made her feel relaxed, and made her muscles feel like clouds. She also loved the steam, the steam made her feel clean, she said it cleaned her lungs and made her feel so comforted. But this time, seeing the steam roll from underneath the cracks of the closed door, he knows this is so much more than a hot shower.
“Y/N!” He screams, wiggling the doorknob, only to discover that she locked it. No, oh God, no.
Harry pushes his body roughly against the door, his shoulder immediately in pain as he does so.
“Fuck! Y/n, open the goddamn door!” He yells.
He rams the side of his body into the door again, but nothing budged. He swears under his breath, he can’t let this shit block him from saving her. It’s either he gives up on them and harms Y/n even more, or he tries to save the parts of her that’s still alive. He rams into the door again, this time knocking the lock right out, making the door swing open and land harshly against the wall. He is suddenly extremely claustrophobic, his throat seems to be closing in on itself, lungs expanding to try and get more air inside. The steam from the hot water makes the air seem so thick, he can already feel his skin getting clammy. He rushes to the shower, tearing the curtain nearly off the pole. He can barely make out her figure, laying in fetal position, an entire bottle of vodka held loosely in her hand, but he sees the horrifying sight. He almost pukes, his stomach turning inside out by the look of her red, blistered, naked body.
He cries as he turns off the water, careful not to have the water touch him. When he turns it off, her weeps drown the room, which the water was clearly blocking out before.
“Baby, no” Harry whimpers, reaching out to slowly graze his fingers along her arm, careful not to hurt her.
“It hurts” Y/n whispers, the heat from the water almost creating an aftermath. The heat is rising within her, she actually feels like her skin is on fire.
“IT’S BURNING!” Y/n sobs, the sides of her arms squeezing against her head. Harry acts quick, making sure the handle is directly in between the hot and cold before turning the water back on.
He leaves her at a medium temperature until he sees the redness of her skin go down and he hears her cries lessen. He turns off the water then, reaching to open the cabinet underneath the sink to grab a towel. He reaches to grab Y/n, as softly as possible, just so that he was able to sit her up. Her head rolled back, too intoxicated to move a single muscle as Harry wrapped her up. He hasn’t stopped crying. What he just witnessed was his worst nightmare coming to life. Y/n, his Y/n, was hurting herself. She was so sad, she was depressed enough to inflict pain upon herself, to somehow escape her horrifying reality. He saw his love almost dying in front of him. He saw his love limp, battered and blistered, dazed and depressed, just letting pain happen. To see her like that, that was his biggest fear.
He growls, punching down on the ground before grabbing Y/n’s head in his hands.
“WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!?!” Harry yells, keeping his grip on her head so that her dazed gaze stays focused on him.
Her eyes gloss over with tears, but she doesn’t budge to answer him. All that she process is Harry. Harry Harry Harry. Her Harry is here, holding her, with her. She can’t form a proper thought except for Harry being with her, she starts crying.
“IF I DIDN’T COME HERE YOU WOULDN’T HAVE MADE IT OUT OF THERE! WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING THROUGH YOUR MIND?! DO YOU KNOW HOW BAD YOU JUST HURT YOURSELF?!”
“I ’s puking” Y/n slurs, her eyes rolling to the back of her head, “Needed t’ clean me.”
Harry sighs, dropped her head from her hands so that he can rub his eyes. He swears, everything inside of him is breaking. His heart is shattered and all the strength he had left had turned to weakness. His body begins to shake, his hands turn to fists, and before he can stop himself, he’s letting every emotion out. He sobs, screams, hits himself until he can’t breathe. All he manages to do is hold Y/n against him, as if she is his lifeline.
“I’m so sorry” he sobs, his face nuzzling into her neck, “I had no idea.”
Y/n frowns, but is too drunk to say much. She feels tears rolling down her cheeks. Big, fat, ugly tears pouring from her eyes. Holding Harry like this involves too much pain, it makes her want to down another bottle of vodka and smoke another pack of cigarettes. All she wants to do is feel numb again, lose every bit of emotion she’s felt just to cut herself a break.
But all she feels now is painful, bittersweet love.
“Love you” she mumbles before she can bite her tongue.
Harry’s breath hitches in his throat. He’s taken away by her words, he honestly feels like he’s just been told the greatest news of his life. Every color he sees is suddenly brighter, every doubt he has ever carried with him has vanished, and every bit of negativity he’s carried had been left aside completely, by just those words she spoke.
“Oh, Y/n”, he whispers, “I think I love you, too.”
ok so we’re going to sit our booties down and learn a thing
These boots here are called Renegades. I love them. They come in lots of cool colors, like maroon and yellow and the whole rainbow k. These saved my life last summer when I couldn’t keep Bella from abscessing bc even once they would blow and heal, they weakened her feet. If I didn’t have these bad boys, I wouldn’t have been able to ride that whole summer.
They’re the most popular boot with Endurance riders and that’s bc they’re fuckin fly as hell. Do you know how easy it is to put these things on? 9/10 times when I use them, I only use front boots, and they take me like a minute per foot INCLUDING picking out the foot. Tell me that’s not crazy af.
The bottoms are designed like a real foot and you can gets studs and shit if you do hardcore things. That heel captivator you see there moves free from the boot, so no rubbing or foot restriction. You can do legit everything in these babies and your horse’s perfect little tootsies will be nice and protected, while still maintaining the health that comes with a bare foot.
Worried about cables? Don’t k. I have…. 5 pairs of these plus I know lots of people that use them personally and never have I heard of a cable breaking. Even if it does, you don’t have to order a new boot so don’t stress! You can order every piece of these boots separately and save a buttload of skrilla.
Worried about them being loose and coming off? Don’t k. I’ve lost a boot once and it was my fault. I didn’t latch the velcro strap on the toe correctly so that sucker came loose and came off while we trekked through mud bogs that’ll make u cry. When they’re put on right, they stay put. No twisting. No nothin. You ride and you don’t worry.
And what’s super rad? They weigh less than any other boot I’ve seen. There are some shoes that weigh more than these.
AND there is a new design called the Viper that is currently being tested by Endurance riders before it goes on the market and I’m so hype for them. They’re supposed to be EVEN EASIER to put on and move even easier with the horse’s foot for the most natural movement possible.
Hi all, I have had several people ask me about my Cassandra Pentaghast breastplate & backplate armour on both construction and my weathering/painting, so I got some photos together to help explain what I did! (please forgive my terrible writing skills and have lots of pictures instead! XD)
First, I patterned my armour from basic craft foam. You can see (top left pic) I have sewn pieces together down the front (and back) and also added darts to give the armour more shape! I sew foam together on my sewing machine using a wide zig zag stitch – sometimes I will reenforce the seam with hot glue. I fitted the armour over top of my under layers to ensure the armour wouldn’t be too tight (top middle)! Using painters tape, I taped the sides and shoulders openings closed while fitting (these will later be closed with velcro so I can get in and out of the armour). I drew the design on the foam to see where it looked best before I cut out separate pieces (bottom left) to add on top and give the armour depth. These were glued down with hot glue and the ‘rivets’ were added on top (bottom right), I also added some other foam details around the edges of the armour here to.At this point, I sewed in velcro straps on the inside on the sides of the panels and shoulders.
Once I was happy with the shape, fitting and design, I cut a large sheet of worbla big enough to cover the front panel. Then using my heat gun, I slowly worked the worbla over my foam, smoothing it as I went, using my dress form to help with the shape (top pics). The challenge with this was getting it started (take your time) and not to let the worbla stretch too thin (which is why i started with an oversized sheet of worbla)! I left enough worbla over the sides to tuck over (I clipped the worbla on parts with curves before folding it to the inside). I did the same for the back panel as well. Then I added a couple details after using worbla (bottom middle) like the raised neck part (does this have a name?!).
Next it was ready to paint! I primed the armour with white gesso (top left) and then spray painted it with silver for a base coat (top middle). I began to weather the armour in black (lowlights/contrast) using a drybrush technique(bottom pics) which I practiced on several scrap pieces of worbla before I started!
After the lowlights, I added highlights using the same technique (top left). Then I roughly painted the patterns on the front (top middle) and back, then weathered those as well, giving it a really nice ‘worn out’ look (top right & bottom left). When I was happy with how it all looked I varnished the armour with several -layers! (bottom right)
I hope this “mini tutorial” was useful! If you have anything more specific that I didn’t quite cover, please don’t hesitate to send me an ask! Thank you for reading and thanks to everyone who has left lovely comments on my Cassandra cosplay~!
June is National Scoliosis Awareness Month in the US, so to celebrate I dug out my old brace (who, at age…14? I named Freddie) to try it on. I honestly forgot how it feels to wear it - there’s a certain comfort to having something supporting you when your back muscles work overtime to do it normally. I had to wear this thing at least 8 hours every night for 2 years (end of 2011 - summer of 2013 I think), which compared to some I definitely got off easy. It did its job by keeping my spinal curves relatively stable over that time period and even since I stopped wearing it. It’s a bit hilarious to see just how much I’ve grown since I stopped wearing it, as the top of the higher part is supposed to reach my armpit and it comes nowhere close to that. There are black dots on the velcro straps which I had to be able to fasten them to, and those dots are visibly halfway back from where they need to be. A lot of people talk about destroying their braces once they’re finished with them, but I could never do that. I look very fondly back on my time with it and I’ll keep it for as long as I can. Thanks for being a pal, Freddie ❤️
Chapter 18 Yoongi x Reader Gang AU Chapter 19 / Words: 2153
Yoongi gently shook your shoulder to rouse you when the car finally rolled into the front of the compound. You picked your head up just in time for Seokjin to open the doors, and you blinked at the harsh sunlight that poured into the back of the van. Yoongi got out first and helped you step down as you gained your bearings, and Namjoon shut the driver’s door and came over to you.
“You’re okay, right?” he asked, his eyes scanning you carefully.
You nodded at him. Other than a few bruises - not to mention potential mental scarring - you were fine.
“Good,” he affirmed as he started to head towards the front door. “Thank fuck Hoseok is such a good shot.”
A/N: Request for Pietro Maximoff and reader training and she ends up beating him. I added some flirt, if that’s cool witchu? This is set in an AU where Pietro didn’t die?? idk i won’t make it complicated, just enjoy!
Y/L/N = your last name
An uncomfortable sounding pop echoed in the training room of the Avengers’ tower as you stretched. You have been feeling a little under the weather lately, probably due to the late night missions and helping out Tony with some more tech over the last few weeks so you skipped out on training during that time. With a quick dip to side, you heard another pop as in your back as you touched your ankle.
“Somebody sounds old.” The familiar ring of the Sokovian accent drew your attention to the door where Pietro stood. Adorned in a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, he chuckled at the sight of you rolling your eyes at him. You might have had a small thing going on for the speedster, but that didn’t mean he could push you around without getting shoved back.
“Somebody looks old.” You retaliated as your tugged at your arms, trying to loosen your muscles for training.
A hand self-consciously came up to tug at the roots of his silver hair as he pouted, “At least I can still fight.”
You gasped as you stared at Pietro, pulling a hand up to your chest, pretending to be hurt. “I can too!”
“Don’t hurt yourself, doll. We still need you on the team.”
“Would you stop patronizing me, I am just as skilled as you are.” You crossed your arms before you as Pietro raised an eyebrow. You held yourself for a couple seconds before you exasperatedly sighed, “You’re just faster, okay?”
He softly chuckled as he warmed himself up by the wall furthest away from you. You took it as the friendly banter had ended so you picked up your boxing gloves and walked over to the punching bag. You took a quick peek over your shoulders as you peeled the velcro straps, taking in how Pietro’s muscles flexed as he did his push-ups. You silently slipped your hands into your gloves as you continued to gawk at him but he looked up halfway through his set and you stuck out your tongue in defense, covering up your embarrassment by taunting him.
The two of you were always bickering over the smallest of things for fun, but you found him making fun of you more times than not. Wanda always told you he liked you while Natasha told you to beat him up but instead, you chose to fight back by throwing your own insults.
That never really did. If anything, it only encouraged him.
Returning to your sandbag, you took your stance and started punching at the bag. Concentrating on your breathing and technique, you mustered up enough energy to do five reps of a specific combo Natasha had taught you. The training room was eerily silent as you slowly looked away from your target to find Pietro staring at you from his spot on the bench.
In return, he stuck his tongue out at you before taking a sharp breath and stood up. “Do you feel up for a match?”
“I thought I was too old.” You mocked him as you steadied the punching bag. “Wouldn’t you like someone whose hips won’t pop out during a roundhouse kick?”
You didn’t notice how suggestive your question sounded, until Pietro responds with a stout, “No, you’re good enough for me, even if your hips do pop.”
What did he mean by that? Did he mean fighting right?
Is it just me or did it sound like he meant that as a… Never mind.
A fake cough came from you as you hid your face behind your gloves, “Fine, let’s go. But we’re making this a competition.” Pietro made a quizzical hum, urging you continue. “If I win, you stop poking fun at me and I get bragging rights.”
The silver-haired boy stopped for a moment to think before he smiled and slipped he tossed you your usual go-to-weapon, escrima sticks. Tony had designed them to generate a slight taser and made them connectable to give you an advantage in fighting since you didn’t hold super powers.
“If I win, which I will, you have to go on a date with me.” A laugh erupted from you as you took your escrima sticks from him. You rolled your eyes, feigning disinterest in his personal reward for winning the bet as you spun your sticks and pushed your punching bag out of the sparring area.
“You’re all talk but no walk.” You taunted menacingly as you took your stance but Pietro just shook his head with laughter before he mirrored your movement.
You purposely threw the first punch with the intent to miss so he would move into your left baton which he did. A quick jab attacked his right torso as you went to swipe your leg under his. Pietro used his speed to dodge your kick and retaliated with a swift punch at your abdomen. As you fell, you wrapped your arm around his, bringing him down with you. Using your legs, you pushed his whole body over yours as you executed a well-trained backward somersault and pinned Pietro down on the mat with your knee on his collarbone and the other one twisting his arm.
An unsuspecting knee came up and collided with your cheek as your grip on him loosened enough for him to slide out from you. “You’re not doing too bad, grandma.”
“Oh will you shut up!” You angrily spat as you rushed to get up from the floor in time to grab your fallen escrima sticks before he got the chance to kick them out of the arena. The fighting continued for a couple more minutes but as you noticed Pietro slowing down his punches, which you so skillfully deflected with your batons, you took the opportunity to give him a good kick in the chest that sent him flying backward. Before he had a chance to get up, you kicked the back of his knee causing him to kneel back down as you got onto of his back and pinned his wrist together behind him.
“Admit your defeat, Maximoff.” You snickered as the silver-haired boy wriggled underneath of you.
He tried everything he could to lift himself back up, but with your weight on him and his arms being of no help, he sighed into the mat, “Fine, you win, (Y/L/N).” You smiled with triumph as you released his wrist and helped him up. “But could I at least get a kiss to compensate for my loss?”
His hands came up to rest on your hips as he smiled cheekily at you, but you only squinted at him in response as you thought about it. You slowly leaned in before quickly going for his ear, “Sorry, I don’t kiss before or after a first date.” Your hand came up to give him a good solid pat on the chest before you started sauntering away.
“So when do you kiss?” Pietro shouted from his spot in the middle of the training room. You paused at the doorway as you dropped a towel around your neck.
A shrug was all he got before the door opened, “Maybe on the fifth or sixth date?” Hoping that would be enough to encourage Pietro to actually ask you out, the door closed behind you as you made a beeline for the showers.
I liked this ending a lot more than my earlier post but I apologize if this was still short and sucky. AHAHAHAHA y am i liek dis?
The first few posts got a great response! Thanks for the great feedback. Today we are adding some more detail to the chest plate and back piece.
These photos show how we deliberately made the straps too big so we could trim them to a perfect fit once they were sculpted.
Once we got the straps trimmed to the perfect lenght we held them together with some duct tape and began sculpting and shaping the straps so they matched nicely.
At this point we had to choose how we were gonna actually aseemble the chest piece for Freya to wear. The images below show that Mira’s armour is held together by straps at the shoulders and waist. These look great but might not be practical on a foam costume. We have decided to go with a classic and use Velcro straps concealed inside the armour.
We still want to add fake straps to the outside. We did this by sculpting some small foam buckles and cutting up some canvas belts (after raiding the local charity shops).
The fake straps will not actually hold any weight and will only be fasted after the Velcro is secure. They fake buckles will be glued to the front and the loose strap will be tucked into hidden spaces on the back armour (no glue). These were sculpted using the rotary tool. This tucking technique is weak but the Velcro holds the armor in place so there is no weight on the fake straps.
The back of the armor is similar to the table top minis. The only detail was the small raised shape in the centre.
The last bit of detailing (for now) is adding some battle damage. We didn’t want to go over the top with this so just a few scratches and chips on the edges was enough. I drew them on in marker first so we could choose which ones we liked then sculpted them with (you guessed it) the rotary tool.
Next post we will be taking a step away from foam and be looking at some of the other elements of the costume that we needed to buy. See you soon.
Do you take prompts? If so, could you write something where Mulder and Scully get into a heated argument. Mulder takes it to far and says some hurtful things, but only realizes he's hurt Her when he notices her crying, then tries to make up with her. Possibly set on the run, after season 9. Thank you.
She doesn’t recall the name of the town. The
main strip is a carbon copy of the last, the bakery, the hairdresser, the
pharmacy, the mini mart. Even the church is a facsimile. She has said her
prayers in motel rooms, Walmart, gas stations and public toilets. She doesn’t
even remember what she’s praying for, but it’s a comforting habit.
used to think that Mulder was a comforting habit but being in his shadow 24/7
is so entirely different to the electric hold he had over her during their time
on the X Files. She feels the distance like lifetimes, centuries, millennia.
They had a partnership, a quest, a crusade for justice. Back in the day. Now,
they have nothing but fear to motivate them. And it’s the wrong kind of fear.
It’s the fear borne of fatigue and desperation, not borne of justice gone
bag digs into her arm. She’s lost weight, despite the junk food diet, the soda
and burgers, the chocolate bars for breakfast, the soggy pizza at midnight. She’s
worried about Mulder’s health. He’s been fighting a chest infection, coughing
all night for days. He wants to leave tonight but she told him earlier she
wouldn’t stand for him to sit in a car for hours, dehydrating and sick. She
doesn’t want to get sick. She’s already bone-tired and headachy. She just wants
to feel the sun on her face, warm her soul, concentrate on the little things
that she wants to remember. Her mother’s voice, Skinner’s frustrated sigh, the
Lone Gunmen’s clutter, the fern in her apartment that tumbled over the side of her
dresser and filled her peripheral vision with the green of life as she cooked.
She misses cooking, she misses chopping onion and garlic, slicing tomato,
nibbling grated carrot. She misses Mulder’s smile as he uncorks a red and pours
her a ridiculously large glass. She misses the scent of her newborn’s head, his
wispy hair tickling his chin as she rocked him.
She misses William.
The playground is on the corner block opposite
their motel. She hears the squeal of laughter, the frantic barking of a dog,
the thwump of a ball against a foot. She finds herself at the boundary,
watching life unfold. She feels the press of sun on top of her head. Her hair
is dark now and cut short so that she does a double-take when she chances a
glance in a mirror. It’s often too hard to look. Because if she does, she sees
the past and the lies and the shadows of guilt that shroud her.
small child toddles up to her, chasing a beach ball that has tumbled to her
feet. She squats, letting the bag rest on the floor. The child is wearing a
bright yellow sundress, a floppy pink hat, white sneakers with two Velcro straps
and a beaming smile across her sun-red face. She giggles as the ball spins on a
gust of wind. Scully traps it with one hand and the child presses her fists
against either side, lifting it up above her head in triumph.
come on. Leave the lady alone.” A flustered young woman rushes over and takes
the child by the elbow.
okay,” Scully says, standing up and feeling the strain in her back. “She was
woman smiles an apology and takes the child away. Scully watches them.
hears his voice and swings around slowly. “It’s so warm, Mulder,” she says
gently. “I needed to feel the sun today.”
reaches out a hand to him, but his arms remain by his side. He looks over her
head and exhales. “What do you think you’re doing, Scully?”
child’s laughter bubbles up on the breeze. She follows the sound and shields
her eyes from the glare of the sun.
been gone too long.” His voice is low, menacing.
says nothing, looking out at the field in front of her. She has cut herself off
from everything and she is not going to cut short this afternoon in the sun.
need to go,” he says, taking her arm.
She shrugs him off.
“Scully,” he hisses, “let’s
“You go, Mulder,” she says. “I’ll
be a few minutes. Give me this.”
His shadow stretches over
her but she turns back and sees the beach ball flying high towards them. The little
girl tumbles over to them, following its trajectory. She watches as it bounces
and ends up at Mulder’s feet. He sucks in a breath and his sleeve of his tee
shirt flap in the stiff breeze. She knows he would love nothing better than to
pick up the ball and toss it back to the child. Instead, he puts his hands on
his hips and stares out to the middle distance.
“Ball,” the child says. “Me
Scully nods and bends down,
collecting the ball and giving it to her. “Here’s your ball, Emmy.”
Mulder sighs and picks up
the shopping bag in one hand. With his other he wraps it around her shoulder. “We’re
going, Scully,” he says in to her ear. “Now.”
The room is as dry as she remembers. His voice
is as raspy. “Emmy?”
“She’s a child, Mulder. She
won’t remember me.”
He coughs. “We agreed,
She pours him some water. “You
agreed, Mulder. You laid down the law. You’ve been telling me what to do since
we left. I haven’t questioned you, I haven’t complained. But today, I just
needed to feel the sun and remember what life should be like.”
He doesn’t take the water.
His shoulders are hunched. His breathing is noisy. His cheeks are flushed. He
is running a temperature. She looks in her handbag for Tylenol. She can’t find
“Scully,” he says, “you know
the risks. I can’t believe you’d put us in jeopardy for a child and a fucking beach
“It was more than just a
fucking beach ball, Mulder. And you know it.”
“I don’t give a fuck if you’d
seen your mother in that park, Scully. You cannot disappear for hours at a time
without letting me know.”
She clenches her fists,
digging the nails into the pliant skin of her palms. The pain is good, it’s
life. “You don’t own me, Mulder. I make my own decisions.”
His eyes spark. “I know all
about your decisions, Scully.”
She tries not to gasp but
the sound escapes her lips anyway. Hot tears sting her eyes.
He throws the bag on the bed
and contents scatter across the beige coverlet. Sunflower seeds, shaving
lotion, hair dye, Tylenol and tampons.
She looks at him and he
throws his head back, rubbing his cheeks with quivering hands. “I’m sorry,
Scully. I didn’t mean…”
She leans down and picks up the
Tylenol, throwing him a blister pack. “Take two with water and get into bed,
Mulder.” She takes the tampons and feels the edges of the box dig into her
hand. “I need a shower.”