The Tariffs Are Making Life Is Strange 80 Dollars...

mackinnon with a massive goal to make it 2-3! this is the fight we need.

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐎𝐖.

m.list | next

Warnings: mentions of miscarriage, black market, mentions of depression. Tell me if there is more

Dinas hands are stained with the powder white of flour, the pale dust clinging to her skin as she kneeded the dough. Her fingers worked in a rhythm only she knows while humming a tune like a songbird. Pressing, folding, and rolling as the yeast rose beneath her warm hands working skillfully. The bread brought a sweet scent into the house giving it the aroma of a bakery—it would've gave her mother a large smile as she joyfully watched with her eyes sparkling. But today, Dinas mother was in her room weeping, the house so silent the only thing she could hear was the crackling of the fire.

As Dina continued to knead her mind kept wandering to the black market, knowing she would have to trade a loaf for atleast a pound of cheese cloth to finish her reaping dress. Food went for higher value in district twelve than any fabric that had been used before the dark days happened. But she couldn't complain—she couldn't afford to. Not with everything crumbling before her eyes.

Meanwhile, across the street at the millers carpenters shop, Ellie was working, the rhythmic sound of a hammer striking wood echoing in the air. Dina often caught glimpses of her during her bread making through the window—the way her strong, muscular arms moved with precision, the way her leather apron fit her like a second skin. Ellie was more muscular than other working women in the district, Dina only having slight muscles because of kneading bread dough from 6 am to 8 pm—but that didn't phase her much because of how scarce food is and having someone to fix something for you was.

Ellie worked hard, some people say she worked harder than others. Her chisels, and hammers always in motion, creating whatever was necessary to trade for food. She was the one who kept a watchful eye out, the one who made sure Dina didn't take too much risk with her dealings in the market. But as much as she cared for Dina, Ellie never sugarcoated the truth about the reapings, trading, or the hunger games.

When the pairs lunch break came, Dina walked over to the millers shop, wiping flour off her shoulder as she knocked on the door frame. Ellie barely looked up as she grabbed a few pieces of wood to sand, the noise of the shop humbling their conversation to a hushed murmur.

"Got bread for the trade today" Dina said leaning against the doorframe holding up her sack holding the loaf.

"Good." Ellie muttered, her eyes narrowing on the wood as she carefully smoothed the surface. " you know that black market guy isn't gonna give you anything decent for it, right?"

Dina placed the bread parcel down and shrugged, trying to hide the way the thought weighed heavy against her chest. "We need the cloth and my mother's not... Well." she trailed off, glancing back towards home. "She's not getting any better."

Ellie nodded, finally stopping the sanding to look at Dina. Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “I know. I know.” She exhaled, then turned her head slightly toward the front door, eyes distant. “I still can’t believe the Reaping’s so close. They say the Capitol’s watching even more closely this year. You think one of us is gonna get called?”

Dina hesitated, the words on the tip of her tongue, but not enough courage to speak them aloud. " I don't want to think about it" her voice got low, making Ellie almost nearly miss it.

Ellie let out a quite snort. "Well, you'd better start thinking about it, because when your name gets drawn, you can't exactly just walk away from it. Someone's got to step up, Dina."

Dina didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. The unspoken truth between them was heavy enough. Both of them had been close to the edge for years, but the Reaping always felt like a final straw they could never seem to escape.

Later that afternoon, Dina made her way to the black market, clutching the still—warm bread wrapped in the parcel she just had shown Ellie earlier today. The stall she approached was tucked between two crumbling buildings, hidden away from prying eyes. A rough man with a scar on his neck and hands like calloused leather leaned against a table stacked with old goods from smugglers from the Capitol.

"You got the bread.?" he grunted, eying her warily

Dina nodded, holding it out carefully " I need cheesecloth."

The man grinned, showing a row of crooked teeth. “You know the price. For fresh bread, I’ll give you half a roll of cloth."

Dina bit back her frustration. She’d hoped for a little more. “Half a roll? It’s not enough to finish both dresses. I need enough to make a full dress for myself"

His eyes glinted with amusement. “You’re a girl who knows what she wants, huh? That’ll cost you double. I’m giving you a good deal, girl. Take it or leave it.”

Dina’s stomach turned. She had no other choice. She nodded, handing over the bread.

When she returned home, she found her mother sitting at the table, eyes vacant as she stared at the half-empty plate of food in front of her. The sight broke Dina’s heart every time, but she had no time to linger on it. There were dishes to wash, firewood to gather, and a hundred other things waiting to be done. She could hear the faint sound of her mother’s sobs from the next room as she fed her, spooning soup into her mother’s mouth as she barely managed to swallow it.

When Dina finished, she hurried to get ready for the Reaping. The tension in the air was unbearable, thick and choking like smoke. Even though the draw was still hours away, it felt as though everyone in the district could sense what was coming. The Reaping was always a grim affair, but this year, it felt heavier.

Dina sewed the last buttons to her dress, standing back to take a good look she sighed—not because it looked bad, but only because it was a inch shorter than how she wanted it. But she couldn't care, because at 1pm she'd have to be dressed and ready for the reaping.

The day of the Reaping arrived, and the air was thick with dread.

Dina stood beside Ellie in the town square, surrounded by hundreds of others who were trying to pretend they didn’t feel the cold, suffocating weight of the Capitol’s presence looming over them. The announcer’s voice crackled through the speakers, calling for silence, and everything stopped.

The names were drawn.

" DINA WOODWARD"

Dina looked around, her heart beating in her cheat and a stone in her throat. She couldn't believe it but she had to, she needed to go.

Walking towards the stage to the pale makeup Capitol lady she stood looking at the other tributes, they paid her respects to her by placing three finger to their lips and up towards the sky.

" now for the one boy tribute"

" ELIJAH MADISON"

she knew Elijah, he was just a meekly 12 year old boy. She couldn't believe it, a choked up sob almost came from her throat but she had to suppress it.

" I volunteer."

She heard from the crowd, district twelves searching around trying to figure out who the words came from.

Until Ellie walked up towards the stage standing beside Dina staring towards the crowd. That was against the rules but Dina didn't want to say anything until one of the Capitol announcers denounced this volunteerism.

The final goodbyes were harder than Dina had imagined.

Ellie was already in her room, while Dina was isolated in hers looking out the window. Her door opened as she saw her mother crying in tears speaking in the language only both of them could only understand.

Her mother’s lips trembled. “Dina…” Her voice cracked. She took one step forward, then two, and then she was in front of her daughter, kneeling awkwardly, as if her bones no longer trusted her weight. “My girl.”

Dina felt something snap inside her chest. “Don’t cry,” she whispered, even though her own eyes were welling up. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” her mother breathed, reaching up to cradle Dina’s face with both hands. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Dina shook her head, eyes burning. “Mom—”

“No, let me say it.” Her mother’s voice broke. “You’ve been taking care of me since… since I lost the baby. And I—I didn’t mean to leave you alone like that. I just…” She let out a slow, aching sob. “I was drowning. And I didn’t even see how much you were carrying.”

Her mother nodded slowly, her thumb brushing a tear from Dina’s cheek. “You didn’t deserve that. You’re seventeen. You’re still a child. And I let grief steal you from me. I should have been there for you.”

“You’re here now.” Dina’s voice cracked as she gripped her mother’s wrists gently. “You didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I know that.”

Her mother leaned forward, resting her forehead against Dina’s. “I just got you back, and now—

“I’ll come home,” Dina said, though she didn’t know if it was true. She needed her mother to believe it. Maybe she needed to believe it too. “I’ll come home. I’ll fight.”

Her mother wept into her shoulder, her hands still gripping Dina like she was afraid to let go. “Promise me you won’t lose who you are in there.”

Promise me you’ll eat. Promise me you’ll try to get better. Even if I don’t come back. Please.”

Her mother swallowed hard, like the words were cutting her throat on the way out. “I promise.”

They sat like that for a long moment—two broken hearts holding each other in the silence between everything they’d said and everything they hadn’t. And when the Peacekeeper came to announce the time was up, Dina didn’t want to let go.

But she did.

Ellie paced the length of the goodbye room, jaw tight, fists stuffed into the pockets of her worn jacket. The Capitol had dressed her in nicer clothes, but she still wore her own—scuffed boots, threadbare hoodie, sleeves stained with sawdust and grease. She didn’t want to look like a tribute. Not yet.

The door opened, and Joel stepped inside.

He filled the room with his presence. Broad shoulders, sun-weathered face, and eyes that had seen too much. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, arms crossed like he always did when he was trying not to feel too much.

Ellie froze, then gave a shaky exhale. “Hey.”

Joel’s jaw twitched. “Hey, kiddo.”

She tried to crack a smile. “You pissed?”

“Should I be?”

“I mean… you always told me not to be stupid.” She tried to shrug it off, but her voice caught halfway through. “Volunteering for a twelve-year-old isn’t exactly smart, right?”

Joel walked toward her and stopped just a foot away. He looked at her like he was trying to memorize every inch of her face. “It was the right kind of stupid.”

Ellie’s eyes dropped. Her throat tightened. “He was just a kid, Joel.”

“So are you,” he said quietly. “Doesn’t mean I ain’t proud of you.”

That made her look up. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded. “You did what I would’ve done. What your mom would’ve done.”

A long silence stretched between them, thick and quiet and full of everything they didn’t know how to say.

Joel sighed, then placed a calloused hand on the back of Ellie’s neck, pulling her into a hug. “You listen to me, alright?” His voice dropped low, steady and warm like an anchor. “You get in there, and you don’t lose your head. You don’t start fights unless you know how to finish ’em. You don’t trust anyone unless they’ve bled for you.”

Ellie swallowed hard, pressing her face against his shoulder. “What if I can’t—?”

“You can.” Joel’s voice cut through the air like steel. “You’re the toughest kid I’ve ever met. You’re sharp. You’re scrappy. And you’ve got more heart than half the bastards who walk this earth.”

Ellie sniffed. “Kinda sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”

“I’m not.” Joel pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “I’m saying—no matter what happens—you ain’t alone. You carry me in there, you understand? You fight like I’m right behind you, watching your back. ‘Cause I am.”

Ellie’s lips trembled. She nodded once, then twice.

Joel pulled something from his coat pocket—a simple, worn carving knife. “Keep this with you. Not for show. For survival. You’ll know when to use it.”

She took it silently, fingers curling around the hilt like it had always belonged there.

A knock at the door made them both flinch.

Joel stepped back slowly. “Make me proud, Ellie.”

“You already are,” she whispered.

And then the door opened again, and the goodbye was over.

© this work is owned and written by fawnieangel, any copies of my work on any platform will get you reported and blocked.

Hes so funny BUT PLEASE FREE HIM

Charles: is there a leakage?

Pit: a leakage of what?

Charles: I have the seat full of water, full of water!

Pit: ahhhhh.... It must be the water.

Charles: lets add that to the words of wisdom

WOOHOOO THATS THE SPARK WE NEED!!!! NO TIME TO WASTE!

textposts that remind me of the losers

challengers (2024) // bones and all (2022) dir. luca guadagnino

+

Bucky who’s really good at calming u from bad dreams cause he gets them all the time himself🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ he knows all the tricks

aerial u literally sent this in yesterday and I already wrote it .. um I may have gotten a lil excited oops

bucky barnes x fem!reader, 1.1k words

Bucky has had his fair share of nightmares. For years he suffered through them alone — every night without fail, he’d wake trembling and sweating, swallowed up in the pitch black, his heart thudding so loud it was all he could hear. He’d either stay awake until morning or force himself back to sleep only to relive it all over again.

These days he has you, and it’s better. The nightmares haven’t ceased, though they’ve lessened significantly. And on the nights when he does wake up with his heart in his throat, you’re always there, either peacefully asleep next to him or half awake, reaching for him in the dark like you can read his mind. Sometimes you’re awake enough to rub his back or give him a half asleep hug. It helps more than Bucky would ever admit to you.

Tonight’s different. Bucky wakes up not to his own trembling, but to yours instead. You’re sitting up in bed, stiff as a board but shaking like a leaf. Bucky, a light sleeper at the best of times, is on you like a hawk.

He says your name and rushes to sit up, giving himself a wave of vertigo for a few seconds. He blinks it away, eyelids heavy and body heavier. His hand finds your back in the dark. “Honey, are you okay?”

It’s a dumb question. You’re shaking all over and he thinks he can hear you crying, though he can’t properly see your face. He feels you turn towards him and manages to find your arm, wrapping his hand around it.

“Sorry,” you whisper. Your voice trembles, too. It splits Bucky’s heart clean in half.

“What’re you sorry for?” He murmurs, not expecting an answer. He rubs your arm, not harsh but rough enough to help with your shakes. He gives your bicep a squeeze. “Bad dream?”

Your silhouette nods. “Yeah,” you say thickly.

Bucky hums. “Okay,” he says softly. The quiet fear in your voice panics him, but he keeps his head for your sake. “You’re okay, I’m here. Do you want to talk about it?”

He’s pretty sure talking about it helps, or at least it has for him, though he knows the feeling of wanting to forget the dream ever happened, rather than having to relive it by talking about it. He lets you decide.

“Um,” you swallow hard and scrub at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Not right now?”

Bucky wants badly to take your face in both hands and wipe your tears for you, but his other arm is on the dresser across the room, the dim moonlight reflecting on the smooth metal. He doesn’t feel like getting up, not when you’re this upset. Instead he pushes his good hand over the hill of your shoulder and finds your jaw.

His thumb slips over the apple of your cheek where he pushes away a few rogue tears. “Okay, that’s alright, doll. Do you want a hug?”

You nod viciously. “Yeah, please.”

Bucky gets his hand on your shoulder and tugs you towards him, pulling you into his chest. You push your arms around his waist, screwing your hands into his shirt like he’s your lifeline. He sure tries to be.

You press your cheek to his collar and mumble something that sounds like, “Thanks.” Bucky would ask what on earth you’re thanking him for, but you’re still trembling and he’d rather deal with that first.

He rubs your back diligently. Up, down, and up again, over and over until you’re not shaking anymore. It doesn’t take long — by now he knows exactly how to calm you down, knows exactly what works best. He slots his chin over the top of your head and holds you tight to his chest.

He’s completely willing to stay like this all night, until dawn slips through the gap in the curtains if that’s what you want, but it’s only a few minutes before you’ve stopped trembling. He’s about to ask if you want some water when you speak up.

“It was the same as always,” you say, so quiet he barely hears you.

Bucky guessed as much. Your nightmares nearly always consist of the same thing and they all revolve around him — he gets hurt, he dies, somebody comes to take him away, he disappears and you can’t find him anywhere. He hates that your brain is cruel enough to conjure up such scenarios, hates that it scares you so much, and hates that there’s nothing he can do about it.

He rubs your back some more.

“Yeah? M’sorry, honey.” He untangles himself from you and gets his hand on your jaw again, cupping your cheek. He studies your face though it’s partly obscured in shadows. You’re still beautiful even half swallowed up by the dark.

“Nothing’s happened to me,” he tells you firmly. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m safe.”

You nod like you’re trying to convince yourself. “I know,” you say feebly.

The fear still lingering in your voice makes Bucky’s chest ache. He strokes your cheek, still damp with tears. “I promise, okay?”

He doesn’t know how many times he’s promised the same thing, more than he can count, but he intends to keep his promise. Nothing’s going to happen to him (or you for that matter), he intends to stick around as long as he can.

You nod around his hand, “Okay.”

Bucky pushes his fingers up into the space behind your ear and tugs you forward, palm to your pulse point. He ducks his head to press his mouth to your forehead and holds you there for a moment, breathing you in. He can smell your apple shampoo and the soapy laundry detergent scent that clings to your pillows. You take a deep, shuddering breath under him and then your shoulders go lax.

“Do you want some water?” Bucky asks after a long beat of silence, still half-kissing your hairline.

You shake your head no. “Just wanna go back to sleep. Will you keep hugging me?”

Bucky’s heart gives a tug, not unfamiliar but it aches anyway.

“Of course, doll.” He encourages you back into bed with him, laying down with your head on his shoulder and your arm draped over his stomach.

You curl into him, so close he can feel your heartbeat where your chest is pressed to his arm.

“Sorry for waking you,” you whisper, tilting your face up towards his neck.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. Sleep is overrated. Plus, he wants to be woken up when you need him. He’d rather lose sleep than know you’re suffering alone. “Nothing to be sorry for, doll.”

He pulls his arm round your waist and dips his head to kiss your hair again. You fall silent, and not long after, your breathing turns steady. Bucky stays up for a little longer, watching you in case you have another nightmare, though he won’t tell you that in the morning.

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

read pt.1 here

uh warning for blood again and again it's not that descriptive lol

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

it was late when bucky finally came home. you heard him before you saw him, the soft shuffle of boots by the door, the quiet clink of keys landing in the dish you’d both agreed was “aesthetic” even though neither of you actually cared.

he let out a long, tired breath, the kind that said today had been a lot. maybe it was training. maybe it was meetings. maybe someone said something stupid and he had to keep himself from punching them through a wall. again. you were curled up on the couch, wearing one of his old shirts, frayed at the collar, soft from years of washes, still smelling faintly like him. you’d gotten home an hour or so earlier, dropped your things, kicked off your boots, and started to decompress. or at least, you tried. but you were hungry.

not food hungry. not in the usual sense. not in the way normal people were after a long day. no—this was the kind of hunger that settled behind your ribs and tugged at your spine. it stirred quietly at first, but by the time bucky walked in, it was loud. gnawing. electric. he stepped into the living room, face softening the second he saw you.

“hey, baby,” he said, dropping his bag near the table.

“hi,” you murmured, eyes locked on him.

he paused. tilted his head, a little amused. a little curious.

“you eat?”

you shook your head. “not yet.”

he gave a low, knowing laugh and moved toward the bookshelf. “figured. you’ve got that look in your eye.”

you watched him as he pulled out a dog eared paperback, one you’d seen him reread a dozen times. his vibranium arm caught the lamplight as he settled into the armchair across from you, thumbing open the book.

you didn’t move for a second. just watched him. the curve of his throat, the line of his jaw, the way the muscles in his forearm flexed slightly as he turned the page. the gold and brown light painted across his skin like something holy. you rose without a sound. padded across the room, slow and careful, but there was nothing predatory about it. not really. this wasn’t about taking. this was about wanting. needing. he didn’t flinch when you slid into his lap. didn’t say a word when you nuzzled your nose against his neck, breathing him in.

“rough day?” you asked, voice soft.

“mm,” he hummed, eyes scanning the page. “long. annoying. too many people talking and not enough doing.”

your lips brushed the edge of his jaw.

“you gonna fix that for me?” he asked, teasing now, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“maybe,” you said, letting your lips trail down the column of his throat. “depends if you let me.”

he tilted his head back slightly, exposing more skin, still pretending to read. “i always let you.”

your fangs pressed gently to his pulse point. he didn’t flinch. didn’t tense. just sighed, low and content.

“you smell good,” you murmured.

“you always say that,” he muttered, flipping the page.

“it’s always true.”

you licked a slow stripe across the side of his neck, tasting the salt there, the warmth, the faintest trace of iron beneath his skin. his heart beat steady and strong.

“go ahead,” he whispered.

you didn’t need to be told twice.

your mouth opened over his neck, your fangs sinking in with practiced ease. he inhaled sharply through his nose, his hand tightening on the armrest. the blood hit your tongue warm and rich, heady like dark wine and something deeper underneath. like rain on hot pavement. like warmth in winter.

he kept reading. barely even twitched.

you fed slowly, taking your time, mouth sealed to his skin, one hand on his chest to steady yourself. he was warm, solid beneath you. grounding. he murmured something you couldn’t hear, probably reacting to something in the book. your hunger quieted, replaced by that soft hum of connection, the bond between you thick in the air. this was trust. this was something holy.

when you finally pulled back, lips still tingling, you licked the punctures clean. they were already closing, healing faster than they should. his eyes met yours, still half lidded, still calm.

“better?” he asked.

“mmhm.”

you shifted in his lap, curling against his chest. he closed the book and wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“good,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “hate seeing my girl all hungry.”

you smiled.

you fell asleep like that, tangled up in him, warm and full, the city beyond your windows fading into a hush. let them call him a hero. let the world watch him save it over and over again. you had him first. and he was home with you.