#Plaster Sand Plant

[rmxsolution]

why M sand plants are the future of sustainable building materials

Sustainability is a major concern in today’s rapidly growing construction industry. Traditional building materials such as natural river sand have been in demand for decades. However, the excessive use of river sand leads to environmental degradation, necessitating the use of alternative sources. One such method is M Sand (Manufactured Sand), which is produced by crushing, quarrying, or large aggregates. In this blog, we explore why the M Sand plant is the future of sustainable building materials, and environmental benefits, Readymix Construction Machinery Pvt. Ltd. plays a key role in this transformation.

Understanding M Sand and Its Importance

M Sand is an eco-friendly sustainable alternative to natural sand. It is done in a controlled environment, ensuring quality and regular gradation. M is prepared by transporting gravel through sand fracturing, and the resulting crushed sand is washed and graded to the required standard. Unlike river sand, which is often inconsistent and dirty, M Sand provides excellent strength and stability for construction projects.

Why M sand plants are a sustainable solution

1. Reduce environmental footprint

One of the main benefits of M Sand plants is helping to reduce environmental damage due to the over-mining of river sand. River mining for natural sand results in water erosion, degradation of aquatic ecosystems and negative impacts on groundwater. This ecosystem damage is avoided in M Sand plants, making M Sand an environmentally friendly alternative.

2. Resource Management

Unlike natural sand, which deteriorates due to overuse, M Sand can be manufactured using a variety of materials including waste from other industries to make these sustainable materials that it not only help preserve natural sand but keep waste out of landfills, contributing to a circular economy

The role of plaster sand in sustainable construction

Plaster sand is another important ingredient in construction, used primarily for plastering and finishing walls. Like M Sand, plaster sand can also be made with Plaster Sand Making Units. These units ensure a polished sandblast which is ideal for achieving a smooth finish to the walls. The construction project can further reduce the environmental impact by using plaster sand rather than natural river sand.

Benefits of Plaster Sand:

– Better Workability: Plaster sand increases workability, reducing the need for additional cement or water.

– Low Cost: Because plaster sand is produced, its consistent quality reduces waste and keeps costs down.

– Long Lasting Finish: The uniform size of the plaster sand pieces ensures smoothness and durability, reducing the need for frequent maintenance.

M Advanced Technology in Sand Production

In Readymix Construction Machinery Pvt. Ltd., we use state-of-the-art technology to produce high-quality M Sand and plaster sand. Our Plaster Sand Classifiers and Dry Sand Washing System ensure that the sand is properly graded and free of silt, clay, dust and other contaminants.

1. Plaster Sand

Grade Our Plaster Sand Classifier ensures that the sand is classified according to particle size. This classification system is necessary to ensure that the sand meets the specific requirements of various types of construction, whether for plastering or concrete work.

2. Dry Sand Washing System

With the help of our Dry Sand Washing Systems, we can remove sand, clay and dust particles without using water. Not only is this dry cleaning method environmentally friendly, but it also ensures that the sand is ready to use without further cleaning, saving water in the process

The main advantages of m sand and plaster sand plants

1. Consistency: M The sand and plaster sand produced by the Plaster Sand Plant is consistent in size and shape, increasing the overall strength and durability of the construction.

2. Availability: Unlike river sand, which is often scarce and expensive, M sand is readily available and can be produced in large quantities to meet the demand of the growing construction industry.

3. Cost Savings: Manufacturing sand and plaster sand reduces transportation costs locally, resulting in overall cost savings in construction projects.

4. Better Performance: M sand is known to provide better tensile strength and bond than natural sand, making it more durable.

5. Reduced water consumption: Using advanced technology such as dry sand washers eliminates the need for water in the sand cleaning process, and it improves water conservation.

How M Sand Plants Support Green Manufacturing

Green manufacturing is the future, and M Sand plants play a key role in this transformation. Sustainability has become a priority in the construction industry, so the use of materials such as M Sand and Plaster Sand is a step towards reducing the carbon footprint and encouraging environmentally friendly building practices environment.

At Readymix Construction Machinery Pvt. Ltd., we are committed to providing quality M Sand Plants, Plaster Sand Making Units, Plaster Sand Classifiers, and Dry Sand Washing Systems. it will remain for the construction project Requirements. Our innovative solutions help architects, contractors and contractors make environmentally friendly choices without compromising on quality.

conclusion

Switching to M Sand plants is an important step in the journey to sustainable construction. As the demand for environmentally friendly and cost-effective products increases, M Sand offers practical solutions that help preserve natural resources through high-quality construction management Readymix through investment in advanced technologies like Plaster Sand Classifier and Dry Sand Washer inside the Readymix Construction Machinery Pvt. Ltd. is at the forefront of promoting a green, sustainable future for the construction industry.

Whether it is concrete, plaster, or any other construction project, there is no doubt that M Sand and Plaster Sand are the future of sustainable building materials.

[midseo]

Artificial Sand Making Machines, VSI Crushers, Jaw And Cone Crushers

We are Manufacturer, Supplier, Exporter of Artificial Sand Making Machines, Jaw And Cone Crushers, Finopactor, Special VSI Crushers from India.

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[applejusue]

violet kiramman ─── marine encounters #004

You head down to the beach for your shift, only to find a very familiar looking naked woman on wobbly legs that's certainly attracting attention from beachgoers

◟`# cw: orca!vi, killer whale, size difference, comfort, fluff, awkward scenarios, nudity, drabble.

── requested by anon

taglst '# @marvelwomenarehot0, @cherry-coffees, @sider3us, @sevikas-whore, @kittymrtnezz69, @mxya-dreams

marine encounters | arcane masterlist . . .

Your shift started around noon, hyperactive kids covered in ice cream tumbling past, nearly planting forward into the sand. It was hot out, the sticky kind that got irritating after a few minutes. Sweat had already began to pool around your lower back purely from the walk down alone, your tanned legs and arms prepped to high heaven with sunscreen.

It was relatively mild for the first hour or two, you kept an eye on your section while a coworker manned further down the beach. You'd had to plaster a few scrapes and stop a kid from burying his little brother under the sand, the usual stuff. You surveyed the area from beneath your visor, chin resting against your palm as you sat on the tall picket chair. The whistle blew from the other section, and you cocked your head curiously.

Your soul near split from your body. Stumbling around like a sardine on concrete was Vi, pushing her way across the hot sand. Everybody was staring, hell you were staring dumbfounded at your love who was currently very human, and very naked. You scattered down the lifeguard chair so fast you nearly tripped over the last step, jogging across the sloaping grain with your whistle between your lips, trying to clear a path through.

Mothers scoffed in disgust, shielding their kids eyes with a pudgy palm while others ogled, unable to even pretend like they weren't looking. It was impossible not to look, especially considering she was over six foot of wet muscle, ink stains dripping down her legs and a frown of confusion on her lips. You all but crashed toward her, and immediately a crooked grin was growing on those pointed teeth.

"Hey.. ..baby.."

Vi's voice was slow, bashful, like she still wasn't entirely sure what words she was saying. She'd been begging Jinx to teach her some human phrases so that she could impress you, and if she still had a tail it would be thumping like a damn puppy at the way your eyes widened in mild affection. You were quick to snap out of it, ushering her away from floral wearing tourists, palms pressed against the expanse of her wet lower back as you tried to get her to the lifeguard tent.

When you eventually managed to sit her down on the small beach bed, Vi didn't seem to have a clue in the world what was going on, simply happy to be near you on land. You rinsed down the sand that covered her with a small water bottle, rummaging through old lifeguard lockers and managing to get her an XL pair of red shorts that just about managed to get over her hips. You then tossed her an old white tank from your gym bag, though it looked more like a crop top on her broad torso. She sat curiously, watching you brisk and blabber about how this happened.

Vi's eyes followed your pacing, like a cat waiting for the right time to pounce onto a bird. Once you passed close enough, she grabbed you by the arm, pulling you tight to her body. Your head only landed just below her breasts, but she cooed all the same as she leaned down to muss your hair with her face. Damn orca.

"Vi.. this is serious, you can't just show up like this and not expect-.."

Your grumbling fell on deaf ears, Vi simply cuddling you close like you were a small pillow. You knew you should be figuring this out to avoid her nakedly stumbling around a beach full of people again in the near future, but she was warmer on land and it would probably wear off eventually. What was the harm in enjoying it?

[norrisradio]

SURFSIDE

༄ PAIRING: yuki tsunoda x olympic surfer! reader | ༄ WC: 1.8K ༄ GENRE: fluff // established relationship ༄ INCOMING RADIO: based on this IG post // also because i swore i would write yuki x surfer! reader for a certain someone (@tsunodaradio. its always for kae if i'm writing about yuki sorry not sorry)

༄ SUMMARY: “You trust me?” // "Obviously." // "Then get on the board."

The sun glares against the water, a bright, golden sheen stretching over rolling waves. You stand at the shoreline, board under your arm, watching Yuki hesitate at the water’s edge. His feet sink slightly into the wet sand with every cautious step forward, then back, as if the tide itself is testing his resolve. His board dangles from his fingers like it might bite him.

“You’re stalling,” you grumble, adjusting the strap around your ankle.

“I’m assessing the risk.” Yuki’s eyes flicker to the water, then back to you. “What if a shark—”

“Oh my god.” You grab his wrist, tugging him forward before he can finish the thought. He yelps, stumbling after you, the resistance in his body melting just enough to follow.

The water surges around your ankles, then your knees, each wave curling around you in a familiar embrace. Yuki, on the other hand, flinches at every shift beneath him. You guide him deeper, adjusting his stance when he wobbles, fingers firm against his waist when he nearly loses balance.

“You trust me?”

His brows furrow, like the question wasn’t fair. “Obviously.”

“Then get on the board.”

Yuki exhales sharply but obeys, climbing onto the board with an almost comical determination. His grip is stiff, his body too rigid against the gentle sway of the ocean. You move beside him, running a hand along his back to ease the tension there.

“Relax,” you murmur. “The ocean can tell when you’re nervous.”

“I think it already knows,” he mutters, eyes locked on the water ahead.

You laugh, pushing lightly against his board. The motion startles him, but he steadies, adjusting to the rhythm of the waves. Progress.

A set rolls in, and you spot one that was small enough for him to try. “Alright, this one. You’re gonna paddle, then pop up—just like we practiced.”

Yuki swallows. His knuckles whiten around the edges of the board.

“You’ve driven a Formula 1 car at 300 kph,” you remind him.

“That has an engine.”

“You don’t need one.” You give his board another push, just as the wave caught up. “Go.”

And he does. His arms cut through the water, quick and determined, and then, almost too quickly, he's up—knees bent, arms out, wobbling, but upright.

For two glorious seconds.

Then—splash.

You wince as he tumbles into the water, disappearing beneath the surface before popping up again, coughing and spitting saltwater. His hair's plastered to his forehead, eyes squinting against the sunlight.

You swim toward him, biting back a smile. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” He wipes at his face, looking scandalized. “That was terrible.”

“You stood up.”

“For a second.”

“Still counts.”

He grumbles, floating on his back now, exhaustion outweighing his frustration. The water cradles him, the rise and fall of the tide much gentler now that he wasn’t fighting it. You drift closer, reaching out to brush damp hair from his face.

“Again?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Yuki sighs, looking past you toward the horizon, where the next set of waves rolled in. His lips quirk, barely a smirk.

“Yeah,” he says. “Again.”

The next wave rolls in, a steady swell rising beneath the horizon. Yuki’s fingers flex against the board, jaw tight. You nudge his shin with your foot.

“Breathe.”

A sharp exhale, salt thick in the air between you. Then, a nod. You brace a hand against the back of his board as the water lifts it, steadying him.

“Start paddling.”

He moves with the wave this time, arms carving through the water in strong, quick strokes. His board tilts forward, caught in the current.

“Now—pop up!”

For a second, he hesitates. Then his body shifts, hands planting firm against the board, legs swinging under him. A wobble, the smallest dip—then balance.

Knees bent. Back straight.

The wave carries him, smooth and effortless, foam trailing in his wake. The wind tugs at his soaked hair, salt clinging to his skin.

And then—laughter.

It breaks from his chest, bright and unrestrained, carried by the wind as he rides the wave all the way to shore.

You swim forward, watching as he half-jumps, half-falls off the board into the shallows. When he turns, face flushed and breathless, his grin is wide, sunlit.

“Did you see that?”

You wade toward him, barely resisting the urge to splash water in his face. “No, I was too busy making sure a shark didn’t get you.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue, water dripping from his hair as he trudges back toward you. When he's close enough, his fingers curl around your wrist, tugging you forward. The ocean sways around you both, waves breaking gently at your knees.

“You’re gonna make me do it again, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head. “Would it be so bad?”

His grip on your wrist tightens—just slightly. The same way he does before a race, before a flight, before pulling you close in the quiet of your shared apartment.

Another wave rises behind you, distant but steady. Yuki glances over your shoulder, eyes narrowing, already calculating.

Then he smirks.

“I think I can go faster.”

You barely have time to react before Yuki's already paddling out again, cutting through the water with newfound confidence. You follow, trailing just behind him, watching the way his shoulders move, the way the ocean didn’t fight him as much anymore.

When the next wave approaches, he doesn't hesitate. His body moves like muscle memory—push up, legs under, weight forward. He catches the wave clean, riding it smoothly, adjusting his stance when the board wobbles beneath him.

This time, he lasts longer. The wind pulls at his damp trunks, the sun catching the water droplets on his skin. His movements aren't perfect, but they were his.

You catch up to him just as he reaches the shallows again, where he tumbles off his board and into the water with a loud splash. He barely has time to shake the salt from his face before you tackle him, arms looping around his shoulders.

“Look at you,” you murmur, grinning against his temple.

“Look at me,” he echoes, laughing as he wraps an arm around your waist. His grip is firm but familiar, the same way he always reaches for you—without thinking, without needing to.

The waves lap at your legs, the tide pulling and releasing. He's warm against you, even with the ocean clinging to him. You brush wet strands from his forehead, fingertips dragging along his cheek, and he leans into the touch like it was second nature.

“Not scared anymore?”

His gaze flickers past you, scanning the water as if daring something to emerge. Then, he smirks.

“Still wouldn’t swim alone at night.”

You roll your eyes, and he laughs, pressing his forehead against yours. The sun sits lower in the sky now, burning gold against the water, and Yuki—breathless, salt-kissed, beaming—looks like he belongs in it.

You nudge his side. “Race you back out there?”

His fingers curl against your hip, grip tightening like he might just hold you here instead.

But then—

“Loser buys dinner.”

And just like that, he's gone, already sprinting back into the water, kicking up sand and surf as he goes. You barely have time to react before you chase after him, laughter breaking through the roar of the waves.

The waves roll in softer now, the ocean easing into a lazy rhythm as the sun dips lower. Yuki floats beside you, legs half-draped over his board, arms stretched out in the water. His breathing slows, no longer tight with hesitation, no longer rushing to match the rise and fall of the tide.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, treading water next to him.

He hums, eyes half-lidded, lashes still wet. “Tired.”

Your fingers brush against his wrist, the contact light, fleeting. He catches your hand before it could drift away, thumb pressing against the crease of your palm, tracing along the salt-dried skin.

“You like it, though,” you say, watching the way the water rocks him, how his shoulders had finally loosened, how his breathing matches the pulse of the waves.

A small smile. Not the cocky smirk from before, not the teasing grin he threw your way when he won the race back out here. Just something easy.

“It’s nice,” he admits, voice quieter now. “I get why you love it.”

Your thumb brushes over his knuckles, and he lets you. The sky had shifted to deep orange, streaked with pinks and purples, reflecting off the glassy surface of the water. You both let it settle around you, the hush of the ocean, the distant calls of birds overhead, the occasional crash of a wave breaking further down the shore.

Yuki exhales, tilting his head toward you. “If I ever get eaten by a shark, it’s your fault.”

You scoff, flicking water at him, but he doesn't let go of your hand.

The sky burns gold and violet as you drag your boards up the shore, sand clinging to your skin, salt thick in your hair. The ocean murmurs behind you, waves folding gently against the beach.

Yuki drops his board onto the sand with a heavy sigh, flopping down beside it, legs stretched out, toes digging into the cool grains. His trunks cling to him, still damp, his hair a mess of tangled strands, but he looks—content.

You collapse beside him, close enough that your shoulders brush. He nudges you with his knee. “So, did I pass?”

You pretend to consider. “Mm. Needs improvement.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, but his fingers reach for yours anyway, tugging lightly before settling in the space between them. His palm is warm, calloused from years of gripping a steering wheel, but it fits against yours like it belonged there.

The ocean stretches wide before you, endless and steady. The wind curls through your damp clothes, the scent of salt and sun lingering between breaths. Yuki’s thumb traces slow circles against your skin, absentminded, like he didn’t need to think about it.

“You’re gonna make me do this again, aren’t you?”

You turn, catching the soft curve of his lips, the ease in his posture.

“You’re gonna want to.”

A beat. A breeze. Then, a quiet laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, leaning back onto his elbows, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Maybe.”

He’d always been like this—full of fire and mischief, all sharp grins and quick retorts. But when the world around him stopped moving at 300 km, he fell into something quieter.

The ocean had slowed him, pulled him into its rhythm. No roaring engines, no flashing lights—just the waves, steady and endless, stretching far beyond what even he could chase.

He sits with his arms braced against the sand, fingers idly sifting through the grains. The sunset paints him in gold and violet, soft where he was usually sharp. His damp hair curls slightly at the edges, salt still clinging to his skin.

For once, he isn't itching to go somewhere. Isn't waiting for the next thing.

He just sits there, next to you, and lets the world move without him.

[itneverendshere]

THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE - rafe cameron (+18) - six

request: "a rafe enemies to lovers 🫣 the reader is jjs sister the whole drama before but then she gets left behind on the ship and rafe ends up comforting her and then yea that’s all I got you can do whatever else the rest 😛"

WARNINGS: domestic violence; blood; injuries; angst; smut;

word count: 7.6k

You saw it on the news before Sarah told you.

Ward was officially in police custody.

They were calling it the biggest crime operation in years, plastering his face on every corner of every newspaper in the country. You saw it first on your busted-up TV, the morning news anchor's serious tone making the gravity of the situation clear before Sarah had a chance to call.

He was stopped.

The man who caused so much pain to everyone you cared about was finally behind bars.

But your relief came with a bit of caution.

This was just the beginning. There was still a trial to face, and you knew how slippery Ward could be. He had enough money to buy whoever he wanted on the island if not the entire country, and the justice system wasn’t always as just as you hoped.

Trials could take months, even years before he was sentenced.

JJ cheered in the background, almost face-planting the ground as he struggled to get off his chair and call Pope. You hadn’t seen him this ecstatic in years, the hallways of your home echoing with “let’s fucking go, baby!” as he made his way upstairs.

You were content.

Was there really anything to be happy about?

Sure, a bad guy was getting what he deserved, but the destruction he left behind was still very much there.

Months ago, when the police contacted you again, you had refused to testify. What Ward did to you was terrifying, but what he did to Sarah, John B, and Rafe? They were the true witnesses to his evil.

You barely got a taste of his wrath. You were lucky. You wanted to be there, of course. Every person Ward hurt deserved all the support they could get. But watching Rafe Cameron—the boy who had idolized his father for years, now a man—sit in a chair facing countless cameras and strangers for hours as he recounted his life under Ward's control? That was a different kind of heartache.

Rafe.

You hadn’t seen him since that day he dropped by, and it felt like he vanished into thin air. You didn’t see him around town, not at the beach, and he never stopped by your job. You started wondering if he’d been cooped up in that awful house all this time.

You couldn’t shake this feeling of worry, knowing he was stuck in the shadow of his dad’s mess. Did he feel abandoned by you?

The thought of him, alone in that house, haunted you. You knew you should’ve reached out, found him as the town buzzed with the details of Ward’s arrest. More stories came out, each more horrifying than the last.

You almost gave in.

One evening, you found yourself riding past the Cameron estate. You'd forgotten how huge it was, and with the light fading, it just looked like this dark outline in the distance You almost went in, stopping by the gigantic gate, but then you saw movement inside and sped away on your bike.

You couldn’t do it. 

Whatever was between you both just felt… impossible to cross.

The sound of the waves crashing—it’s always been your escape.

You've spent so much time in the water, it felt like second nature to you. Growing up, swimming and surfing were your ways to get away from your dad’s violence and your mom being, well, absent. The ocean became your sanctuary, where you could forget about the yelling, broken furniture, and bottles littering your house. Floating out there, everything bad just… melted away.

But as soon as you stepped back on the sand and headed home, all that peace would disappear. Both your parents were long gone now, but that dread? It never left. It was like the house still held onto those old memories—the shouting, the fights. Even though it was quiet now, the walls were stained with the past. The creaky floorboards, the dim light, chipped paint—You hated it all.

You've thought about leaving so many times, but something always held you back. JJ, mostly. And, well, money.

Tonight, as you got closer, something felt off. JJ’s truck wasn’t in its usual spot, which wasn’t unheard of, but it felt wrong. The windows were shut too, which You never did—You always keep them open to let in the ocean breeze.

You called out for JJ, expecting his usual shout back, but there was just… silence. You brushed it off. Maybe he was out on the boat or glued to his video games.

You dropped your bag by the door and walked inside, calling his name again. That’s when you saw him.

Luke.

He looked even worse than before—disheveled, eyes bloodshot, reeking of alcohol. He’d been gone for a year. No calls, no messages. JJ and you paid him off, made sure he left the island, but here he was, standing in your living room like he belonged.

“You shouldn’t be here,” You managed, trying to sound stronger than you felt.

He laughed, this dark, hollow sound that made your skin crawl. “Just came to see my kids. That so wrong?”

Liar. You knew what he really wanted. “You need to leave. Now.”

His face twisted, the smirk gone. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Watch me. Get out.”

He took a step back, hands up like he was surrendering. “I just need a little loan.”

You gripped the doorframe tighter. “No. You need to go. For good.”

He took a step back, raising his hands in mock surrender, “I just need a little loan.”

You tightened your grip on the edge of the doorframe, “No. You need to go, for good.”

For a second, you thought he’d listen, but then he took a step forward, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“I’m not leaving without what I came for.”

“I don’t care,” You snapped, “Get your ass out of my house before I call the cops.”

“This is my house!” He all but screamed, the veins in his neck visible.

“Not anymore,” Your heart pounded in your chest, and every fiber of your being screamed for JJ, wishing he was here, “I’m not afraid of you,” you said, more to convince yourself than him.

He took another step forward, his face twisted in anger. “You always were a stubborn little brat.”

“And you’re a piece of shit.”

He lunged.

You barely dodged him, stumbling back into the living room. “Stay away from me!” You shouted, frantically searching for something, anything to defend myself.

Luke laughed again, that same twisted, hollow sound, and came at you. This time, he grabbed your arm, his grip painfully tight. You raised your other arm to block him, instincts kicking in.

“Stay away from me!” you shouted, frantically searching for something, anything to defend yourself.

“You little bitch,” he snarled, shoving you against the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of you, but you stayed focused.

You couldn’t let him win. Not again.

“You’re gonna give me what I want,” he hissed, his breath hot and disgusting.

“No, I’m not,” you spat back, summoning every ounce of courage you had.

With your free hand, you the grabbed the nearest thing—Mom’s old lamp—and swung it at him. The base cracked against his head, and he stumbled back, cursing.

“Bitch!” he roared, blood running down his face. It only made him angrier. He rushed you, knocking the lamp out of your hand, pinning you to the floor.

You were panicking, resorting to kicking and thrashing, doing anything to try to throw him off. “Get off me!” you screamed, clawing at his face.

His hand came down hard across your cheek, blurring your vision. “You really think you can fight me?”

He wrapped his hands around your throat, squeezing. Gasping for air, you remembred that you’d been here too many times. Your hand groped blindly on the floor, finding a heavy candlestick.

With the last of your strength, you swung it with everything you had, hitting him square in the head.

His grip loosened, and you scrambled to your feet, panting as he slumped to the side, groaning in pain.He groaned, trying to get up, but you hit him again. Harder this time. He collapsed, blood pooling around him. You stood over him, breathing heavy, barely processing what you'd just done.

But then, he stirred. He reached for your ankle.

You stumbled back, “Stay down goddamit!” you shouted, raising the candlestick again.

Luke pushed himself up, eyes wild with rage. “You’re gonna pay for that,” he spat, lunging at you again.

This time, you were ready.

As he reached for you, you twisted to the side, driving your knee into his stomach. He grunted, doubling over, and you brought your elbow down on his nose. It cracked. He roared, grabbing blindly at you.

You ducked and shoved a chair between you both, but he kicked it aside. It bought you just enough time to reach the kitchen. You grabbed the first thing yousaw—a cast-iron skillet.

He staggered into the kitchen after you, blood and sweat on his face.

“You just had to put up a fight, huh? Just like her.”

“Stay back,” you warned, gripping the skillet like your life depended on it. “I’ll fucking do it.”

Luke laughed, this sick, deranged sound that made your stomach churn. Then he lunged. Without thinking, you swung the skillet as hard as you could, the impact vibrating through your whole arm as it connected with his shoulder. He staggered, but you didn’t stop. You swung again, this time aiming for his head. The sound of the skillet hitting his temple echoed through the room. He collapsed, finally still.

Oh fuck.

For a moment, the house was deathly silent.

You dropped the skillet, your hands trembling.

Kneeling down, you checked for a pulse. It was faint, but there. Relief and horror flooded through you simultaneously. You almost killed him. There was blood everywhere—on the carpet, on the candlestick, on your hands.

You stumbled back, your mind spinning out of control. What if he dies? What if you actually killed him? This wasn’t supposed to happen. You just wanted him gone. Out of your life. Forever.

Your hands were trembling as you fumbled for your phone. You couldn’t think straight, your heart racing as you scrolled through your contacts. The names blurred through your tears. You needed help, but you couldn’t call JJ—he wasn’t here. And you couldn’t call the cops. Not yet. You weren’t ready for all of this.

Without fully realizing it, your finger landed on a contact you hadn’t called ever before. Your hands moved on autopilot, and the phone was already ringing. You kept your eyes on Luke, praying he wouldn’t move. The phone rang for what felt like an eternity.The phone rang, and you kept an eye on Luke, praying he wouldn’t move. It rang for only ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

“Maybank?”

“Rafe?” Your voice broke, the word barely making it out before a sob tore through your chest.

There was a brief pause, and then his voice came through, “Hey, hey. What's wrong? Are you okay?”

But you couldn't speak. Hearing his voice after all this time, after everything that had happened, it was too much. The fear, the relief, the chaos, all of it came crashing down, and your breath hitched.

You couldn’t think.

“Hey! Are you there? Talk to me!” Rafe's voice grew more urgent.

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat, a sob escaping instead. Your knees gave out, and you sank to the floor, the phone slipping slightly in your grasp. You could barely breathe.

“Where are you?!”

You focused on his words, trying to match your breath to his timbre.

In. Out. In. Out. It helped, if only a little. The shaking in your hands lessened, but the fear never disappeared.

“I think... I think I killed my dad.”

You looked at the bloodstained carpet, the unconscious body of your father still lying there. The words felt foreign on your tongue, like someone else was speaking for you.

“Are you home? Are you safe?”

“I’m home,” you whispered, “JJ’s not here. I don’t know where he is.”

“I’m coming,” Rafe said, no hesitation in his voice. “Stay there. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there soon.”

“Rafe—” You began, but he cut you off.

“I’ll be there soon. Just hang on, okay?”

The minutes ticked by, and you found yourself staring at the door, willing Rafe to appear. This wasn’t you. You didn’t hurt people. You just wanted peace. Why did it always end like this? What were you going to do? How were you going to live with yourself if Luke died?

Why did things never work out the way you wanted them to?

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, you heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Moments later, the door burst open, and there he was.

“Maybank?”

He called out for you as he stepped inside.

Seconds later, he was standing in front of you, scanning the room, analyzing the scene. He rushed to your side, pulling you into his arms without hesitation. 

“It’s okay. I’m here. You’re gonna be okay.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple as he guided you away from the scene, his eyes lingering briefly on your father’s motionless figure.

“What happened?” He asked softly, leading you to sit on the couch. 

“He just showed up out of nowhere. He wanted money. I told him to leave, but he wouldn’t. He got violent, and I... “

“It’s okay.”

His warmth helped. But guilt? It stayed. The blood on your hands—it all felt surreal, like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from.

“Have you called 911?”

You shook your head, lips trembling as you tried not to cry.

“Do you want me to?”

The thought of police cars and paramedics filling the house, made your stomach churn. The fear of what might happen if Luke woke up, or if he didn't, paralyzed you. It took you a second to realize he already had his phone out, pressed to his ear.

"I need an ambulance.”

He stayed on the line with the dispatcher, giving them your address and the details. Your ears were ringing, unable to make out exactly what he was saying. 

"They're on their way," he reassured softly. "It’s gonna be okay."

You nodded, but you weren’t sure you believed it.

"They'll take him to the hospital," He murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "He'll get the help he needs."

"I... I didn't mean to..." you finally managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

Rafe’s hands griped yours, despite the blood coating it, "I know.”

The minutes felt like hours as you waited for the ambulance. You just wanted it to be over.

When the paramedics finally arrived, Rafe guided them to Luke's unconscious form while you sat numbly on the couch. They immediately went to work, assessing his condition and preparing him for transport. Police officers soon followed, asking questions, and taking statements. Rafe handled most of the interaction, protecting you from the brunt of their interrogations. After what felt like an eternity, they finally moved Luke onto a stretcher and carried him out of the house. He followed them to the door, speaking briefly with one of the paramedics before they loaded Luke into the ambulance and drove away.

He kneeled in front of you, “You can’t say here, okay? They called JJ, he’s on the mainland, but he’ll take the first ferry down here tomorrow.”

You nodded, feeling drained.

"Come on," Rafe urged, helping you to your feet. "Let's get you out of here."

He guided you out of the house and into his truck, the engine already running. The drive was quiet, the only sound being the hum of the engine and the occasional sniffle from you.

Rafe reached over, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. You slumped back in the plush seat, eyes closed, trying to steady your breathing, too embarrassed to look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

You didn't even register where you were headed until the truck pulled to a stop. When you finally opened your eyes, you realized you were at Rafe’s place.

Tanneyhill.

It felt odd, being there, and under such circumstances. He helped you out of the truck, guiding you inside with a protective arm around your waist.

"Sit down," he said gently, leading you to the living room. "I'll get you some water."

You sank into the expensive couch, feeling the soft cushions envelop you. It was weird sitting in his home after everything that had happened.

He returned quickly with a glass of water, pressing it into your trembling hands.

"Drink," he instructed, sitting beside you.

You took a small sip, the cool water soothing your dry throat. Rafe watched you closely.

"You need to rest," he said. "I’ll be right here."

"But I—"

"You need to rest," he repeated firmly, "We can talk more in the morning.”

There was a part of you that wanted to argue, to insist that you were fine, that you didn’t need his help. You’d done this for years, alone. And yet, here he was, offering you help. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe you just missed him, but for once in your life, you didn’t fight him. 

You nodded, letting him take you upstairs.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said, noticing the blood still on your skin and clothes. "You can’t go to bed like this."

At this point, you were too tired to speak, simply following his instructions as he guided to the bathroom.

"Here," he turned on the shower and adjusting the temperature. "Take your time. I'll leave some clean clothes for you right outside the door."

You slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind you. The sound of the water running felt comforting, like a tiny slice of normalcy in the middle of this mess. Your hands shook a little as you peeled off your clothes, your shorts sticking to your skin. The sight of the dried blood on your hands and shirt almost broke you all over again. This couldn't be real.

You just stood there for a while, letting the heat work its way into your muscles. Eyes closed, you tried to block out the image of your dad lying there on the floor. Slowly, you started scrubbing your skin, trying to wash away every trace of what had just happened. The soap smelled like lavender, and for a split second, you smiled—this was Rafe’s scent. You recognized it from earlier when he hugged you. Somehow, that tiny detail grounded you, pulling you back to the present.

By the time you stepped out and wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel, you felt slightly more like yourself.

Outside the door, Rafe had left you some clothes: his sweatpants, a t-shirt, and boxers—like he said he would. They were a little too big, but warm and soft, like a hug. And, well, they were Rafe’s. That felt oddly comforting.

You opened the bathroom door to find him waiting in the hallway. He seemed relieved to see you and you hated yourself for making him worry so bad.

"Feeling better?" 

"A little," you admitted. "Thank you."

He nodded, then motioned for you to follow. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

He led you to a guest room, the bed already made with fresh sheets. It looked so inviting, you almost forgot everything that happened tonight. Almost.

“Sit here,” he said, gesturing to the edge of the bed. He disappeared for a second and came back with a first-aid kit. Kneeling in front of you, he gently took your hands in his. “Lemme see.”

Your hands were scratched up and bruised, still carrying the marks from your dad. You hesitated but then slowly extended them to Rafe.

“This might sting a little,” he said softly, wiping the cuts with antiseptic. You winced but didn’t make a sound. He noticed though, his brows furrowing in concern. “I’m sorry."

"’M used to it. It’s okay,” You nodded, biting your lip as he cleaned the wound. 

The antiseptic burned, but you focused on Rafe’s face, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the softness in his eyes as he wrapped your hand with practiced care. 

“I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.”

Rafe paused, his hands stilling for a moment.

“You’re not a mess.”

You let out a short, dry laugh. “Right.”

His fingers continued their work, securing the bandage with gentle precision. “I mean it.”

His tone was so final, like there wasn’t even room for doubt.

“Why—Why did you pick up the phone?”

“You know why.”

His answer made your heart hurt, the kind of hurt that came from months of trying to keep your distance. But he wasn’t budging, and that did something to you. When he finished wrapping your hands, he set them gently in your lap. “All done.”

You sank into the mattress as he pulled the blankets over you and ssomething about it felt so foreign and so… nice. No one ever took care of you like this.

“C-Can you stay here?”

He paused, adjusting the pillows, clearly debating with himself. “I don’t think—”

“Please.”

Without saying anything, Rafe slipped off his shoes and climbed into bed next to you. He pulled you into his arms, and instantly, everything felt a little less terrifying. His warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of lavender—it all made you feel safe, like maybe you could finally let go.

"It's okay. I'm here. You're safe."

You buried your face in his chest, tears finally spilling over, but this time they weren’t from fear. They were from relief. From release. Rafe held you tighter, his hands gently rubbing your back in soothing circles. He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. He just held you, and that was enough. The minutes passed and your breathing synced with his, your body finally relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever. The tension started to melt away, and before you knew it, your eyelids were getting heavy.

"Thank you," Your voice was muffled against his chest. "For everything."

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Sleep.”

You snuggled closer to him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, and for the first time in a long time, you felt at home.

When you woke up the next morning, Rafe was gone. The bed next to you was cold, but the events of last night still pushed heavy on your chest. You sat up, your heart dropping to the floor as you realized the nightmare wasn’t over. The bloodstained clothes on the floor, the hollow feeling in your chest—it was all real.

You felt an immense amount of guilt as you remembered how you had leaned on him for support after you cut him out of your life. He had enough going on with his own family, his own problems. And now you’d dragged him into yours.

You rolled out of bed, Rafe's oversized sweatpants and t-shirt practically swallowing you whole. You had no idea where he went, so you headed toward the door, ears perked for any clue. As you walked down the hallway, you heard voices coming from the kitchen—well, Rafe’s voice, specifically, speaking in a low hushed tone.

You hesitated for a moment, your curiosity getting the better of you. Slowly, you made your way towards the kitchen, the sound of his voice growing clearer with each step.

“…I don’t care what it fucking takes,” Rafe all but spat, his tone filled with determination. “Yeah, I know the charges will stick. Just make sure he doesn’t get out on bail. I don’t want him anywhere near her again.”

You froze mid-step. What?

He paused, listening intently. You took another step closer, peering around the corner to see him standing by the counter, his phone pressed to his ear.

“No, she’s fine,” he continued, “But I want to make sure she stays that way.”

You felt your breath hitch. Oh my god. He was talking about your dad. He was trying to protect you, even now.

“Rafe…” 

He turned around, his eyes widening as he saw you standing there.

“I’ll call you later.” He hung up fast, slipping his phone into his pocket, trying (and failing) to act casual. “Hey, you’re up.”

“What were you doing?” You asked, arms crossed. “Who were you talking to?”

“Hmm?”

“Rafe,” You warned, too tired to play games, “Who were you talking to?”

He sighed, looking impossibly uncomfortable as you sized him up.

“My lawyer. Getting a restraining order for you.”

The confirmation nearly made your brain split into two.

“What?”

Rafe hesitated, knowing he couldn't hide the truth from you. Not that he even tried lately. He ran a hand through his buzzed hair, a gesture you recognized as a sign of his unease. 

"I'm trying to get a restraining order against your father."

"Why?"

“Why?”

His eyes met yours, so serious. “Because you need one.”

You stood there, completely thrown. He was really doing this—for you? He was going to bat for you, putting himself in the line of fire to protect you from the man who had haunted your life for so long. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you didn’t even try to stop them.

“I’m sorry.”

"Stop saying that," He rubbed his hand over his face like he didn’t know what else to do, "What happened last night… it’s not something you should ever have to deal with. I should’ve been here sooner. I should’ve—"

“You couldn’t have known.”

Rafe shook his head, "I should've been here.”

You walked closer, closing the distance between you. "Rafe, you don't owe me anything."

He reached out tentatively, his hand hovering in the air for a moment before he gently cupped your cheek. His touch was familiar, comforting and you leaned into it, closing your eyes briefly.

"I owe you everything," he murmured. 

You let out a shaky breath, “Don’t say that.”

But he wouldn’t let it go. He tilted your face up, thumb brushing away a tear. “You think I’d be there if it wasn’t for you? Shit—Pretty, look around. It’s just me.”

Your heart pounded in your ribcage, the sincerity in his tone making it hard to breathe. You had spent so long building up walls around your heart, convincing yourself that you didn’t need anyone, that you could handle everything on your own.

“You’ve been alone?” You all but sob, “You’ve been here all this time? By yourself?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry,” His hand on your cheek trembled slightly, “I’m okay, see?”

You covered his hand with yours. “I was so mad at you,” You admitted.

“Baby—”

“You don’t understand,” you explained, voice cracking slightly, “I just... I didn’t know what to do.”

He drew you closer, his other arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against him. You melted into him instantly. 

"I deserved it,” Rafe muttered, trying to laugh but failing.

You shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks, "You told me you were getting clean, that you were seeing a psychologist, and I-I wasn’t there.”

Rafe’s grip on your hand tightened, his eyes pleading with you to understand. “I was a train wreck, and I hurt you. You needed to protect yourself.”

“But I should’ve been there for you,” you insisted, your voice breaking. “You were trying to get better, and I just...walked away.”

“Jesus Christ Maybank” He let out a breathy laugh, almost like he didn’t know how to handle the conversation.. “Stop the waterfloods, you’re gonna make me cry.”

“Shut up,” I sniffled, laughing through the tears. “I’m trying to apologize—”

“You don’t have to, baby,” He cut you off, shaking his head, “Not to me, or anyone else.”

His breath mingled with yours, his presence soothing you in a way you hadn’t felt in months.

Your heart pounded in your chest as he closed the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, hesitant kiss. It was as if he was testing the waters, ensuring you were okay with this, and when you didn’t pull away, the kiss deepened. His hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you gently but firmly as his lips explored yours.

You felt yourself give in to him, your hands gripping his shirt to make sure he was real. You’d dreamed about him for too damn long to understand the difference. The kiss was slow, deliberate…loving.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, Rafe rested his forehead against yours, breath ragged.

“Can’t believe you made me fall in love with a pogue.”

Oh.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“In love?”

He bit his lip, looking nervous all of a sudden. “Yeah.”

You could see the anxiety roaring inside him. The way his shoulders seemed to squeeze back in, eyes dropping to your lips. 

You smiled, brushing yours fingers against his cheek. “Never thought I’d fall for a kook.”

Rafe groaned, dropping his head onto your shoulder, teeth grazing against your skin, “Don’t play with me.”

“I’m not,” You whispered, tilting his chin up so he had to look at you. “I mean it."

His eyes examined yours for a long moment as if confirming your words. Then, without even saying anything, he closed the distance between you again. This time, no hesitation. None of that uncertainty from before.

His hands roamed over your body, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough. The kiss was so different from the one before. You could feel the heat building between you, that undeniable chemistry pulling you together.

His hands slipped under your shirt, his shirt, the touch of his fingertips on your bare skin sending shivers down your spine. Rafe’s lips trailed down your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You gasped, tilting your head to give him better access. His hands were everywhere, exploring, caressing, making you dizzy with need.

“I need you,” your voice came out all breathless, your fingers clutching his shoulders.

He stopped for a second, lifting his head to look at you, those blue eyes dark with desire.

“You’re hurt,” he muttered, swallowing hard. “Last night—”

“I don’t care,” you replied, shaking your head. “You fucked me after I got shot.”

“That night was different. We were different.”

You nodded, the memory flashing in your mind. The urgency, the desperation, how you clung to each other like you were drowning.

He hesitated for a split second longer, his thumb brushing over the bruise on your cheek. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promised, pulling him back to you. “I trust you.”

That was all he needed. His restraint melted away, and he kissed you like he couldn’t help himself, lifting you easily and carrying you upstairs. When he laid you down on the bed, it was so gentle, like you were the most precious thing to him.

Rafe hovered over you, his eyes locked on yours as he stripped off his shirt. Your hands traced the lines of his muscles, loving the way they moved under your touch. He leaned down, capturing your lips in another kiss, hot and deep, as his hands started unbuttoning your shirt.

Everything blurred after that—clothes disappearing, just the two of you, skin to skin. His hands, his lips, everywhere.

“Do you know how much I missed you?” he murmured.

You smiled, cupping his face, “Tell me.”

Rafe’s breath hitched, “Every damn day. Every fucking minute. I’d close my eyes and all I could see was you.”

His voice faded, but his hands kept moving, tracing soft patterns along your sides. He was rediscovering you, like it had been forever.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer. “I’m here now.”

Rafe smiled against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, holding you steady. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, pressing a kiss to his jaw, “More than okay. I want this. I want you.”

His kisses trailed down your neck, slow and deliberate. “I love the way you laugh,” he whispered against your skin, his lips brushing your collarbone. “How your eyes light up when you talk about something you care about. How strong you are, even when you don’t see it.”

You shivered at his words, your heart swelling with love for the man holding you so tenderly. "Rafe..."

He kissed your lips softly, silencing you.

"I love the way you look at me," he continued, his hands slipping under your shirt, caressing the bare skin beneath. "Like I'm the only person in the world. Like I matter."

You could feel tears welling up in your eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity of his words, his touch.

"You do matter," you whispered, your voice breaking. “You matter to me.”

Rafe's hands moved lower, teasing the waistband of your, his, boxers.

“I love how brave you are," he said, his voice husky, "How you face everything, even when it's terrifying." He slid them down, eyes never leaving yours. “Last night… I was terrified. I thought I was gonna lose you.”

You reached for him, fingers tangling in his grown-out hair, pulling him closer. “I’m right here,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “Right here.”

Rafe's hands found your hips, his touch firm and reassuring. "I love you," he said again,  "And I need you to know that. Shit, I need you to feel it."

You nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I do. I feel it."

He kissed you again, this time with an urgency that made your heart race against your ribs. His lips, his hands, everything about him was showing you just how much you meant to him. You could feel him holding back though, his body tense under your hands. You trailed your fingers down his back, feeling every inch of him, and it wasn’t long before he pressed against you, letting you feel just how much he wanted this too.

His lips found your breasts, kissing and teasing, his hands caressing your sides, your hips. You moaned, arching into his touch, your body trembling with need. "Rafe..."

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire, "I love the way you say my name. Like it's the only word that matters." He kissed his way down your stomach, his hands sliding lower, teasing you, driving you wild with anticipation. "I love the way you taste," he breathed, hot against your skin. "The way you feel."

You gasped, your body arching off the bed as his fingers found you, teasing, exploring. 

"Rafe, please..."

He kissed his way back up your body, "I've got you. I'm here. Tell me if you want me to stop."

You shook your head, urging him on. "Don't stop.”

He kissed your hip bones, his hands gently spreading your legs wider. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and the intensity in them made your breath catch. He moved lower, his lips trailing down your inner thigh, his fingers lightly caressing your other leg.

When his mouth finally reached your pussy, you gasped, your body arching off the bed. His tongue flicked out, teasing you, tasting you.The sensation was electric, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Fuck you missed this. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you in place as he continued his slow, deliberate assault.

He explored you with his tongue, each movement precise,intentional. He found a rhythm that made your head spin, alternating between gentle flicks and firm strokes. You moaned, your fingers tightening in his short strands, pulling him closer, needing more.

Rafe responded to your silent plea, his tongue delving deeper, his hands gripping your thighs harder, fingernails digging into your skin.

The pressure built, an overwhelming pleasure that threatened to consume you whole. He groaned against you, the vibration sending you even higher.

"Mmm," you gasped, your breath coming in short, desperate bursts. "Don't stop. P-Please, don't stop."

He didn't.

He increased his pace, his tongue moving faster, his hands sliding under your hips, lifting you slightly to give him better access. You could feel the heat pooling in your core, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak. Rafe’s mouth never left you, his tongue driving you to the brink. You cried out his name, your body trembling as you teetered on the edge. He sucked gently, his tongue flicking rapidly, and that was all it took. You shattered, not a wave, but an entire fuckcking ocean of ecstasy crashing over you, your vision going white as the pleasure consumed you. He continued his ministrations, guiding you through your orgasm, his tongue and lips never slowing, drawing out every last bit of pleasure.

When you finally came down, your body spent and trembling, Rafe kissed his way back up your body, his hands soothing the aftershocks with gentle caresses.

He hovered over you, his lips capturing yours in a deep, passionate kiss. You could taste yourself on him, the intimacy of it making your heart swell.

"My perfect girl," he growled against your lips.

Your bruised hands roamed over his broad shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, he shifted, pressing his hips against yours, letting you feel his arousal. You moaned into his mouth, your hands moving lower, wanting to touch him, to feel him inside you.

Rafe’s breath hitched as your fingers brushed against the waistband of his boxers, teasing him.

“Are you sure?” he asked one more time, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you answered, and that was it.

He cared so much it nearly sent you into an emotional spiral again.

In one swift motion, he shed his boxers, and you took in the sight of him, hard and ready. He moved over you, positioning himself between your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. He took his time, teasing you with his fingers, making sure you were ready for him.

You gasped at the feeling—God, you missed him. Every inch of him.

He paused, forehead resting against yours, giving you a moment to adjust. “Fuck, I missed this,” he groaned, his voice strained.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him to move. “Don’t hold back,” you whispered, almost begging. “I want all of you.”

Rafe didn't need further encouragement.

He started moving, slow at first, but each roll of his hips had you feeling like you were losing it. Every time he pushed deeper, you swore you could feel him in your bones. Your nails dug into his back, leaving marks that you knew would be there tomorrow, but right now? You didn’t care. You just needed to feel closer to him.

His kiss was intense—like he was pouring everything into it, his tongue matching the rhythm of his hips, making your whole body shiver. His hands were all over you, one sliding under your back to pull you even closer, the other tangling in your hair, keeping you exactly where he wanted. You moved with him, your bodies syncing up like you’d never been apart.

Rafe’s pace picked up, and you could tell he was losing control, his thrusts coming faster, harder. And then, his voice, low and rough, sent a chill straight through you.

“Don’t stop, baby. Fuck—don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he growled, his words barely audible between breaths. “Never.”

That was it—he completely let go, moving even harder, like he couldn’t get enough of you. The sound of your bodies crashing together, the moans and gasps—it was all so intense.

You didn’t understand the sudden urge, but suddenly, without even thinking, you pushed at his chest, flipping him onto his back.

“Your turn,” you whispered, climbing on top of him, straddling him. He looked up at you, a little surprised, but the way his hands landed on your hips made it clear he was all in. And God, you’d never seen him look so good.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, his hands sliding up your sides, cupping your breasts gently. “Every part of you."

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his stubbled jaw. That roughness on your skin sent a rush through you, especially when you felt him brushing against you just right. You let out a soft moan, then pulled back, grinding down on him. The way his eyes darkened, the way his fingers tightened on your hips, it was like you were driving him wild.

“You like that?” you teased, your voice low, your fingers running down his chest.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, gripping you harder. “You feel incredible.”

You reached between you, guiding him back inside, both of you gasping at the sensation. You started moving, slow at first, taking your time with it, loving the way he filled you.

Rafe’s hands were everywhere, caressing you, teasing you, making you lose it a little more with every touch. “God, you’re perfect,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. “Ride me, baby. I wanna see you come again.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, spurring you on. You increased your pace, rolling your hips, finding the angle that drove you both to the edge. Your hands braced against his chest, your nails digging into his skin as you rode him harder, faster.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you gasped, your breath coming in short, desperate bursts. “You feel so good inside me.”

He groaned, “You can’t be real,” his hands guided your hips, urging you to move faster. “This can’t be real—Shit, keep doing that.”

The pleasure built with every movement, your bodies moving together like they never parted.

You could feel the heat pooling in your core, the tension building, ready to snap. Rafe’s hands slid up to your breasts, teasing your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through you.

“Come for me, baby,” Rafe urged, his voice rough with desire. “I want to feel you come around me.”

His words pushed you over. You cried out, your body arching, your vision going white as the orgasm crashed over you. Rafe groaned, his hips thrusting up to meet yours as he followed you, his release filling you, pretty hisses and groans filling your ears.

You collapsed on top of him, both of you completely spent, still trying to catch your breath. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, and you buried your face in his neck, overwhelmed by how intense everything felt.

When you looked up, the way he was staring at you caught you off guard. There was this softness, this disbelief in his expression, like he was seeing you for the first time.

"What?" you asked softly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the slight confusion.

He blinked, like he was snapping out of it, then gently traced your cheekbone with his fingers.

“I just… I can’t believe you’re real.”

“Rafe…”

He silenced you with a soft kiss, his lips barely brushing yours, but it sent a wave of warmth through you.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You smiled, heart full. “I love you too.”

[madebyrolo]

Beach date

Rafe Cameron x Reader

She/her

one shot / fluff

summary: “VICTOR, YOU ACTUALLY DID THIS!?” Type fic.

Obx masterlist

┗ •◦இ•◦ ┛

I was sitting on my bed scrolling through TikTok when Rafe texted me.

“Be ready I’m picking you up at 6.”

“And for what can I ask?” I responded

“It’s a surprise peach”

Rafe came up with that nickname when I was over one day and I accidentally drank the rest of his peach juice.

“Okay okay see you then :)”

With the time being 5:38, I get up and put on denim skirt and white halter top with little blue flowers on it. I grab my Uggs cause they’re cute and comfy and I put my vanilla perfume. I get my purse and make sure my lip gloss is in it and soon I get the text that my bae has arrived. I love calling Rafe bae cause he hates it.

“Mom I’ll be back, I’m going out with rafe!” I call out from the stairs.

“Okay honey, be home before 10 please!” She calls out from her office.

She absolutely loves Rafe and luckily she trust me and him enough to let me out without asking anything. And with her having my location on 24/7

I shut the door behind me and I walk to the black truck in my driveway. I see Rafe standing right by the passenger door with his dopey smile plastered across his face.

“Hey dream boat” I say walking up to him placing a small kiss on his lips.

“Hey hey? That wasn’t a kiss come one give daddy a real one.” Rafe said earning a laugh from me before pulling me in by the waist completely smashing his lips on mine.

“That was sweet but you’re eating me Rafe.” I joke with him.

“Oh so with that hurtful joke, I don’t think you deserve these.” He said grabbing a bouquet from inside the car.

“Rafe, you didn’t oh my god they’re beautiful!” I saw grabbing them from him and smelling them.

It was a mix of blue hydrangeas with lilies and mums with the perfect amount of greenery . They smelt amazing, like peace which I loved about flowers.

“Blue like my eyes so you think about me every time you look at them.” He somewhat joked.

“I always do Rafe.” I say before planting a small cute long kiss on him.

“Now come on, I’m dying to know what you’ve planned.” I say adjusting the collar of his white dress shirt.

“Okay peach get in.” he said opening the door and letting me in.

After a 15 minutes drive with a quick pit stop for a pizza at dominos, we finally made it. We stopped by the beach putting the car in park and once again opening the door for me.

“What are we doing at the beach? I didn’t bring a suit.” I say while he grabs my hand leading up to the sand.

“We’re not gonna for a swim.” he said.

“You should’ve mentioned the beach, I wouldn’t have picked these Uggs Rafe.” I tell him.

“You know Uggs were actually meant for the beach? They were for surfers” he explains.

“Do I look like a surfer?” I complain.

“Hey I got you to stand in the board once!” He nudged me

After a short walk we are greeted with a blanket that had a basket with lemonade and other goodies. There was 2 easels and some paint supplies along with more flowers.

“Happy date night!” Rafe said as let put down the pizza.

“Rafe this is so cute!” I say as I sit down in the blanket and look at everything he got.

“I did this all myself, thought we deserved a nice cute date to end off the summer.” Rafe said sitting next to me.

“Rafe this is perfect. Thank you.” I said hugging him.

“I got us some paints so we can do a little couples art maybe and some extra canvas for fun but mainly cause I know I’ll mess up.” He joked bringing out all the colors.

“You’re actually the best boyfriend ever Rafe.”

“I know I know. You can pay he back later.” he said with a wink as you nudge him.

“Okay give me a plate I want pizza.”

After your small dinner and some laughs shared with Rafe you finally get to the painting.

“Okay so we can do thumb prints, handprints, kisses, little things that represent us,” Rafe listed ideas as he scroll through Pinterest.

“Let’s do a handprints, something easy and then maybe we can cover it in sand to reminds of us this little beach date.” You offered

“Yeah I like that” he kissed your nose.

“Alright so many kisses today I think you just did this to get some.”

“No no I actually did this for us, but that’s just a perk” Rafe gave another kiss but on your neck and started going down.

“Okay okay! Let’s get to painting!” You giggled due to the friction of his warm lips on your skin.

As you guys finally decided on a paint color which took absolutely forever because Rafe wanted to do blue to match his eyes (once again) but you wanted a sage green because it was nice and calming which was a perfect way to describe this date. Certainly not this relationship yk how Rafe is.

“Okay your hand first cause it’s giant” you as you painted his hand a dark green.

“Hey you love these hands, especially these finger-”

“OKAY. So place it straight don’t make it crooked.” You guide his onto the canvas

“I can do it myself I’m a big boy okay y/n” he said placing his own hand down.

“Okay leave it there for a couple of seconds to get a good print.” You order.

You grab a lighter green to match his and paint your hand. The ticklish feelings and smell remind you of elementary, and the one time Jayj ate paint (not as a dare.)

“Oh that’s a cute color” Rafe said as you put the paint back.

“Okay you can take your hand off now. Longer you keep it, it’s probably gonna dry on there.” You joked.

“Don’t make it crooked.” He said as he grabbed your hand placing it down on the canvas on top if his.

After a couple of seconds you take it off and see the perfect imprints of you and Rafe.

“Aww it’s so cute!” You commented

“Oh now we have to make another, I’m gonna want one too.” He said admiring your art work.

“Here you go.” he said handing you a cup of sand

You sprinkle the sand ontop of the paint making sure to put enough then shaking the rest off.

“Okay now while this drys I wanna paint another.” you say grabbing another canvas.

You decide to paint a turtle on the beach. Turtles are your second animal cause they’re just so darn cute. As you paint, Rafe also decides to paint whatever he is. He has an assortment of colors and he’s just in his own world. As you watch him you can’t help but notice how his tounge pokes the inside of this cheek as he concentrates.

After 20 minutes, you finally have finished yours projects.

“Okay on, one…two…three!” You count down and flip your canvas.

“Oh thanks cute!” Rafe says and you stare as his… maybe pizza?

“Nice…I don’t even know. Rafe what is that?” You say confused.

“It’s a boat!” He says excited.

“Look it’s me and you!” He points to small blobs

“Oh I thought those were olives…”

“Y/n…” he says with a pout.

“Oh come on it’s cute!!!” You say trying to make him feel better.

“Maybe you should just keep to gallery walks instead of making the art…” you pat his shoulder as you both stare as his “boat”

“Your turtles are so good but look at my boat.”

“Rafe calm down it’s fine beside you can always buy classes.”

“But you’re a natural! It’s unfair.”

“Rafe quit it, besides you’re better at other things than me!” You try to cheer him up.

“Like what?”

“Golf”

“Wow lousy golf. Topper is the king let’s face it.”

“Whatever who cares he got cheated on.” You managed to crack a smile from him.

“Beside, you’re an absolutely an amazing boyfriend. My boyfriend.” He turns to look at you.

“Look at this amazing date you planed. And set up all by yourself too. Gotta give yourself props.” You give him a hug.

“Yeah I’m a pretty good man..” he said playfully rolling his eyes.

“My man.”

You guys share another slow and passionate kiss.

“Come on let’s clean this up. You can spend the night at mine.” You offer as you began to throw things into the basket.

“Okay good, I already told my dad I was.” He said as he grabbed the trash and threw it in a bag.

As you guys drive home you play your oldies playlists. You singing along while Rafe learns new songs.

Soon you guys make it to your house. Rafe parks the car and you guys make your way to the front door with him holding the insane amount of followers.

“Wait we never made my painting” Rafe stopped in his tracks.

“Here you can have the hands, I’ll take your pizza boat.” You say handing him his.

“Guess we have to have another date night to make another !! Ugh!” You said sarcastically.

“What a bore.” Rafe plays along.

You guys reach upstairs. Taking a joint shower because Rafe kept insisting on taking one first but you were too tired to wait. You both got the amazing date night, and hot and steamy sex.

┗ •◦இ•◦ ┛

Came out of hibernation and finally wrote 😩

Sorry for any typos I got too lazy.

Love me some soft Rafe 💁🏽‍♀️

[f0rlorn]

days spent in the sun → treech

a/n → making coral’s moodboard sent me into a spiral and now i have moodboards for every district 😭 is it worth it to post?

notes → in which nature is the perfect place for treech to show his love for you. feminine intended reader (though not sure pronouns are mentioned)

warnings → not edited & upload via iphone

     your hands were wrapped around treech’s arm as he carefully lifted his axe up to the tree, beginning to carve the shape of a heart. he was prudent in his work, meticulously shaving the bark off of the tree from inside the shape he had formed. you watched him silently, in awe of his handiwork. the result was a perfect heart shaped carving, permanently engraved on the tree. beaming, you pressed a quick peck to the boy’s cheek, then pulled him along with you as you walked atop a tree trunk bridge back to the lake. currently, the two of you were clad only in your undergarments, having gone out with the intention of swimming for the whole day. your clothes were strewn over the branch of a fallen oak, basking in the sun. the water was freezing, a stark contrast to the midsummer heat that lingered in the air. treech held your hand as you stepped in, prepared to catch you if you accidentally slipped. at first, you sunk into the shallow water leisurely, but as the water reached your hips, you let go of treech’s hand, completely submerging yourself in order to get used to the temperature. as you arose, your teeth chattered, but a grin was still plastered on your face.

     “get in, the water’s great!” you invited treech to join you with a sarcastic remark as he stood to the side, opting to just watch you. you could tell he contemplated it, but he denied, shaking his head. “where’s the fun in that?” you whined.

     “i’ve gotta do something first.” he simply replied, a roguish glint in his eyes. you were suspicious, but let him do his own thing as you bathed in the water and sunshine. the gravelly sand that covered the bottom of the pond indented the skin on the underside of your legs, adding a soothing pressure as you sat down, letting the water ripple around you. many minutes passed, and you grew restless the more time you spent alone in the water. venturing further into the pond, schools of minnows could be found darting rapidly. they brushed past your skin, maneuvering around your moving form. all was quiet aside from the waves of the water as you forded through. a rustle in the bushes from behind you startled you, causing you to jump and turn around quickly. treech had come back, his hands behind his back.

     “whatcha got there?” you queried, swimming over to him as he kneeled by the water. he just smiled, pulling out a bouquet of colorful wildflowers from behind him. vibrant pink poppies, orange lilies, mauve colored petunias, a few orchids scattered here and there, and yellow wallflowers galore all seemed to bloom from his hand. you were in complete and utter astonishment at the bundle of flowers and the work he had gone through to pick them for you. they were tied together with a loose stem, and you delicately took them from his hand. mother nature’s sweet scent wafted from the stunning plants, instantly soothing you. “these are beautiful, treech,” he grinned, eyes lighting up with pride. his smile always made you melt, and the way his hazel eyes, speckled with green and honey tones, glowed golden in the sun made him seem ethereal. laying the flowers down gently on the grass beside treech, you draped your arms around his neck, placing a tender kiss on his lips. treech gradually joined you in the water, but not before you plucked the sole, pale blue morning glory from the bouquet and tucked it behind his ear, brushing his curls out of his eyes. he took your hand as you guided him further into the pond. the two of you splashed around, laughing for hours until your fingers pruned.

     treech had to drag you out of the water as the sun got lower and lower, the sky growing a burnt orange. you groaned playfully, but shook the water out of your hair anyway, allowing it to drip on the grass below you. the earth felt cool and damp under your bare feet, and the wind blew against your body, making you shiver. quickly, you slipped your shirt over your head, and tied your skirt around your waist, hoping to gain some warmth from the items of clothing that had been strewn out in the sun all day. it seemed to work, but your arms were still bare and the wind was picking up. treech noticed the goosebumps that had formed all along your forearms, and he helped you into his wool coat. smiling, you thanked him, grateful for the extra source of heat. gracefully, you picked up your dainty bouquet of flowers. intertwining your fingers with his, treech led you out of the familiar woods, taking you down the roads of district seven, back to your home. like the gentleman he was, treech walked you to your door, waiting to make sure you got inside safely before leaving. he was just about to leave as you slipped through the front door, but you called his name before he could go any further. he raised his eyebrows, urging you to go on.

     “i love you,” you professed, coyly.

     “i love you more,” treech declared with a smile, before promptly turning and bidding you goodnight, the flower still adorning his hair. 

[swifty-fox]

scrunch and/or adore for the ways to kiss prompts? 👀

let's go with Scrunch! Have the Buckies seeing the ocean for the first time while stationed in Florida for training

A breeze ruffles Gale's hair, smelling of fish and salt. There's a tightness to his shoulders that says he's going to color beautifully and there's a pleasant sort of stinging headache flirting around his eyes from hot sun and not enough hydration.

It is his first time seeing the ocean, Bucky's too, sheltered midwestern boys that they were. He picks up a handful of pale sand, the granules more pale than any he'd seen at quarries or creekbeds. It trickles through his hand in a slow kinetic flood until there's nothing left but clinging scraps and a few bits of shell and plant matter sticking to his sweaty skin.

They'd arrived in Florida less than six hours ago, rumpled from the train and tired from the journey. They'd reported their arrival, dropped their scant few things in their bunks and, having nowhere to be until classes next day, Bucky had whined and wheeled and begged off a well-needed nap for them both.

Come on Buck, it's the ocean. You know, like a pond but a bit bigger?

I know what the ocean is, Bucky.

It had been hours now and while they'd made a good show of being official and composed on the walk down, the first glimmer of turquoise water had them shoving each other like boys and racing to be the first to dive into the spray. The bitterness shocked Gale, and the way it tasted just like the salt from the dinner table only richer and more earthy. Here and there brightly colored fish and irate crabs had darted about their feet and Gale and spent a good long while simply kneeling in the shallow water watching all the living things. John had swum out as far as he dared. Until he was little more than a speck in the waves and Gale's heart had pounded with sudden anxiety.

"Don't go out that far again." He'd told John like a scolding wife and the man had just grinned, curls plastered sodden to his head and dripping beautifully in the bright sunshine.

When they'd tired of splashing in the waves Gale had gone to stretch out in the sand and John had set about digging a hole to nowhere with single-minded determination. His broad shoulders were a brilliant shade of pink, flexing smoothly as he leaned down into his pit to scoop out another handful of rough sand, careful not to splatter Gale's dozing form.

"You know," John says, "the other oceans ain't gonna look like this one. All blue and warm and pretty white sand."

Gale cracks open an eye, "other ones?"

John gestures out to the expansive horizon line, blue on blue, "Europe. They got different oceans there."

"It's the same ocean. It's the Atlantic."

"Yeah but this is a tropical paradise, Buck. It's gonna be all cold and gloomy in England, not like this."

"Maybe you should have become a marine if you wanted to splash around in a tropical paradise, Miss Jones."

John pokes his tongue in his cheek at him, glancing around the empty beach before leaning over Gale with an arm on either side of his shoulders. "maybe I should have, could send you a pretty pin-up postcard of me for you to pin to your dash."

Gale gives him a long-suffering smile before tilting his head to look back out over the ocean horizon again. There was a whole world stretching on endlessly out there, and for a brief moment Gale feels very small and far less worldly than he'd like. A world and a war and more beaches than he could ever count.

"Do you think there's some German soldier out there now lying on a beach and seeing the ocean for the first time?" He instantly feels childish for the question but John doesn't laugh at him.

"Mmm, maybe." he leans down, nose bumping along Gale's cheekbone and then nuzzling against his, "Think there's no way he's as pretty as you, though."

Cheeks coloring, Gale shoves him away. John drags him with him and the two men wrestle in the sand, shoulders stinging and laughter turning breathless until Gale ends up perched on John's chest with a triumphant grin.

"You need to focus on your physically training more Soldier, you got twenty pounds on me."

John grins up at him, heartbreakingly young and Gale's stomach lurches as he realizes one day soon this man beneath him might die, "Maybe I just like having you on top."

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

gasp... could it be? I'm sharing some of American Beasts (not sure if anyone still cares but hey...) 5 chapters left in this fic straggling in my docs:

Boots.

Boots that march.

Boots that stomp, kick and beat.

The squeak of leather, the crunch of sole on sand, on asphalt, wages an onslaught in the long, winding canals of her mind. Trenches dug deep. Fertile ground that had been scoured and excavated for decades, seeds planted, roots torn out and rotted, leaving it a barren wasteland of barbed wire, landmines waiting to be tripped, footprints wearing lines down in a path.

Built for only one thing – War.

As much as Kit has tried to quiet the voice of her father in her head, knowing that she was about to head straight into battle made his words stir in the corners, filtering in past the barricades she had tried to use to partition him in her mind. But it’s of little use. He’s always there, will always be there. The devil on her back, even after cutting his symbol out of her skin. A part of her clings to the notion that if the world is to be wiped clean, made pure, he’ll be taken along with the disease of selfishness, cruelty and intolerance that God’s might will cure. It was a thought that coiled in the lowest parts of her where the scared, angry little girl inside her still resided. The part of her she buried in order to survive.

The entire force of Jacob’s army filled the room while he paced before them in long, smooth strides. His fingers steepled together, the shock of red hair plastered to his head as his eyes darted amongst his soldiers. His brave, strong, and true. A man who was most confident when he was delivering his orders, laying down his expectations, rules that couldn’t be bent or broken. Order and control.

But she didn’t hear a word.

The low timbre of his voice vibrated into her chest in an undeniable rumble, the same tremor that traveled through the earth with a missile strike, a car bomb explosion, or the tracks of a tank as soldiers marched beside it. There was no shutting out the memories as they coagulated in the lobes of her brain, amassing into one grotesque cancer that ate away at her. Not now. Not as the tendrils of infection spread out along the neural pathways until it was all one black ichor of destruction, depravity, and violence. The empty look behind her eyes all too reminiscent of the one that came with the Bliss and the rage that rushed through her veins.

Shifting uncomfortably, changing the weight on her feet, she stared out across the room, over the heads of men and women dressed in red and black, and saw the eyes of the Father meeting her. His portrait hung above them, always watching, perceiving. Judging. The unforgiving stare from under a gently furrowed brow pulled her in, hypnotic in its power even through the flimsy divide of yellow lenses. The voice of God. His messenger. Someone who deemed her worth saving despite her multitude of sins, for reasons she didn’t understand. But she had faith. Faith in herself. Faith in Him.

The cold blue stare of a winter blizzard’s bite lowered, noticing the dozens of eyes that met her own, and the eyes that matched hers, his finger pointed in her direction.

“Whatever orders she gives, you follow. Without question, without mercy, without delay.” Jacob turned back to the audience. “Not all of ya are coming back. Some of you might not see Eden. But this is what we do. We lay down our lives. We make sacrifices. We are soldiers.”

Their eyes locked, the dark circles below his piercing gaze nearly swallowing them whole. He looked tired. Damn tired. But at the same time she could see the relief, a burden lifting at the thought that this might finally be the end. He could stop fighting, stop surviving, so long as everyone else was safe.

We don’t get a happy ending.

no pressure tagging: @voidika @transcaster @la-grosse-patate @cloudofbutterflies92 @ocdemon-747

@boldly-ho @floradellamorte @finding-comfort-in-rain @carlosoliveiraa @confidentandgood

@afarcry5fromstraight @imogenkol @roofgeese @henbased @inafieldofdaisies

@clicheantagonist @adelaidedrubman @strafethesesinners @statichvm @sukoshimikan

@josephslittledeputy @tommyarashikage @simplegenius042 @josephseedismyfather @buggknife

@direwombat @faithchel @shallow-gravy @strangefable @cassietrn

[rmxsolution]

Optimize Construction with a High-performance M Sand Plant

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[xxdemonicheartxx]

Flight Rising flights but as art mediums:

There are some overlaps in mediums since dragons are so tight knit and far spread

Earth: tile work/mosaics, jewelry work, ceramics, stone sculpture, chalk, clay work, plaster, leather work, rain chains

Water: plaster work, woven tapestries, shell jewelry and chimes, pearl inlays, decorative sails and flags, basket weaving, sandstone carving, watercolors, mirrors and glass sculptures

Shadow: optical illusions, black and white photography, puzzle boxes, uranium glass work, maybe iron work, mycology arrangements, shadow boxes, gouache, anything that involves glowing in the dark

Light: stone carving and gold foiled painting, sometimes tapestry weaving to depict an image or scene, impressionism, oil paint, tempera, portraiture, clothing and attire, mirrors, pigment making

Plague: hyper realism, and taxidermy, ceramics, bone carvings, tattoos, ink block prints, collage art, murals, leather work, totems and large outdoor installations

Nature: floral arrangements, dye work, wood work, candle making, hot wax painting, landscaping, rain chains, wind chimes, tapestries, needle felting, carpentry, animal cosmetics (haircuts, animal safe dye, nail and claw painting, etc), apparel/clothing, pigment making

Ice: needle felting, wood carving, quilting, ice carving and sculpture, snow sculptures, knitting, the art of tea blends, dried plant arrangements, carpentry, fabric weaving, tapestries, crochet, wood burning, blanket weaving, candle making, dye work, wood turning

Fire: welding, decorative weapon smithing, glass blowing, wood burning, wrought iron, stained glass, latticed metal, terracotta, ceramics, obsidian and basalt carving, graphite, slate, charcoal

Wind: paper mache, ribbon mediums, basket weaving, sonorous sculptures, wind chimes, feathered attire, really tall and thin structures/sculptures, jade carving, blanket weaving

Arcane: resin, stained glass, welding, intricate silver work, collaborative neon work with shadow (they need that special eye for glow in the dark), crystal carving, zen gardens, bonsai art, screen printing, photography, illuminated manuscripts, clothing and apparel, gold foil work, abstract art

Lightning: bronze cast sculptures, sand sculptures (when lightning strikes the sand and turns it to stone) aluminum casts poured into ant colonies/hills, pop art, up-cycled art, photography, art that is still capable of being utilized and interacted with because people and dragons are part of the medium, assemblage art, banners and flags

[smokeygrayrabbits]

maybe plants run cold, so vash and nai would curl up to eachother, or rem, or the nice toasty vents on their sisters tanks and just, cling and flop and nap. that's all gone now. no rem. no nai. no safe home where he can lay at his sisters feet while they whisper stories and songs to him.so vash used to just lay on the hot sand and take a lil nap. but he has friends now!!! so he just kinda flops on them instead. he can often be seen pulling Meryl onto his lap like a lil hot water bottle, or draped around Milly's shoulders like a scarf, or laying across Roberto's lap, or plastered to wolfwood as they drive.

vash's grabbiness gets varied reactions.

meryl just gets used to it when vash does grabby hands at her.

Milly, like the absolute saint that she is, just accepts it. even going so far as to pick vash up and tuck him into her side when she thinks he looks a little too chilly on long desert nights.

Roberto pretends to be bothered, but isnt. like Milly, he also sees right through vash and will sometimes throw an arm around the plants shoulders, claiming that vash is like his portable ac.

he does it to wolfwood, who reacts differently depending on the day. sometimes wrapping vash up in his arms, other times just shifting the punisher off his shoulder and carrying vash around like a scarf / backpack. wolfwood is vry strong man. he doesn't even falter when vash does it.

extra sleepy / drunk vash just kinda climbs into wolfwoods lap, who is Very Flustered™.they're in the middle of a bar!! what are you doing needle noggin!!!Vash slurring and giggling that Wolfwood is waaaarm. wolfwood does absolutely nothing to remove him.

nai, who also runs cold, has a little heatty vent he lays on and makes a blanket oven out of his gate. (like that one part in diary of a wimpy kid)

nai fr^ 📸

[alpaca-clouds]

Can you help debunk what I have been told that solar panels are bad for the environment and cause more waste because they take a long time to decompose and wear out in a couple years?

Okay, let me try and answer this. Because yes, this is a more complicated issue, than a lot of people make it out to be.

So, let me start with the big thing that gets often overlooked: Without even looking into ressource use, big photovoltaic power plans have definitely a negative environmental impact. Not as a negative as anything fossil energy related, but negative never the less.

With power plants I mean those giant fields where we plaster photovoltaic panels over acres of land, to have a central power plant based around photovoltaic. And while we might not get around some of those big power plants, part of the energy revolution should be to move towards micro grids instead of current macro grids (so, decentralization), hence lowering the need of central powerplants.

Now, a lot of people who are anti-pv - mostly people who are from the fossil fuel lobby, but also some nuclear-lobby folks - tend to exaggerate those negative impacts... But they are still there. (Mostly having to do with depending on the type of pv panel used they can impact the ground temperature - and of course they just disrupt the environment.)

Sooo... Let's get to the raw materials. The important bit in photovoltaic is silicon. And this is one of the good old environmentalist "well actaully" things. Because when I was a kid I got told: "Oh, silicon is never a problem, because it is just sand! We have so much sand!" But of course I learned that it is not quite as easy. Because not all sand is created equal and not all can be used for stuff like concrete (which is shit either way), glass or photovoltaic.

Though still it is not as much of an issue as a lot of rare earth materials. Some of which are currently used in photovoltaic. But here is the other thing...

Photovoltaic is currently one of the fastest developing energy technologies. Basically anything I am gonna tell you here will be outdated next year. I guarantee.

But yes, in the creation of photovoltaic we currently use rare earth metals, that are at times sourced through bad means. Both in terms of it being mined through slave work and through the mining being done in a way that harms the environment. But... for one, we are currently working on reducing the need for rare earth metals in the creation of photovoltaic. And like with nuclear materials: We could mine the materials in a much more sustainable way - both on a social and ecological level. It is just that the current capitalist system has all the incentives to mine those materials wiht exploited workers or even slaves, and to not take care of the waste created in the mining operation.

And this gets us back to the recycling.

Short version: Yeah, we have ways to recycle about 65-80% of the materials in a photovoltaic panel. And like everything else: We are working on it and it will probably go up to 90%. But once again: Like with all recycling the issue is, that recycling materials is way more expensive than getting new materials. Which is why under capitalism all the things we could recycle often do not get recycled.

But it is possible.

tl;dr: Yes, there are drawbacks to photovoltaic, but it is not as bad as many make it seem. And a ton of the drawbacks are not inevitable but only exist because of capitalism.

[ladysif-writes-chaos]

FORE (THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T STEP LEFT)

⚠️ WARNING: This Chapter Contains ⚠️

– War (unfortunately, the Korean kind, not the dramatic sibling rivalry kind) – Blood (enough to make a vampire blush) – Surgery (performed by hot, exhausted people in questionable lighting) – Medical procedures & jargon (you might learn something. Or cry.) – Injured civilians (because war is the worst) – Drinking (because coping isn't always healthy but it is historically accurate) – One suspiciously aggressive meat product

Summary: Things are suspiciously calm at the 4077th—until they're not. A casual round of minefield golf gives way to chaos in the OR, moral stand-offs, and meat that might actually be plaster. Just another average day trying to survive Korea... one sarcastic comment and surgical miracle at a time.

The 4077th, Somewhere in Korea – 36 Hours Without a Casualty

The sun was shining. The kind of warm, lazy shine that made the dust shimmer like gold across the rice paddies. It clung to every surface, catching in sweat-damp hairlines and the creases of worn uniforms. Birds chirped. Someone was playing a harmonica off-key near the motor pool. And for the first time in what felt like forever, no one was bleeding out on a gurney or screaming for morphine.

So naturally, they were playing golf.

"Well," Steve said, squinting at the horizon like a general plotting his next move, "wind's coming from the northeast. Might call for a three iron."

"You've never used a three iron in your life," Bucky said, deadpan, one hand shading his eyes as he scanned the wide stretch of no-man's-land just beyond camp.

Their makeshift driving range wasn't exactly regulation—unless you counted the North Minefield as a sand trap from hell. It was marked with sun-faded caution signs, loops of rusty barbed wire, and the universal understanding that stepping one foot past the boundary was a terrible, explosive idea. Which made it, of course, the perfect target.

Steve planted his feet, adjusted his grip, and swung. The ball cracked off the club and soared, a neat white arc against the too-blue sky. It landed somewhere out past the wire with a faint pfft in the dust.

Nothing happened.

"Guess I missed," Steve muttered, brushing off his pants like the whole thing had disappointed him personally.

"You just kissed a North Korean mole rat on the forehead," Bucky replied. "With the finesse of a gorilla on stilts."

"I heard that," came a voice from the side.

Colonel Coulson lounged a few yards away in a battered folding chair, legs crossed, wearing his wildly unofficial blue fishing hat and sipping from a canteen very clearly marked Medical Alcohol – DO NOT DRINK. His sunglasses were crooked, his boots were untied, and he looked perfectly at peace.

"You were supposed to," Bucky called back as he stepped up to the tee. He didn't bother with stance or aim. He just swung like he meant it.

BOOM.

A sharp pop shook the ground. Dust and smoke curled upward in the distance where the ball had landed.

Steve rocked slightly on his heels to steady himself. "Well, that's one way to score."

Bucky rested the club on his shoulder like a baseball bat. "That one's for the record books."

"That was probably a rabbit," Steve muttered.

"I gave him a quick death," Bucky said solemnly. "Unlike that pot roast in the mess tent."

Coulson didn't even flinch. "Thirty-six hours without a casualty," he said, raising his canteen in a loose salute. "No screaming, no stretchers, no mines under the cots. I think this qualifies as a vacation."

"A vacation with dysentery," Bucky added, reaching for another ball from the half-empty ammo box they'd repurposed into a golf bag.

Steve tilted his head back and looked at the sky. It was cloudless and sharp, the kind of clear that made you forget where you were—until the scent of diesel and old blood drifted back on the wind. He sighed.

"You ever think about how insane this is?" he asked. "Playing golf in a war zone?"

"Yup," Coulson replied without hesitation. "But it beats crying into my clipboard."

"And cheaper than therapy," Bucky muttered, teeing up again.

He swung.

BOOM.

This time, a black cloud bloomed higher, darker. Somewhere far off, a dog barked like it was cursing in Korean.

"Two for two," Bucky said casually.

Steve shook his head. "Remind me never to let you pick the movie when this war's over. Your aim's too good for comfort."

"Gentlemen," Coulson said, rising slowly and brushing the dust off his pants, "if anyone asks what we were doing out here, we were conducting... field munitions analysis."

"And stress relief," Bucky added, already lining up his next shot.

"Very important for surgical precision," Steve agreed.

All three nodded, like that made perfect sense. The club cracked again.

Silence stretched.

Then—

BOOM.

They burst out laughing. Not the forced kind they used in the OR to stay upright, but the real, gut-deep kind that made your ribs ache.

The laughter faded slowly, like smoke on the breeze. Bucky leaned on his club, Steve wiped his eyes, and even Coulson looked suspiciously lighter—like the last few months had let go of him just a little, loosening their grip for one golden afternoon.

The sun hung low and soft in the Korean sky, casting long shadows across the dusty earth. The minefield shimmered faintly in the distance, disturbed only by the occasional buzz of flies or a drifting scrap of wind.

That's when Tony showed up—shirt untucked, sleeves rolled to his elbows, boots loosely laced like he'd forgotten or just stopped caring. His arms were full of crumpled envelopes, a clipboard with peeling corners tucked under one elbow, and a small, dented tin that rattled as he walked.

"Mail call, sirs," he announced, striding up like he owned the place, grinning like the war was just background noise. "Which one of you lunatics ordered a back issue of Advanced Surgical Review? You really know how to party."

He tossed a glossy, slightly bent medical journal at Steve, who caught it one-handed without looking up.

"Reading material," Steve said, brushing a thumb across the cover. "Some of us like to keep sharp."

"Some of us like to nap," Tony said, "but sure, be an overachiever." He shuffled through the rest of the stack and paused, plucking out a pale blue envelope. "Oh—here's a letter from your mom." He handed it over with a flourish.

Steve's expression softened instantly. His fingers hovered over the familiar handwriting for a beat longer than necessary.

"She uses stamps with birds on them," he said quietly. "Says it makes the mail feel less like it's coming to a war zone."

Bucky leaned closer, peering at the corner of the envelope. "What is that, a robin?"

"Goldfinch," Steve murmured, then carefully opened the flap and unfolded the letter like it was glass. "She wants to know if I'm eating enough. And if Bucky's still hogging the blankets in the surgical tent."

Bucky huffed a laugh. "You snore. Like a buzz saw in a tin can."

Steve didn't bother denying it—just smiled down at the page, eyes crinkling.

Tony kept flipping. "Let's see... Colonel, letter from your wife—and this package."

Coulson took the parcel with a rare smile and set it gently on the folding chair beside him. He opened it like it might be breakable. Inside was a tin of anti-itch powder and a little pouch of hard candy wrapped in bright floral wax paper.

"That woman deserves a medal," he said under his breath, selecting a piece of candy and popping it into his mouth with something like reverence.

Tony pulled out one more envelope and handed it off to Bucky. "And here we go, straight from Brooklyn. Your wife's handwriting is terrifyingly neat, by the way. Like she does calligraphy for the Vatican."

Bucky tore it open and scanned the note. His groan was loud and theatrical. "She wants me to balance the checkbook. Again."

Tony blinked. "From Korea?"

"The woman is completely helpless when it comes to budgeting," Bucky muttered. "I get a love letter, and it's got math in it."

"Ah," Coulson said, dry as ever. "True romance."

Steve chuckled and flipped open the cover of his magazine, thumbing through pages filled with diagrams of surgical instruments and grainy black-and-white photos of operating rooms. "At least it wasn't another Sears catalog."

Coulson folded the tissue from the parcel and slid another piece of candy into his mouth before opening his letter. His eyes moved steadily across the page, and his expression changed—gentled, softened by something private and far from the war.

"Helen says the lilacs are blooming early this year," he said after a moment. "She tried to press a sprig into her last letter, but it must've gotten lost somewhere between here and home."

He read a few more lines, then glanced up with a quiet smile. "The Johnsons finally sold their '49 Buick Roadmaster, blue. Some young couple from Yonkers. Newlyweds, expecting their first baby."

Steve's smile was faint but real. "That sounds nice."

Coulson nodded. "She wants to know if we still have the old bassinet in the attic. Says she might lend it to them."

He skimmed farther, then made a thoughtful noise. "Eisenhower's planning another televised address. Something about the Russians and atomic testing. She says she's got the radio set up just in case she misses it on TV."

"I miss when the biggest threat was polio and bad radio reception," Bucky muttered, shaking his head and digging his tee back into the hard-packed dirt.

Coulson continued. "She's volunteering at the USO again. Says it keeps her busy... but she misses the sound of my voice. Wants me to start writing more than once a week."

He folded the letter carefully, like it might fall apart if handled too rough, then tucked it into his shirt pocket over his heart. "I'll need to send something tomorrow. I've got that bottle of aftershave she sent me for Christmas—might dab the corner of the page with it, if you boys don't laugh."

Bucky raised a hand. "No judgment here."

Steve nodded. "That's real love, Colonel."

Coulson gave a quiet, almost shy smile. "I suppose it is."

The air was still, except for the soft drone of insects and a breeze that stirred the edge of a canvas tent in the distance. No choppers. No ambulances. No screams or shouting. Just birdsong, the smell of sun-warmed canvas, and the kind of silence that reminded them—however briefly—that there was a world waiting for them beyond the barbed wire and stretchers.

"Alright," Tony said, dusting off his hands and rising to his feet. "Back to pretending I know how to inventory medical supplies."

"Back to pretending I'm not terrified every time a golf ball goes missing," Coulson added, groaning slightly as he stood.

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look, then stepped up to the tee.

"Fore," Steve called lightly, and swung, sending the ball arcing into the warm Korean sky.

Mess Hall

The line in the mess hall moved at the speed of molasses in January.

Steve and Bucky stood shoulder to shoulder on the worn plywood floor, their trays hanging slack in their hands as they crept forward with the rest of the lunch-hour crowd. The air inside the tent was thick—part humidity, part canned peas, and part despair. Somewhere near the front, someone coughed, and somewhere in the back, Wade was once again muttering threats at the coffee urn.

Bucky eyed the steaming trays behind the sneeze guard and grimaced. "What do you think it is today—meatloaf, or an ambitious attempt at plaster?"

Steve tilted his head, studying the grayish-brown slab that had the consistency of wet concrete. "I think it's both. They're just switching up the garnish."

Ahead of them, a corporal received a scoop of the mystery meat. It hit his tray with a wet splut that made Steve wince.

"If they keep feeding us like this, I'm going to have to take my pants in," he muttered.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Don't like World War Two surplus meals?"

"Oh, I love 'em," Steve said dryly. "Nothing like eating the same powdered eggs that saw action in Bastogne."

Bucky snorted. "Come on, you lived on worse in Brooklyn."

"Sure," Steve said, nudging his tray forward as the line inched up. "But back then, I didn't know what was in it. This stuff's labeled."

"Barely," Bucky muttered, eyeing the lumpy side dish currently being served with an ice cream scoop. "Is that supposed to be mashed potatoes, or has the rice been cursed?"

"Could be both," Steve said under his breath.

They reached the front of the line and were each handed a tray loaded with a thick slab of meat-like substance, a scoop of something pale and vaguely gelatinous, a dry square of cornbread, and the ever-present gray-green peas that seemed to follow them like a bad memory across the entire peninsula.

Bucky held his tray up like a science experiment. "I'd say bon appétit, but I think that'd get me court-martialed."

They shuffled toward a table near the canvas wall, where the sides of the tent flapped faintly in the breeze, offering no real relief from the smell—or the view.

Steve dropped onto the bench and stared at his tray like it might fight back. "You know, I used to dream about Sunday dinners when I was a kid. Roast chicken. Mashed potatoes with butter. Green beans that didn't come freeze-dried from 1943."

"Your mom was a saint," Bucky said, poking his fork at the meat slab. "Mine used to threaten us with liver and onions every time we mouthed off."

"I'd take liver over this."

"I wouldn't," Bucky said grimly, cutting off a corner and forcing it down. "But only by a margin."

They sat in silence for a moment, both nursing their coffee like it was the only thing on the tray that hadn't betrayed them. The food wasn't going to kill them—but it sure wasn't going to make them glad to be alive, either.

The bench across from them creaked as Sharon Carter and John Walker sat down, close enough to draw a raised eyebrow from Bucky. They were practically joined at the hip these days, still delusional enough to think nobody knew they were hooking up behind the supply tent.

"Gentlemen," Sharon greeted, her voice smooth but distant. She gave her tray a wary glance and prodded at it like it might snap shut on her fork.

John, less cautious, dug in like a man who hadn't tasted seasoning in a year and had finally accepted it. "Same slop, different day."

"Aw, don't say that," Bucky said, swirling his fork through the peas. "You'll hurt its feelings."

John ignored him and turned instead to glare at Tony, who came strolling up to the table, tray balanced in one hand and clipboard tucked under his arm like a waiter who'd given up on tips.

"This is an officers' table," John said, stiff-backed.

Tony paused, looking from John to Steve and Bucky.

Bucky waved a hand, already over it. "Lay off, Walker. The kid's harmless."

"Unless you're a sandwich," Steve added, straight-faced. "Then you better watch out."

Bucky nodded. "Tony's better company anyway."

"Besides," Steve said, "he's the only one who can hotwire the radio without blowing a fuse."

Sharon opened her mouth, clearly ready to add something sharp, but paused mid-syllable as Tony suddenly straightened, head cocked toward the far end of the tent like a dog catching a sound no one else could hear.

They all froze, watching him.

"You hear something, Lassie?" Steve asked. "Did Timmy fall down a well?"

Bucky leaned closer to Steve and whispered, "I think your mashed potatoes just moved."

Steve looked down sharply, and so did Bucky—and now John—watching the scoop of gray mush like it might wriggle off the tray.

Tony's eyes lit up. "Choppers."

He bolted upright, snatching up the half-eaten sandwich from his tray and cramming what was left into his mouth as he jogged toward the exit.

Two seconds later, Wade's voice crackled over the speakers:

"Incoming wounded. Chopper inbound, pad four."

Tony was already gone, sandwich crumbs trailing behind him like confetti in his wake.

John frowned as he stood up. "Great. Right in the middle of lunch."

"I'm sure they planned it just to ruin your day," Bucky said, rolling his eyes as he swung a leg over the bench.

"Maybe if you write the North Koreans a letter asking them to stop shooting during lunch, they'll consider it," Steve added as he followed.

Sharon didn't bother to hide her smirk. "Include a formal request for better peas while you're at it."

Helipad

The choppers came in hard, wind kicking up dust and gravel across the landing pad as Steve and Bucky jogged out to meet them, sleeves rolled and gloves already on. The noise was deafening—rotors thundering overhead, wounded voices groaning below.

Steve grabbed the stretcher off the first skid, barking for vitals as he helped the corpsman lower a bloodied soldier onto the gurney. Bucky moved toward the second bird, eyes scanning the interior as the medic shouted over the noise.

"Incoming, two more!" the medic called. "One's a civilian—pregnant. Took shrapnel to the leg. Kid's got a head wound."

Bucky's breath caught for a second. Civilian.

He reached into the chopper, helping ease a limp, dust-covered Korean woman from the seat. Blood soaked her skirt near the thigh. Her face was pale, lips pinched with pain. Cradled against her was a young boy—maybe five years old—head bandaged, one arm hanging useless.

Steve was already beside him, hands steady as he checked the kid's pulse. He looked up, and their eyes met.

No words needed.

They moved fast—carefully lifting both mother and child onto the stretcher as Bucky called for pre-op to prep two beds. The woman moaned softly in Korean, and the boy clutched weakly at her arm, dazed but breathing.

"Easy, you're okay," Steve said gently, his hand steady on the boy's chest. "We've got you."

They were almost to the double doors of their little makeshift hospital when John Walker came striding toward them, boots kicking up gravel, arms crossed like he was already ready to argue.

"What the hell is this?" he barked, squinting at the stretcher.

"Wounded civilians," Steve said, not breaking stride. "They were on the edge of the blast zone."

John held up a hand. "No. No way. They don't belong here. Load them back up. Send them to one of their hospitals."

Bucky froze, eyes narrowing. "You wanna say that again?"

"They're not our responsibility," John said, voice sharp. "We've got our own wounded to deal with."

Steve's shoulders tensed, jaw tight.

Bucky stepped closer to John, voice low and dangerous. "Say that one more time, Walker. I swear to God, I'll break your arm before I break my damn oath."

John blinked, caught off guard. "They're—Bucky, they're Korean."

"They're human," Bucky snapped. "They're bleeding. John. That woman's pregnant and barely conscious. The kid's got a head injury

I don't care what language they speak— If they're on our pad, they're our patients."

John scoffed. "We've got limited beds. Limited everything."

"And if it were your sister out there with a kid in her arms?" Steve asked, stepping up beside Bucky, eyes hard. "You still turning her away?"

John's jaw clenched.

Bucky took another step closer. "Let me make this real simple for you: you try to block that tent again, I'll make damn sure you don't walk straight for a week."

John bristled. "Are you threatening me, Captain?"

"No, Major," Bucky said evenly. "I'm telling you to move before I lose what little patience I have left."

John opened his mouth again, but one look at Bucky's face—and the sharp, steady gleam in Steve's eyes behind him—shut him up fast.

Bucky didn't wait for permission. He brushed past John hard enough to knock his shoulder, signaling the corpsman behind him. "Clear bed in pre-op. We're coming in hot."

"Smart choice," Bucky muttered, and nodded for the other two corpsmen carrying the stretcher to come the rest of the way into the pre-op.

As they passed through the doors, Steve muttered, "You know, I thought you were gonna deck him."

Bucky didn't look up. "I still might. Depends how the rest of this day goes."

Surgery

The operating room—if you could call it that—was hot, cramped, and buzzing with tension. The tent walls rippled in the faint breeze outside, but inside, the air was thick with heat, the sharp tang of antiseptic, and the steady rhythm of controlled chaos.

Bucky stood over the Korean woman, her belly stretched taut beneath a blood-soaked sheet. She was young. Maybe twenty. Too young for this much blood. Her pulse was faint and fluttering beneath his fingertips—barely there.

Nurse Natasha stood beside him, as cool and composed as if they were back in medical school, not elbow-deep in a warzone. She was already prepping the clamps, her hands steady as she glanced at the vitals every so often.

Two tables down, Steve bent over the boy—barely seven years old, unconscious and pale. A deep gash ran across his brow, just missing the eye. Steve's expression was tight with focus, his hands gentle as he cleaned the wound and began stitching.

Yelena stood beside him, efficient and sharp-eyed, dabbing sweat from Steve's forehead with a gauze pad, then handing off a fresh suture kit without needing to be told.

"He's stable," Steve murmured. "Concussed. Skull's intact as far as I can tell, but we'll need a scan when the generator decides to cooperate."

Yelena tilted her head slightly. "Talk to him."

Steve blinked. "He's out cold."

"Still," she said. "Kids know when someone's with them. Say something soft. Something that doesn't sound like war."

Steve swallowed, glanced down at the child, and shifted his tone. "Alright, buddy," he said gently. "Let's get you patched up. After that, I'll tell you about the time I got caught sneaking into the theater back in Brooklyn..."

Yelena didn't smile, but she gave a quiet nod. "That'll do."

Across the tent, Sam was wrist-deep in a chest wound, voice clipped and commanding.

"Clamp. No—there. Right. Got it. Shallow breath sounds. We need suction and another unit of whole blood."

Maria moved like clockwork beside him, sliding trays closer, her expression unreadable behind her mask. "Suction coming on."

At the far table, John was elbow-deep in an abdominal wound. Sharon was assisting, sharp and focused, her hands already slick with blood. Neither of them said a word, which, frankly, made things easier for everyone.

The OR doors fluttered open, swing as Colonel Coulson stepped inside, sleeves rolled, hands clasped behind his back as he scanned the room with practiced eyes. He paused just inside the doorway, voice raised but calm.

"Heard a shouting match outside pre-op. Sounded like it echoed all the way to Tokyo."

John didn't look up. "It was Captain Barnes. Again. Disrespecting the chain of command."

Sharon chimed in, tone brisk. "And ignoring triage protocols. Civilian wounded should have been rerouted—"

"Is it just me," Steve cut in without glancing over, "or did his voice just go up an octave?"

Bucky didn't break focus, his voice dry. "Might've strained something important trying to shove his ethics into a footlocker—"

His tone shifted mid-sentence. "Shit. Shit—she's crashing." The mother's blood pressure was plummeting. Her abdomen had gone rigid. The baby hadn't moved since they brought her in.

"BP's crashing," Natasha confirmed. "Seventy over thirty and dropping."

Bucky didn't look up. "Then we move. Now. She's hemorrhaging. If we wait, we lose both."

He sliced the gown open in one fluid motion, the scalpel glinting under the single, swaying surgical lamp overhead. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, ignored.

"Field's prepped," Natasha said, passing him gauze before he could ask.

"Clamp ready?"

"In your hand."

Colonel Coulson stepped up beside him without hesitation. "Need a hand, Barnes?"

"Yeah, sir," Bucky said. "You want to catch a baby?"

The colonel didn't flinch. "Tell me where you want me. I caught both my boys back in Missouri. One in a snowstorm."

"Then you've got the résumé," Bucky muttered. "Alright, Nat—I need retractors, suction line, and fresh saline."

"Ready."

Steve glanced over. "Buck—you good?"

"I'm fine," he said, already making the first incision.

Natasha and Bucky moved in tandem—gauze, clamp, retract, swab. The mother's blood filled the sterile field too quickly, but Bucky worked through it, jaw clenched.

"I see the head," he said. "Colonel, hands ready?"

"Let's do it."

Bucky reached in, hands steady despite the sweat on his brow, and lifted the baby free, passing him into Coulson's waiting arms. The child was slick, small, and terrifyingly silent.

"Come on..." Bucky muttered, already turning back to the mother. "Come on, little guy..."

Coulson moved fast. With the help of another nurse, he cleared the baby's airway, then began rubbing his back in firm, practiced circles.

The room held its breath.

Then—sharp and sudden—a wail cut through the air.

It pierced the tension like a needle through silk.

Steve looked up and smiled, brief but real. Sam grinned through his mask. Even Sharon paused, her eyes softening at the sound.

Bucky exhaled, shoulders slumping just slightly as he went back to suturing.

"Alright," he said. "Let's finish this."

Natasha handed him a clean needle. "No pressure."

"Not anymore," he replied.

Coulson looked down at the squirming, crying infant in his arms, then back to Bucky with a small, proud smile.

"Tell me something, Doctor Barnes," he said, still rocking the baby gently. "Do I get a cigar, or do I have to deliver another one to earn it?"

Bucky chuckled under his breath, eyes still on his stitching. "You get my last cup of decent coffee. And maybe a dry pair of socks if you're lucky."

Coulson nodded, cradling the newborn against his chest. "I'll take it."

Post-Op

The post op ward was dim and quiet, the smell of antiseptic faint under the heavier scent of old wood, linen, and something faintly medicinal. The open windows let in a soft breeze, fluttering the edge of a chart clipped to the end of a cot. Outside, the distant thrum of a generator hummed low and steady.

Bucky stepped into the ward first, pushing the heavy door open with his shoulder. Steve followed a few steps behind, holding two chipped mugs of weak coffee. The rows of cots were occupied by soldiers and civilians alike—some sleeping, others staring blankly at the ceiling, and a few whispering quietly in languages that filled the space like a soft chorus of survival.

Near the far end of the ward, Bruce sat beside one of the civilian cots. His chaplain's collar was half-hidden beneath a rumpled sweater, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he quietly spoke Korean to the young mother they'd saved. He wasn't giving a sermon or offering last rites—just listening, nodding gently as she spoke, and answering softly when she paused for breath.

The woman rested back against a mound of thin pillows, eyes tired but warm, her newborn cradled in her arms. The baby was swaddled tightly in a faded army blanket, making soft noises in his sleep, cheeks round and pink

The little boy lay in the next cot over, a strip of gauze bandaged across his forehead. His dark lashes twitched now and then, fingers curled tight around the ear of a worn stuffed rabbit—probably something Yelena had smuggled in from one of her trades.

Bruce looked up as Bucky and Steve approached and gave a small nod in greeting. His voice was soft. "She's been asking about you. Wanted to thank you both."

The mother looked between them, her eyes glassy. She said something in Korean, emotion catching in her throat.

Bruce gently touched her arm and translated. "She says thank you—for saving her. For saving her boys. She thought... they were lost."

Bucky crouched down beside the bed, resting one hand on the edge of the cot. His voice was rough. "We weren't going to let that happen."

The woman reached out and took his hand, squeezing it tightly in both of hers. She said something else, voice low, and Bruce's expression softened.

"She wants you to know... she's naming the baby James."

Bucky's breath caught. He blinked once, then looked down at the sleeping infant, small and warm in his mother's arms. One hand peeked free from the blanket—tiny fingers curled in on themselves. Carefully, he reached out and laid his hand against the baby's head, rubbing a thumb gently over the fine, dark hair.

Steve stood at his shoulder, quiet, the second mug still cradled in his hand. "That's got to be the best damn thing I've heard all month."

Bucky didn't speak for a second. When he did, it was quiet. "Tell her... it's an honor."

Bruce translated, and the woman smiled through tears. She whispered something to the baby and pressed a kiss to his brow.

Bucky stayed crouched beside her a moment longer. He looked between her and her son, both of them alive—fragile but safe—for now. He gave a small nod and stood, eyes lingering for just a second longer before he turned back to Steve.

Steve handed him the coffee. "Come on," he said softly. "We should get some shut-eye while we can."

"Yeah," Bucky murmured, his voice rasped with exhaustion. He looked back once more at the woman—at her son, and her newborn wrapped tight against her chest. "We did one good thing today."

Steve's hand clapped lightly against his shoulder. "We'll hold onto that."

The Swamp – Late Evening

The Swamp was dim and close with heat, the kind that clung to skin and soured every breath. A dented lantern swung from the center pole, casting a lazy amber glow over the room's cluttered mess of cots, boots, and discarded uniforms. The scent was familiar—old sweat, iodine, mildew from the walls, and the sharp tang of the gin that leaked from the still in the corner. No one dared ask what went into it anymore.

Steve stood at their makeshift poker table—a scrap of metal balanced on crates—pouring two fingers of translucent liquid into mismatched tin cups. It sloshed like lighter fluid, smelled worse. "To mothers and miracles," he said quietly, handing one cup to Bucky.

Bucky took it with a low grunt, easing himself onto the edge of his cot with a tired groan. His shirt clung to his back, scrub pants stiff with blood and sweat. He looked like a man who'd aged ten years in ten hours. "To baby James," he murmured, knocking back the drink in one go. He hissed through his teeth as it hit his throat. "Poor kid's already got my name. Let's hope he skips my luck."

The screen door groaned open, slow and loud. John Walker stepped inside, boots caked in red mud, cap pulled low. He didn't say anything, just leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he didn't trust it not to bite.

Steve raised an eyebrow but kept quiet. Bucky reached for a second pour.

The room was still except for the soft glug of the still and the occasional buzz of a mosquito whining past. Outside, the rotors of an idle chopper ticked in the distance, cooling under the night sky.

Finally, John cleared his throat. "Nice save today."

Bucky stilled mid-pour. His head lifted slightly, but he didn't look at him. Steve turned toward John, cautious.

John shifted, scuffing the heel of one boot against the floor. "Really. That was solid work."

There was a beat of silence—heavy, uncertain. Steve looked at Bucky. Bucky looked at his drink.

John shrugged, like the words had cost him a tooth. "I mean—I probably would've done it cleaner. Faster. But, y'know. Good effort."

Bucky downed his second drink and let the cup clatter onto the table. "Eat my shorts, Walker," he muttered, falling back onto his cot with an exhausted thump. One arm slung across his eyes, done with the conversation.

Steve huffed a laugh into his cup. "He meant that lovingly," he said, not bothering to hide the grin tugging at his mouth.

John didn't reply. He crossed to his bunk and sat, boots still on, silent and stiff.

The tent quieted. For a brief moment, the night felt still, the kind of still that never lasted in Korea.

Then—

"A-TEN-HUT!"

Wade's voice blared through the camp loudspeakers, sharp and warbled with feedback. "Attention all night owls and part-time alcoholics—just got word a whole battalion of Marines got their asses handed to them by the Reds. Casualties inbound, ETA ten mikes. So caffeinate, hydrate, and haul your charming behinds to pre-op. You know the drill. This isn't a drill. That's why I said drill three times!"

The PA screeched one last time before going silent.

Bucky groaned without lifting his arm. "I swear to God, I just laid down."

Steve tossed back the rest of his drink and reached for his boots. "You're the one who wanted to be a doctor."

"I wanted to impress girls," Bucky said, dragging himself upright by the collar of his shirt. "Nobody mentioned midnight triage and a lunatic with a microphone."

Steve gave him a crooked smile. "Welcome to Korea."

They moved with muscle memory now—boots on, shirts buttoned wrong, dog tags clinking soft warnings in the dark. As they stepped outside, the lantern behind them swung on its hook, casting long shadows over the scattered bunks, the still, and the quiet cup left behind.

Go to LadySif's Masterlist Go to Series Masterlist

[stylemydwell]

DIY Floating Shelves: A Stylish & Functional Addition to Any Room

Looking to upgrade your space with a practical yet stylish solution? DIY floating shelves are the perfect way to enhance any room—whether it’s your living room, kitchen, or bathroom. These minimalist shelves not only add extra storage, but they also elevate your home’s aesthetic with a modern touch.

Here’s everything you need to know about creating your own floating shelves!

Why Choose Floating Shelves?

Floating shelves are a sleek and contemporary storage solution that gives any room an instant upgrade. Their no-visible-brackets design makes them appear as if they’re floating on the wall, creating a clean, clutter-free look. Plus, they are versatile, making them suitable for any room in your home!

Living Room: Showcase books, plants, or decorative pieces.

Kitchen: Store spices, utensils, or coffee mugs.

Bathroom: Perfect for towels, toiletries, or candles.

What You’ll Need for This DIY Project

Wood Boards: Choose a wood type that matches your room’s style (oak, pine, or reclaimed wood are great options).

Brackets or Floating Shelf Hardware: These keep your shelf secure without visible support.

Screws & Wall Anchors: Make sure to match these with the type of wall (drywall, plaster, or brick).

Power Drill & Level: To ensure the shelves are securely mounted and level.

Paint or Stain (optional): To add a custom finish to match your décor.

Step-by-Step Guide to Building Your Floating Shelves

Step 1: Measure and Mark

Start by deciding where you want your shelves. Measure the length of the wall and mark where you want the shelves to be placed. Use a level to ensure everything is aligned.

Step 2: Cut the Wood to Size

Cut your wood boards to the desired length (most shelves are around 3-4 feet long). Sand the edges smooth for a clean finish.

Step 3: Attach Floating Shelf Hardware

Install the floating shelf brackets or shelf mounting system onto the wood. Follow the instructions that come with your hardware to ensure a secure fit.

Step 4: Mount the Shelves on the Wall

Drill holes in the wall where you’ve marked and insert the wall anchors. Then, mount the shelves onto the brackets, ensuring they are secure. Double-check with the level to make sure everything is even!

Step 5: Final Touches

If you’re using paint or stain, give your shelves a coat of finish that suits your room’s vibe. Let them dry before adding items to them.

Styling Your Floating Shelves

Once your floating shelves are up, it's time to style them! Here are some fun and creative ways to make your shelves pop:

Layering Books: Stack books vertically and horizontally for an artful look.

Greenery: Add small plants like succulents or trailing vines for a touch of nature.

Personal Touches: Display family photos, art prints, or unique collectibles.

Lighting: Consider adding small LED lights to illuminate your shelves and create a cozy ambiance.

The Bottom Line

DIY floating shelves are the perfect blend of form and function, offering a clean, modern look while maximizing your space. Whether you’re looking to organize or display your favorite items, these shelves will elevate any room in your home with a personalized touch. Ready to get started? Grab your tools, and create your own floating shelves today!

Pro Tip: Don't forget to share your finished floating shelves with your followers and inspire them with your creativity! ✨

[loudenver]

A sea of faceless people clapped Louis on the back, congratulated him, pressed their hands into his and gave it a firm shake as he made his way out of the building. He tried his best to plant a smile on his face, to exude grace and appear grateful. Things had gone well, Ivy-related disasters aside. Louis hadn't anticipated how god-fucking-awful it would be to stand in front of a camera and plaster on a fake smile for someone who hated your guts. Louis doubted there was a single good picture in the bunch, but that was really the least of his problems. All he wanted to do was go home, drink beer in front of the television and fall asleep there, ruminating in everything that had happened today.

He scanned the crowd for his single saving grace, who appeared to him in the form of a five-foot something brunette in a tight dress and chunky boots, holding a phone that seemed permenantly fused to her hand. Ava was the person who got Louis from point A to point B most days, told Louis his writing was actually worth something when he doubted everything. He didn't know what he'd do without her. When she saw Louis approach her face broke into the widest smile he had ever seen, throwing her arms around his neck.

"That was amazing! Oh my fucking God, Lou." she squealed, disentangling himself from Louis' wiry frame. She put a hand either side of his face, cupping his cheeks as pride beamed from her face. It wasn't until she saw the look on Louis' own that her brows furrowed together, fierce, protective concern washing over her features.

"What happened, hotshot?" she lowered her voice, her body providing a protective shield between Louis and the rest of the crowd. God, he loved her for that.

"I uh," Louis' voice shook, gnawing on his bottom lip. "The photographer, she's my ex's... my ex's best friend."

Ava's eyebrows shot up so high, they almost disappeared into her hairline.

"The ex?"

Louis nodded, not trusting himself to speak any further. For once, he was at a loss for words. He always knew how to conduct himself on paper, but the surprise meeting with Ivy had left him wrung out, vulnerable.

"Listen, Ava, can you find me a cigarette?" he asked, trying to ignore the way her rouged lips pressed into a thin line, the unspoken disapproval there.

"You don't smoke anymore."

Technically true, but Louis thought there should be a fucking clause in there for something like this. The 'your first love's best friend is the photographer at the launch of your career as an author' clause. Perhaps less clunkily worded. He fixed Ava with a stare, his dark brown eyes softening on her. With a haughty sigh, she reached into her bag of tricks and pulled out a pack, pressing it into Louis' palm.

"I love you." he insisted, pressing a hasty kiss to the corner of her mouth. He thought he heard her shout something along the lines of, 'just one, Lou!' before he was disappearing out the front door, into the crisp, New York air.

Pressing his back firm against the wall, Louis forced himself to take a deep breath, cold air filling his lungs as he counted, one, two, inhale, exhale. Visualised a fucking sand timer or whatever shit Emilia had him doing. He hated that it actually worked.

Soothed in the knowledge he wasn't about to have a panic attack on the clock, Louis uncurled his fingers from around the packet of cigarettes Ava had handed over. He plucked one from the pack, fingers scrabbling around for the lighter that was sure to be tucked inside. Alas, no fucking dice.

"Goddamn it." Louis hissed, his breath clouding the air. Glancing around, Louis decided to put to the test just how friendly New Yorkers were. Forcing a smile he didn't feel, Louis' boots flattened the perfectly mowed grass as he crossed the small courtyard in front of the overly impressive building, approaching a figure with his back turned to him.

"Excuse me, darlin'. Do you have a light?"