#Wilson’s Facility

[xtruss]

Wilson worker Lindsey Kiene cuts leaf-shaped panels that are tapered at both ends. These will be sewn together to make the iconic oblong shape of the football, a key feature that reduces the ball’s wake and drag.

Step Inside The Factory Where The NFL’s Footballs 🏈 🏈 🏈 Are Made

Few Have Seen Inside Wilson’s Facility where Dozens of Expert Craftspeople Meticulously Put Together a Product Whose Design Hasn’t Changed For About a Century.

— By Terry Ward | Photographs By Christopher Payne | February 9, 2024

What’s more American than cheering as your football team sends a long bomb tightly spiraling toward its end zone target? It’s a tradition that stretches back to the late 19th century.

While today’s “pigskin” is no longer made with the pig’s bladder of football’s late-1800s origins (all pro and collegiate footballs are now constructed from cowhide leather with synthetic rubber interiors), the shape and dimensions of the NFL football have remained the same for roughly 100 years.

Sewn Footballs are sent down this conveyor to the lacing department at the Wilson factory in Ada, Ohio.

Leather arrives every week from the Horween Leather Company in Chicago. The leather is stamped to give it a pebbly feel, and tiny W’s are embossed on the leather to ensure authenticity.

NFL and NFC names are stamped in foil on leather panels before being sewn together.

That the design from a century ago still perfectly suits the needs of today’s sport is a kind of “historical accident,” says Dr. Rabindra Mehta, chief of the experimental aero-physics branch at NASA Ames Research Center. “Compared to a baseball, a football is a more aerodynamic shape by design.”

Footballs are made from four individual panels of leather, leaf shaped and tapered at both ends, which are sewn together inside out. Next, the leather is steamed so that it becomes soft enough to turn right side out. An air bladder is then inserted and the football is laced together by hand.

A football’s shape is not actually a ball in the spherical sense of the word, but a prolate spheroid: oblong, with pointed ends that make it easier to grip. This shape and the way air flows around it helps the football to travel great distances.

The panels move to the stitchers, like Stephen Brownlow here, who sew the panels into halves and then sew the halves together with heavy brown polyester thread to make an inside-out football. Sewing them inside out makes the seam invisible and more durable.

Characteristics of the football’s surface–including the pebbling of the leather, the stitching of the panels, and the laces themselves–also allow airflow to stay attached longer and minimize drag, compared to something spherical like a baseball ⚾️.

Picture a baseball traveling right, with air traveling past, moving left—this would be what’s called laminar flow, where air travels in a regular, smooth path. In a controlled environment (like a wind tunnel) the airflow would go straight left until it meets the ball, where it bends around until it reaches the “far side” of the ball (this point is called the “apex”). Then the air returns to traveling straight left, past the ball, without touching that far side of the ball 🏀 ⚽️ .

When this happens, there’s a pressure difference between the front and back of the sphere which results in drag, the force that slows the ball down as it’s flying through the air. Golf ball manufacturers tackle this on spherical golf balls by dimpling the ball’s surface to help airflow stay attached longer, reducing drag, therefore letting the ball fly farther.

Keaton Miller, a turner, has the strenuous task of turning the ball right side out. To make the job easier, they use a steam box to loosen the leather and a pneumatic hammer to make the pointed ends more pliable before it is reversed forcibly by hand on a metal pole.

Left: The turner finishes by rolling the seams on the pole to flatten them out. An experienced turner can do this in about 30 seconds.

Right: These Wilson GST balls, the official ball of over 180 NCAA programs and 54 high school football state associations, are ready for lacing.

The thin layer of air on the ball’s surface is called a boundary layer, and a turbulent boundary layer creates turbulent flow—where a football’s design shines. Air meeting a football, with its textured surface and curved shape, would flow around the ball, staying attached longer to its surface than it can on a baseball’s. If the air is flowing left (and the ball is moving right) the air will move up, left, and down along the football’s bowed surface.

While the air may not hug a football’s curves all the way across, airflow does remain attached past its apex, resulting in a minimal wake and less drag. On a baseball, the air only makes a connection on half the ball, creating more of a wake and drag.

Drag can be “challenging to predict, particularly in odd-shaped objects like a football,” says Anette (Peko) Hosoi, Pappalardo professor of mechanical engineering at MIT. Drag depends on the shape of the wake, which, in a football, can vary depending on such factors as its orientation through the air, the velocity at which its thrown, and surface roughness.

Left: Nicole Tedrow, a lacer, inserts a polypropylene bladder into the ball and pushes a nipple through a small hole so the ball can be inflated. The lacers use an awl to pull the laces through the holes and close up the football.

Right: The final step is molding. Nearly completed footballs are placed inside a pressurized chamber that molds them to the correct, uniform shape, removing any residual lumps, crinkles, or rough edges, and inflates them to their correct pressure at 12.5 – 13.5 Psi.

Density of the surrounding air–a function of air temperature–also affects the boundary layer of a football and in turn its aerodynamics, Hosoi says.

“Warm air is less dense than cold air. If the air is less dense, there is less drag, so footballs may fly further on warmer days,” she says, adding that the phenomenon has been well documented in baseball, which clocks more home runs during hot and humid weather than the contrary.

A tight, spiraled throw wobbling not at all is indeed a thing of beauty, no matter the weather around it.

”The axis of the spin is aligned with the direction the ball will go,” says Mehta, likening it to the way a bullet flies. ”That’s what the quarterbacks are really good at doing.”

Left: These are the actual footballs that will be used in Super Bowl LVIII. The official balls are waiting to be stamped with the winning team logos pending the outcome of the AFC and NFC Championships, and shipped out early so the teams will be able to practice with them.

Right: These cut brass dies were used to emboss the Super Bowl LV logo in 2020.

[boxboysandotherwhump]

Sam on the drip. (Sam signs pt. 2)

Taglist: @vickytokio @ashintheairlikesnow @thefancydoughnut @malcolmisthebrightestboy @redwingedwhump @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @finder-of-rings @orchidscript @hackles-up @generoushelpingofwhump @sad-boys-anonymous @whump-it @whumpsday

CW: weird wru fuckery, creepy handlers, nudity

Mister Wilson enters the tiny back office Sam finishes the paperwork in, a plate of pretzel rolls in one hand and a can of coke in the other. 

“Here, eat up little one.” 

Sam stops writing. The pen bleeds a tiny spot of blue ink into the cheap printer paper, right in the middle of a half finished word. 

Designation preference: Plat   Romant-

There is a spot of ink next to the brown flaky blood stain from early tonight. “I’m not hungry.”

Mister Wilson puts the plate down in front of him, right atop the questionnaire. “Trust me, little one. You’ll want to have something in your stomach when we start the drip. A wipe is no walk in the park.” 

“I thought- I-” Sam swallows, his throat suddenly sandpaper dry. “Will it, uhm, will it, like- hurt?”

With a scrape of table legs over the linoleum floor, Wilson sits down, eyebrows raised in a comical customer service smile. “All the products wru uses in training are tried, tested and one hundred percent cruelty free. Is what I’m supposed to tell you, but to be honest kid- I have no bloody idea. The only thing I do know is that your body will fight it. No matter how bad you wanna get rid of your past, turns out the subconscious is a little bitch latching onto existence, no matter what.”

“Hey there, little one, don’t cry. Tell you what, no matter how rough it gets, once you wake up you won’t remember a thing of it. We will have a great time training together and then it goes straight to your new life. Destination happiness with no pit stops, alright?”  

Sam rubs at his eyes furiously enough an eyelash comes loose and sticks to his thumb. 

“I’m not crying.” he sniffs and adds, hesitating, “Do you promise? That it’ll be alright, after.”

He feels stupid, like when he was small and stuck in summer camp, too afraid to join the night hike so a counselor had to comfort him, holding his hand during the entire hike. 

“Pinky promise.” Mister Wilson beams and taps the pretzel roll plate. “But now, eat up.”

When Sam reaches for the plate he notices the eyelash. Face growing hot with embarrassment he closes his eyes, purses his lips and makes a wish.

Please let me be happy.

When his eyes flutter open, Mister Wilson's face is so close to Sam’s,  his breath tickles the tip of Sam’s nose. 

“Good, you’re adorable.” 

Flushing a deeper shade of red, Sam grabs a pretzel roll and stuffs it into his mouth, choking on the too large bite. 

“M not.”

Tossing his head back, Mister Wilson erupts in warm rich laughter that does nothing to help calm Sam’s nerves. “Let me decide what you are.”

Guess, that's the idea here. Sam stuffs his face with another pretzel roll, flushing his meal down with the coke. After the last crumb is dutifully eaten, Mister Wilson puts the contract down in front of him. 

“Sign here and we can get going.” 

Barely looking Sam scrawls his signature onto the dotted line and gets up. A shaky inhale. “Kay. Let's do this.” 

They have to switch elevators twice until they finally reach the ground level, where the training rooms are. The hallways are a winding maze of white walls and cold air. Every step they take echoes, Sam’s sneakers a soft pat next to the harsh click of Mister Wilson's boots. 

More clicking comes from behind a corner. Another handler emerges, grinning at the sight of Sam.

“Wilson. You got another trainee?”

“Sure do.”

Halting in front of them, the handler smiles down at Sam: “Number and designation?”

“Uhm.” Sam falters and sees the smile slip from the handler's face.

“He doesn’t have a number yet.” Wilson interjects. “We’re just on our way to the wipe.” 

“Oh, well that explains the clothes.” The handler yawns. “My bad, shorty. Guess my brain’s still half asleep. Have fun.”

“Ah, uhm, thank you?”  

Chuckling, Wilson tells Sam not to mind his colleague while they make their way down the hall. When they enter the room where Sam will be erased for good, his heart beats so fast he fears to pass out. 

It’s oddly warm in the near empty room. The entire thing is tiled in white ceramic, glittering under the fluorescent lights. There are some cabinets on one wall, and a small freezer.  In its center stands a padded stretcher, restraints dangling from it to fix someone's feet and hands in place. Next to it, the drip. Mister Wilsons hits the power button on it and gestures to a bench near the entrance. 

“Strip and put your clothes there. I’ll give you a uniform in a sec.”

Sam does as he’s told, hands shaking as they pull his cat shirt up over his head. The kitty's face in its center is weirdly deformed, staring up at him one eyed from where he tossed it on the bench.  Everything had happened so fast after that fight, Sam had really run to WRU still wearing his pajama shirt. Headless, panicked. He hadn’t thought this through at all. 

Behind him, Wilson pulled a bag from a freezer, hooked it up to the Iv-machine. 

Sam really just signed his life away in a frumpy, fucking cat pajama. A hysterical laugh bubbles up his throat but all that comes out is a sob. 

Tears roll down his eyes as he yanks down his shorts and tosses them on the bench. 

Mister Wilson looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Do you want a sedative to take the edge off?”

Fists shaking at his sides, Sam nods, earning a humoring smile from Mister Wilson. It doesn’t escape Sam how Wilsons eyes linger on his crotch. 

“What?”Sam hisses, shame and rage and panic chasing each other in circles inside his head until the room spins around him. He flops down on the bench, knees pressed together to hide from Wilsons curious eyes.

“I’m only surprised you have a dick and a-”

“I’m inter.” Sam snaps, curling up on the bench, protecting his naked body from Mister Wilson's eyes. Boots click click click over the tile floor and a warm hand finds its way into Sam’s hair, down behind his ear, where it starts to gently rub over soft skin.

Sam blinks up, new tears falling.

“Hey now. It’s a really great surprise, if that's any relief.”

A watery laugh escapes Sam upon the absurdity of it all. 

“I’ve never trained an inter pet, but I’m looking forward to it. What makes you tick,” his hand brushes over Sam’s cheek nearly touching his lips, wanders further up, gently tugging a curl behind his ear. “What makes you feel good.”

Breath catches in Sam’s throat.

Smiling, Wilson hands Sam a pair of black shorts. They are soft under Sam’s fingertips as he slips into them hastily. He eats a tiny white pill from Wilsons fingertips and the harsh white world of WRU’s training facility grows fuzzy around the edges. His thoughts slow down, flashes of fear and anger getting lost in the fog. 

A warm rough hand wraps around his wrist and pulls him forward. Climbing onto the stretcher is difficult with his limbs hanging by his sides like heavy noodles but with Mister Wilson's help, he manages. 

When Wilson grabs one of the Mitts with a rattle of chains, Sam whimpers and pulls his hands under his chin.  

Wilson smiles. “These are only to protect you from hurting yourself when the drug hits.”

Another whimper. Wilson grabs one of Sam’s hands, gentle but steady and forces them into the Mitt. 

“Don’t forget little one, you signed up for this.”

Head lulling Sam mumbles: “Though’ forgettin’ s the point of t’is.”

Grabbing Sam’s other hand, Wilson grins. “I can’t wait to start our training.”

With his feet buckled in tightly and his arm cleaned, the preparations are done. The needle glints in Wilsons now gloved hands. Sam turns his head, eyes shutting so tight stars dance behind them.

His arm is grabbed, hands squeezing in gentle affection. “Ready?”

A shaky nod. A quiet whimper. 

Steel breaks his skin, the needle slides home. 

A heartbeat, freezing liquid floods his veins. Another, his brain melts into weeping white. 

No past.

No future.

No dreams. 

No self.

White noise. 

[trapangeles]

Lil Durk Arrested on Federal “Murder-for-Hire” Charge in Connection to Death of Quando Rondo’s Cousin Lul Pab

Broward County, FL— In a dramatic turn of events, Grammy-nominated rapper Lil Durk, born Durk Derrick Banks, has been taken into custody by U.S. Marshals and is being held at Broward County Correctional Facility in Florida. He faces extradition to California, where federal authorities have leveled a serious charge of "murder for hire" against him. The high-profile case is linked to the death of Lul Pab, cousin to fellow rapper Quando Rondo, in what prosecutors describe as a violent, retaliatory act related to the 2020 death of Chicago rapper King Von.

The Allegations: A Retaliation Plot for King Von's Death

Federal prosecutors in California announced the indictment on Thursday, revealing that the charge stems from an August 2022 incident in Los Angeles in which Quando Rondo’s cousin, known as Lul Pab, was fatally shot. Prosecutors claim the motive is rooted in the November 2020 altercation in Atlanta, where King Von, a close associate of Lil Durk and an influential figure in Chicago’s drill music scene, was shot and killed by Lul Timm, a known associate of Quando Rondo, after a brawl broke out.

Authorities allege that Lil Durk’s group, known as OTF (Only The Family), orchestrated a plot to exact revenge for King Von's death. The indictment suggests that OTF members sought retribution by placing a bounty on Quando Rondo’s head, an alleged conspiracy to commit murder for hire aimed at avenging their fallen friend.

Federal Indictment and the OTF Connection

Five men reportedly affiliated with Lil Durk's OTF label have also been indicted on conspiracy charges for their involvement in the alleged murder-for-hire plot. Those named in the grand jury indictment include:

Kavon London Grant (aka "Vonnie")

Deandre Dontrell Wilson (aka "DeDe")

Keith Jones (aka "Flacka")

David Brian Lindsey (aka "Browneyez")

Asa Houston (aka "Boogie")

According to prosecutors, these individuals used a credit card associated with the OTF label to fund their travels from Chicago to California. Court documents allege they booked flights to Los Angeles after discovering Quando Rondo's whereabouts, intent on carrying out a targeted attack on him. The group reportedly coordinated with precision to locate and ultimately eliminate their target, prosecutors claim.

A Long Shadow Cast by King Von’s Death

The 2020 murder of King Von had a profound impact on Chicago’s music scene and the personal lives of those closest to him. In the wake of his death, tensions between affiliated groups in Atlanta and Chicago escalated, setting off a chain of violent encounters. Authorities suggest that the August 2022 shooting was fueled by those same tensions, framing it as a calculated and highly organized act of retribution by individuals still deeply affected by Von's passing.

The timing of this indictment and Lil Durk’s arrest has already sparked significant discussion and debate across social media, particularly within the hip-hop community. The legal repercussions and public scrutiny surrounding this case highlight the ongoing violence that has affected many artists and the far-reaching impacts of these rivalries.

Awaiting Extradition and Legal Proceedings

Lil Durk now awaits extradition from Broward County to California, where he will face federal charges in connection to the case. The indictment against him, coupled with his ties to the alleged OTF conspirators, marks a pivotal moment in his career and may have significant legal implications for the influential Chicago-based rapper. If convicted on the murder-for-hire charge, the penalties could be severe, with potential sentences ranging up to life in prison.

The Ongoing Impact on Hip-Hop and Street Culture

This high-stakes legal case is another reminder of the intersection between the music industry and street culture, with both fans and artists deeply invested in the unfolding narrative. Lil Durk’s arrest underscores the cyclical violence that continues to plague the hip-hop community, especially within the competitive drill scene. This case serves as a stark example of how past incidents can continue to influence and shape the lives and careers of those involved, often with tragic outcomes.

Have you been spending all your money and time on making music and shooting videos, but still not getting any exposure? Tired of just spinning your wheels? You know to get exposure you need to get featured on blogs, radio stations, playlist, and get your music e-mail blasted out to the masses. Need help getting all that done? Then check out the Package we’ve made available for you below!

Like & Listen To Our Spotify Playlist

trapLAXradio On The Air Now!

The Latest Music, Videos, News, Entertainment……

[karmaspidr]

I'm trying to think of a title for an AU where Matt Murdock adopts Laura Kinney after Fisk hires her to assassinate Daredevil.

That's pretty much the gist of it. No fancy narrative. Just Matt trying to be a dad to an under-aged killing machine with the evil science people looking for a way to get her back. Also maybe throw in Peter Parker for good measure.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Just Sam and Bucky, giving Sarah, Cass, and AJ a tour of the new Avengers’ campus.

[allpromarlo]

zach wilson looks like a christmas elf

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.5

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: After years of brutal torture by Francis, Y/N finally escaped, fighting her way out of the lab and fleeing into the dense woods. Each step was a struggle, but she knew she couldn't stop. With the guards on her heels, she disappeared into the shadows, determined to reclaim her life.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 3640

The slums were from now on her home. Y/n had escaped from the clutches of the facility, but the scars of her past- both mental and physical- were still engraved deeply in her body. The nights were the hardest, when the world around her was quiet and the memories screamed the loudest. She lived in a cramped, old apartment, the flickering neon lights outside her window casting shadows on the walls.

It had been weeks since her escape, weeks of hiding and laying low, blending into the filthiness of the city. Here, she was just another face in the crowd, another soul struggling to survive. But she was different. She could feel the darkness within her, the uncontrollable power that surged through her veins. She had to find a way to control it, to suppress it before it consumed her.

Y/n spent her days looking for information, piecing together bits of knowledge about mutants, about powers like hers. She searched through the back alleys and seedy bars, listening to rumors and whispered conversations. Slowly, she began to understand the nature of her abilities, the twisted gift that had been forced upon her. But understanding was not enough. She needed control.

One night, in a ed bar that reeked of sweat and stale beer, Y/n finally found a lead. She had been sitting at the counter, nursing a glass of cheap whiskey, when she overheard a conversation between two men at the next table. They spoke in low tones, their words slurred from alcohol, but Y/n's ears caught every word.

"Essex House... that place was a nightmare," one of the men muttered, his face half-hidden in the shadows. "They did some real messed up shit there."

The other man, a burly figure with a ashen beard, nodded grimly. "I heard they had a way to control mutants. Some kind of device."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat. She leaned closer, pretending to adjust her coat as she listened.

"Yeah, I know a guy who used to work there," the bearded man continued. "Big guy, real quiet. He hangs around here sometimes."

Y/n did not waste any time. She slid over to their table, her movements smooth. "Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice low and steady.

The men exchanged a glance, then shrugged. "Sure, why not?" the bearded man said, gesturing to the empty seat.

Y/n sat down, fixing them with a piercing gaze. "I couldn't help but overhear. You mentioned Essex House. I'm looking for someone who worked there. A guard, maybe?"

The first man, looked her up and down suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"Let's just say I'm looking for answers," Y/n replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. "If you can help me, I'd appreciate it."

The bearded man scratched his chin, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know his name, but he's usually around here. I'd be careful, though. He doesn't like to be bothered."

"Point him out," Y/n she said, her eyes scanning the bar.

The bearded man nodded toward the far corner, where a large figure sat hunched over the bar, nursing a drink. "That's him."

Y/n followed his gaze and saw the man- a huge, muscled frame with a shaved head and a face that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of violence. He was a mountain of a man, his broad shoulders hunched over as he downed another shot of whiskey. There was a darkness about him, an aura of danger that warned others to keep their distance.

Y/n thanked the men and made her way toward the bar, her eyes never leaving the figure in the corner. She did not approach him directly, instead choosing to observe him from a distance, waiting for the right moment. 

The man continued to drink heavily, oblivious to the world around him. It was not long before he started to show signs of drunkenness- his movements sloppy, his head nodding as if fighting off sleep.

Now. This was her chance.

Y/n moved swiftly, her steps silent on the worn wooden floor. She slipped behind the man, her hand reaching into her coat to retrieve a small vial of chloroform and a cloth. In one fluid motion, she pressed the cloth over the man's face, her other arm locking around his throat.

The man struggled, his instincts kicking in despite his drunken state, but Y/n was quick and precise. Within seconds, his body went limp, his heavy frame slumping against the bar.

She wasted no time. With the strength born from desperation, Y/n dragged the unconscious man out of the bar, navigating through the back alleys until she reached her hideout.

The basement of an abandoned building, it was cold and damp, the walls lined with old newspapers and broken furniture. She had set up a small, makeshift interrogation room- just a chair and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Y/n tied the man to the chair, securing his wrists and ankles with thick rope. She stood back, her heart pounding as she waited for him to wake up. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, her hands shaking slightly as she paced the room.

Finally, the man moved slightly, his dazed eyes blinking against the harsh light. He groaned, tugging at the ropes before realizing he was restrained. Panic flickered across his face as he looked around, his gaze settling on Y/n, who stood before him with a cold, determined expression.

"What the hell—?" he began, his voice stammered from the lingering effects of the chloroform.

"Shut up," Y/n snapped, stepping closer. "I'm the one asking questions. You're going to answer them."

The man's eyes narrowed, anger replacing his initial fear. "You've got no idea who you're messing with."

"Oh, I think I do," Y/n replied, her voice icy. "You used to work at Essex House. You were a guard there."

The man's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Y/n's patience was wearing thin. She had spent too long hiding, too long searching for answers, to be stonewalled by this brute. She leaned in, her face inches from his, her voice low and menacing.

"Don't lie to me," she hissed. "I know what they did in that place. The experiments, the torture. I know about the children. If you think I'm bluffing, you're sorely mistaken."

The man's boldness stopped for a moment, but he quickly recovered, sneering at her. "You don't know shit."

Her hand moved faster than he could react, striking him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"I said, don't lie to me!" Y/n shouted, her voice trembling with fury. "I know what kind of monster you are. I know what you did to those kids. Now tell me about the device that suppresses mutant powers."

The man spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at her aggressively. "Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

Y/n's fist connected with his jaw again, this time with more force. The man groaned, his head lolling forward as he struggled to stay conscious.

"You have no idea what I've been through," Y/n said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The things I've seen, the pain I've endured. If you think for one second that I won't make you suffer, you're dead wrong. Now, talk."

The man's resolve began to crumble under the weight of her words, the fear returning to his eyes. He took a heavy breath, finally giving in.

"There's a wristband," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "It was designed to suppress mutant powers. But that place... it's gone. Some kid blew it up, the whole building came down."

Y/n's heart raced as she absorbed his words. "Where can I find one?"

The man hesitated, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for a way out. Finally, he sighed in defeat.

"Maybe there's still some in the storage rooms beneath the building. But it's dangerous. The whole place is crawling with security, even now."

Y/n stared at him for a long moment, her mind racing. She had what she needed, but the anger still burned within her, the memories of those children haunting her every thought.

"And one more thing," the man added, his voice a broken whisper. "There were others involved in that explosion. A man in a red and black suit... mutants from the X-Men... and some scary guy with a teddy bear."

The mention of the man in the red and black suit made Y/n's blood run cold. Wade. The man responsible for her suffering. But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"Thank you," she said coldly, before slamming her fist into his face one last time. The man's head snapped back, and he slumped in the chair, unconscious.

"You deserve much more, you little piece of shit," Y/n muttered, her voice thick with disgust. She untied him and dragged him out to a nearby street, leaving him there to be found. She had no use for him anymore.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

The ruins of Essex House stood before Y/n like a tombstone, a monument to the atrocities that had taken place within its walls. The once impressive structure was now a gutted shell, its walls burned and crumbling, overtaken by creeping vines and nature's slow reclamation. The air was thick with the stench of decay and rot, a fitting aura for a place that had been a living nightmare for so many.

Y/n moved silently through the rubble, her senses heightened, every sound increased in the stillness of the night. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long, sinister shadows that danced across the broken ground. 

She had checked out the area earlier, avoiding the main entrances, which were still patrolled by security teams guarding whatever was left in the aftermath of the explosion, a few months ago. She needed to find the storage rooms beneath the building, where the guard had said the wristbands might still be.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she walked through a craggy opening in the wall, her eyes scanning the darkened interior. The building's skeleton remains were a labyrinth of broken beams and collapsed ceilings, the floors plastered with rubble and shattered glass. Every step was a calculated risk, the floorboards creaking ominously beneath her weight.

Y/n made her way down a long corridor, the walls covered in peeling paint and faded sceneries that had once depicted happy, smiling children- an ironic touch for a place that had been anything but.

Her breath stuck in the throat like there's a blockage as she approached a large door at the end of the corridor, its frame cracked and splintered. The guard's words echoed in her mind, urging her forward. She pushed the door open, and stepped into a vast chamber that had once been a laboratory.

Y/n's breath stopped as her eyes landed on the twisted metal chair in the center of the room. It was unmistakable- a torture device designed to restrain and torment its victims. The cold steel of the torture chair, the searing pain of electric currents coursing through her body. The sight of it brought a wave of nausea crashing over her, memories of her own time in such a chair flooding her mind, the mocking laughter of Francis as he watched her suffer in agony.

Flashback

She was strapped to the chair, her wrists bound with cold, hard metal. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and blood. Francis stood before her, his cold eyes glinting with sadistic glee. He was dressed in his usual black combat gear and white coat, his arms folded as he watched her struggle against the restraints.

"Ready for another round, sweetheart?" he sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She was drenched in sweat, her body trembling from the aftershocks of the last session. She had lost count of how many times he had done this to her, how many times he had pushed her to the brink of death, only to pull her back and start again.

"Please... no more," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Francis chuckled, his laughter a cruel, grating sound that echoed in the small room. "Oh, I'm just getting started," he said, reaching for the control panel beside the chair. His fingers danced over the buttons, and a low hum filled the air as the machine powered up.

Y/n's eyes widened in fear as the currents of electricity surged through her body, her muscles spasming uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable, like being ripped apart from the inside. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, but there was no one to hear her, no one to save her.

Francis watched with detached amusement, his expression one of mild curiosity. "You know, it's fascinating," he mused, his voice calm and measured. "Watching how much pain a person can endure before they break. You're tougher than most, I'll give you that."

Her vision blurred as the pain reached a crescendo, her mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. But she held on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She had to survive, had to escape, no matter what it took.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the currents stopped, and Y/n slumped in the chair, her body limp and exhausted. Francis leaned in close, his face inches from hers.

"Don't worry, darling," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "We'll keep doing this until you learn to behave."

Present

Y/n snapped back to the present, her hands trembling as she stared at the torture chair. The memories were like a vice around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. But she could not afford to break down now, not when she was so close. She forced herself to move, to search the room for the wristband.

The storage room was hidden behind a steel door, half-buried under rubble. Y/n unlocked it with a crowbar she had found earlier, using all her strength to pull the door free. Inside, she found a small, windowless room lined with shelves. Dust coated everything, the air stale and suffocating. She searched through the shelves, her hands moving frantically as she searched for the device.

Finally, her fingers closed around a small, sleek wristband, its surface smooth and cold to the touch. This was it- the device that could suppress her powers, that could give her the control she so desperately needed.

But as she pulled the wristband from the shelf, a shrill alarm pierced the air, the sound reverberating through the building. Panic surged through Y/n as she realized she had triggered a security system, her heart racing as the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the halls.

She had to get out, and fast.

Y/n bolted from the storage room, clutching the wristband tightly in her hand. She sprinted down the corridor, her mind a blur as she searched for an escape route. The footsteps were getting closer, the shouts of guards filling the air.

She spotted a window at the end of the hall, its glass cracked but still intact. Without hesitation, she launched herself at it, her shoulder slamming into the glass. The window shattered with a deafening crash, and Y/n tumbled through the opening, her body twisting in midair.

The world spun around her as she rolled to her feet, glass shards cutting into her skin. But there was no time to stop, no time to recover her injuries. The guards were right behind her.

Y/n ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she sprinted through the darkened streets. The sounds of pursuit faded into the distance, but she did not stop. She could not stop. Not until she was safe.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she slowed to a halt, her body aching and exhausted. She had made it. She had escaped, and she had the wristband. But as she stood there, alone in the shadows, the memories of Essex House lingered in her mind, a reminder of the horrors she had endured- and the revenge she would soon unleash.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Y/n sat in her dimly lit hideout, the cold, metal wristband clasped tightly in her hand. She had waited for this moment, the promise of control over her powers finally within her grasp. With a deep breath, she slipped the wristband onto her wrist. A series of tiny, almost inaudible clicks signaled its activation. She felt a slight hum of energy ripple through her body, a sensation that was both foreign and strangely comforting.

"Okay, Y/n," she whispered to herself, her voice barely more than a murmur in the silence. "Time to see if this thing really works."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she picked up a small, sharp knife. She took a moment to steel herself before pressing the blade against the palm of her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she drew the knife across her skin, wincing as a thin line of blood welled up. She braced herself for the familiar agony of her powers activating, but to her astonishment, the pain remained localized. The cut did not heal as it usually would.

"It works," she breathed, a mix of relief and awe in her voice. "It actually works."

She wrapped her hand in a bandage, her mind already racing with the possibilities. For the first time in years, she felt like she had a measure of control over her life, over her destiny. She was not just a victim of her circumstances; she could be the master of them.

Over the next two years, Y/n threw herself into training with a passion that bordered on obsession. She perfected her combat skills, mastering various martial arts and weapons. She trained with knives, guns, and swords, each session pushing her limits further. Her hideout became a makeshift dojo, littered with training equipment and weapons of all kinds.

Her reputation in the slums grew as she took on hitman jobs to fund her training. She became a ghost, an unseen force of retribution for those who could not fight back.

One evening, she was approached by a woman with bruised arms and tear-streaked cheeks.

"Please," the woman begged, her voice trembling. "My husband... he beats me. I can't take it anymore. Please, make him stop."

Y/n looked into the woman's eyes, seeing the same helplessness and desperation she had felt so many times before. "What's his name?" she asked quietly.

"Jack. Jack Thompson. He works at the docks," the woman replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n nodded. "Consider it done. He won't hurt you again."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Two years had passed since Y/n had escaped from Francis, two years of relentless training and hard-earned survival. She decided it was time to visit her own grave, a symbolic gesture to honour the person she once was. She made her way to a small flower shop, her mind set on finding the perfect bloom.

As she approached the counter to pay for a single white lily, she saw a woman laughing and chatting with the shopkeeper. The sight made her freeze. It was Vanessa. Alive and well, her smile as bright as ever. Y/n's heart clenched painfully in her chest, pulling her hood that covered her face even more down. She quickly paid for the flower and fled the shop, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and anger.

She reached her grave, a simple, unadorned headstone with her name etched into the cold marble. The vase next to it was empty.

"I see," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Forgotten and abandoned, even in death."

She knelt down, placing the lily in the empty vase. "I can't remember my old self," she said softly, tears welling in her eyes. "She truly did die, as well as her trust in you."

Her thoughts turned dark as she slowly stood up. Wade had saved Vanessa, she realized, her mind piecing together the puzzle with cold clarity.

He must have used Cable's time travel device during the Mutant Rehabilitation incident to go back and save her... but he left me to die.

As she turned and walked away from the grave, she could feel a rising tide of hatred surging within her, anger directed at Wade for abandoning her, for choosing Vanessa over her.

Later that evening, Wade approached the same grave. He was dressed in his red and black costume, the weight of his grief and guilt heavy on his shoulders. In his hand, he held a brand-new flower and a polished vase. He had not missed a single visit, always coming back to this lonely, forgotten corner of the cemetery to leave a token of his sorrow and love.

As he knelt down to place the new flower in the vase, he noticed the fresh lily already there, wilting slightly in the cold night air.

"Who...?" Wade muttered to himself, confusion furrowing his brow. He looked around, but the cemetery was empty and silent.

He placed his own flower beside the lily, a pang of sadness piercing his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the grave. "I'm so damn sorry."

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the headstone as if willing it to give him some sort of answer, some sign that she knew he had not given up on her, that he still mourned her every day.

But the silence of the graveyard offered no reunion, only deepened the gap of misunderstanding that was growing between them, unseen and unspoken.

As Y/n made her way back through the slums, her mind was a storm of emotions. She was determined now, fueled by a dark purpose. She had been forgotten, left to rot in the shadows while Wade had moved on, living his best life with Vanessa.

A twisted sense of revenge began to take root in her heart, and she knew that the next time she crossed paths with Wade, it would be on her terms. And when that day came, there would be a reckoning.

[pretzel-box]

Tags: Fluff, Established Relationship, GN!Reader, Marriage, just wholesome, Sebastian is starstruck about reader

Words: 1,7k

Authors Note: Song fic! Song today: Stay by Ghost feat Patrick Wilson [I really love Ghost]

I thought about my boyfriend while writing this, pls don't tell him!

If this world is wearing thin.

And you're thinking of escape.

I'll go anywhere with you.

Time had no meaning in a place where the sun didn’t shine and the moon held no sway, where even the distant glimmer of the stars was swallowed by the endless, wet depths of the facility. Days blurred into one another, indistinguishable, as the relentless march of hours became a meaningless cycle. Yesterday bled into today, and tomorrow would arrive, indistinct from the days that had come before. Time was a ghost, an illusion, in a place where nothing changed and nothing could change.

But none of it mattered. It never would. Not when you stood there, bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of his lure. The pale light caressed your features, casting gentle shadows on your face, highlighting the curve of your smile—the smile that was so heartbreakingly genuine, so full of warmth and affection that it made the cold, oppressive atmosphere of the facility seem almost bearable.

Sebastian couldn’t take his eyes off you, the way you seemed to defy the darkness that surrounded you both. There was something otherworldly about the way you looked in this moment, as if the glow of his lure was meant only for you, as if it existed to illuminate the small, precious space you shared with him. The facility, with all its horrors, faded into the background. The walls, the steel, the constant hum of the machinery—it all became distant, insignificant. There was only you and the light, a moment suspended in time, untouched by the cruelty of the world beyond.

The air was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of emotions too deep to name. Sebastian could feel it, the way his heart ached at the sight of you, the way it stirred with something unfamiliar and yet undeniably present. It wasn’t just the affection he saw in your smile, but the way you stood so close, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from you, close enough that the darkness seemed afraid to touch you.

In that moment, time truly had no meaning. The past, with all its pain and regret, was a distant memory. The future, uncertain and unknown, held no power here. All that mattered was now, was this—the light, the smile, and the silent understanding that passed between you.

Sebastian’s heart beat slowly, heavily, as if time itself had decided to take a breath. He wanted to reach out, to touch you, to close the distance that still lingered between you. But he didn’t move, afraid to shatter the delicate balance of the moment. Instead, he let himself simply exist here, with you, in the soft glow of the lure’s light.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt something like peace. It was fragile, and he knew it wouldn’t last—not here, not in a place where time had no meaning and every day was a battle to survive. But for now, it was enough. Enough to keep him standing, enough to keep him fighting. Enough to remind him that even in the darkest places, there was still light.

And you were that light.

Just wrap me up in chains.

But if you try to go alone.

Don't think I will understand.

"Stay," he begged that day, his voice breaking as the words escaped his lips. His hands, usually so steady, reached out to you with a desperation that shook him to his core. The rough texture of his palms, calloused from years of struggle and survival, felt softer in that moment, imbued with the tenderness and love he held for you.

"Stay with me."

It wasn’t just a plea; it was a confession, raw and unguarded. Sebastian, the one who had always seemed unbreakable, was now standing before you, exposed and vulnerable. His eyes, usually hard and calculating, were filled with an emotion so deep and profound that it made your heart ache.

He wanted to hold you, to keep you close, to shield you from the relentless darkness of the world you both inhabited. The love he had tried so hard to keep hidden, to bury beneath layers of pride and fear, now flowed freely in his voice, in the tremble of his hands as he reached for you.

You could feel the warmth of his touch, the way his fingers curled around yours with a gentle yet urgent grip. It was as if he was afraid that if he let go, even for a second, you would slip away, lost to the void that constantly threatened to consume you both.

There was a depth to his words that went beyond the simple request. It was a cry from a soul that had known too much pain, too much loss. A soul that had found something worth holding onto, something worth fighting for in the midst of all the chaos and despair.

The world outside was cold, unforgiving. But here, in this small, fragile moment, there was warmth. There was hope. There was love. And all Sebastian wanted was to keep that light burning, to keep you by his side, even if it meant laying bare his heart in a way he never had before.

He didn’t want to lose you—not now, not ever. And in that plea, in the way his hands trembled as they held onto yours, you saw the truth: Sebastian wasn’t just asking you to stay physically. He was asking you to stay in his life, in his heart, to be the anchor that kept him grounded in a world that constantly threatened to tear him apart.

“Stay with me.”

In the silence of your room.

In the darkness of your dreams.

You must only think of me.

Sebastian couldn’t tear his gaze away. You stood before him, a vision so ethereal that it felt as if time itself had stopped, allowing him to take in every detail of this moment. The faint flicker of his lure cast a soft glow around you, making the scene almost surreal—like a painting brought to life.

Your makeshift veil, though simple and worn, had an elegance that transcended its humble origins. It draped over your head and shoulders with a delicate grace, fluttering slightly in the faint breeze that whispered through the corridors of the facility. Despite the thin layer of dust that clung to the fabric, it shimmered faintly, catching the light in a way that made you appear almost otherworldly.

He noticed the blush on your cheeks, the soft pink that betrayed your flustered state. It was a contrast to the cold, lifeless surroundings—so full of life, so human. It made his heart ache with a longing he could barely comprehend. The ribbons in your hair, torn from old bandages, held a bittersweet charm, a reminder of the harsh world you both inhabited, yet they were transformed into something beautiful in your hands. You had a way of doing that—of taking the broken, the discarded, and turning it into something to be cherished.

The bouquet of withered lilies and roses you held was the final touch, a symbol of something fragile yet enduring, something that had withstood the test of time and adversity. Even in their faded state, the flowers carried a poignant beauty, much like the resilience you both had shown through everything.

To Sebastian, you were divinity incarnate. You outshone the stars, made the sun's brightness seem pale in comparison. In this moment, you were everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever needed. Every part of him, every fiber of his being, was drawn to you, consumed by the love he could no longer keep hidden. You were his.

He could hardly breathe as he looked at you, his chest tight with the overwhelming emotions that threatened to spill over. You were his—his muse, his anchor, his reason for fighting in a world that had given him so little. And in this moment, as you stood before him, the embodiment of all that was good and pure, he knew that he could never let you go.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them. They were raw, unpolished, but they were the truth. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently touched the veil, the fabric soft beneath his fingers. It was a tender, almost reverent gesture, as if he were afraid that anything more might shatter the delicate beauty of the moment.

His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw everything he couldn’t say—the depth of his love, the fears he carried, the hope that you could be his salvation. He had always been the one to protect, to shield you from the horrors of the world, but here, now, it was you who held the power. The power to heal, to bring light into the darkness that had been his life for so long.

“I never thought…” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “that I could feel like this. That someone like you could…could see me, really see me, and still be here.”

He swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. But how could he? How could he express the torrent of emotions that flooded his heart every time he looked at you? All he could do was stand there, trembling under the weight of his love for you, hoping—praying—that you understood.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. The cold, the darkness, the fear—it all faded away, leaving only the two of you, bathed in the soft light of his lure. You were his universe, his everything. And as he looked into your eyes, he knew that, no matter what the future held, he would fight for this—for you—for the chance to hold onto the one thing that made his existence bearable.

You had become his light in the darkest of places, and he would spend every moment he had left proving that he could be worthy of such a gift.

There can be no inbetween.

When your pride is on the floor.

I'll make you beg for more.

You promised to marry him all those years ago. Those weren't just words but the assurance that you would never leave him, you couldn't.

You wouldn't marry the handsome raven haired man.

Or the tall sea-serpent hybrid that got experimented on.

You wouldn't marry the nerdy man you knew or the sassy giant.

You would marry Sebastian. Just Sebastian.

“Sebastian Solace. My sweet, beloved Sebastian. Please, stay with me.”

[soon-palestine]

A video shared by an Israeli troop, appearing to show soldiers destroying the Canada Water reservoir in Rafah, southern Gaza, in July, is certainly a breach of international humanitarian law (IHL),” Mark Zeitoun, director general of the Geneva Water Hub, a Swiss institute specializing in hydro-diplomacy, told CNN.

The IDF said the incident was under review by the Fact Finding and Assessment Mechanism.

Israel’s 10-month-long assault in Gaza has destroyed and damaged water systems, according to the UN and various other international bodies, compounding the civilian population’s suffering, risking the spread of disease and leading human rights experts to accuse Israel of using water supply as a weapon.

Several Palestinians told CNN they are forced to make hazardous journeys in search of water, risking exposure to Israeli attacks. Two people told CNN they had witnessed physical violence and even killing at public distribution points as people fight for scant resources. Those displaced to makeshift camps described scenes of sewage spilling into the streets and children drinking from puddles. Women are forced to endure several menstrual cycles without access to a shower, the UN said.

Read our reporting, with @StockwellBilly . Visuals by @Mark_Oliver_ , Alex Newman, @mrlourobinson , Rachel Wilson and @StockwellBilly .

[kittenlittle24]

Courthouse

Request by @schnitzelbutterfingers: Tritter assaulting f!reader after finding out she is House’s weak point and then she just became completely depressed and then House kind of forces out what happened to her

I do apologize, I changed it a bit.

As usual, gif not mine, I adore comments, likes and reblogs

Masterlist

Parking the car, you angrily slammed the door shut before making your way to the detention facility. You paid the clerk the $15,000 bail before leaving to wait outside.

You leaned against the car, foot tapping anxiously, arms crossed. Limping down the stairs at the entrance to the building, a grin on his face upon seeing you.

“I called Wilson!”

“You’re an arrogant idiot.” You told him and entered the car.

You drove in silence, every time he tried to talk, to justify himself you were sure, you raised your hand to shut him.

You dropped him at the entrance to the hospital and waited for him to get out.

“I’ll see you in the office.” You informed him quietly.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and opened his mouth to say something but instead shut it back up and nodded once before leaving your vehicle.

Later that day House got a call about Tritter who got a search warrant for his house and found a stash of about 600 pills, which of course made Tritter add trafficking to the charges.

Convinced that House is an addict and decided to apply pressure on his co-workers to testify against him.

When Wilson found out House had stolen his prescription pad to write himself prescriptions he came straight to you, he told you he lied, and said he signed them himself, however, Tritter noticed that the signatures didn't match, and as a result his car was impounded and accounts froze.

When the diagnostic team refused to turn him in as well, Tritter decided to go after all of your weaknesses: he went after Cameron by appealing to her love for House, not knowing it was no longer there. He went after Foreman by promising to help his brother get out of prison, and Chase by making it look like he has already co-operated, not that any of you believed that. The only one he has yet to try was you. Which made everyone uncomfortable.

Due to clubbed fingers, House diagnosed the patient with lung cancer, and tests confirmed small cell lung carcinoma, which has metastasized. The patient only had a few months to live. Cameron volunteered to break him the news which allowed you to leave for the day.

You made your way to your car, searching your purse for the keys. You jumped as you looked up and saw Tritter leaning against your trunk.

“Oh good you didn’t forget me, I was insulted.”

He half smiled as he chewed his nicotine gum, “Did you hear that I searched Dr. House’s apartment,”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you also aware of the fact that I found 600 Vicodin pills in his apartment?” Pushing himself to stand upright and fully smiling, “Should I say, your apartment? Found a picture of you and your mom in a drawer on a bedside table. I assume you wouldn’t want your boyfriend to go to jail and lose his medical license. It wasn’t Dr. Cameron that’s in love with him, it’s you. You know that lying to a cop is a criminal offense?”

Crossing your arms across your chest, “You think threatening me will help you convince me to help you put House behind bars?”

“If you don’t, you’ll face the same consequences as your colleagues. Just one phone call away from having your account frozen as well.”

Moving to open your car door, you tossed your purse to the seat next to the driver, “Good thing I went grocery shopping yesterday.” You snarked and entered the car.

“Is he worth your medical license?” He yelled.

Turning the engine on and reversing out of the parking space, you pulled the window down, “I’ll see you in court.” And drove away.

Entering the apartment, threw the keys on the counter, your purse was tossed aside and you walked straight to the bedroom.

House looked up from the piano, slightly confused at your lack of greeting. Marching back to the living room you dropped his pillow and a blanket on the couch before turning to face him, “You’re sleeping here until this mess clears up and you apologize to Wilson.”

You went back to the bedroom and slammed the door shut.

You woke up in the middle of the night, at first you weren’t sure what pulled you from sleep but you did when you felt the bed dipped.

“Get out.”

He laid down and put his arm around your waist, he kissed your shoulder blade.

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

Moving his arm off of you, you pushed the blanket back and sat up.

“Fine, you take the bed.” You said as you left the room.

He rushed after you as fast as he could without his cane, holding onto his thigh.

“Don’t you think you’re being ridiculous?”

Turning sharply to look at him, “Wilson got his car impounded because of you, that’s the only reason I came to bail you out. He cannot write prescriptions, everybody’s accounts are frozen, my license is on the line because Tritter searched the apartment and you don’t give a crap.”

He took a step closer to you, “He threatened you?”

Sighing, you rubbed your hand across your forehead, “Doesn’t matter what he did.“

“He’s a bully.”

“I don’t care House! You caused this mess! I’m going to sleep, don’t come after me because I don’t want to see your face right now.”

Sitting down heavily on the couch he saw his bottle of Vicodin on the coffee table. Reaching, he popped it open, shook two pills out, and tossed them back before lying down and settling to sleep.

After a week of separate sleeping and House and Wilson fighting due to Wilson cutting a deal with Tritter. He was offered to go into rehab, but no jail time. Of course, he believed that Wilson was only cooperating with Tritter to get his practice back.

You unlocked your apartment door, tired and cranky. It was dark and quiet. You assumed maybe your boyfriend used the opportunity you weren’t home to go to sleep in your shared bed.

You shut the door and entered the living room to see House passed out on the floor near his vomit, along with the prescribed oxycodone that he stole from Wilson’s dead patient.

Rushing to his side to check if he had a pulse, he turned his head to look at you with hazy eyes.

Tears streamed down your face as you looked down at him, “I can’t anymore.” You whispered, got up, and left the apartment.

The next day House went to Tritter to take the deal, but Tritter turned him down. Tritter found out about the stolen oxycodone, so he didn’t need yours nor Wilson's testimony to prosecute House.

He came back from court, he stood next to you in the kitchenette. You moved to sit on the opposite side of the table, as far away from him as you could while still being in the same room. House didn’t take his eyes off you the whole DDX. Soon as he ordered tests you were the first to flee the room.

A few days later, following Cameron’s visit the team performed electroshock therapy on the patient. He remembered his name after the treatment, but little else. You let his brother and Amy into the room. He didn’t react negatively, but he didn't recognize them.

The patient was getting better, despite his memory loss. The only side effect was that his voice had gotten higher. Wilson came to see House again and even brought him a new tie for court. House apologized to Wilson because he knew that Wilson was trying to do what he thought was best.

You ran into Wilson in the elevator on your way to the clinic after he came back from seeing House and was on his way to leave work.

“Did you force him into rehab?” He asked.

Shocked you turned to face Wilson fully.

He looked at you slightly horrified, “You didn’t know he was there?”

“Tell me what’s going on.” You demanded.

“House entered rehab voluntarily. A few days ago. I thought you had something to do with it, he said you haven’t been home since the oxycodone fiasco.”

You shook your head just as the elevator doors opened to reveal the hospital lobby and clinic. Instead of going to the clinic, you press the floor for the rehab center.

You found him vomiting in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, and looking miserable. He glanced up at you before lowering his gaze back to the floor.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

Stepping forward, you crossed your arms across your chest, “Because you told everyone not to tell me you’re here.”

He shrugged once, “Tritter came to visit.” He shared quietly.

You sat down opposite him on the floor.

“Told me, he doesn't give addicts another chance, and even my actions are a lie.”

“You caused all of this.”

He nodded, “I know.”

Getting up, “Good luck with the trial.”

“Will you be there?”

You paused at the bathroom doorway, “I haven’t decided yet.” You said honestly and left.

You got to the hearing as Tritter gave his testimony about House taking another patient's drugs. You sat beside Wilson and he held your hand in silent support. Everyone paused to stare at House as his phone rang, the team (minus you) called House in court to say that the patient’s memories were false. House ignored the judge’s instructions to give up his cell phone and made a smarmy comment to the judge. You rolled your eyes and looked at Wilson in despair. He then left the courthouse and the judge found him in contempt.

On his way out of the courtroom, he noticed you sitting and winched, making you even angrier.

House came back to find Cuddy on the stand. She told the court that she had the pharmacist substitute placebos for the oxycodone because she was afraid that House would be in a particularly vulnerable state. She even had an inventory report to back it up. Tritter accused her of perjury, but she only held back the inventory report because she didn't expect the matter to go this far, she said and looked at you this time. The judge chastised House and dismissed the charges, not before instructing the bailiff to incarcerate House overnight for leaving the courtroom, and ordered House to return to rehab upon release from jail.

You went with Cuddy and Wilson to visit House in jail. Cuddy, furious that she had to perjure herself, told him that she would be working him harder than ever and left.

Wilson gave him his withdrawal medication, which you figured out was actually Vicodin.

You waited further back until Wilson left, only then you neared the bars separating the two of you.

“Great way to celebrate our one-year anniversary.” You told him.

Sighing, he put his hands on top of yours through the bars.

“It’s just one night.”

“You didn’t even learn anything from what happened, those were still Vicodin and you got your way.”

“No, I got out of jail. Well, sort of at least. I hurt you along the way and I am sorry about that.”

“You should be.”

He chuckled, “I’m sorry.”

Reaching between the metal bars, you cupped his cheek, “You’re going to make it up to me. For the last few weeks as well as being stuck in a jail cell on our first anniversary.”

“Anything you want.”

[isak-dot-gov]

Mic'd Up Pt.2

Pairing: Kelsey Plum x Reader

Word count: 1208

Part 1 - My Masterlist

.................................................

The next morning, you were jolted awake by your phone vibrating non-stop. Squinting at the screen, you saw a barrage of notifications—Twitter mentions, Instagram tags, and text messages from both friends and strangers alike. Dread mixed with curiosity as you opened your phone to see what all the fuss was about.

There it was: a notification from the Las Vegas Aces’ official YouTube channel.

“Kelsey's Biggest Fan: Mic’d Up!” the title read.

You bit your lip, heart racing as you clicked on the video. The screen lit up with the intro, and it didn’t take long before you saw yourself, front and centre. The video started with a slow-motion clip of you, wide-eyed and jumping out of your seat, shouting, “That’s my girl!” after Kelsey hit a three-pointer. A heart graphic floated above your head, and a cute caption popped up: “Biggest supporter in the house.”

As the video continued, it cut between clips of you and Kelsey’s jaw-dropping plays. Every reaction you’d had—cheering, fist-pumping, gasping at the refs’ bad calls—was captured in vivid detail. Your face flashed on the screen, excitement radiating, while the crowd erupted behind you. The editors had even added a dramatic slow-motion replay of you standing up and yelling, “Let’s go, Kelsey!” during a key moment in the game, complete with epic music in the background.

Your hands flew to your face, cringing at the full display of your emotions. The internet had seen it all. Your love for Kelsey. Your passion for the team. Your inability to sit still for more than five seconds when the Aces were on fire.

By the time the video ended, you were red-faced and laughing, even as the embarrassment settled in. The comments section was blowing up with fans reacting to your over-the-top enthusiasm:

“This is what love looks like!”

“Relationship goals AF.”

“Kelsey's girl is all of us when the Aces play!”

There were even memes already circulating. One showed you passionately screaming with the caption, “When you’re more hyped than the players themselves.” Another zoomed in on your face during a tense moment with the caption, “Me when the refs make a bad call.”

Your phone buzzed again, this time with a call from Kelsey. You braced yourself for the inevitable teasing.

“Hey, YouTube star!” Kelsey greeted, laughter bubbling in her voice. “Seen the video yet?”

You sighed dramatically, still blushing from the experience. “Yeah... I don’t know whether to be flattered or hide under a rock.”

Kelsey’s chuckle was warm, affectionate. “Oh, come on. It’s adorable. I think it’s safe to say the fans love you almost as much as I do.”

“‘Almost’?” you teased. “I think they might love me more after this.”

Kelsey laughed louder, her voice full of mischief. “Don’t push it. But seriously, the whole team’s seen it. A’ja’s been texting me non stop. She’s already planning ways to roast you at practice.”

You groaned, but you couldn’t help the smile forming. “Great. Just what I needed—A’ja Wilson making me the butt of every joke.”

“Oh, it’s not just A’ja,” Kelsey said, her tone almost too gleeful. “Chelsea’s already called dibs on the post-game interview next time, and Kate and Syd are coming up with new chants for you to yell. The whole team’s in on this.”

A notification popped up from A’ja’s Twitter: “Mic’d up AND famous? You’re a LEGEND now! #BringTheHype #CheerCaptain”

Before you could respond, Kelsey continued, “Anyway, we’ve got a team meeting later today. You might want to brace yourself.”

You hung up with a pit in your stomach, knowing full well you were about to walk into the lion’s den. Sure enough, when you arrived at the Aces’ training facility later that afternoon, the team was waiting for you.

The second you stepped into the locker room, A’ja’s booming voice greeted you. “Ayyy, here she is! The real MVP of last night’s game!”

The entire room erupted in laughter and cheers as the team gathered around you. A’ja threw her arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the centre of the locker room. “Y’all seen this video, right? Our girl was more hyped than the entire crowd combined!”

Jackie was right behind her, shaking her head with a grin. “Honestly, I don’t think we’ve ever had this much energy coming from the stands. We might need to mic her up every game.”

AC leaned casually against her locker, smirking. “I’ve been saying it since last night—she’s got more hype than the bench squad. We’re going to need her on the sidelines full-time.”

“Forget the mascot,” Megan added, laughing. “We’ve got our own hype woman.”

You could feel your face growing hotter by the second, but their teasing was good-natured, filled with warmth and camaraderie. The fact that the whole team had seen the video—and was getting this much joy from it—made it all the more embarrassing and heartwarming at the same time.

“Okay, okay, enough roasting,” Kelsey said, stepping forward with a playful smile. “I mean, I think we can all agree that having my personal cheerleader on blast last night helped us win, right?”

A chorus of agreement filled the room, and A’ja, never one to miss a moment, pointed at you dramatically. “You’re the reason we secured that dub! We need that energy every night.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, throwing your hands up. “Fine, I’ll accept the title of unofficial hype woman. But you better believe I’m charging for appearances.”

Chelsea winked at you. “First paycheck is going to be in popcorn and court-side seats.”

As the laughter died down, the team started gathering for their meeting, but A’ja wasn’t done just yet. “Yo, before we get serious, can we all agree that the next time she’s mic’d up, we get to pick the lines she has to yell?”

Jackie nodded, grinning. “Oh, for sure. I’m already writing down some good ones.”

Kelsey groaned, shaking her head but smiling. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

After the meeting, Kelsey found you in the hallway, still laughing from the whirlwind of teasing. “You good?” she asked, sliding her arm around your waist.

“Yeah, I think I survived.” You leaned into her, feeling a wave of contentment settle over you. “Your teammates are ruthless, though.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” she said, grinning. “But seriously, they love you. You’re part of the family now.”

As you walked toward the parking lot, your phone buzzed again, this time with a text from A’ja: “We need a full mic’d-up session next game. You down?”

You showed Kelsey the message, and she chuckled. “You gonna do it?”

You grinned. “You know what? I might just. But next time, I’m going even harder.”

Kelsey laughed, squeezing your hand. “Deal. Just don’t make me laugh too much while I’m trying to play.”

As you left the arena together, the warmth of being embraced by not just Kelsey but the whole Aces family stayed with you. Sure, you were the butt of some jokes now, but you wouldn’t trade that for anything. Being part of their world—even as the loud, slightly embarrassing cheerleader—felt like you belonged, and that meant more than anything. 

Plus, next game? You were definitely going to be the loudest fan in the building.

............................................................

[innorogers]

Veil

Steve Rogers x Reader (You / OFC)

Summary: Every inch of him missed you, his skin aching for the warmth of your touch, his mind desperate for the sound of your voice, the light in your eyes. 

Warning: Desperate Steve /Protective Steve / Steve in despair

Characters: OC, John Walker, Sam Wilson, Tony Stark, Maria Hill, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton.

Also: Thanks in advance for repost or any feedback ❤️ Let me know if you want to be included in the taglist (DM, comment, repost and tag, whatever works)❤️

1: Insomnia | 2: Lucid | 3: Reverie | 4: Nightmare | 5: Awakening | 6: Dusk | 7: Hypnagogia | 8: Lull | 9: Vigil | 10: Eclipse

John woke up three days after your disappearance, groggy and disoriented, in the ICU. The world he knew was now in chaos. His room was heavily guarded, and the first familiar face he saw was Sam’s, stationed constantly at his door, watching over him in case of another attack and monitoring any communications. 

He wasn’t a normal hospital of course, he was under strict surveillance within the Avengers compound. They’d done everything to save him: used the best medical care, cutting-edge technology, but he wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was anyone else. 

No one was leaving. 

Not until Steve, Hill, Natasha, and every spy loyal to Tony Stark had wrung out every last shred of information, every hidden connection, every detail that could bring them closer to understanding that attack, or finding you. 

Everyone was interrogated, everyone needed to provide a hundred versions of their answers, and they had to match. 

They’d match the lie detector, they’d match the CCTV, they’d match every record, every email, every sentence they’d said and that was captured by Jarvis.They’d match the fucking employee’s survey they filled two years ago. They’d match, otherwise they were facing hours and hours of ruthless, avenger’s style interrogation, led by Natasha, by Clint, by Sharon, and by Hill herself.

Vision and Wanda were busy, they worked tirelessly. 

The mind stone explored its infinite powers: Vision immersed completely in the network, sifting through an endless flow of data: emails, files, surveillance footage, security reports…searching for any inconsistencies or traces that might have been overlooked. 

Every security feed, every encrypted message, every buried piece of information was being drawn to the surface, handed to Jarvis and the team for analysis. 

Wanda’s powers moved through the compound like an unseen force, a red wind that blew around the entire facility, spinning and sorting through the air. Looking for patterns, intuitive insights beyond what the data could reveal, in the hopes to catch something others had missed. 

The barest flick of her fingers were like an instinctive hunter, reaching out to sense any lingering energy from the attack, any psychic residue that might hint at who was behind it.

Both in the search for answers, and for you.

Everyone had been looking, every single resource and agent was deployed, tearing through every lead, every rumor, every fragment of information to try to find you, but there was nothing—no trace, no sign, as if you had vanished into thin air. 

Stark’s resources were being stretched to their edge: satellites repositioned, private networks hacked, and entire cities put under surveillance, but still, they came up empty. 

Every asset, every favor, every underground contact was called in, yet there was only silence. 

A terrible and horrible, empty void, It was as if the entire world had conspired to swallow you whole, leaving the Avengers grasping at shadows in their desperate search.

Steve was on the edge of breaking. 

Days had blurred together, each one gnawing away at his sanity as he ran on scraps of sleep and barely a bite of food, his focus single-minded, unyielding, burning in a sleepless fear.

Half of his time was spent in the command center, his eyes fixed on every screen, every update, driving the team harder, faster, demanding more, obsessing over every detail, driving everyone, including him, insane but yet restless.

The other half he spent in the training room, pushing himself until his body was trembling, his muscles screaming, sweat pouring off him in sheets, and every cell in his body was begging for rest. 

And then, maybe, he could get some sleep, only to wake up in some kind of nightmare with the worst scenes of his imagination.

He needed the pain—it kept him from losing his mind, kept him from the raw, pulsing panic threatening to choke him. He could feel it in every clenched breath, every aching bone: you were out there, alone, and every second he wasn’t by your side was a second he’d never forgive himself for. 

And there was this enormous emotional pain too, an ache so deep it was almost physical. He could hardly bear the emptiness left by your absence; it was like a shadow that followed him everywhere.

He saw you in every corner: at the command center, at the dining table, in the lab, even in the training room that held the precious memory of the day you’d first met.

Every inch of him missed you, his skin aching for the warmth of your touch, his mind desperate for the sound of your voice, the light in your eyes. 

He’d turn around at the hallucinated sound of your steps, the ghostly echo of your voice calling his name, and it was driving him mad, angry, sad, and scared.

He stepped back home just once, hoping, needing, to find some clue, any thread that might lead him closer to you. It was almost unbearable. 

Your scent lingered in the air, filling the place with traces your left behind: mugs you used for breakfast left at the sink, the recipe book open and bookmarked to the page of the meal you were so excited to cook for him, his favorite wine in the fridge ready to open…everything only amplified the pain, the crushing sense that you were just beyond his reach.

And then, when the forensic techs arrived, the room was transformed into a crime scene: every item cataloged, every paper analyzed, every personal belonging scrutinized and stripped of its warmth. Steve could only watch, helpless, as every piece of the life you’d built together was dismantled and laid bare, a reminder that you were gone.

But he wasn’t the only one panicking, overwhelmed by fear and anger. 

Tony and Maria were just as desperate. The breach was massive, and among the thousands of employees within the compound, there was no one, like literally no one, they could fully trust outside of themselves. 

Every project, every ongoing research initiative was paused, and all information was locked down. 

The world wanted intel? Advanced technology to defend itself? Was there any other alien army attacking? Well, it would have to rely on the UN or any other organization out there, because the Avengers were facing something worse than Thanos. This was a breach that had struck straight to their core, hitting the heart of everything they stood for—and they had no idea where it came from or how the fuck to fight back.

The Command Room’s lights stayed on 24/7, no one ever left. 

Even Wakanda joined the investigation, cutting off all outside contact to protect themselves as they worked.

And after King T'Challa himself added his network of intelligence operatives, a hint finally emerged.

It happened 18 days after your disappearance. 

And in these eternal days, to everyone’s horror and surprise, it looked like Steve was…normalizing. Exhaustion and fatigue were evident in him—something that had never, ever happened to Captain America. 

He had a few gray hairs in his beard, and the dark circles under his eyes were plainly visible. It took some serious talks from Sam and Natasha, and a few heated discussions with Tony, to make him eat or sleep and keep him from spiraling into a state of self-destruction.

The news came back from General Okoye herself.

“There was only one…” The general was measuring her words. “Only one suspicious transmission. It was on a hidden frequency; we almost missed it. It was…lost, too short to intercept, but too strange to ignore. Hidden within encrypted channels, and when we got it, it actually took days to decode. Which made it even more suspicious.”

“Where is it leading to?” Steve listened with clenched fists, his gaze sharp, and his heart pounding in his chest.

The general sighed; she was being careful. “Most of the transmission was fragmented, but there was one mention that was unmistakable. It referenced The Void.”

“That…doesn’t exist.” Natasha replied immediately. “The Void has existed for ages and decades in the intel world, but only as a rumor. It’s a legend…like…fictional. It’s just a reference.”

“What’s The Void?” asked Sam.

“It’s a reference.” Natasha emphasized. “An urban legend, talked about over drinks, referring to an old, nearly forgotten facility on the outskirts of a war-torn city, once controlled by a covert organization that operated in the deepest shadows. It’s called that in intelligence circles: The Void, because supposedly no one has ever set foot in it. It’s empty; it’s…shadows and ashes. It isn’t real.”

“Yup. That’s true.” replied Clint. “The Void has been whispered about for years. It’s like…a ghostly facility that never existed on any official maps. It’s said that it was once a stronghold, buried deep in hostile territory. But that’s all…you know, legendary talk.”

“But that was years ago.” Black Widow still wasn’t fully convinced. “I haven’t heard of it in years. No one knows if it’s still standing, if it’s fortified, or even if it still exists.”

“It exists.” Suddenly, a voice interrupted in the room—John’s. 

His voice was hoarse, the cut you’d given him had seriously injured his neck, and he looked somewhat funny with all the bandages around it. His eyes were darkened by heavy circles, and he had to pause before speaking again because his throat was burning.

“I was there three years ago on my first tour. It’s in the Altai Mountains of Kazakhstan. It’s nestled in a ridiculously hidden valley that’s…you know, inaccessible for normal people: extreme weather, uneven terrain. Something that would be impossible to reach for most folks, but probably looks like your training field number three.” He coughed as he talked.

“You sure?” Steve’s eyes narrowed, a glimmer of hope rising behind the exhaustion, but his jaw tightened with worry. He wanted to believe—he needed to believe—that John’s confirmation meant something real, something that could lead him to you. But doubt gnawed at him, a quiet fear lingering just beneath the surface, reminding him that this might still be another dead end. Or worse, it could lead to an end, one he was not ready to bear.

His fists clenched, his voice low and firm as he asked. “Are you certain?”

“Well…” John approached the screens and enlarged the map in front of him, showing it to everyone in the room. He tapped a point on it. 

“Here. We could search for those files in the army from my first tour…” And as he spoke, Tony was already typing on the keyboard.

“But it should be here, look: secluded area, dense forests, jagged cliffs…Can I get a satellite view? Look at these buildings—sparse, abandoned Soviet-era infrastructure…see? And in winter? Dude, the place becomes even more desolate, with heavy snowstorms cutting it off completely from the outside world. Hey, Man in a Can, any chance you can overlay those X-rays or layer scans on the map?” He said, snapping his fingers at Tony.

Tony studied the map a bit longer, and under Steve’s expectant gaze, he frowned and ordered: “Cross-reference geological information with everything in Twelve’s archives. Don’t limit the search to her data only—look into her siblings, check the Winter Soldier’s files…Jarvis, search back and forth across 80 years of data.”

Bruce added, “Any chance we can get an energy scan below the surface? Whatever they’re developing, I don’t think it’s just there for a tour visit.”

Jarvis took less than a minute to complete the analysis.

“Sir, according to information found in files M001, M002, LocM001-X025-T29, and LocM001-X025-T31, test results were located in the indicated area.”

“M001 and 2?” Steve stood up immediately. 

Those were the first two prototypes. He remembered you mentioning them when you told him your story: the ‘Apollo and Artemis’ siblings, the first successful models. When they began to fail, they created you and the rest of you.

“Run the analysis as we move.” Steve said, his fists tight and his eyes intense, as if he could see The Void itself before him. This was the first real lead they’d had, and the mystery of ghost town that didn’t even exist, added an unsettling layer—no one knew what they’d be facing. 

But he didn’t give a fuck, even if it was hell itself, he would go to the deepest end of the abyss if that’s what it took to find you.

“Gear up. Moving out in 10.” He ordered, and as everyone started to move, he stopped Tony. “You stay here with Vis.” His expression was unwavering. “We need to keep the fort secure, safe. I need it cleaned when I’m back with her.”

Tony wanted to say something. He didn’t want to encourage Steve to pursue a ghost idea, but he just couldn’t muster a word. He patted Captain’s shoulder heavily and nodded.

“You sure?” Tony knew Steve was desperate, but he was also anxious, fearing Steve’s hopes might be raised, only to face the worst later. Tony brushed his hair back nervously. “Take Banner with you, then.”

“I’m sure.” For the first time in 18 days, Steve’s eyes held a glimmer of hope. “Vis and Wanda stay; I need the compound secure. Make them scan every last corner before we set foot out there.”

“Look,” Tony added solemnly, unable to help himself. He had to speak up. “It could be abandoned…or it could be more fortified than ever. We’ll need caution—and the element of surprise. If they suspect our arrival, they might vanish again…taking her with them.” 

Or maybe she is already there, in a state that no one wants to think about. He thought to himself, not daring to make a comment about it.

“I know.” Steve’s gaze hardened as he looked around the room. Whether it was a ruin or a fortress, he would face whatever waited in The Void. He was ready to tear through every wall, every shadow, if it meant finding you.

“Ok.” Tony inhaled and forced a smile. “We’ll be ok.” His eyes fixed on Steve. 

“We’ll be ok.” He repeated it, but he didn’t know who he was talking to—Steve or himself.

Steve didn’t say anything; he just nodded.

The Quinjet took flight in less than 10 minutes, with another ship following close behind. The team was geared up, and they weren’t going alone—the Strategic Operations Unit followed, fully armed with the latest tech, while Maria Hill and Tony Stark directed the operation from the Command Room. 

The Unit was composed of the best military and special forces personnel: soldiers who had once served with S.H.I.E.L.D. or in elite units from around the world. They were humans who came just after the Avengers in strength and capability. And they were excited, determined. The Void was a legendary place, and they were eager to explore it. 

Or tear it apart and burn it down to ashes and dirt if that’s what the Captain commands.

Steve sat in the back of the Quinjet, his mind a whirlwind. 

There was an urge burning inside him, consuming him like wildfire: the desperate need to know that you were okay, that you were safe. 

But alongside that, there was the crushing weight of the entire situation, the analysis you, Bruce, and Tony had pieced together days ago: Who took you? What dark, powerful organization had stolen you away? And what were they trying to achieve? Bruce had said they were close. That you were the missing piece in completing something monumental, something so massive it could render the enemy fearless, powerful enough not to fear the wrath of the Avengers anymore. 

And that…was terrifying.

After defeating Thanos, the combined forces of the Avengers and Wakanda had been enough to prove to the world that they alone held the power to defend Earth. 

But were they? Enough?

Because after all, power isn't just about brute strength or advanced technology; it is about control, strategy, and deception. The Avengers had faced gods, aliens, and everything the world had thrown at them, but this felt different. 

This wasn’t a threat that announced itself with an army or a cosmic weapon. This was something calculated, something buried in shadows, pulling strings in the dark. And if there was one thing the Avengers weren’t particularly skilled at: navigating schemes or playing diplomatic and political games.

It was the kind of threat that could allow an organization to infiltrate so deeply, take one of their own without leaving a trace, and expose the Avengers as far less untouchable than the world believed.

And he, Steve Rogers, wasn’t as indestructible as he thought. 

He had a weakness now, something that could shatter him entirely in the blink of an eye: You.

“Landing in four.” Sam announced from the pilot seat as the Quinjet began its descent, breaking through layers of dense clouds. 

The scenery below unfolded like a haunting portrait. 

It was exactly as John had described: hidden valleys carved from jagged rocks, hollowed mountains looming like forgotten sentinels, and a decaying forest cloaked in a heavy shroud of fog. Surrounded by high cliffs and dead ends mountains, almost impossible for common people to access. (And it was actually, looking really similar to Training Field 003 where the simulator portrayed a similar landscape.)

Everything seemed drained of life, abandoned, lost in time, cast in muted shades of gray and black, as if the place itself had given up—and every living thing within it too.

The streams of fog wove through the dried and skeletal trees, clinging to the ground like ghosts. Crumbling remnants of abandoned structures dotted the landscape: cracked walls and rusted metal consumed by time. 

A biting chill seemed to seep through the Quinjet’s walls as they neared the ground. It felt as if they could be swallowed into this endless forgotten state, taken by the invisible hands of the oppressive atmosphere.

“Yeah, this really looks like…a ‘The Void’.” said Clint, stepping out of the Jet. “Whoever put the name definitely hit on the spot.”

Sam raised his eyebrow. “What are we, like in…Silent Hill?”

“Shush.” said Natasha. “The element of surprise is our only ally now. Any leads?” She pressed the comms. The complete team was on the other side, watching everything from the Command Room, scanning beyond their sight.

“Move forward.” Maria ordered. “Buildings at your twelve. I want complete silence. Team Alpha, take the right; Beta, take the left. Steve, you lead.”

“Got it.” Steve nodded. He noticed in the distance, nestled deep within the valley, an unnatural symmetry: rows of long-forgotten buildings that didn’t belong to nature’s chaos. It was subtle, almost hidden by the fog, but it was enough. 

His jaw tightened. 

This was the place.

“Gear up, and move.” He said, his voice low and steady, though his grip on the rail betrayed the tension surging through him. “We’re not leaving without answers.”

The team moved swiftly, like shadows. The jagged rocks and crumbling buildings provided perfect cover as they advanced, their movements silent, steps as light as feathers.

“Scan.” Steve ordered, his voice low but firm as he led the team deeper into the abandoned structures. 

“What are we seeing? Or not seeing?” He pressed the comms, his gaze scanning the area with sharp precision.

Jarvis’s voice filtered into their earpieces. “Sir, a series of passages leading beneath the surface.”

“That’s a surprise.” Natasha chuckled. Typical. 

“Looks like an underground stronghold.” Maria informed the team: “Seems like a water fortress. A helm, maybe? Dried out and abandoned.”

Steve’s jaw tightened as he glanced at the rest of the team. 

“Let’s move.” He ordered. 

The air seemed heavier as they pressed forward, entering what had once been the heart of the fortress. Everything around went stale and damp as they descended, the passage’s walls bearing cracks, rust, and faint traces of water lines that hinted at what the place had been before it fell into decay.

The deeper they went, the darker it became, the dim light from their gear casting eerie shadows across the ancient stone and metal. 

It was a place that felt hollow, lifeless, but beneath the stillness, there was an unnerving sense of something waiting. 

Steve raised his fist to signal a stop, and the rest of the team felt it too: they weren’t alone. There was a slight, almost undetectable sound in the thick air that ran through the place, something that only elite soldiers with hundreds of battles' worth of experience would recognize: someone was breathing around them.

“Sam.” Steve muttered, and the Falcon’s glasses started a laser scan around the place.

But before the results even came in, John, who was next to Sam, put a hand on his arm and lowered it.

“I don’t think we need that.” Walker said, barely above a whisper. When Sam removed his glasses, he saw it too, along with the rest of the team.

Eyes.

Lines and lines of people surrounded them, staring back at them with lifeless, empty gazes.

"Holy shit." said Sam and John at the same time.

“Attack from the nerds 2.0?” John grimaced. 

“Stay sharp. Circle formation,” Steve ordered, clenching his fists around his shield. “Give me your best, and give them your worst. Got it?”

The eerie look on the enemy sent a cold shiver through everyone’s back. The team stayed silent for a moment, but when Steve’s commands dropped, they responded in unison with a roar.

The stillness shattered in an instant as the first wave of attackers surged forward.

“Engage!” Steve roared, his shield flying through the air and slamming into the nearest enemy with a thunderous crack before returning to his arm. 

“Okay, to the dancefloor!” To his left, Sam launched into the air, his wings spreading wide as he maneuvered above the chaos. His goggles highlighted the attackers’ positions. “Commander, give me the source path. Where are these guys coming from?”

“Scanning…” Maria’s commands came through as Jarvis synchronized the analysis. Tony’s helmet illuminated as he synced all the data to the team’s gear.

“There’s some kind of base at your two o’clock, Sam,” Tony said as the heat map displayed the information. “Extremely low temperatures… Shit, what are you guys even fighting?” His expression darkened as the heat analysis became clearer.

“Gonna be hard to reach that two o’clock! They’re everywhere!” Sam shouted, firing his wing-mounted machine guns to clear a path below. One of the enemies leaped toward him, but Natasha’s knee struck first. She was a blur of lethal grace as she slipped between attackers.

“Wow, new toy?” Sam asked, spotting Natasha’s twin batons crackling with electricity as she took down two enemies at a time with each sweep.

“Keep moving! Don’t let them pin us down!” She called, her voice calm but sharp as she dodged an incoming strike and slammed her baton into an enemy’s temple. “Could use some help opening the line to two o’clock here!”

A chuckle came through the comms as Hawkeye stood back for a moment, his bowstring taut, stretched to its maximum capacity as he aimed for the target. The string was charged with an electrifying blue blast.

“Bruce?” Clint muttered as he loosed his fingers, sending an explosive-tipped arrow into the crowd ahead of the Hulk.

The blast tore through like a comet, breaking multiple enemy lines and clearing space. The Hulk charged through with a roar that shook the ground. He swung his massive fists in wide arcs, scattering attackers like leaves in a storm.

“Move!” commanded Natasha, leading the rest of the operations team as they tightened their formation, trying to push through and make it to the source.

Above them, Sam spotted reinforcements swarming in from the cliffs. “Guys, more incoming from the ridge!”

“More?!” John fought alongside Steve, his shield clashing against the attackers with raw force. “What do you mean, more? What is this? Like an army?!” he shouted, slamming his shield into one enemy before spinning and knocking another to the ground with a powerful kick.

“These are not regular soldiers,” said Maria through the comms, watching the live data analysis with a mix of nervousness and horror.

“No shit, really?” John replied. “Is like fighting an army of your finest tactical teams. I don’t think you see this on an everyday basis.”

“They just keep coming!” Steve replied, his voice strained as he deflected a strike aimed at his head and countered with a devastating blow to the chest of his attacker. “Tony, we need to know what’s at that source!”

“One sec.” Tony replied, commanding the screen with furious speed as he analyzed the scans. “Shit, I could really use your girlfriend’s powers right now. What the hell is in there? Something really powerful is blocking my signs.” He muttered while typing, overriding thousands of codes. “Commander, I think we’ve found what the lens from Steve’s fake brother-in-law was leading us to…”

“Okay, Jarvis, get me Robert Lin. NOW.” Tony ordered, his voice sharp as he broke through more passcodes. “I need him to reproduce that same cringy sound that woke my tech team from their Walking Dead state. And Steve, don’t try breaking through the entire World War Z wall… just send Sam over. I’ll have the command ready; he just needs to plug in.”

“You heard that?” Steve asked Sam as he slammed his shield into another enemy. Seeing the Falcon take flight toward the destination, Steve commanded with unwavering determination, “We push through. Everyone fights, no one falls.”

“Bruce, block them!” Steve shouted.

Bruce growled in response, grabbing a massive boulder and hurling it into the gap between the team and the incoming wave, creating a temporary barrier. 

But the moment the rock landed, a sharp white light sliced it clean in half, the massive stone splitting as if it were paper.

As the dust and debris settled, a figure stormed into the battle, moving faster than the eye could follow, a cold blade weaving through the air in deadly arcs.

“Watch it!” John shouted, raising his shield for the first strike. 

A muted sound echoed as the blade clashed against the shield, sending a shockwave that threw everyone nearby to the ground. John hit the ground hard, his arms numb and nearly unable to hold his shield.

“Shit…” he muttered through clenched teeth as he struggled to stand, but his face went pale when he saw you. Standing there, your eyes were cold, unrecognizable—hollow and devoid of emotion.

“Um… Steve?” John muttered as you spun the blade with an elegant yet deadly precision.

“Step back.” Steve replied, his voice thick with pain and fear he could barely suppress. 

“I’ve got this.” His gaze met yours, and in that moment, his heart broke.

The End but TBC.

Oh this was a stressfull but fun one to write, sorry for being late in posting, but lately seems my stress levels are on their highest. The story will continue but I'm maybe one or two days of delaying on posting, but still will try my best to continue posting on fridays ✨ Thank you all for the lovely posts and messages you've sent last week when I was having a breakdown, this community is just magical, I'll continue writing and try my best to have the best stories! (BTW I just love fighting scenes, they are so fun to write, and I love these groups interactions) 💓 See you next week!

Love., Moon.࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Tag list: @vioplay19 / @jamneuromain / @steviebbboi / @heletsmelovehim / @otterlycanadian / hisredheadedgoddess28

let me know if you want to be added! 🥰

[cool-abed-filmz]

so i’ve been going on a *bit* of a x-men binge (re) watch (re watch cuz i’ve already seen first class - apocalypse and the deadpool movies) and i made it to x men origins

first of all i love weapon 11 unironically, is he a good adaptation of wade wilson no is he sick as fuck still at least to me yes. i also unironically really love this movie i had a fun time with it!!! it’s definitely in my top 3 next to first class and x2

and in the wake of deadclaws / poolverine renaissance (cuz ik the ship has been around for a WHILE) and me watching x men origins, i personally wish that more deadclaws writers wrote angsty as fuck deadclaws x men origins au’s

because look at this shit

FOR CONTEXT : stryker was killing all these mutants to collect their dna to inject into wade’s body to make weapon 11, all he needs left is logan. but he’s helping the other mutants stryker has escape. so he socks weapon 11 on him. they fight on the top of the facility. it’s explicitly shown that stryker is CONTROLLING wade like a fucking RC car to attack logan. he stabs his two long katana like claws through logan and that’s where we get these shots.

look at the fucking pain in wade’s eyes. that’s not the face someone who’s completely mind controlled would make. somewhere in that noggin of his is the real wade and he doesn’t like what he sees, it’s almost like he doesn’t want to do this to logan at all.

[ronearoundblindly]

The Right Partner (2/3)

Steve Rogers x lab tech!Reader

Take My Whole Life, Too, Part One (see previous or series)

Summary: Your honeymoon with Steve Rogers begins.

Warnings for vague smut (don't worry, I make up for it in pt2), cuteass!Steeb being extra, unrealistic adorable sh*t, and my complete lack of shame about it. MINORS DNI. There is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist instead, but this one isn't for you! WC 3.1k

It’s bright and loud.

Well, there is light—a pale blue that gnaws at your heavy eyelids—and the song of birds.

The birds are, frankly, irrationally aggressive even for late morning.

You groan and turn over toward the inside of the tent, hoping for an hour more of darkness, maybe two.

Dehydrated. That’s what this heavy, sluggish feeling is. You should have had twice the water you managed to drink yesterday. No one would fault you for having other priorities on your wedding day though.

Your fingers branch out to find the bed empty.

From your exposed shoulder beyond the comforter, you gauge it is quite chilly here wherever you are. You didn’t even ask Steve if he found out what state (or country) you two landed in. Who cares? You burrow deeper, peeking over the thick quilted seam to see—

“What are you doing?”

Steve’s back is to you when you hear a metallic clatter in the utility sink. He whips around in just his boxers, raising a hand to cover his mouth and garble out “nothing.”

You’re prone and below eye level to the countertop, so you sit up to look while Steve poorly hides his sin by leaning over the surface.

He swallows heavily.

“You want some tea,” he rushes to ask in a failingly casual tone. “I’ve got water heating.”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” you jump up to stand on the mattress, knocking your head against the springy ceiling, and step down. “Are you eating our wedding cake without me?”

“You wouldn’t even give me some yesterday,” he whines, placing himself protectively between your approach and the confection. His guilty brows raise with sincerity.

“Oh, please! You got cake, and then you—” you poke his bare chest, glancing at the now quarter-demolished top tier “—you complained it wasn’t your flavor!”

“But…” Steve simply points. No other words come to mind based on his still-stunned expression.

“Fine,” you chuckle, relaxing to stretch your large sweater over your chilled hands and thighs, “I won’t tell anyone you’re nothing but a little sweets-thief. Hot tea sounds lovely though.”

“Allow me,” he smiles and leans in for a kiss, tasting of sugar and lemon like the night you got engaged, the night you first…oof. After just one reminder, the sweater is suddenly plenty warm.

“Thank you.”

The flood of mental images rushes from your brain, down your body, to your full bladder.

Next stop: the bathroom.

While he sorts out your morning boost, you chug a bottle of water to help with the rough, sluggish feeling weighing on you. No soreness though, which is good.

Steve returns triumphant with a camping mug and steeping, steaming wakeup juice, and you give him your own soft peck on his cheek.

No doubt he continues his dessert for breakfast the instant you step out to use the facilities aboard the jet. Good, he deserves all the cake, as much as he wants, whenever he wants.

The tiny mirror isn’t as scary as you thought it would be, but you do have to rummage around for a few straggling hairpins. A splash of cool water on your face just before you emerge is more refreshing than expected, too. The day is fresh, you are fresh, and your marriage is fresh.

You cradle the mug in your palms, making to leave, when your gown catches your eye hanging at the locker closest to the ramp, right beside Steve’s uniform.

Yesterday feels like the most wonderful, blinding blur.

All the military men (and women) wore their first uniforms, and you have to admit it created a sharp-looking bunch. Geeta’s uniform was only from nine years ago, Wilson’s just over fifteen, Rhodes’s nearly thirty, and of course, Steve and Bucky’s come in at eighty years old. Not shockingly, their uniforms were replicas, but the boys were very picky about the details.

Gracie, Natasha, Ro, Pepper, Tony and Bruce all kept their fancy dress within the same neutral palette. Morgan and Felicity were flower (leaf) girls. Standing at the alter as a bride, a groom, and their ‘besties,’ you amassed a punk, a jerk, a nerd, and a Booboo.

Your subdued red, white, and blue gown made the boldest statement of the day.

You were so worried yesterday morning. You thought the statement would read as if you were devoting yourself to an ideal, harping that you are in some ways ‘Misses America,’ but it’s more than that. You didn’t want to walk down that aisle and sign over who you are, to belong to someone else, even someone as magnificent as Steve Rogers.

Then you saw his face.

That man belongs to you as much as you belong to him. The look of pure, undiluted, delighted adoration nearly knocked you over. You’re lucky you made it through your vows. You melted inside to help your poor, fumbling Sketch with his own speech. Bucky winked once you finally got his buddy to the important bit.

Then that kiss.

Gosh, all this time you thought maybe the desperate heat of your first kiss in an evacuated AvIn hallway couldn’t be recreated—much less topped—but you were wrong. The boning in your bodice is the real hero, that’s for sure. Girl’s gotta have good support when it counts.

Speaking of being weak for a man, you think, sipping at hot tea, better get back in there. That, plus your legs are freezing.

A polaroid snaps the instant you cross the zip-up threshold, along with praises of your beauty. You blink rapidly but smile.

“What’s that?”

“Your wedding present,” Steve beams. He fakes a frown at your following ‘we weren’t doing presents’ look. “Not big ones. They’re just for fun.”

He picks up another Canon film camera, a hefty black and silver thing from his hard-sided suitcase, and hands it to you.

“Thought they’d be nice for the trip.”

You weigh it in your hands, eye the Polaroid, then switch with Steve.

“That one’s more of an artsy-fartsy Sketch thing,” you say, stepping around him with your new toy, rushing to grab toasty sweatpants from your own bag.

As you bend over to pull out the garment though, you hear a mechanical click and whip around.

Steve still faces away from you, but his head is slightly turned and he softly whistles, so of course, you lift your Polaroid and snap a picture of his ass, too. He wrinkles his nose, looking over his shoulder with an unhidden smile. You shake out the photo card provocatively while he suits up for the fireside in a sweater and jeans.

He glances at the developed shot and, seeming satisfied, plants one more kiss on your forehead.

He hums as he holds up his picture of you entering the tent, thumb tracing the line of your hip exposed like it was on the glossy magazine pages after your bear debacle.

“Yes, ‘m out there distracting all the wild animals,” you joke.

“It’s working,” he mutters. “Hungry, Misses Rogers?”

Yeah, you think, but you’ll need fewer clothes again. Instead, your stomach gurgles in response.

“Why? Do I finally get some cake?”

“Just a taste.” He kisses your lips, which you lick immediately after. “But I was thinking more like eggs. The fire’s ready.”

Your stomach growls louder. “Shhh, peanut gallery.”

Steve puts a hand over your stomach, chuckling. “At least she’s honest.”

The light pressure of his wide palm lingers even when he steps out to the camp ground. It triggers a potent flash of life with him.

You’ve spoken about kids and it will happen (or at least you’ll try) in due course, but he’s come home from missions with doubts about bringing children up in this world. What matters to both of you is having each other, and you know he’d be enough good and love for your lifetime. Even though you can always revisit the issue, that deep flutter ravages your gut while you watch him cook breakfast.

With another hunger pang, you remember how your stomach voicing her opinion is one of the reasons you’re together. One, solitary growl started the first real night of hanging out with Steve. Without it, he wouldn’t have shared a leftover meal (and cake—hint, hint, buddy), he wouldn’t have let you in his apartment, he wouldn’t have driven you and your car home the next morning, and he wouldn’t have given you some of his own clothes to wear.

You pull the sleeves of his sweater over your chilling hands and bury your nose in the fabric, inhaling deeply.

You wonder which one of those incidental, accidental moments was the tipping point, whether removing just one experience of you would have stopped Steve from seeing you, stopped him from loving you.

After a while, you pick up the polaroid. You can see his ease through the lens. Steve is in his element, chatting away while preparing a meal, planning what you two can do together next, complimenting how you look in his sweatpants and meaning it so profusely that his eyes light up whenever he looks your way.

You thought you caught it on camera, all of him, all of his happiness, but the shot isn’t close enough to do it justice. Your heart will just have to remember.

Yes, Steve Rogers on his own is more than enough. He is the gift. He’s your treasure.

You can’t decide what you want to do next, but a strong shiver running through you gives a hint: get warm.

Eggs are a good start.

When the food is done, Steve refills your tea and makes his own.

You snuggle up into the covers of the bed again, leaning your head into the dip of Steve’s sternum, using your furnace husband to full effect. The birds aren’t so annoying now. The air is so crisp and refreshing, laced with the smell of Steve’s skin. The rise and fall of his chest is so soothing as you sip and ponder the future.

Steve fiddles with the dials on the vintage camera above you. That’s the last thing you remember before waking up again, this time wrapped in his warm, toasty arms.

For once, he hasn’t woken up yet. He’s stretched, out-cold and perfectly content, unmoving as you wiggle out of the covers.

He never rests in the middle of the day, so you have to capture his sleepy form, eyes still tucked beneath the comforter, keeping the light out for just a little longer. He’s so beautiful.

Your husband is so beautiful.

Steve desperately wants to take the wedding presents for a spin out in the woods, so the afternoon is entirely consumed by a hike.

The Polaroid makes too much noise for wildlife and can’t focus on the tinier details among the branches and leaves, so you settle for jotting down some fanciful descriptions that come to mind and watch him sneak closer to birds, bugs, and color-changing foliage.

He gets so distracted with excitement that you two walk much farther than intended. Steve insists on carrying you the last few miles of your return, and you spend the entire piggyback ride with your chin tucked over his shoulder, your cheek against his neck, quietly discussing what you’d like to change in your lives now that you’re officially married.

Nothing. The answer is nothing.

Nothing needs to change because you two are the exact same people as forty-eight hours ago. Perhaps the rings on your fingers mean more for your life, but they just transmuted the love already in existence to matter.

Steve’s bright blue eyes go dreamy with philosophizing.

Your husband is beautiful, smelling of fresh air and optimism.

Steve refuses to miss another sunset, so you two lay in the hammock before lighting your evening fire.

You snuggle and chat, teasing each other, telling stories. You watch the Milky Way bloom to life above you.

Something Steve never figured out was how the Team knew about his plan to propose. He’s been going over it and over it, but he can’t see where he gave himself away. Steve says, when he asked Bucky yesterday in the men’s ready room, Bucky smirked.

Apparently, Steve, only once while you two dated, told his friend “there’s an order to these things,” and that was enough. Buck knew Steve’s intentions immediately, watching for the signs, the clues. Everyone understands that for a long time now Steve has resented his birthday is a holiday—not in a disrespectful way, but it annoys him that the day is already a big, loud affair,—and the whole group guessed (correctly) Steve would rather replace the symbolism with his own meaning.

“And hey,” Steve rumbles, faking Tony’s nonchalance as he quotes the billionaire playboy, “if you chickened out, fireworks are fireworks.”

His added shrug for effect shifts you and rocks the dangling net.

“Almost did, didn’t you?” you chuckle. “Chicken out?”

Your husband’s whole body tweaks harshly.

“You know I was scared shitless, Keeps! Almost fainted.”

“Or at least fell off your one knee…”

His hands fly up to scrub at his stubbled face, pinning you. “Oh! It was so bad,” he groans.

You sit up carefully in the wobbly fabric of the hammock, barely suppressing more laughter, and pound a flat palm at his chest. “It’s ok, soldier. You got the job done. We got there in the end.”

Steve’s hand covers yours, his peaceful smile glowing in the soft starlight.

He reaches to cradle your cheek, sweeping a delicately callused thumb over your skin.

“I almost can’t believe it,” Steve says quietly.

“Believe what?”

He could mean the beauty of the sky, or that Tony knocked it out of the park with your escape of a honeymoon, or that he didn’t croak instead of getting through all those mental and physical hurtles to be with you. You’re just not sure. Personally, you’ve ‘almost not believed it’ since the Captain America started talking to you, so it’s hard to judge.

Steve doesn’t answer right away. His voice grows even softer. “Happy. That’s all.”

Your heart breaks and mends in an instant.

“You can’t believe you’re happy?”

He goes shy, ducking then raising his gaze even higher towards the treetops. He clears his throat before admitting, “I lead…an unusual life. Not many would want this.”

“I dunno. Seems pretty nice to me,” you giggle.

“Yes, but—“ he pulls you into his chest and squeezes “—I get no guarantees. Not like others. We couldn’t even set a date. We could have been waiting years to get married.”

It’s your turn to shrug.

“You got something else to do?”

“No,” he sighs, “just more of this.” He nudges your body closer and closer to his, until all your arms and legs are tangled together. “As much as possible. I only meant…I love you.

“I love you, and I don’t think I had any faith left that I would find you.”

You. Not someone like you. Not someone for him.

You.

Even without a fire, even without sunlight, even without shelter surrounding you, Steve provides everything you could ever need: heat, comfort, safety. He provides, and it’s only right that he should have the favor returned.

Happiness. That’s what this is. Happiness that wasn’t guaranteed. Happiness that wasn’t expected. Happiness that was hard-earned.

Your muscles shiver and your skin tingles, all with need of him. “Sweetheart,” you whisper, clawing at his sweater.

He knows. He sees. He feels it, too.

When Steve lunges to kiss you though, the hammock swings with your combined weight and tries to topple you.

You giggle and squeal, flipping out and onto the ground with zero grace, and he follows.

Steve crawls over you, starlight and the glow from the tent painting his face in primary colors.

“Here, Mrs. Rogers?” He fakes shock. “In the dirt?”

“You fucked me on that picnic table just last night,” you joke, a dark, taunting edge to your voice which he matches.

Steve leans in again. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

He holds your gaze, his focus flickering to your lips while the crickets’ song roars around you.

It sounds silly after all you’ve done to get Steve out of his shell, but what you crave most in this moment is the familiar, traditional love-making that he offers best. His tenderness leads you on a merry dance not unlike long wilderness walks. He’s consumed by discovery and attention to how you feel in that very second. To him, you change as frequently as the landscape. He yearns to explore what’s the same, what’s new.

Steve never phones-in sex. He never just goes through the motions. Somehow, he makes an art of reevaluating your body, your pleasure, each and every time. He’s the proof vanilla is an infinite flavor.

But…

That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the chase.

Steve is leaning in to kiss you when your knee raises to his chest, halting his progress. You bite your lip and scramble to the ‘door’ of the tent. Obviously, he lets you win because he could easily have snatched you into his grasp.

Steve’s laugh stays close, but he follows all the way to the bed.

There’s something to be said about a good ol’ fashioned undressing, garment by garment, that dance of who leads and how much they touch the other as each piece of clothing falls away. Steve’s become a very good dancer.

Nothing is rushed. Nothing is missed.

He doesn’t combine the acts of maneuvering you and dragging open mouth kisses along your skin. He moves you, and then he lingers.

Time spent mapping you is time well spent to Steve Rogers.

You’re drunk on him. High on him. It’s an out-of-body experience that has you watching his broad back curve sharply while he thrusts and traces your collarbone with his tongue, noticing your toes seize up from force of your first orgasm, and admiring how fine his ringed finger looks laced in with yours and pinned over your head.

No one leaves the tent. The evening fire never gets started.

After a long and sweaty fuck in the bed, you’re filthy, gathering food for Steve who’s hungry, following you around with wipes. It’s comical how thoroughly you try to take care of each other.

No. Sit still. No. Let me just grab this. No. Fine. Together?

You two finish the top tier of cake after cleaning off…because Steve Rogers is the most stubborn, beautiful, and optimistic husband.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Fools Rush In Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[alchemistc]

goon | bucktommy

THE HOCKEY AU HAS A PROLOGUE

read on ao3

Tommy Kinard is hanging up his skates at the end of the season. It's time. He's ready to move on with his life. He's ready to give his knees a fucking break. The trade to the odds on favorite to win the damn thing this year is just another in a series of trades throughout his career that makes sense - he's there to allow a winning team to unload cap space, he'll get a couple minutes a night in the ramp up to playoffs, he'll retire without fanfare once the season is over. Coach Nash has other plans for him, and the team he's been traded to think he's the bees fucking knees. He's just trying to get through the rest of this season without dragging Evan Buckley into a closet and kissing him breathless.

Tommy’s a little out of breath. That’s to be expected, really — he’s been in town for a day and a half and there’s nothing quite like a practice at elevation with the fastest team in the league to cut his teeth on.

Hen eyes him up as he skates over to the bench to grab at a water bottle. She’s trying to her damndest to hide an amused grin, and failing miserably. “We keep oxygen tanks in medical,” she observes, a little sing-songy, and Tommy doesn’t bother to hide his rolling eyes or the tic in his jaw.

“I’m fine.”

Her face tells him everything he needs to know about how breathless that had sounded.

It’d been nice, finding a familiar face in the crowd after spending twenty minutes getting a tour of the practice facilities from the kid most of the league viewed with a kind of hushed reverence, save for the few who'd lived with the star power long enough to get used to it.

Tommy rarely got star-struck, anymore, but he hadn’t actually expected this years likely Hart recipient to be the first teammate to make contact; to swing by the hotel room to pick him up for practice when Tommy admitted he didn’t even have a rental yet, and he’d likely have to Uber; to walk him through and introduce him as teammates trickled in; to warn him ahead of time that eagle-eyed fans in the stands would definitely notice if his tape didn’t match the white socks still in their packaging laid out on the bottom shelf of the locker where they’d already printed off a name-card for him (”Here, I have an extra roll.”); to grin and shake his head a little when Tommy questioned exactly how many fans were likely to come to a weekday practice at the tail end of January.

Eight years out from the last time he’d seen Henrietta Wilson, calling out a red-faced AHL coach for throwing a kid back out on the ice with clear signs of a concussion, and she’s still not entertaining bullshit. “Okay, my conditioning could use some work.”

Eyebrow up over the rim of her glasses, she grabs for the water bottle and replaces it with a juicebox. Easiest ad placement since Gatorade made a name for themselves in dugouts and on sidelines, but Tommy’s got to admit it’s nice to have this shit so readily available. When he’d first been starting out, drinking anything but water (and maybe a beer between periods) had been considered pansy ass shit. “You’ll get used to the altitude. Not sure you’ll ever catch up to the pace.”

Tommy has no doubt. He hasn’t played against this specific configuration of this team, but they’ve been well known for their breakneck speed for years. He’s not an ungraceful man, but today he’s felt a bit like a baby giraffe trying to keep up with a pack of antelope, lumbering around with limbs that just won’t cooperate (and are probably gonna fucking cramp up the moment he stops moving) and lungs that aren’t taking in enough air to manage the bursts of speed these guys are executing like a light jog on a breezy spring day.

Tommy downs the electrolyte drink and takes a deep breath through his nose. “Why the fuck am I here, Hen?”

She purses her lips, tips her chin out in the general direction of where a few guys are still taking drills even as practice winds down. “Because these idiots are convinced they’re invincible, and no one has the heart to tell them talking shit to Trouba again is gonna end with one of them on a stretcher.”

Which — he’d known, in the abstract. Having an enforcer riding the bench for fifty plus minutes a night was an old school way of handling a small-light-fast team with just enough shit-talkers and star players to draw attention. Unexpected, in the current layout of the league, but not completely unbelievable. The GM had been a little shifty, yesterday, essentially reciting the same line as Hen but dressing it up in a whole lot of fancy front-office speak Tommy’s never really had the time for. He’s barely had a chance to talk to Nash, yet, but he’s sure he’ll hear echoes of it from his new head coach, too.

Tommy watches Diaz and Buckley taking turns blocking whiffle balls in front of the net; Chimney still taking drills at the net with their EBUG — McKinley had introduced him and wandered off to lace up his skates (”You can call me Nozzle,” the guy had told him, torso looking tiny in just his leg pads without his shell, too-long hair and that manic gleam in his eye that only goalies ever truly had, while Tommy listened to him talk about his plumbing apprenticeship and his daughter who loved hockey as much as her dad but wanted to be, of all things, a defenseman.); Greenway and Kinnunen taking shots from the circle getting increasingly more frustrated the longer Chim and Nozzle swapping in and out changes nothing about their ability to sneak the puck in five-hole.

There’s a palpable energy to this group. Something stirring in the air — between the single-minded focus of their stars, and the attentive way their third and fourth lines are still all out here after Nash had gathered them all in for an end-of-practice huddle, Tommy can feel the anticipation of more. More wins, more lessons, more conditioning, anything that will get this team past the second round with an eye toward the Cup. It’s been years since he’s been on a team with this much fucking focus.

Tommy eyes the fans still slowly trickling out from the bleachers — knows through word of mouth they’re likely gonna be sitting outside the parking lot waiting to see who’s gonna shift into park and lean out a window to sign some shit, talk to people for a minute or two. Kinda hopes McKinley’s still down to drive him back to his hotel so that he can watch some kid go feral when McKinley rolls down his window to greet him.

Well shit. If he’s gonna buy in, he might as well get a head start.

He turns back to Hen.

“Bunting never even got fined for that boarding call against Pannikar last year, did he?”

Hen grins. “No headshots, please.”

[firstelevens]

Bucky + Realization of feelings at the Worst Possible Moment for the Situation(TM) prompts if you like! 🤗

45. realization of feelings at the worst possible moment

every in-canon version of this that I attempted to write made me So Sad so instead here's an extreme canon divergence that answers a question that I asked in the tags of a gifset back in November of 2021: MR AND MR SMITH AU WHEN?

Bucky is choosing to blame Steve for this.

There are probably others who are more directly at fault. Natasha feels pretty high up on that list, as does Bucky himself. But Nat is too smug to argue with, and Bucky’s blame roster is already pretty full, so he’s decided that this one can be Steve’s fault.

It’s not even that much of a stretch, really: it’s Steve who stumbled onto him while raiding what the Avengers hadn’t realized was a secret HYDRA facility, and it’s Steve who decided to defrost Bucky instead of leaving well enough alone. Steve’s the reason why Bucky ended up where he is, leading a team of technically-reformed criminals on off-the-books missions that Nick Fury deems too high profile for the Avengers, which means that Steve is the reason why, four years ago, Nick Fury sat Bucky down and told him that his lack of a social life and generally menacing demeanor were going to blow his cover any day now.

At the time, Bucky had offered to go fully off the grid, all the better to prep for missions, but Fury had just frowned at him and flatly said, “Or you could just get yourself a goddamn date.”

Part of Bucky had been convinced that it was a joke or some kind of test, but then it had been made clear to him that he would be on desk duty until he did something to shore up his cover identity. It had seemed like pure serendipity when Natasha had wandered in from a mission the next day and had a solution ready as soon as Bucky had bitched about Fury’s ultimatum over a sparring session.

“I know a guy,” she’d said to him. “Ex-military but now he’s an analyst with one of the alphabet agencies.”

“I’ll pass,” Bucky had replied, just barely dodging the roundhouse she’d aimed at his head. “I do enough espionage at work; I don’t need to go home and lie to a civilian about who I am, too.”

“That’s the best part,” Nat had said then, a gleam in her eye. “You wouldn’t have to lie.”

She’d explained, then, that this friend of hers kind of needed a cover story, too. Something about a three year waitlist for an exclusive apartment building, and fine print on the contract heavily implying that unmarried applicants would be rejected. Pretending to marry a stranger had seemed like a bit much just to secure an apartment, but then Nat had pulled up the building’s website on her phone, and Bucky knew just enough about what real estate was like these days to understand why someone might be driven to desperation for a place like that.

Bucky could claim not to know what drove him to say yes, but he’s sure it’s written as plainly on his face now as it had been back then. Sam Wilson had walked through the door, smiled exactly once, and pulled Bucky into his orbit without even trying.

It had been an astonishingly good four years. He and Sam had gone from polite roommates doing each other a favor—Bucky’s cover story had been tailored to the background check he ran on Sam, something about unexpectedly needing a new place to live and the specific requirements of being a veteran—to genuinely being friends. Aside from the one lie of omission, where Bucky had strategically avoided bringing up that he was a formerly brainwashed, hundred year old super soldier who now led an elite spy team, he got to be himself around Sam. Months into their arrangement, it became clear that Sam got to be himself around Bucky, too.

There was room in their apartment for his persistent low-grade grouchiness, and for Sam’s shocking-even-to-Bucky’s-40s-sensibilities collection of vinyl records, and even for the tiny white cat who they’d found shivering in a cardboard box one winter by the grocery store and immediately brought home. He never could have even considered a pet before, but Alpine had been the undisputed queen of their place for two years now, and when missions took Bucky away from home, Sam was there to keep her company. 

He’d even be willing to bet that she likes Sam better by now, but if that’s true, it’s hard to blame her. Bucky has spent the past year increasingly unable to ignore the warmth that settles in his chest when he unlocks the apartment to find Sam curled up on the couch, frowning at his tablet like it personally wronged him. It always takes Sam an extra half-second to realize that Bucky is in the room, and then he smiles just like he did that very first day, and Bucky is a goner for it every time.

It took a particularly harrowing mission to nudge Bucky out of being a coward. He’d been trapped under a collapsed building somewhere outside Prague, smoke filling the air with no sign of help on its way, and when Bucky had closed his eyes in defeat, all he’d been able to think of was Sam and Alpine on that couch, waiting for him to come home.

He’d flown back stateside, taken an extra couple of days to heal up from his injuries, and made his plans to tell Sam everything tonight. 

Bucky has already picked up dessert from the tiny French spot in Dupont Circle that Sam pretends not to love, and there’s an absurdly big flower arrangement that will be ready for Bucky to pick up just as soon as he gets out of whatever meeting was so urgent and secret that it had to be held after all personnel had left the building for the night.

In the elevator on the way up, Yelena mentions a team from a different agency, something about a joint operation to protect a recently turned asset, even though reformed agents are very clearly Bucky’s team’s jurisdiction.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Bucky, as they step out of the elevator. “If they wanted us to play nice, they should have thought about that before elbowing their way onto our turf.”

Yelena makes a noise of acknowledgment and opens the door to the conference room. As soon as she does, Bucky is instantly aware of two things.

One: there is a very small baby in the room, swaddled in a green blanket and fast asleep.

Two: Bucky’s husband is in the room, cradling the baby in his arms and gently swaying. It is the first time ever that it hasn’t taken him an extra half-second to notice Bucky walking through the door.

Bucky feels all the air leave his lungs and can’t remember how to get it back. He’s certain that he looks as shocked as he feels.

He can’t help but notice that Sam, on the other hand, doesn’t.

“Agent Barnes, Agent Belova,” says Fury. “I’d introduce you to Agent Wilson, but I think it might be a little late for that.”