#best heat sink compound

[tabileaks]

Will the heat of 2024 sink the world?

[pricegouge]

Haul

Part Three MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: noncon nudity, noncon touching, graphic depiction of injuries

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.   If you survive this indeed, though.

You count distance in the taste of fabric on your tongue. As hours and miles pass, the cotton fades from heavy copper, to salt-lick piquant. The trailer heats with the rising sun, metal hull hotboxing you in. The tight space you're kept in is padded, probably for sound proofing though you're almost grateful for it, given how it prevents you from burning yourself on the corrugated siding.

It's hard to guess how much time passes. It feels like days, but the trailer does not go through a cooling cycle, nor do you die of dehydration, so you assume only a handful of hours pass. You spend them drifting in and out of consciousness, wishing you had enough wherewithal to try escaping. Unfortunately, with the heat and the dark comes exhaustion, and with the adrenaline crash comes intense pain so you do little more than catalog injuries when you can concentrate enough to do so. 

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.  

If you survive this indeed, though.

Poor Ash. She may have been a pain in the ass, but no one deserves to go out like that. It's hard to stop the tears when you think of her but you try anyway, knowing full well that further inflaming your face isn't going to do anyone any good. You wonder why they kept you alive - why Ash didn't make the cut. Or, did, you suppose. Maybe they felt two victims would have been too difficult to deal with. Maybe they thought Ash, who was still able to get around quite well, would've been too much of a handful. 

Maybe you're trying to reason with hurricane season, as it were, find rationality where there was none. These men were motivated by something you'd never understand and perhaps it was best not to waste your efforts on it. Still, it's hard to move past Simon and Gaz's brief exchange. 

'For cap?'

'For all of us.'

The thought of being shared by them made your stomach turn, but the thought that there was another one - one they evidently often brought victims back home to - that was even worse.

'Captain,' you sneer. You can't help but picture some old geezer who couldn't pull his own victims anymore; real Texas Chainsaw shit. The boys would probably have to hold you down so he could wax poetic at you about what a good hauler he used to be, help him lift a tire iron so he could get his rocks off. It would be enough to make you laugh, if it didn't feel like the tire iron was already whaling on you.

Still, you suppose knowing your fate lies with an old man and his lackeys is better than the alternative; even in your current state you know a truck with a soundproofed false back generally spells human trafficking for anyone with the misfortune to find themselves stuck in one. Your prospect doesn't make you happy by any means, but you suppose the enemy you know is better. Even if that enemy is a group of known killers. 

It's not too long after the trailer starts to cool that the quality of the roads changes; long, smooth interstate giving way to potholed, winding highway. You grit your teeth each time you're jostled, groan every time you remember your jaw is actually your biggest source of pain. 

The passiveness with which you wonder about our whereabouts surprises you, but you're so exhausted you don't hold yourself too accountable for that. It's not until the truck slows to a stop that you sit up straighter, heartbeat hammering when the back up alarm confirms your fears that you have arrived at your destination. They let you sit for a while after. Long enough to get cold. There's the occasional sound of air brakes firing and you figure you're in some sort of lot. You try yelling for help a few times, but between the gag in your mouth and the soundproofing around you, your cries go unanswered.

At least you hope that's the reason. Otherwise this entire lot is filled with people who are in on this potential trafficking ring and Simon's words echo even more ominously in your ears. 

A quiet rattling form the end of the trailer tells you when they open the doors hours later. The truck engine roars to life seconds after, backing up the final few feet necessary to slam into the loading dock hard enough to make a gruff voice from within yell. 

It's unfamiliar, makes you steady yourself harder against the unknown quality of it. You figure this must be Cap, feel some small sense of satisfaction when the old, ragged voice matches what you'd pictured. You listen intently as pallets are cleared away, the loud clatter of the jack ringing even through your soundproofing. There's a lower murmur of laughter, the boys regaling the older man with a story you can't quite hear but can definitely infer. When the truck is fully unloaded, their heavy boots tread the short runway - Johnny's truck, then; you'd wondered who you'd been riding with -, their voices coming clearer as they draw near. 

"- banged up, but mostly from the crash," you hear Simon rumble. 

Johnny's next, his grating brogue echoing within the trailer, "Well, except her nose. We can thank Gaz for that one."

"She can thank herself for it," Gaz snarks back, and you would bite your tongue if you could. There's a beat of silence. You can almost feel the heavy gaze their silent captain turns on Gaz, prompting him to elaborate, "She ran. Not very fast. When I caught up, she tried bite me so I headbutted her a little."

"A little!?" Johnny cries, but is cut off by a gruff scoff.

"No way to treat our new guest, Kyle. Go on, make it up to her. Bring her out here."

You expect something dramatic, like a flood of blinding light or strong hands reaching in to yank you out. Instead, when the panel is pulled back, the indirect light from the building is mostly blocked by the row of bodies in front of you, and Gaz squats off to the side, body language friendly and inviting despite the coldness you can feel radiating from him. This man hates you, you can feel it. You remember how he wanted to kill you, wish you could tell him the feeling was mutual. Rather, you stare at him loathingly until he tires of your inaction, leans in to grab you by the zip ties that bind your feet and cuts them with a knife you didn't even see him pull. When he grabs your wrists and pulls, you resist as much as you're able but in the end you're no match and he pulls you from your hideaway with little more than a grunt of pain and annoyance when you elbow him in the ribs.

"Feisty one, is she?" the captain's low growl observes and you turn to the newcomer with fury in your eyes which stalls out when you take him in properly for the first time.

You're disappointed to discover he's not as old as you'd been expecting. Nowhere near, in fact. Mid forties most likely, early fifties at absolute most. And densely built enough to speak of a physicality far younger. None of them were small, but the captain still managed to look big among them - nearly as tall as Simon and just as broad as Johnny, though it looked a little leaner on him given his height. You think the worst part about him is how genial he looks. Like Gaz, he's a brand of handsome that comes with charm and approachability, and you wonder how long it will take for that facade to crack like Gaz's did. Worse, if it ever will.

Certainly, his voice is disarmingly sweet when he greets you, coos and calls you a dove. "Weren't lying were they, love? Did a number on the poor girl, Ghost."

Simon - Ghost? - grunts in acknowledgement, motions for you to step closer. You don't, of course, and get a sharp shove from Gaz which sends you stumbling toward the larger men, caught by a firm hand on your bad shoulder. You yelp, breath heaving behind your gag as Cap adjusts his grip, studying you by your hip instead as his eyes dart to Simon.

"Shoulder. Maybe collar bone. Happened when she flipped her car." When you flipped it. Right.

The older man tuts dissapprovingly. You try to swat his hands away but stumble without his support. He ignores you anyway, hand returning easily while the other reaches up to carefully grip the edge of the duct tape. "Can't be easy to breathe in there, can it doll? Not with that poor nose. Let's get this off, shall we? Easy," he soothes, voice a low pur. His task hurts like hell anyway, the sticky strip pulling your tender, swollen skin. He's gentle about it at least, murmuring sympathetically when you can't contain your whimpers. You don't judge yourself too harshly when a few tears slip through, but do very much so when his thumbing them away twists your stomach unexpectedly. 

It's just because you haven't seen tenderness all night, you reason, and resolve yourself against him, even as he removes the gag with utmost delicacy.

"That better, dove?" he asks when your breaths come quicker, deeper. It's like resurfacing after being submerged for too long, clarity coming to you like a cold breeze on soaked skin: this is a calm meant to put you at ease, but you will die here if you become complacent.

So when Cap tells you to call him John and asks what your name is, you spit at him, blood and mucus staining his shoes.

The boys go quiet, like a record scratch moment in an old b-movie. You stare up at John defiantly, waiting for him to scream at you, hit you - anything.

Instead, he just pulls a pocket knife from his pants, grabs your bindings when you go to flinch away. "You've had a long day, love," he starts as he slips the thin blade between your wrists. Your skin is tender there, rubbed raw from the tight binds. The cool blade feels sharp despite the care he takes to aim the edge away from you, never once letting it touch your skin. "You've had a long day, so I'm going to let you get away with that this time." When he pulls against the zip ties, they cut into your skin briefly before giving with a sharp twang. He pulls one of your wrists into his free hand, rubs the raw skin there with a calloused palm before taking the other wrist in his grasp and giving it the same treatment. "But the next time you misbehave will not go well for you. Understood?"

Of course, you don't listen. Fuck this guy for real, you figure. What's the worst he can do? Kill you?

This time, when you go to spit at him, he catches it against his palm, wide hand slapping over your mouth so hard you're breifly concerned for your good cheek. You gasp in shock and pain, nearly choking on your own spit. John steps closer, one boot knocking your foot wide to let himself between your legs. He's so close, if he moved his palm you'd be breathing the same air.

As it stands, you can barely breathe at all, nose flush against the fat side of his hand. His own breath fans across your skin, heavy and hot as a bellows. The quality of it is thick, humid. You're glad you can't smell anything because it feels like it reeks. 

"Simon, she give you a name?"

Ghost's uncomfortable movement is obvious in its silence. "Took to calling 'er Betty."

"Betty," John repeats, lips curling in amusement. "Like an old timey, proper little wife. That you, pet?" You wanna shake your head, fear for your sinus cavity if you do. "Not yet, eh? Gonna have to train you up first. Ease you into it." As if in demonstration, his body sags into your own, presence oppressive. "That's okay, pet. We'll start you off easy. Get you nice and clean, get you fed. In the morning, Kyle will help with your injuries and when you feel more like a proper lady, we'll try again, hm?"

You can't say anything, so you don't.

"But in the meantime, I can't let that kind of behavior go unchecked. Boys," he calls, eyes still boring into you. "Which one of you wants to help our guest clean up?"

The general din of excitement makes you flinch, eyes going wide as if pleading with the man who holds you so cruelly will do any good. When Johnny suggests they play rock paper scissors to decide who gets the honors, it's suddenly, belatedly clear to you that your murder would almost be a kindness. No, the worst thing this man could do for you would be to keep you. John sees it the moment you realize this. His grip eases, eyes softening in some gross perversion of kindness. He strokes your cheek soothingly when Simon goes out in the first round, smiles condescendingly when you flinch at Johnny's crow of victory. John tuts at you, but says no more as he turns you toward the Scot.

"All yours, Soap," he rumbles, pushing you not ungently toward the other man. "Spic and span, you hear?"

"Aye, sir. Thank ye, sir." Johnny's hands are much harsher than John's when he guides you from the trailer, giving you no sympathy when you flinch under the harsh warehouse lighting. You try to take stock of your surroundings as you're pulled along: spare, dusty racking; a forklift in need of repair. There are multiple loading docks, most of the viewports obscured by backed up trucks. One sits vacant and you briefly wonder if there's even more of these monsters waiting in the wings before you're pulled past a dank little office. You catch sight of outdated equipment - a rolodex, a CB - but it's the shadow boxes full of military honors that your eyes lock on the longest.

Of fucking course.

The door Johnny leads you out through is tucked off the side of the building. You stumble when he pulls you down through the door, feet unsteady where they kick up dirt. It's cold outside, colder than it had been in the dankness of the trailer. You can't help but shiver, bite your tongue as best you can when your companion takes that as invitation to draw you in close and rub a big, solid hand up your arm. 

"We'll have ye warmed up in no time, lass," he promises, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. This man murdered your friend with a crowbar and dragged her around like a slaughtered animal. You expect no kindness from him. 

He orders you to strip before turning to a small station built into the side of the warehouse. You do not strip, electing instead to take off running in the opposite direction, cursing as the gravel churns loudly under your shoes. Soap swears, his own heavy boots following at a pace you didn't think his burly body capable of. Your breaths burn your chest, each pull coming labored in your blind panic but you refuse to slow or relent, ignoring the flaming pain in your shoulder every time you swing your arm forward for propulsion.

Well, you ignore it until the ground comes tilting up to meet you, your body crushed beneath the considerable weight of one grunting, cursing Scot. You sob at the pain, or maybe the fear - hard to tell. When he levers himself off you, he wastes no time grabbing your ankle as he stands up, towering over you. If you were capable of stringing two thoughts together, you'd wonder if this was the last thing Ash saw: pale blue eyes gleaming in the low light, the cruelty that twists his face. Instead you wonder how likely your arm is to maintain full mobility after a night like this. 

Not very, you decide, sobbing in pain as he drags you back to the warehouse. He's muttering something above you, but you can't hear him over your own cries. When you kick at him futilely, he yanks on your ankle until you fear for it and you don't try it again. Not even when he gets you where he wants you, back under the wan outdoor lighting of the station he'd turned to before, crouching down next to you to rip at your shoelaces.

"Please, don't," you murmur instead, fear churning in your belly as he continues to strip you. You'd known it would come to this, known the moment the captain had mentioned something about a wife. It doesn't make it easier, doesn't make the prospect of the gritty sand underneath you any more comfortable, or your repulsion for the man above you any less sharp. "Please, please, please let me go. I could -."

"What? Suck me off?" Soap laughs harshly, "Think ah'm gonnae ge' tha' anyway, hen."

You were going to say keep your mouth shut, but you suppose that never works anyway.

The sound you make when he pulls your pants off is wretched, but the shriek he earns when he pulls a knife on you is worse. His laugh is mean, reveling in your fear for a moment before cutting your shirt from you with one deft movement. He's pulling you to your feet before you can really process why and shoving you against the metal siding of the warehouse.

"Stay there," he warns and you're unsure if his tone or the throb in your shoulder is a more effective threat. When he walks back toward the station he'd been after earlier, your gaze turns to follow until you catch sight of your own shoulder at the bottom of your field of view and you draw short, taking in the severe swelling there. You prod at the edges of the mottling, wincing at your own ministrations. 

Absorbed in your own injuries, you don't notice when Soap turns on the spigot, or when he aims the nozzle of the high pressure hose at you. He calls for you to hold your breath, but gives you no more time than that which is necessary to look up, confused, before he's spraying you down.

It's freezing, the flow hard enough to bruise where it jets against the fatty bits of you; feels like it might sheer straight through hide where your skin thins around joints. You gasp, get a mouthful of aerated hose water. Spluttering, you try blocking the stream with your hands despite it feeling like your palms are being struck by a thousand rulers.

"S'wha' we use tae wash the trucks!" Soap calls, cackling loud enough to be heard over the spray that engulfs you. You can't get away from it no matter how much you fold into yourself, catching the jet alternatingly on your hip, your ribs, your ass. It does a better job of indexing your injuries than you did, the blooms of pain where you accidentally turn a bruise toward it letting you know that the hip which took the brunt of the collision is sore, that there's a spot on your good shoulder where Gaz tackled you which smarts. Your knees and elbows are all scuffed up, dirt grinding in before being stripped away. You feel like you're being sandpapered down; buffed until you're gleaming despite knowing how the dirt he kicks up clings to your skin wherever the hose isn't actively being pointed.

Soap keeps it up for another minute or so, only turning it off when your shaking gets so bad you think you're like to fall apart. "Quit yer whinging," he warns, creeping closer as he adjusts the nozzle to another setting. "Jes' havin' a laugh, bonnie, no need tae get all bent outta shape."

You want to tell him you're not laughing, but a small voice in your head says you should be grateful he didn't turn that hose on your face, so you keep quiet to prevent him getting any ideas.

When he's close enough to touch, Soap reaches out and grabs your wrist, spraying your pebbled skin down with a softer shower of water that would set you at ease, if not for how cold it is. From your arm, the stream moves up over your head, mussing your hair beyond recognition before trickling down your battered face. Here, the cold water feels good against heated skin and despite yourself, you heave a sigh of relief, tilting slightly into the unexpected relief. 

"Like tha' hen?" he asks, and you hesitate briefly, wondering how much satisfaction you want to give him. He doesn't give you a chance to decide, ruining your brief moment of reprieve by reaching out and tweaking one hard nipple.

You squawk, swatting at him. Johnny laughs long and loud, letting the stream from the hose fall dead as he watches you fume, shaking.

"Look like one ah them wee doggies, lass," he chuckles, "angry cause ye cannae even bite properly." The bastard flicks your cheek, feigning a sympathetic coo when you flinch away. "Tha's righ', bonnie, nothin' ye can do tae fight back," he murmurs, gliding his fingertips against your cheek in a move he probably thinks is soothing. "Ye jes' remember tha', eh? Might keep you alive."

You swallow back the lump in your throat, eyes boring a hole into his shoulder because you can't stand to look him in his terribly cold eyes. When Johnny moves again, his touches are back to the easy, soft caresses from before as he hoses you down. He's surprisingly good at it, despite being armed with only a shammy and a gnarly looking bar of soap. At least he knows to avoid your hair once he realizes he'll need conditioner. That damage is already done, but you appreciate him not dragging his fucking fingers through it on top of everything else. You try taking the soap from him once but he just tuts at you warningly so you go back to shivering, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to preserve body heat and keep yourself marginally modest. You can't decide if he's being obstinately particular just to torment you longer or if he's genuinely just like this until he raises your good arm above your head and finds your armpit overgrown.

He grins, sending you a delightfully scandalized look. "See Ghost chose well. Cap's gonnae love ye," he chuckles, and you feel your panic heighten when you think of the threatening older man again. Soap notices. "No need tae worry, hen. You jes' keep bein' good fer us and Cap'll be good tae ye."

For some reason, you don't trust this man's definition of being treated well.

After getting you all washed up, Johnny marches you back into the warehouse where the other men gather around a small, dingy breakroom table pecking at microwaved burritos. They're laughing uproariously as you arrive, Gaz talking animatedly about a loading mishap back in Arizona. The noise drifts off when they spot you, eying you over like a scrap of meat. There's no covering everything and despite yourself, you're almost grateful when John stands, bringing you a blanket he had folded on the seat beside himself. 

"Feeling better, doll?" he asks, patting you dry with a gentleness you didn't expect from the big man. He frowns at the swelling of your shoulder, eyes darting between you and it with an exaggerated level of concern that makes you want to hurl.

You avoid his gaze, your own flickering around the room as you ignore John, trying to gather your resolve enough to appease him. It's a struggle until your eyes find Simon's, apathetic as always despite the disapproving set of his scarred mouth. 

"Yes, sir," you murmur, watching raptly as Simon disguises a quick nod as a glance at his plate. Your heart rate picks up, an impossible tendril of hope slithering up your aorta when John hums contentedly at your words.

"That's a girl, love," he starts, warm palm falling heavy on your back as he starts to guide you back through the warehouse. "Gaz, bring the soup. You're hungry, right pet?"

You are, but Gaz doesn't wait for confirmation, falling in stride as John guides you toward the quaint office you'd caught a glimpse of earlier.

"Now, one day, you'll be able to stay up here with us," John promises, gesturing magnanimously across the dingy warehouse as if it contained all the gold of El Dorado within its rickety racking. "But until then, we're going to have to keep you below." 

Gait faltering, you glance up at the older man fearfully but he pays you no mind at all. "Don't worry honey, only temporary. And I'll have the boys visit you daily to keep you nice and stimulated, hm? Gaz," he barks before you can reflect too much on his choice of words. Kyle, evidently knowing exactly what's expected of him, places the soup bowl he's been carrying on the cluttered desk before moving some chairs, rolling the rug back enough to reveal a cutaway door in the cement slab.

You still, every muscle in your body tensing up when John tries to coax you along. "'S'not so bad, sweetheart, I promise. Come look, yeah? Think you'll have a nice little time if you just give it a try."

Like hell you'll give it a try, knees locking up so tight you look like a GI Joe when John guides you first down the stairs. It's cool, the descent marked by the wet gradient of the cement slab as you pass further underground. It's deeper than you'd expect, the dug dirt bottom damp under your feet when you alight on the landing. There's a short hall ahead, braced by rotted-looking timber. A lone door on the opposite end, braced on one side with a long line of bolts and locks. A single light hangs from the short ceiling, low enough you could smack your forehead off of it if you're not careful. 

"Had Simon come down while you were out, get it nice and ready for you," John brags. You doubt the room on the other side of that door could be made live-in ready even if Simon had been given three years to work on it, but you know better than to say as much. 

This time, when John prods you forward, your legs don't obey. "CanIsleepwithyou?" you blurt, a last ditch effort you're not sure you want him to accept.

But John just chuckles. "Eager, eh pet? Don't worry, you'll earn that right soon enough. Now go on, I'm sure you'd like some nice new clothes to put on, hm?"

Damn him, but you do, so you slink forward, ducking under the hanging light as you pass. The door creaks when you pull it open, weight heavy despite how meager it looks. It feels solid, unbreakable, and you notice quickly that you won't be able to barricade it if you have to pull it open. John does not notice your hesitance, following you into the room with a proud little smirk on his mustached face.

"Well, what do you think?" 

Not much. The floor isn't finished, just cold tile pressed into the dirt. The walls and ceilings are, though, and you briefly feel grateful for it until the batting on the door registers and you realize it's for soundproofing purposes. There's a bed in the corner, larger than you need yourself and made up in cutesy sheets with a strawberry motif. A pile of heavy quilts sits folded at the foot and despite yourself, your fingers twitch eagerly at the prospect of sleeping soon, warm and snug under all that weight. 

"We've got some clothes for you here," John continues. You get the feeling he doesn't need a lot of input so you stand there quietly as he opens a foot locker for you, tattered and olive green. Inside sit two neat stacks of clothes, battered looking but approximately the right size. You remember Johnny's comment about the Captain liking your pits and wonder if they always bring him back a certain type.

And if so, where they are.

"G'on love, pick out something you like," John leers, and you realize you won't be able to get away with waiting until he and Kyle leave to get dressed. 

There's a marked efficiency to your movements. Grabbing the first top you see, you briefly check the tag before doing the same with the bottoms at the top of the pile. Close enough for rock and roll, you figure, dropping your blanket to the cold floor and pulling the clothes onto yourself as quickly as possible. Kyle's eyes are heavy, John's heavier. Your skin crawls, the goosebumps which never really went away after your little bath returning with a vengeance. To your immense displeasure, John has to help you pull your bad arm through the sleeve and he tuts sympathetically when you whine.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'll bring you down some button ups tomorrow, yeah? You nod when he pauses too long, realizing you're not going to be let off the hook without a proper answer. You creep toward the bed when he hums in acknowledgement, but he tuts in warning again, nodding toward a little desk shoved off to the side of the room. You sit obediently, thanking him with a little murmur when he ferries the bowl of soup from Gaz to you. He hovers, watching raptly until you bring a spoonful of the room temperature meal to your mouth. 

"Good, right?" he asks, before you can even get a proper taste of it. 

You take your time swallowing, playing up the pain in your cheek as you try to suss out a good response. It's just microwaved soup as far as you can tell, but you figure saying as much won't garner you any favors. Instead, you hum appreciatively and shovel in another bite before John can ask you any more questions.

It works, mostly. John takes a quick lap around the room instead of standing over you, sighing now and again at whatever he finds while Gaz continues to stand in the doorway, evidently unamused. 

"It needs work, I'll give you that," John eventually concedes as you slurp at your meal. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until that sweet sweet MSG hit your tongue. "It needs work, but if you're good, we can spend some time down here fixing it up for you. Would you like that?"

You stall, spooning through some of the chunkier bits at the bottom of your bowl. It was kind of them to give you soup, you registered belatedly. Solid foods would have undoubtedly fucked up your mouth. Instead of answering, you ask John what would happen if you were to be bad and watch as his genial nature flips like a switch.

"Got a couple of news articles upstairs if you'd like to read 'em and find out."

Next>>

[mockerycrow]

Love your works! May I please get a "don't worry, i'm not going anywhere." with Ghost? Take your time, I love what you write!

400 Follower Celebration

—“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”— With Ghost

Summary: You’re apart of the 141 and Ghost recently had a near-death experience. You’ve been plagued with nightmares about the situation, but you try to hide it from him, feeling selfish about your night terrors. One night, you’re thoroughly convinced Ghost had actually died.

A/N: THANK YOUUU I KEEP BLUSHING ILY AND TYSM FOR 500 FOLLOWERS

[WARNINGS: vomit, detailed nightmares, panic attack, gore, fake-death, angst, hurt/comfort.]

It was always the same nightmare. It was a repeat of that one mission months ago—nearly a year ago by now, where you and your team went to grab some important intel about a new uprising cartel that was showing some dangerous potential. It was a large compound, four floors including the basement, wide rooms with many blind-spots. Using your rifle equipped with a heat signature sensor, you swept room to room, leading your team through the building, putting anyone down who dared fired a bullet at you or your team.

You turn that familiar corner and your heart sinks. You’ve tried many times to change the course of this dream, but no matter how frantically you try to scream about what is waiting on the other side of that door, your mouth refuses to work until Ghost rumbles out, “I’ll take point.” You try to fight every muscle in your body to stop this, but it’s like the dream freezes until you continue down the.. “right path”. Quite literally is a living fucking hell for you, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop it except do what it wants you to do.

“Roger.” You mutter, backing up behind Ghost instead of staying in front of him and leading him the others. The others are always blank faced soldiers in this nightmare, but you know who is who. You pat his shoulder, aimming over him as you walk down the hall close together, hugging the wall. You’ve been through this so many times, you know to eye the floor and you watch the moment happen—Ghost steps on a pressure plate and—BOOM.

You’re always forced to watch it in slow motion; the wall being blown open right next to Ghost, watching the debris scatter everywhere, scraping yourself up as well as Ghost. He raises his arm to shield his face from whatever is happening, unable to process in time that a man wielding a sharp combat knife is pulling his arm back and comes down with it.

You watch the way the knife so easily slides into his rib cage, and it’s almost like you could hear it penetrating his lung like it did—but this time, the man rips the knife out and does it again and again and again—this has never happened before—Ghost’s falling to the ground, his blood splattering everywhere, fuck, it’s like the guy is trying to gut him—but you can’t move. You have to sit there and watch this man. plunge a knife in and out of Ghost’s chest until he finally decides to stab him deep and yank downwards, spilling his intestines and stomach—yet, his lifeless eyes keep eye contact the entire time.

Your eyes fly open, dizzy from your heart pounding and unable to focus, you throw the blanket off of you and you make your way out of whatever room you’re in—you’re too freaked out to know. Your chest aches and feels like there’s a hundred tons sitting on your rib cage, restricting your breathing. You keep walking until you bump into something and you manage to focus enough to notice it’s the bathroom door. Your hand shakily grabs the doorknob and opens it, and you already feel the vomit traveling up your throat.

You end up bent over the open toilet, body heaving with every exile of the contents of your stomach, which by this time of night is mostly just bile. Your head is spinning and your hands keep shaking and by this point, you really don’t care how clean this bathroom is. You lean your elbows on the toilet rim and hold your head in your hands, trying your best to stifle a sob, even though all you can smell and feel is his blood on your fingertips. Your tears drip down your cheeks and collect at your chin before dripping off.

You keep one arm on the toilet seat to keep your head propped up and the other goes around your stomach, which is twisting painfully inside of your gut, ripping another sob from you. You gag into the toilet, but you’ve already thrown everything you had inside. Your throat and nose burns from the stomach acid, but it doesn’t compare to the emotional pain of losing Ghost. You just stood there and watched him get gutted—why do you deserve to grieve when you could have prevented it in the first place? Someone killed the Ghost, and you let it fucking happen.

A large hand sprawls across the flat of your back which is accompanied by a low, gritty voice. Whoever it is says something, but you don’t quite hear them. It’s probably Price, trying to comfort you, trying to say there’s one thing you could’ve done to stop it, but you know there was something you could do, anything you could’ve done.

Price calls your name and you go to shove him away, but his hands wrap around your wrists, and the voice is more insistent. You choke on a sob and shake your head, struggling against him until you hear it—his voice. “Fuck, [Name], can you hear me?” Ghost’s voice. It’s his voice.

No. Your mind is playing tricks on you and you won’t fall for it, you won’t let yourself go through this horrendous grief for a second time. You try to curl up into a ball, wanting to grab at your hair or your clothes, just anything but be here. “Look at me.” His hands grab your face and force your face to look at him and..

It’s him. It’s Ghost.

All of your noises stop for a moment as you stare with wide eyes that are full of unfallen tears, eyes full of grief, all for him. Ghost stares back at you with uncharacteristically wide eyes, and you can see the way his hands are slightly trembling—he’s worried about you. Ghost’s eyebrows furrow when he sees your expression of anguish. “Hey—hey, what happened?” Ghost’s voice is so quiet, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he speaks any louder. Your hands come up to his mask and touch it and you burst into a harsh sob again, throwing your arms around him.

Usually, Ghost would hesitate. He would be reluctant to reciprocate such personal touch, such desperation, but he pulls you close into his arms without a second thought. Your hands grab his shirt and you breakdown into his chest, wetting the fabric with your tears. His heart slipped a beat because he’s never seen you like this—has never seen you break down this horribly.

He’d be here when you were ready to talk about it, but for now he’ll stay to hold you until your shoulders stop shaking. Ghost moves to sit on his bottom and you whimper in fear, like he’ll leave. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

[wholoveseggs]

Kinktober - {Day Twenty-Six} {<- kinktober masterlist}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List} {Kinktober}

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader} Request {Anon}: Hi, for kinktober could you do one with Elijah and have shower/ bath sex with some mirror included? Preferably bathroom sex atmosphere and please use she/her pronouns and heterosexuality please and thank you.

♡♡♡ Ugh love this idea anon! I made this one super sappy & steamyy ..♡♡♡

2.4k words - Kinks: mirror sex, shower sex, Elljah being sweet & a tea kettle ..

Elijah could tell you were exhausted the moment you walked into the compound.

The dark circles under your eyes were a sign that you hadn't been sleeping well. Your shoulders were tense, and the bags you were carrying were heavy. He immediately grabbed them from you, setting them aside.

"Ughhhh," you groaned, falling against his chest. "It's been a day, and a half. A long, fucking, exhausting, day and a half."

He squeezed you against him, his fingers running through your hair. Seeing you like this, all he wanted was to make you feel better. "Did you want to talk about it?"

"Not really." You let out a sigh. "Can we just watch a movie, and I don't know..."

You felt so shitty, that the ability to make simple decisions had escaped you. You were too tired to even think.

"I have a better idea," he said, "go take a hot shower and I'll make you a cup of tea. We can cuddle on the couch and watch movies, okay?"

You smiled against him, and then looked up into his warm brown eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

He leaned down and placed a sweet kiss against your lips. Then, with a swat to your ass, he nudged you in the direction of the stairs.

You smiled, loving when he did little things like that.

As you reached the top of the stairs, you could hear him in the kitchen, starting the water for your tea. You went to his bedroom and into the bathroom, turning the shower on and letting the water heat up.

It's always a bit of a strange feeling, using someone else's shower. You looked around at all of the toiletries, everything expensive and high quality, just like him. The thought brought a smile to your face.

His shower was ridiculously fancy, with a huge rain shower head, glass paneling, and a built-in bench. It was all so pristine, it was as if no one had ever used it before.

You got undressed, and stepped under the hot stream of water, the tension in your muscles slowly beginning to dissipate.

You closed your eyes, and tilted your head back, letting the water run through your hair and down your face. The tension in your muscles had begun to melt, and you sighed with relief.

You grabbed an expensive looking bottle, sniffing the contents. It smelled like him, and it made you feel warm inside. He was always so good to you, and he always seemed to know what you needed, even when you didn't.

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," you called out.

He entered, his eyes sweeping across your naked form. "What kind of tea do you want? I have chamomile, green, or I have a new lavender blend that Freya made..."

He was trying his best to keep his gaze focused on your face, but you could tell he was struggling. It made your core throb, just the way he was looking at you.

"Surprise me," you said with a smirk.

"Alright," he said, clearing his throat, and making an effort to leave.

"'lijah?" you called out.

He stopped, and looked at you again. "Yes, love?"

"Would you like to join me?" You asked, biting your bottom lip.

He gave you one of his slow smiles, the lines around his eyes creasing in a way that made you want to melt. "If you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all," you said with a grin.

You watched as he removed his clothes, and folded them neatly, placing them on the sink counter. His eyes never left yours, and the more skin he exposed, the hotter you felt.

The steam had caused his hair to curl a bit, it made him look even sexier, if that was possible.

He opened the door and stepped inside, standing before you, the water running down his skin.

"Hi," he said, smiling shyly.

"Hey," you replied, stepping towards him.

You took his face in your hands, and kissed him, his wet skin sliding against yours. He wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you flush against him, his length pressed between you.

"I have to say, your shower is quite impressive," you said with a grin, leaning in for another kiss.

"Thank you," he said. "I'll be sure to tell my architect."

He pulled you closer, his hand sliding down the slope of your spine, coming to rest on your lower back. He held you like that, the two of you kissing languidly, under the hot stream of water.

He reached for a bottle, pouring some liquid soap into his hand, and then rubbed them together. You loved the way he was looking at you, like he was going to devour you whole.

He ran his hands along your body, his fingers exploring every inch of you. His touch was firm, kneading and massaging your tired muscles. You leaned into him, closing your eyes.

You were feeling relaxed, but you also felt turned on, the way he was touching you, the way his fingers were gliding over your slick, wet skin. You looked up at him, his gaze heavy, and intense.

You smiled, and grabbed the bottle, returning the favor.

His body was perfect. Every inch of him was firm, and smooth. His broad shoulders and muscular chest, and his arms... his arms were something else. You enjoyed his patch of chest hair, and the happy trail leading to his cock. The way the water ran down his face and over his body was enough to drive you crazy.

He was watching you with lustful eyes, the way your hands were exploring his body. You were teasing him, your fingers ghosting along his lower stomach. The heat had seeped into your bones, and the feel of his skin against yours had started a fire inside of you.

You could feel yourself growing more and more aroused, his hard length pressing into your belly, only making you more desperate.

His kisses trailed from your mouth, along your jaw, down your neck, and onto your collar bone. You sighed, your hand coming to tangle in his damp hair, your nails gently scraping his scalp. He took a step forward, backing you up against the wall, the tiles cool against your back.

You reached for him, and wrapped your fingers around his cock. He groaned, his forehead falling against yours. He pressed into you, and you began to stroke him, feeling him grow harder with each pump of your hand.

You loved the way he responded to you, the way the water cascaded down his chest, and the way his breath quickened as you increased the pace of your movements.

He took your wrist and pulled you off of him. Then he guided you towards the bench, getting you to sit down, your back against the tile wall.

"Would you like to see what else this shower is capable of?" He asked with a wicked smile.

"Mmm, show me," you answered, excited to find out.

He reached up and fiddled with a couple of dials, until the jets came on, the water shooting out at different angles, and varying pressures. The steam was thick and heavy in the air.

You could feel the warm water misting against your skin. You sighed, it felt so good. He knelt in front of you, and kissed you, then moved on to your neck. You closed your eyes, your head falling back against the tile.

His kisses trailed from your neck, to your chest, his tongue laving over a nipple. You let out a moan, your body melting against him. His hands moved down your sides, hooking under your knees, spreading your legs.

He continued to kiss his way down, until he reached your core. He paused for a moment, looking up at you, his eyes dark, and lust filled. You bit your lip, and nodded. He grinned, and began to kiss and suck on your inner thigh.

He placed your leg over his shoulder, and then buried his face in between your thighs, his tongue licking up the length of your pussy. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more.

He licked and sucked on your clit, his fingers rubbing your opening. You moaned, your head falling back, your eyes squeezing shut. He was groaning softly, the deep vibrations causing waves of pleasure to course through your body.

He kept a slow, steady rhythm, curling his finger to hit that sweet spot inside of you. Your grip on his hair tightened, and you cried out, his name falling from your lips, lost in the thick, humid air.

Your orgasm was building, your hips grinding against his face. He increased his speed, sucking harder, his finger moving faster, the pressure coiling tighter, and tighter.

And then it happened, a burst of heat and euphoria, rushing through your veins, as the orgasm rippled through your body. You could hear him groan as you clenched around his finger, and his mouth continued to lick and suck at you, drawing out the waves of pleasure.

He removed his finger, and gently sucked and nibbled on your clit, before giving it a tender kiss and leaning back. You were still panting, trying to catch your breath, and regain some sense of reality.

He shook his head, water flying off his hair, a sly smirk on his face. He stood up, and reached behind him, turning the dials off.

He pulled you up, and into his arms, causing you to giggle. He gave you a kiss, and then took a step backwards, bringing you with him, and pushing the shower door open.

"Where are we going?" You asked, laughing.

"Having sex in a shower is never as comfortable as people think," he explained, pulling you out into the steamy bathroom, the air was so thick it was hard to see.

"And I'm worried you'll slip," he said, walking towards the sink counter.

"Ah," you said with a smile. "You're a very thoughtful lover."

He chuckled. "I try."

You laughed, wiping the condensation off the mirror, your hair and skin wet and slick. He was still behind you, kissing and nibbling on the shell of your ear.

You could see him in the reflection, his arms wrapped around you, his hands running over the contours of your body. You pushed your hips back, grinding against him, feeling his cock throb against you.

He looked up, meeting your eyes in the mirror and you smiled, bending over the sink and giving him a wink.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he said, running a hand down the curve of your spine.

You watched him in the reflection, the way his gaze followed the curves of your body, and the way his tongue flicked out, wetting his lips. His fingers weaved through your hair, while his other hand was on his cock, guiding it into you.

The sensation of being filled, stretched and pleasured was so overwhelming. You gripped the counter, and let out a gasp. His fingers gripped your hips, his gaze never leaving yours in the reflection.

"Is this okay?" He asked.

"More than okay," you assured him. "It's so hot, watching us."

You could see the way his face changed, his lips parting, his breathing quickening. His eyes were hooded and dark, a look of lust and desire that had you aching for more.

He moved inside of you, slow and deep, his gaze fixed on yours. You could feel him, filling and stretching you, each movement bringing you closer to the edge.

You enjoyed the way the water darkened all of his features, his hair clinging to his face, the way his eyes were even more intense, the way his skin glistened. You loved the way his muscles flexed, the way he moved inside of you, how his hands were gripping you.

He began to move faster, his cock hitting you in all the right places. He gently tugged on your hair, pulling you back towards him. Your head fell against his chest, his other arm wrapping around you, his lips on your neck, sucking little marks into the soft, sensitive skin.

You could feel him everywhere, all around you, the weight of his body holding you down, the scent of him in the air. His fingers were gripping your hip, his arm was tight around your waist. You were both moaning, your skin sliding against his.

Your eyes met in the mirror, his expression one of pure ecstasy, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, his brows knit together. It was enough to push you over the edge, and send you flying. You moaned his name, and clenched around him, your body pulsing and quivering.

He pulled you back towards him, and thrust into you a few more times, before finding his own release, spilling inside of you.

He stayed there, buried deep, his head on your shoulder, the two of you catching your breath. He kissed the back of your neck, and gently pulled out.

You stood up, and he handed you a towel, and wrapped one around himself. Then he scooped you up, and carried you out to his bedroom.

"Are you feeling better?" He asked, setting you down on his bed.

"Much," you said, snuggling into his soft sheets, reaching out for him to join you.

He was about to climb in beside you, when he paused, tilting his head towards the door. Then he stood, rushing out of the room.

You heard him running down the stairs, and then you heard the faint sound of the kettle whistling. You laughed to yourself, shaking your head. He had been so wrapped up in the moment, that he had completely forgotten about the tea.

He returned a few minutes later, and you had made yourself comfortable, waiting for him. He had a sheepish look on his face, and a hot mug of tea in his hand.

"I may have damaged the stove... And the kettle," he admitted, handing you the drink.

You let out a laugh, the steam rising from the cup. "Oh, 'lijah."

He shrugged, climbing into bed beside you, pulling you into his arms.

"How about a movie marathon?" He asked, placing a kiss against your head.

After a long day, nothing was better than this. You were curled up next to him, safe, and loved, and warm. So relaxed that you fell asleep before the first film had even started.

{<- kinktober masterlist}

[waywardcrow]

Christmas blues.

Summary: Someone hurt his fairy and Bucky will do everything to fix it and give you the Christmas you deserve.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader.

WC: Almost 2K.

TW: Overprotective Bucky, sad reader because of an abusive ex, Christmas blues, talk about revenge and torture but just mentioned, crying, talk about cheating from reader’s ex and ex best friend, pinning dumbasses, ugly Christmas sweaters and Bucky wearing reindeer ears, kind of drunk writer (aka me), let me know if I missed something.

Disclaimer: English is not my first language, please tell me if I make grammar mistakes.

Part of the Take my hand (wreck my plans) series.

Pictures from pinterest, graphic and dividers by the amazing @ firefly-graphics so all credits to the creators.

Something had happened, Bucky knew it.

You were different after coming home from visiting your parents. They were going on a cruise ship for Christmas so you’ll be spending it at the compound with everybody for the first time.

He could thought it was the perspective of not spending the holidays with your blood family but you were so excited before you left to have Thanksgiving with them, it didn’t make sense.

Every time someone tried to engage you in decorating the tree or bake cookies for the kids, you smiled politely and declined, leaving everyone worried.

“What’s up with fairy?” Sam asked when he arrived with Sarah and his nephews; they agreed to spend the holidays there so nobody feel left out.

“We don’t know” Natasha replied watching you leave after they failed once again, this time you didn’t want to go ice skating.

“You don’t know?” Sam raised a brow, crossing his arms in front of his chest with a silly smile “I didn’t thought you were familiar with the concept.”

Bucky left them bickering to go find you and he did, your gaze was set in the sunset, not paying much attention to the cold in the air that surrounded you in the balcony.

“Hi sweetheart” you barely reacted, more used than him to Bucky being charming with you.

“What are you doing here? You could catch a cold” Bucky saw you take in the thin layered Henley he was wearing, practically nothing compared to your coat.

“I don’t get sick, honey” he reminded you, making your skin heat despite the winter, feeling like a dumbass. What a scientist you were “I appreciate the concern, though.”

You nodded.

“Are you alright?”

“I should be the one asking that” he said, bumping you gently with his shoulder, Bucky was too delicate with you still but he made every day an effort to be more open, especially with you. He watched your lips become a firm line and his heart started to beat faster in his ribcage. Something had happened, he was sure “I’m here if you want to talk fairy, we all want you to be ok.”

That broke you.

A tear escaped your control and Bucky’s heart sink down, he couldn’t help it when he hugged you making you hid your face in his chest, making you wrap your arms around his waist.

He let you cry; rubbing circles in your back and when you calmed down, Bucky took you to your apartment to make you hot chocolate.

When it was ready Bucky sat next to you in your colorful coach, watching you took a sip while making a mental list of all the awful ways he will torture who hurt you.

“I ran into my ex while being at home” you said without looking at him, making Bucky’s whole body tense. He only heard a few things about him from Tony and Pepper but none were good “he is engaged now, to my ex best friend.”

Oh Bucky would rip his arms away from his body.

“Did he… what did he said to you?” he got closer to his fairy; it should have been very bad to have you crying like that.

Your lower lip trembled so did the mug in your hands so Bucky put his right one on top of yours.

“He said I was invited to the wedding, that Lara and him were grateful I brought them together like they didn’t cheat on me for a year” your voice cracked and more years followed.

That bastard, hot anger cursed through Bucky’s body, he will make them suffer.

“And then Louis made fun of me for buying too much in the Christmas market, he said he was sorry I don’t have anyone to spend Christmas with, like an adult so I have to overcompensate being childish.”

The entire time your eyes were focused in your hands, so embarrassed to be this honest with him when it was your idiotic ex who should be very concerned about what was coming to him, he will recruit Nat and Yelena and Tony to make sure he will pay for every one your tears.

“He is right” you said wiping your tears with your sleeve “I’m childish and dumb and…”

“Hey, hey” Bucky stopped your self-destructive train taking both of your hands in his “none of that is true, fairy” he reassured you making you look at him “he is an asshole, an abuser” Bucky spited that word out, thinking about someone like you having to live with people like that jerk made him want to punch him until his metal arm got tired “he is wrong, you are not what he says.”

“Thanks Bucky but…”

“Ah ah, I’m not letting you be mean with yourself, you’ll do the same for me” it was true, you were so gentle with him and always help him to be gentle with himself too “you deserve the whole universe, honey” Bucky cupped your face in his hands and your breath caught in your throat.

His ocean blue eyes were so kind, so full of trust that it was impossible to not believe his words.

God, he wanted to kiss you so bad but it wasn’t the time so he left a kiss in your forehead “You are not alone, you are so loved by everyone that meets you and it kills me that you have to suffer all that shit, I’m so sorry fairy.”

You hugged him and stay there for a while, feeling the pain in your heart becoming easier.

The next day  Bucky was knocking in your door before breakfast.

You were feeling bad for telling him all that, for letting him see that part of yourself that wasn’t bright, he had enough pain in his life and still he took yours and made it less heavy.

“Bucky? What are you doing here?” he looked so handsome even wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater you’ve ever seen “what are you wearing?” you whispered, not so sure if you were still sleeping, he was wearing reindeer ears too.

Did Tony and Bruce mess with the time lines again?

“We are going shopping, fairy” he handed you a matching sweater that looked your size “get ready, we leave in ten minutes to get waffles” and with that he disappeared in the hallway.

Confused you did what he said, maybe he needed help with his shopping and it was the least you could do after oversharing the previous night with him.

You met him in the elevators with your ugly sweater on and he smirked.

“You look good, fairy” bashful, you gave him a tiny smile and he felt it like a victory.

And the madness began.

True to his word, he took you for the best waffles you ever eat and then to the Christmas market in Brooklyn, still wearing his silly outfit, parting the crowded area like if he did that every random Sunday, oblivious to the chatter around you both and the not so discreet pictures some took of him. His whole attention was on you.

Bucky could recognize when you liked something, Louis words were still echoing in your mind but he made you feel so safe with him that remembering all your work with your therapist was easier and if you doubted before buying something, he would buy it for you.

You wouldn’t let Louis and Lara take anything more from you and he would help you with that.

“What do you think of this one? It seems perfect for Sam” he told you showing you a funny looking owl with a Santa hat, making you giggle.

“Put it some goggles on and then it will be perfect” you said without thinking, feeling all the cold leave your body when he throw his head back and laughed “oh no, forget I said that, poor Sam.”

“I’m never forgetting it doll, it’s exactly what I’m going to give him” he paid for the owl and gave the old lady in the vendor cart a smile that probably extended her life a decade.

Three hours later, lots of pretzels and hot chocolate you both were taking your car to go back home.

“Thank you for today” you said with a quiet voice when you parked outside the apartments “I know yesterday I was a lot, this made me feel better.”

“You’re never a lot, fairy, you are perfect” there was something else behind his words but before you could ask, Sam shout startled you.

“Hey, lovebirds, Sarah and Clint made lunch” he was wearing only shorts and a t-shirt which was insane but the basketball equipment explained a little, same as the presence of Thor, Cass, AJ and Yelena who looked very proud of herself.

“Let’s go” you said and follow the others, not noticing Bucky’s disappointment matched yours.

Christmas Eve was so much better than you expected, Natasha and Yelena didn’t leave you alone for a second, Wanda helped you wrap your presents, Tony, Morgan and Pepper would hug you randomly through the day and kiss your cheek, the rest of the team did things like that and you felt so loved.

Bucky made sure of it.

He didn’t tell you Louis and Lara were being taken care of, he probably never will, instead he choose to spend the afternoon making letters to Santa with the kids, having the perfect view of you from the living room while laughing at Morgan’s antics who tried to convince AJ and Cass that Happy was Santa. Nate was buying it by then and it was adorable, the chaos also reminded him of his sisters.

“Who wants dessert before dinner?” Yelena asked from the kitchen, the young widow didn’t miss the chance to steal sweets while you and the others cooked and apparently she wanted the kids to do the same.

There was a loud chorus of enthusiastic answers that made him wince even if the disapproval of the parents in the room made him smile. After a short but intense discussion, Sam and you convinced the others to let it happen, it was Christmas after all.

“Just one cookie, ok? We have to wait for dinner” Sam said holding the tray for them and the little munchkins yell, sugar high already “they are not for you, terminator.”

Sam tried to take them from him but you took the tray from your friend.

“Don’t listen to him, take as many as you want” you said, making a silly face at Sam who responded with a similar one.

“Thanks, fairy” Bucky took one of your cookies and barely noticed Sam going towards the Christmas tree “they smell so good.”

If that didn’t make your skin feel on fire, Morgan’s words did.

“Auntie fairy, you are under the mistletoe with Mr. Barnes” a giggle escaped the little girl and then the others kids who laughed at your reaction. The adults in the kitchen stayed in silence, despite Natasha’s “kiss her, dumbass” comment and Bucky… Bucky was looking at you like you were the only one he could see.

Biting your lip, you doubted for a heartbeat before standing in your tiptoes and giving him a kiss, short and sweet, just like you.

And then, Tony let out a wolf whistle, Yelena an exasperated sigh and you could hear Sam in the back asking who dressed an owl like him and put it in top of the tree but your focus was mostly in the handsome man in front of you who took you by the waist and kissed you again.

Merry Christmas lovelies! Hope you like this one, please tell me what you think, if you want to see more about Bucky and fairy, etc.

Love, Lily.

[meguwumibear]

wc 2.3k and contains: noncon, knotting, piv sex, alpha!megumi, human!reader, yandere themes, written with a female reader in mind, baby's like second time writing smut, i think that’s everything but always happy to add or tag new warnings if i missed anything

On a dark winter night, you come to him, lost and oh so terribly alone. The Japanese Alps are a common place for hikers to traipse. Always have been. Many come to make pilgrimage to the Buddhist temple that sits atop the holy Mount Tate. Others come to extract raw goods. They mine the minerals from the mountains and hunt the wildlife for sport and game. The discovery of a wolf pack nestled deep within its mountain ranges only served to alter common tourist paths, not deter travelers from them completely.

 You are not like the usual adventurers. You are a small and fragile thing, even if you seem to think otherwise. Even if you think you are big and tough and strong, you are not. He will prove this to you time and time again with his own muscles and teeth and claws.

Human flesh bruises so easily, tears at the slightest bit of pressure. He has to remind himself to mind his teeth when he sinks his incisors into the thin skin of your neck. You have not learned what it means to submit yet, so he presses your cheek to the grass for you. He grants himself the access he needs to bite.

He does not mean to claim you. There are betas back at the compound that he can fuck, omegas for him to mate. Seasoned and well trained wolves that understand their place and their role in a pack. Beasts that will drop to all fours and present themselves to him, head down, ass up, back arched.

You are not the first human he meets. You’re not even the first human he knots. His pack keeps several on reserve at the compound. They exist to help their alphas through their ruts and their omegas through their heats. And they expertly execute their assigned duties. Defiance has been taken from them. With a bit of punishment and reinforcement, they learn.

The assimilation of humans into packs was necessary. Because wolves can’t bond with humans. Not really. Not the way they can another wolf. Humans don’t have scent glands for wolves to puncture and no amount of chewing or gnawing or knotting would change that.

Which means that your sent will remain your own, even once it starts to mingle with his, no matter how many times he sinks his teeth into you. His mark and claim will never take completely. It will never be skin deep. You will never fully be his. His bond with you is surface level. All evidence of it will fade if he doesn’t consistently trap you beneath his jaws. And you are oh so very stubborn.

The first time he takes you is the hardest. He does what he can to prep you for him, but your submission does not come easily. You fight against him and your nature. You thrash and wiggle beneath him, beating your fists into the ground, clawing earnestly at the loose bits of dirt. All of your squirming nurtures his prey instinct, but he fights against it as best he can. Part of him wants to release you to revel in a true chase. Instead, he presses your writhing form to the ground with his chest as he rids you of your clothes.

He does what he can to sooth you. Cards his fingers through your hair, strokes gently down your arms. The humans back at the compound seem to enjoy when he tends to them this way. It helps them relax. With a few simple caresses and a bit of patience, a human will submit to their alpha. It’s only natural after all.

Pack humans understand what’s in their nature. You do not.

Megumi’s never had to break a human in before. He’s always just enjoyed the fruits of the other wolves’ labor. He thinks he’d like to train you, to teach you to bare your neck, to reward your obedience and punish your defiance. If you were an omega, he’d press your nose against his neck and let you breathe in his calming scent. His pheromones would make you soft and pliant, eager to take his knot.

Omegas may be easier, but Megumi knows how and where to touch a woman. He’s had plenty of practices with the humans back home. He ghosts his fingers gently between your folds, rubs tiny circles into your clit, and soon enough you’re dripping for him.

“It’s okay,” he coos. He can smell your fear. Ripe and rotten like spoiled fruit. You won’t be able to handle him in this state. He needs to placate you further. “It’s natural to like this. You’re wired to. All humans are. You can’t help it.”

When your protests don’t end, he continues.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” he asks as he sinks a single finger inside your hot, slick core. It slips in easily, despite your thrashing. He has your belly pressed against the damp grass to limit your wriggling. His own bare chest is flush against your back. Weight, he’s learned can be comforting to an anxious human; they have a unconscious, unspoken need to be swaddled. “Don’t you want to be bred? Don’t you want to me mine?”

You have just enough strength left in you to whimper out a strained no. To curse him out. He lets you struggle beneath him, chuckling quietly to himself as you tire yourself out pushing against the forest floor, clawing away at the cold soil. The underbrush shifts around you as you stamp yourself into the foliage. Saplings will sprout here in a few weeks, their roots nurtured by your tears.

Patience is a virtue, and time is on his side. He can afford to wait out this tantrum of yours.

When your movements begin to slow, he lines himself up with your entrance. It isn’t ideal; he’d like to slip in another finger and test the give of your walls, but you aren’t making things easy for him, and his dick is so fucking swollen with blood and need if he doesn't fuck you soon he might knot from heavy petting.

“This is where you belong. Under an alpha. Under me.” His breath is hot against the shell of your ear. It’s what you try to focus on as he slowly sinks his tip inside you, stretching you open on the fattened head of his cock. You’re wet from his ministrations, but not enough to completely sooth the ache of taking an alpha’s cock.

Two juxtaposing groans fill the air. His satisfied and pleased. Yours distressed and pained.

He noses at your neck to take in your scent as he rocks his tip softly in and out of you, hoping his restraint will relax you. It was your scent that sealed your fate. Under the fading trace of your fragrant deodorant: you. Nicer than any of the humans he has back at the compound. Nicer than any of the omegas too. You don’t understand the importance of this, but he knows this means you’re compatible. This means you were created for him.

He wants to take his time with you. He really truly does. But he can’t help but think that the anticipation of taking his knot is partly, if not completely, responsible for your nervousness. Would it not be kinder then, to simply get the initial breech over with?

You scream as he buries himself inside of you. He does it quickly, presses his entire length into you all at once, cooing at you as he slides in. Your walls tighten in protest, doing what they can to force him out. Your scent is pungent and panicked, even when his movements cease. He’s never smelled anything like it before. The pack humans always smell so sweet like honey and sunshine and home. You are poison on his tongue.

Eventually, your pussy begins to adjust to his girth, loosening its hold on his cock. He resumes his thrusting then, slow and gentle like a human might. Salty tears streak down your cheeks as you sob so violently your entire body shakes. The humans at the compound enjoy when he talks them through this. He tries to do that for you now.

“Shh, shh, I know. It’s okay. You’re taking me so well.”

His placation is met with a grunt of protest. Nothing he can’t fuck out of you.

“Don’t fight it,” he says as his fingers find their way back to your clit. He strokes the swollen nub a few times encouragingly, reveling in the way your walls begin to clench around him. “I’m gonna take such good care of you. You’ll want for nothing. I’m-SHIT,” he can feel his resolve crumbling as your pussy milks him, “fuck-I’m gonna make you cum.”

The thought of him forcing and orgasm out of you spikes your adrenaline again. The arm he has wrapped firmly around your belly prevents you from crawling out from under him, but damn do you put up a fight.

He licks soothingly at your neck—where your scent glad would be if you were an omega. Your sweat is sour and bitter. The fact that he’s been unable to earn your submission makes his stomach drop. He is an alpha. He’s supposed to take care of his pack. That includes you now, even if you haven’t fully accepted it yet.

“M-UGH-my name’s Megumi,” he says. “You can call me that if you’d like. My packs not too far from here. I’ll take you there when we’re finished here. Help you build a nest.”

Humans are supposed to be introduced to pack concepts slowly, but there’s no sense in holding anything back from you now. Not while he can feel the beginnings of his knot catching on your entrance with each new stroke.

“Ever taken a knot before?” he asks. City wolves aren’t common, but they do exist. It’s possible you’ve met and fucked one.

He doesn’t expect a response but you’re shaking your head no. Your responsiveness is a good sign. It shows a willingness to please.

To reward you, he slows his movements and stops swiping at your clit. It stalls his own impending climax, but it’s worth it if he can get you to truly submit.

“You’ll like it,” he promises, burying his nose in the crook of your neck again; he can't get enough of your scent, bitter as it may be. “You’ll see. You’ll learn. You don’t belong with humans. You belong here, beneath me, naked and neck bared. Nothing will feel more right to you than your submission. I promise.”

He kisses what skin he can reach. Your right cheek, then the left, the tip of your forehead, each straining shoulder blade. It’s a human courting tradition, not a wolf one, but the familiarity of it seems to have a calming effect on you. He presses another kiss to your neck before biting gently at your ear with his teeth.

And, there it is. Quiet but audible to his wolf ears. A moan. Not in protest. But in pleasure.

“You like that?” he hums working your earlobe between his teeth again. Your pussy flutters sweetly around him as he licks a stripe up the shell of it. He wonders if any human has ever touched you like this before. They can be so prudish about spit and sweat.

While you’re distracted by his kisses, he picks up the pace of his thrusts, drilling into you with purpose, hips smacking loudly against your ass. It takes him a few strokes to hit the right spot inside you, but he feels your whole body tense once he does.

“That’s it,” he coos. You’re close. He can feel it. At the rate he’s going, it won’t take long for you to cum. He presses his thumb more firmly to your clit and rubs small, soothing circles into it. You’re overly sensitive, even without cumming, so he keeps the circles slow yet steady.

“M-Megumi,” you whine, the sound like honey, thick and sweet. There’s still some resistance in you. Some fear too. But he’s starting to sense something else, something close to genuine arousal.

He sniffs at your skin again, assessing, and is pleased to discover that your scent is changing. Still a bit sour but the sharpness of it is fading. You’re starting to smell like the woods around you. You’re starting to smell like him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. You’re doing so, so well for me. Taking me like you were made for me.”

He’s panting now, fighting tooth and nail to prevent himself from knotting until he’s gotten at least one orgasm out of you. As your fear ebbs, you become more responsive to his touch. You arch your back, allowing him to slip even deeper inside you. Your hips are moving now too, grinding against his fingers as he coaxes your orgasm out of you.

You cum with a harsh cry, spasming so intensely around him that his own release finds him before he’s able to completely fuck you through yours. His mind goes blank as he forces his knot into your tight, untrained hole. Hot, sticky cum floods your pussy and is held there by his swollen cockhead.

Alpha cum is laced with calming pheromones, but they seem to have little to no effect on you. His knot will be in you for at least the next half hour, so Megumi does what he can to calm your buzzing nerves.

“Did so well for me,” he mumbles into the top of your head. “Took my knot so well. It’ll be easier next time. Promise. Promise.”

It takes some time, but your shaking eventually subsides to brief, light tremors. He plays with your hair as you come down from your orgasm. At some point during the aftermath, he swears he feels you inch closer to him for comfort.

When he’s soft enough to pull out without hurting you, he does. Your cunt flutters around him as he slips out, almost as if it misses his thickness. You whimper a bit as he starts to rouse you, fight leaking from you like his spend does your pussy.

It doesn’t look like you can walk so he scoops you up into his arms. You curl instinctually into him, burying your face into his chest.

“Where we going?” you ask, voice muffled by his hulking form.

He smiles as he replies.

“Home.”

[silhouetteonpaper]

Isolated

Summary: You’ve been hiding from your past mistakes for two years now. So what happens when the person who blamed you in the first place knocks on your door? Yelena Belova x Reader One Shot WC: 1,378

ISOLATED

“I thought I’d lost you forever.” The blonde spoke, her silhouette a mere shadow in the doorway.

“Close the door, you’re letting the cold air in.” You respond with an uninterested tone, the distance between you physically and mentally causing a rift in your ability to care. After all, there was a reason you came here to be alone all that time ago.

Yelena stepped inside and shut the creaky door, blocking out the loud patter of rain that drenched the porch. Inside your hideaway, it was cozy. A small farmhouse that sat far from civilization, just how you liked it. You begin to stoke the fire, letting the warmth heat the two of you on this stormy day. The girl you used to know well walks to the couch, sinking into it with relief as you finish moving logs in the fire pit.

“How’d you find me?” You state more than ask, sitting diagonal from her in an armchair. You meet her eyes, but she only gazes at the fireplace, seeming to collect her swirling thoughts.

“Months of searching. A tip from some of the people in the nearby town who recognized you.” She pauses, finally moving her eyes to you. The green in them is just as you remembered. “You’ve grown up.” Yelena says with a sense of tenderness. You know her love for you is still strong, that you’ll always be like a little sister to her. But it’s hard to deny that everything connecting you two changed all those months ago.

“That tends to happen when time passes.” You state bluntly, now looking at the fire to distract your own growing nerves. It wasn’t that Yelena was making you nervous by being here, it was that you were once again reminded of the chaos you left behind.

When your powers left everything in worse shape, often times hurting more than helping, you couldn’t stay any longer. Everyone blamed you, and you blamed yourself too. What they didn’t expect, though, was that you’d just up and leave without a word, without a trace. Back then, you thought that’s what they wanted, it was best for everyone. You didn’t know they were searching for you, you didn’t know they still cared.

“You don’t have to live off the grid forever.” Yelena says, bringing you back to the present. Her eyes dart from your face to your hands, and you can sense her caution in approaching the subject. You sigh, looking back over to her.

“It’s the safest option. I can’t risk anything.” You voice plainly. What you don’t tell her is how you still feel like dangerous. Like you’re nothing more than a monster, a terrible person that deserves nothing but isolation. You haven’t used your powers since, and you don’t intend needing to as long as you stay here.

“That’s not true. You know we can continue to train, work on your control, and we won’t push you until you feel ready.” She consoles you, trying to offer the same things as the last time you were nervous. When you were first starting out training at the compound, they told you those same things. But you was pushed too far and sent out on the field before you felt ready. As anyone could imagine, it ended badly.

“And what about last time?” You ask with raised eyebrows.

She hesitates, drawing a sharp breath inwards. “Everyone makes mistakes. A few innocent lives were taken, a few buildings were destroyed. I understand it’s hard, but-“ Her words fill you with anger, throwing out the causalities like they mean nothing anymore. You interrupt her the second you realize she doesn’t understand.

“No, Yelena. Last time, you said the same thing. That we could train and work on my control. I told you I couldn’t go out on real missions yet, but no one listened. No one would hear the fact that I wasn’t ready. And it cost an entire city’s destruction.” You scold, standing up and walking away after spitting out the words that forced their way up. Your heart was racing now, the anger returning in full force like it used to.

You couldn’t face her if she’d talk to you that way. Like it was your fault all along. As much as it was your fault physically, the entire team didn’t consider your capability mentally. So, you had no choice but to follow through with their orders if you didn’t want to be attacked, or even exiled. And it led to the extinction of an entire innocent city.

You don’t hear footsteps following you as you slam the bedroom door shut. You pray that the blonde just leaves, copying your same actions out of revenge, but you doubt someone that protective would. Two years have passed since you left the compound with no trace, and you bet money they wouldn’t ever let it happen again. You tell yourself it’s not because they care about you, but because they worry what your powers could do in the wrong hands. In your hands, without guidance.

Right now, you don’t care what they want. You don’t care what plan they have for bringing you back to the compound. You only want them to forget you exist. After an hour passes, you know that plan is simply a fantasy as you hear a soft knock on the door. You don’t respond, laying on the bed as you watch the rain fall outside your window. Still, with no response, the blonde enters anyway.

“Can I sit?” Yelena questions softly, standing in the doorway. You nod, knowing there’s no way to get rid of her now. She sits on the edge of the bed, joining you in looking out the window at the gloomy scenery. “I’m sorry. For all of it.” She starts, leaving you to take a deep breath.

“I didn’t realize you weren’t ready for the tasks we gave you. And I’ll never forgive myself for that. I was so caught up in my pride for you that I didn’t take a second to think that maybe you weren’t as confident as I was.” Yelena expresses. You give a quick chuckle at her sentiment, the words slightly backhanded.

“Wow, thanks.” You say sarcastically. Yelena shook her head slightly.

“You know what I mean. I was so proud of the young girl who overcame everything to get where she was, I knew that if you could do all that, there was a good chance you could execute the mission. Even if I was over-confident in your ability, I’ll always care about you, because I want you to be safe, I want you to feel loved.” She finished, silence filling the room for a moment as you thought to yourself.

You sat up slightly, leaning against the headboard behind you. You pull your eyes from the window to meet Yelena’s once more. “You’ll always care about me?” You ask quietly, still refusing to knock down the wall you built, just incase her statement was false. But something inside you shifts, like the blonde is slowly finding her place back beside you.

“Always. Everyone on the team loves you, including me. I love you the most, but don’t tell anyone or they’ll argue for that spot.” Yelena laughs, putting a hand on your arm. You nearly flinch at her touch, but find yourself softening into it. You can tell that you missed her, and she can too. You smile slightly, her sentiment breaking you down slowly.

“I know that saying sorry only means so much. Words mean nothing if the same process is repeated over and over. So, do you think you could give us all another chance to change, give training one more shot?” Yelena asks, her hopeful green eyes finding yours.

You finally hug her, the urge overtaking you after it began when she first walked in the front door. Yelena doesn't hesitate in holding you close, even tighter than any hug she’d given before, almost a sense of relief washing over her. “I can do that.” You answer over her shoulder. In this moment, you know you’re a part of the team again. And it’s clear that in her eyes, you’ve been a part of the team this entire time.

[moonshynecybin]

if you don’t mind my asking, what were the best/worst parts about living in ireland to you?

stuff i LOVED: everyone was the nicest person ive ever met im not even JOKING... wahh... my first day some lady paid my bus fair and was just so overwhelmingly kind about it... i loved living in dublin for the ability to go into a city (i am from a very rural area and it was LOVELY) and see big old buildings and museums and pubs and get to do all these things that i just never had the option to do... public transportation ruled.... and i got to TRAVEL for so much cheaper than we do in the USA and i made a lot of FRIENDS both international and irish and american.... went to irish oktoberfest with a bunch of germans and italians and taught them how to play FLIP CUP cuz they didnt know... went to scotland with my roommates and friends.... drank a lot of guinness and walked around all the parks... saw the bog bodies at the natural history museum... got drunk adn walked around temple bar... bahhh i REALLY did like it whenever i wasnt trapped inside the house...

Stuff i HATED under the cut it has truly nothing to do with the country it was my living situation. lol. well actually im gonna be honest the weather was ASS but i knew that goin in. got to see some rainbows who CARES:

um the BIGGEST THING. was that my living situation was five alarm bell insane. i had to pick a place before flying over so i only saw it over facetime(RUH ROH) and my landlords did not seem interested in providing me and my roommates (two other american girls in their mid twenties) with a liveable space like at all. they never turned the heat on (i was shivering literally constantly. the other girls showered at the university bc it was literally too cold to do it at home. AND they didnt let us buy any electronics without prior approval so we could not buy like. a space heater. it was CRAZY i could see my breath in my ROOM...). they didnt allow any visitors not even my MOM to let me move in. there was a curfew they didnt tell us about. we didnt have a sink in our kitchen (and we had to walk outside to a different part of the building to access it). there was mold EVERYWHERE.AND apparently the reason we were living there was to fund house renovations so they were constantly kicking us out of our rooms to let in builders/construction people (one of the final straws was my roommate coming back from xmas break to find that they had moved her and ALL her stuff out of her room to do a renovation literally without telling her lol. they moved a WALL and we didnt have a SINK STILL...). they tried to enter my room without my permission. and all of this was PROHIBITIVELY expensive like genuinely i could have gotten a studio with the fees i was paying (and they made us pay in cash so. ATM fees compounded all that lol) BUT. they had us trapped in this ILLEGAL lease that stipulated that if we moved out we would owe our ENTIRE remaining rent for the agreed lease period. we sent this to a lawyer later he was like these guys are buckshit insane. i firmly believe they chose american girls and didnt let our parents like. even see the exterior of the house because they knew our moms would call bullshit immediately but WHATEVERRR... anyways after i left i found out that they had a secret baby that they didnt tell us about either. CRAZY!!!!

my school program also was not the most rigorous AND my migraine symptoms started while i was over there soooooo in addition to literally being cold ALL the time, i had NO idea what was going on with my head/health + i didnt really have the resources to find a new place/fight with my landlords + i was rapidly running out of money bc of how expensive everything about my housing was + i wasnt even getting the education i wanted because my professors sucked ass. so when i went home for winter break i just didnt come back ! and i got my roommates to send my stuff to the states. it was like the most insane six months of my life i lost like ten pounds from stress lol

[natty-light-of-my-life]

you are three one four me (pi day special)

summary: mechanic!reader celebrates pi day with their girlfriend in an unexpected way.

happy pi day, nerds!

The first thing you learn as a mechanic, often the hard way, is that the best designs keep it simple. The less complex a machine is, the fewer potential failure points they create. When you see contraptions with too many fittings, too few access points, and way too many dumb features, you know to stay far, far away. Well, you tried your best, anyways.

Working for Tony Stark, you’ve learned (often the hard way), is nauseatingly, annoyingly complex. The man was a genius. Weapons. Flight suits. He understood those concepts better than any other person on Earth, you’d reckon. You would trust Tony with your life on the battlefield. 

But not in the kitchen. Never again.

Friday, bless her soul, could control all the appliances in the kitchen, thanks to Tony’s integration of the AI with the Avengers compound. The AI could control the humidity of the room to a tenth of a percent. She could start running the faucet and fill the sink up with soapy water. She could place an order for the carton of eggs that you forgot to buy at the grocery store. It was great!

Except.

Except, sometimes, Friday would misinterpret a request. After all, a computer was only as smart as the programmer. And Tony, brilliant Tony, did not spend much time in the kitchen.

Which leads you to the current moment. The fire alarm screeched throughout the compound as you ran out into the hallway. The emergency lights flashed, refracting among the hazy, smoke-filled air. You ran towards the kitchen, where the smoke seemed to be heaviest, grabbing the red fire extinguisher from the wall. The floors were already damp, so you assumed that the sprinklers had been triggered. The smoke, however, had not stopped.

You spun around the kitchen, trying to locate the source of the smoke plume. Your eyes widened as you found the flames. The oven was on fire. A big fire at that. You knew the kitchen was all electric, so no natural gas, thank goodness. But still, the oven had somehow caught on fire while you were downstairs in the garage. You saw a bottle of wine broken on the counter, and next to that, a large grease fire where a jar of cooking oil was usually kept. 

If you weren’t drowning in smoke and coughing, you would have let out a string of expletives. Something your meemaw would not approve of and would make Steve blush. You coughed violently again before covering your nose and mouth with your shirt. You lifted the fire extinguisher and quickly turned towards the oven. Yanking the pin out, you took the nozzle and aimed quickly at the base of the fire. Squeezing the trigger, you generously doused the fire in a side-to-side motion. The smoke aggravated your throat and your eyes started tearing up from the heat. Of course, today would be the day when you were alone in the compound. Everyone else was at brunch. Whereas you were about to be turned into brunch. Toast. Char-broiled. Maybe they would serve you with a mimosa.

Eventually, you got the fire under control. With one last squeeze of the fire extinguisher, you snuffed out the last of the flames. You took a second to cough again and try to clear your watery eyes before you marched over to the patio doors. You jerked the glass door wide open, pausing to make sure they stayed in their position. Once you were satisfied that you had done everything you could, you went back to your room, grabbed your phone, and walked away. 

Not five minutes later, the sound of an approaching vehicle caught your attention. You were sitting on a bench outside the compound, trying to get fresh air into your lungs. It was working, but unfortunately your clothes had not fared as well. You were covered in soot and water and fire extinguisher chemicals. 

When the van arrived carrying Earth’s Mightiest Heroes skidded to a halt in front of you, the first thing you noticed was a blur of red hair engulfing your vision. She had jumped, out of a moving vehicle, mind you, and grabbed you by your shoulders. You stood still and gave her a little smile.

“I’m fine, Nat.”

She glared skeptically at you, “your voice sounds a little hoarse. I don’t know about that.”

Leaning down, you gave her a big, tight hug, “Don’t worry. Still at full strength, see?”. She grunted in annoyance, but you could hear the relieved sigh she let out. Her arms tightened around you.

“Glad to see you’re alive, MacGyver,” greeted Tony. You pulled away from your girlfriend.

“No thanks to you, Tin Man.”

“Me?” Tony gasped, “what did I do?”

You gestured to the building behind you. “Your kitchen caught fire, that’s what. And you didn’t equip your sprinklers to handle grease fires.”

Everyone headed upstairs as you explained what happened, and Tony’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“But why was the oven on in the first place?”

“No clue, Tony,” you shrugged, “I was in the garage all morning fixing Natasha’s bike. That she broke. Again.”

Nat chuckled, “Not my fault that those guys were shooting at me.”

“Um no,” Clint chimed in, “It was at least one-hundred and twenty percent your fault.” 

The Black Widow shrugged, “Occupational hazard.”

“I’m so sorry, guys, it’s my fault this happened!”

Everyone turned to Wanda, who shuffled in place and turned guiltily in your direction, “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Uh,” you started, “no worries. The bike is fine! And we caught the bad guys last week!”

“No,” she shook her head, looking down at her feet, “the fire. I think it’s my fault. Before we left the restaurant, I told Friday to preheat the oven to three-fifty.”

You scratched your neck, confused, “that’s nothing abnormal. Did you have anything in the oven? I didn’t check.”

Wanda shook her head, “No. I had a pie in the freezer that I was going to bake when we came back. But I needed the oven to preheat first, so I told Friday to turn the oven on while we were at brunch.”

“I don’t see how a three-hundred and fifty degree oven could cause all that trouble,” frowned Bruce.

You pointed to the spilled wine and jar of cooking oil. “I think it was just smoke at first, but then the sprinklers came on and the water knocked over the bottle of wine,” your index finger trailed a path from the broken bottle on the counter to the oil, “The alcohol probably ignited, and the sparks lept to the cooking oil. I reckon that’s what happened.”

Bruce nodded, “Sure. But what caused the smoke in the first place? Wanda set the oven to a perfectly normal operating temperature. I don’t see why it would start smoking like that.”

You shrugged.

“Wanda, what did you tell Friday to do, exactly?” Tony asked, trepidation lacing his tone. You glanced over at him curiously.

“I sent a text,” Wanda responded, pulling out her phone and reading her latest message, “‘Friday, please set the oven to 350’”.

“Ah shit,” Tony sighed, bringing his hand to his face.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at the man, “Share with the class, Stark.”

Tony chuckled nervously, “Don’t get mad buuuut I may have set up Friday in metric units.”

You let out an exasperated breath, “Tony….”

“Totally not your fault, Witchy! But you maaay have accidentally set the oven to three-fifty degrees celsius.” 

Clint frowned, “Doesn’t water boil at a hundred degrees celsius?”

You pat the man on the back, “Yup. Tony’s dumb and American, but he made his AI smart and European. The oven was set to approximately six hundred degrees fahrenheit.”

Natasha flicked Tony’s forehead in retaliation. But soon, a thought crossed your mind and you perked up, “Wait, does that mean there is still pie in the freezer?!?”

….3.14159265359….

It turned out that Natasha heard about your affinity for the fourteenth day of March, a.k.a Pi Day. As a science nerd in school, you near-religiously celebrated the holiday with all sorts of circle-shaped foods like cookies and pie. She thought it was cute, and wanted to make your first Pi Day together memorable. So she enlisted the help of Wanda to bake your favorite pecan pie. She and the rest of the team had used the excuse of brunch to go to your favorite restaurants for cookies, pizza, and even a shepherd's pie. 

However, Tony’s programming hiccup meant that instead of a lunch filled with laughter and pie, you ended up on the floor of the kitchen, installing a new oven and repairing everything the fire destroyed.

“Babe,” Natasha said, poking your thigh with her foot, “you really don’t need to fix everything right now. Don’t you want to take a break after going through the fire?”

You mumbled, as there was a flashlight in your mouth as you laid on the floor under the cabinet, “Nuh-uh, thuh soonuh I fis this, thuh soonuh weh geth pae.”

Natasha scoffed from her perch on the other counter, “Oh sure, babe. There’s nowhere else we can get pie. It’s not like we live in one of the food capitals of the world.”

You slid out from the cabinet and removed the flashlight from your mouth, “Not meemaw’s pecan pie! There’s no way we can find a proper pecan pie up here.”

She laughed, “Meemaw would forgive you if you settled for a subpar pecan pie.”

You shook your head, putting on an exaggerated faraway look in your eye, “You haven’t met my meemaw, Natty. Don’t even mention y’alls yankee doodle pies at Christmas or we’ll have to break up. Her heart can’t take that type of betrayal.”

Natasha blushed. “Oh, I’m going to Georgia for Christmas this year?”

You stuttered, the tools in your hands knocking into each other as you sat up, “I mean yeah if you want. I assumed that. Well if –”.

The redhead laughed and leaned down to look at you, an adoring smile on her face, “I would love to go home with you for Christmas, baby.”

You beamed up at her.

She kissed the crown of your head, scrunching her nose at the cloud of smoke that lingered on your person. “But let’s survive Pi Day first, alright?”

You pulled her down from the counter and she dropped into your lap with a huff of laughter. You nodded in agreement and pulled your girlfriend into a kiss. Sweeter than pie.

[astranite]

Blue Skies

@edutainer2022 @janetm74 That whump prompt? Well, I wrote more. (Not what I had planned on doing, and it is definitely past my bed time that I finished this, but hey, what happens, happens.)

This was initially in its first part here, as a fill of a whump prompt by @fern-writes-whump. But this is now a part two and I’m putting it all here together for completeness sake. 

I’ll stick this up on AO3, but not right now. (Link goes here)

Scott and Gordon. Whump. Hurt/comfort. Bereznik. Mostly about trauma (There’s a happy ending.)

Warnings: Injuries. Violence. Panic attacks. PTSD. Somewhat graphic but I wouldn’t say particularly bad? (Just tell me if I can warn things better.)

-----

Scott’s hands shook, one wrapped white knuckled around his holstered gun, the other balled into a fist by his side.

Bare desert surrounded him, scoured by relentless winds.

Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck, despite the heat. He shivered. The endless heat rippled above the ground, refracted light warping his sight.

He put one boot in front of the other, step after step. It didn’t matter how much his legs wanted to fold beneath him. Weak knees begging to give in and fall kneeling on the sand.

He kept going.

Scott missed his IR blues. This uniform fit the same, except it was dusty camouflage. His belt held ammunition clips, not rescue equipment. Or maybe it was. This had to be a rescue, Scott couldn’t face anything else.

A gust of wind stroked over his cheeks and Scott flinched. His saliva was tacky in his mouth as he swallowed. He could taste the sand.

When his radio hissed with static, Scott’s breath hitched. It resolved into Kayo’s voice, running through last positions. Approach by stealth. Scott snapped out a crisp military, “Acknowledged.” He hoped his sister would miss how hard it was to get out a single word without his voice breaking.

He marched on.

It loomed in the distance. The compound walls were stone, a single story high. It was made of the same rock as everything else here.

Scott hadn’t remembered that.

The paramilitary base was stout, sprawling, and as unassuming as any other settlement around here.

In Scott’s head it had loomed dark against the sands, rock the same colour as congealed bl--- as rust.

He still swore it was large enough to block out the sun.

All familiar, too familiar. He smelt blood and bitter fear. Scott stumbled to a halt. Something ran down his face, leaving a warm trail. He swiped his hand across his cheek.

His fingers came away damp and salty, but not red, they weren’t red. It was only sweat. The day was hot, he was sweaty, that was all.

The blood and fear were tricks of his mind.

(It didn’t matter for months that was all he could smell.)

Gritty rock, solid beneath his feet was real. The rest wasn’t, not now, not anymore.

The others had argued against Scott coming. Virgil had lain a hand on his shoulder and looked at him with soft, soft eyes. His brother would forgive him if Scott sat this one out. But Scott could never forgive himself. He knew the terrain best. He’d been there. Every crack of that place was carved into his bones. He was the tactical advantage.

Scott tore his eyes away for as long as he could. He stared up at the searing blue sky, desperately hoping for the light and the colour to sink into his skin. The sky’s promise of freedom if only he could reach it.

He took a step, then another. He just kept taking them.

(Kept taking the hits, even when there was no way he could stand it any longer.)

Every instinct told him to get the hell out of here. Turn back, flee, like the spooked animal he was. Scott ducked his head and ignored them like he had all the other warning signs in his life.

Bereznik. The place he’d swore to never set foot in again.

(On dark days, he still saw it in his dreams. Those were the ones his feet pounded the island tracks, before the sun even rose. When he ran until his muscles trembled with exhaustion and nothing else.)

(He dreamt of the island while he was there. Of blue skies, blue skies, his blue skies. He woke crying and desperately wiped the tears away because he couldn’t given them any more reasons.)

(Afterwards, he’d been wrenched awake more times than he could count to his brothers bursting into his room. They’d say they heard him screaming in his sleep.)

Bereznik. The place he’d spent years of his life trying to out run, out climb, out fly.

Because he couldn’t go back.

He had to. For his little brother.

He kept walking because Gordon was in there. His sunshine little brother who loved life itself with all the joy of the sea meeting the shore.

He couldn’t let them turn him into Scott.

He couldn’t.

He kept walking.

-----

Gordon took Scott’s spare side arm as he handed it to him, checked it over expertly, and followed Scott out of hell.

(The way Gordon never hesitated when he had to shoot would haunt Scott forever.)

They escaped that place. Running over shifting sands towards a stealth-hidden One. The kilometres left to go beneath their feet. Gordon’s stony, set face. Scott’s own heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

He kept going.

Gave into every instinct to flee he’d pushed down before, now he had his brother back.

His and Gordon’s breaths came in pants, out of time with each other and their dull footsteps on the sands.

The sun beat down on them, shadows stark, rippling, wavering, urging them on.

Scott stumbled on a rock, lurching, the desert coming up fast towards him, until Gordon caught his arm. Gordon who he was meant to be rescuing.

No time to fall, no time to stop. He didn't think he could even if he wanted to. He’d be crawling through the sands, dragging his body over the rocks, bleeding out before he stopped.

Dizzying adrenaline surged through his veins. Scott couldn’t tell the difference between fear and freedom any longer. They were the same, his heart pumping for further, faster, higher.

The sky closed in on them, holding them close, pulling them away from the sand.

They were alone in the desert. Pursued by enemies. Alone.

(The same alone of falling from the sky in a perfectly controlled dive, his hands the only ones on his ‘bird.)

(Or the same alone as trapped in a cell, where the thick walls blocked every sound.)

(They were both running from that place now.)

Clouds of dust were kicked up by their boots, eddying and swirling. The wind tossed what it wanted across the desert without a care in the world, picking up the sand and scarce plant life alike. Erasing foot prints like they were never there.

(Like it was all a bad dream. Too many times when he was there, Scott’s mind had taken him home. To his brothers around him, and the old farmhouse. To mum’s musical laugh accompanying the piano. Dad’s hands on Scott’s as he showed him how to fly, before he could even reach the foot pedals. He’d curl up in the big bed with his family around him, because it was just a nightmare.)

(Waking up was worse than anything his capturers could do to him.)

He and Gordon kept running. They hung onto each other, gripping far too tight, running together.

Running, running, running.

They climbed into One, pulling each other up. Scott’s hands fell to the controls, as blindly and as easily as breathing.

Gordon buckled himself into the passenger’s seat. The sound of his brother shouting, “Go, go, go, go go!” washed over Scott’s ears.

Something inside him was still screaming.

The Thunderbird’s engines thrummed at fever pitch, burning up in seconds.

Grounded landing shifted to VTOL, shifted to flight.

And Scott out flew them all.

His one grace, the one thing he couldn’t ever fail at. The only reason he was still alive, in too many ways.

Blue, his blue, swallowed them up.

Enemy planes were blips on his radar, dark specks beyond his windscreen. Then they were flashes of red and debris tumbling towards the ground. In his element, they never stood a chance.

That place, Bereznik was a tiny rectangle blot against a sea of beige from the air, not even able to touch the sky.

(Not able to touch him up here. Not able to take his brothers.)

It merged with the desert sands, blurring into the dust left behind them.

All was searing sunlight. The bright burned everything else away.

(Gordon had show him the sun, afterwards. Dragged Scott out of his room and out of his head, down to the beach. They lay on the sand, fine yellow sand, as the sun shone on them, soaking into their bones. Scott was drowning in blue, blue, blue in the way he loved, the way he’d lost and forgotten.)

The world opened up for him and all he had to do was fly.

As soon as he reached friendly skies, Scott switched to the autopilot. He got up from his seat and walked the length of Thunderbird One, to where Gordon was crouched by a locker, digging for a first aid kit.

Then, for Scott, the sky came crashing closed.

His legs gave way and his knees hit the metal flooring with a crack. He never felt it. Scott’s eyes were on Gordon, staring at the bruises on his face, the blood crusted on his upper lip.

They’d taken his brother. And they’d hurt him.

Scott made to say anything, anything at all, but he only managed a tiny croak.

He was frozen, kneeling on the floor, chest heaving.

(He fell to the floor, too weak to get up.)

He wasn't a fighter, everyone got that wrong about him. Commander of the IR was an act. He wasn't strong like his father, no matter how much he wanted to be. Scott was just pathetic and terrified.

(How quickly he’d learnt to keep his head down and his mouth shut, meekly following orders.)

Virgil knew, because of course he knew, Scott could never keep anything from him. John figured it out, so Scott didn't have to tell him.

(Screaming until his throat was raw. He’d promised himself he wouldn't make a sound and give them the satisfaction, but it just hurt too much.)

The little ones could never know. Not Alan and Gordon. He couldn't let that place touch them.

(Sobbing on the ground, just lying there because he was so, so tired.)

But Gordon was in front of him, black eye on the way to swelling closed.

(His arm cradled to his middle, and he was pretty sure it was broken with how it throbbed, but there wasn't anything he could do about it except hope the pain went way.)

Gordon’s lips were moving, he was saying something, Scott couldn't make out what he was saying.

(Blurry figures dragged him to his feet and he couldn’t stop them.)

Gently, gently, Gordon wrapped his arms around Scott.

Solid and warm and real and right here.

Scott choked out a gasping sob. Then another. Until he was just crying his eyes out between desperate gulps for air.

The edges of his sight went black and Scott swayed, clutching at Gordon’s torn uniform. There was no yellow baldric, somehow it was missing. Gordon held him tighter, still ever so gentle, until Scott was leaning on him for support.

Scott shut his eyes, and hid his face at Gordon’s shoulder.

He’d see who Scott really was and then it would be far too late for anything at all.

All Scott could do was pretend it wouldn't happen.

(Blankly watching trails of red make their way over his skin. He knew it was blood. It was his blood and he just didn't care anymore.)

(He could never escape the smell of blood and bitter fear that clung to him.)

He couldn’t pull away, not from Gordon, not from his little brother.

(Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.)

(Wrapping his arms around himself, desperately wishing they were his brothers. Knowing they weren’t and glad of it. This place could have him, he didn’t care anymore as long as the others were alright.)

But slowly, ever so slowly, the world filtered back in. Gordon was still there. He held Scott, rubbing a hand up and down his back. His breaths were deep and steady, clashing with Scott’s ragged ones. He’d been hyperventilating? Worn IR blue filled Scott’s vision when he tentatively opened his eyes, his eyelids gummed up with tears. Scott’s head swum, woozy from panic and lack of oxygen.

“We’re okay. I’m okay. I’ve got you Scotty, you’re okay.” Gordon’s babbling words came through, familiar, familiar in the way that meant he was safe.

Scott managed a small noise, a whimper when he thought Gordon was pulling away.

Gordon’s arms tightened, and Scott could breathe again.

“Shhh, shhh. I just wanna check on you. I’m not going to go anywhere.”

Reluctantly Scott let Gordon move until they could look each other in the face, still nearly nose to nose. He managed to avoid Gordon’s eyes.

Gordon’s glanced away, tugging at Scott’s hand a couple of times. Scott allowed him to, he trusted Gordon.

A small blue hologram appeared from his wrist comm, as Gordon activated it.

“Why the hell did you cut comms?!” John’s voice sliced the air, sharp and worried.

“He’s okay, Johnny,” Gordon answered, “We’re both a bit worse for wear, but everything is fine.”

John didn’t rise to the nickname. Instead he let out a relieved noise, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The same sound he always made when he was scared for his brothers and finally got news they were alright.

Something passed between John and Gordon. Scott let it fly over his head, too tired to parse out the meaning.

“I can handle this. Just be there when we get home,” Gordon said, then signed off the call.

When Gordon let go of his hand, Scott let it fall limply into his lap.

He stared at their knees, his own in beige camouflage, Gordon’s in his wetsuit, both coated in desert dust.

“I’m sorry,” Scott blurted out. He took a shaky breath.

Gordon’s voice was steady, but tears glinted in the corners of his eyes. “You came for me. That’s all that matters.”

“You were there.” His voice cracked in the middle.

“I’m okay though. It’s just a few bruises, and you got me out.”

Scott reached for the first aid kit sitting on the floor beside them. There wasn’t anything he could do about the rest right now, but this was something he could do.

Gordon let him wipe away the blood from his face, along with the worst of the dirt. He turned his head with Scott’s gentle fingers on his chin. Neither of them commented on how Scott’s hands trembled ever so slightly.

(Cleaning up Gordon’s scrapes was the same, no matter how many years it had been since Scott had lifted Gordon up onto the kitchen bench because he was too short to hop up by himself, and applied fish bandaids to grazed knees.)

At home they could put an ice pack on the bruises. The dark circles beneath Gordon’s eyes could only be solved by sleep, safe with everyone on the island. It would probably help the worried crinkle between his brows too.

Gordon sagged in exaustion, now leaning on Scott. They rested on each other, half against the storage lockers.

Scott helped Gordon out of the top half of his wetsuit, wanting to check up on the cut beneath the tear in his uniform. Gordon wriggled his shoulders and body free, but kept his arms inside the sleeves. He winced when Scott dabbed antiseptic at the thin cut that stretched from collar bone to part way down his chest.

He gave Scott a big, shiny grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Blood started to ooze from the tiny split in his lower lip, caused by Gordon’s chapped lips and trying to smile for Scott.

Gently, Scott wiped it away.

He clenched slightly bloodied gauze in his fist, putting himself together enough to ask, “What happened, Gordon?”

Because no one came out of there okay. Gordon was avoiding the hurt, at the same time as he was trying to protect Scott from it. And what Scott needed most right now was to be able to be a big brother and help Gordon.

“Scotty, I’m okay. They mostly didn't hurt me. It was three days, they had you for months.” Gordon attempted to reassure him or maybe himself, by just telling himself he was fine.

Months. Scott could rattle off the exact timings from his after action report.

He didn’t remember much.

Mostly the snippets that he could put together were from the early days.

(Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number.)

(Setting his own dislocated shoulder by crashing into the walls, grunting and gasping. Because he knew he couldn't leave it like that, but it hurt worse than what they’d done and there were tears streaming down his face. Over and over, vision whiting out, until it grated back into position.)

(Gnawing hunger in his stomach, head pounding from dehydration. He wasn't sure when they last gave him a meal. Or when, or whether they would again.)

Later, everything blurred together.

(Darkness closing in.)

(He’d do anything just to see a glimpse of sky.)

(For his family to hold him close one last time.)

(Just to make the pain stop.)

What had they done to Gordon?

Three days was enough.

(They’d learnt how to tear Scott apart in minutes.)

Scott reached out to touch Gordon’s arm but he flinched away.

“I’m here Gordon. No matter how bad it is,” He said, to the second youngest of his little brothers. And he would be here, no matter how long it took for both of them.

Hesitantly, Gordon peeled away the rest of his wetsuit, hissing in pain, revealing his wrists. In amongst Gordon’s old hydrofoil scars, now only raised pink lines, his wrists were covered in red marks, his skin raw and torn. Some cut deep enough to be oozing blood.

Injuries Scott knew only came from desperately thrashing against restraints.

“Gordy.”

Gordon whispered, “They said they had you. That they’d hurt you again, like before.” His little brother sounded far too young.

Scott gathered him up in his arms. Hot tears ran down his face, he was crying again. They both were. Gordon was shakily sobbing against his chest.

They clung to each other.

Bereznik had taken something from both of them. Something had broken, cracked right down the centre. Scott still didn’t know whether it could ever be completely fixed.

But they had each other. They had their brothers, their family.

Neither of them were okay right now, but one day they would be at least a bit better. In the same way the clouds parted after the monsoon rains on the island, their blue skies would come again. They’d still have scars but the sunlight would reach Gordon’s ocean and Scott would fly.

Scott held onto Gordon, and Gordon held onto Scott for the rest of the way home.

Until Thunderbird One was in her hanger and they were both standing on the steady floor. Until the rest of their brothers, Virgil, Alan, John, all came up to hold onto them too.

[werewolffeelings]

accidentally started a crazy exgirlfriend rewatch and now I'm thinking about your wip.... might you, perchance, have anything to share 🥺🙏

cheeryos ily!!! 🥺🥺 god i need to do a rewatch too. also thank you for asking, I've been looking for an excuse to post the beginning of this fic lmao. and by the beginning, I mean nearly the whole first chapter uhhh........... enjoy? 💖

When Ronan Lynch was sixteen years old, his family rented a vacation house in Cape Cod. Surly teenager that he was, Ronan wanted nothing less than to be in the heat and the sun and to share a room with his older brother Declan. He spent the first couple of days melting under various umbrellas and eating his body weight in popsicles in an effort to stay cool. 

The house next to them was considerably larger and more ostentatious, and it had been empty, at first. Then a family took up residence. Even from down the beach, Ronan could tell they were the kind of stuffy rich that Ronan had no interest in. 

Until Gansey. 

Gansey was beautiful and sweet, intelligent and really fucking weird. He believed in truth above all else and he thought magic was real. He took to Ronan so quickly that Ronan could hardly remember what had been the catalyst to their friendship. It felt instantaneous. Inevitable. 

When they finally kissed, it was all fire and explosions—the fucking Fourth of July in Ronan’s stomach and his heart. 

Gansey was Ronan’s first. His first kiss, his first time, his first love. 

They spent nearly two weeks together. And then Gansey left. He was always going to leave, of course. Gansey had a life in DC and Ronan’s family lived on a farm in upstate New York, and they were only ever going to be temporary. A summer fling. 

But Ronan thought he would have more time. They should have had two more days together. Instead, he woke one morning to find the Ganseys’ summer home vacated, luxury SUV gone from the circular driveway, Gansey nowhere to be found. He hadn’t even said goodbye. 

***

In the townhouse he shared with his brothers, Ronan was doing his level best to sink into the uncomfortable and austere living room couch. The townhouse was entirely to Declan’s taste, which meant that it was not at all to Ronan’s taste, which meant that Ronan vehemently hated every square inch of it. Its bland, boring walls and its bland, boring furniture, and its bland, boring artwork.

With his eyes shut and blood-pumping EDM blaring through his headphones, he could almost drown out that expansive hatred. Almost.

Someone pulled the headphones off his ears and around his neck. He turned his head to make sure it wasn’t Matthew before he snapped at them. Sure enough, it was Declan. He was wearing a bland, boring suit, had his curls styled back in a bland, boring fashion and he was holding a stack of bland, boring mail. 

Ronan opened his mouth to shout something involving a compound fuck-word based swear, but the shout came out wordless because Declan threw the topmost piece of mail directly into Ronan’s face. Its corner jabbed him in the nose with surprising force. The envelope was heavy with sheets and sheets of paper inside. 

He batted the envelope away and said, “Jesus shitting fuck, assface, what’s your fucking problem?”

Declan’s eyebrow raised, pointedly. He said, “Open it. It’s from BU.”

Ronan’s heart dropped into his stomach. He shut his eyes. He crumpled the envelope in his fist. 

Declan said, “Come on, Ronan, don’t you want to see if you got in?”

“No.”

He stood up from the couch and went upstairs to his room. He shut the door behind him and sat on the edge of his bed. He uncurled his fist. 

The curtain was shut, so it was dark, but unfortunately not dark enough that he couldn’t see the envelope addressed to him and stamped with Boston University’s seal. 

He ripped it open. Dear Mr. Lynch, it began. Congratulations—

Ronan's vision swam. He dropped the envelope to the floor. He didn’t know how long he sat there, with stomach acid still eating his insides away, bit by bit. 

He couldn’t breathe. He needed—air, or something. Anything. 

He was in the foyer with feet jammed into untied boots and leather jacket over his shoulders before he’d even registered the desire as more than an abstract. Declan was saying something. Matthew was saying something else. He slammed the door as if the sound would slam him back into his own body, but it didn’t. 

He walked, and walked, unseeing, until he came to the park a few blocks away from Declan’s townhouse. The air always felt clearer there, although Ronan knew it wasn’t. It was the same polluted city air that was all over Boston, but here it was filtered through trees just starting to sprout leaves and lush, green grass, and the closest approximation of wilderness available in a place like this. He dragged in lungful after lungful of it. It smelled of spring-fresh foliage in the rain, and only then did Ronan realize it was raining—dripping down his face and soaking through his clothes. 

When he came to the little bridge that crossed over a stream, Ronan stopped, and he stood there, staring at ripples in the water, for a long time. 

It was good that he’d gotten in, wasn’t it? That was why he’d applied, after all. 

No, it wasn’t. Declan was why he’d applied. He’d finally worn Ronan down, after one too many years of listlessness, and school was at least something to do. Something to occupy the endless hours of the day. 

But now it was real. He’d been accepted, and he would have to sit for lectures, trapped in classrooms, condemned to a life of homework and tests and pointless assignments, and for what? A degree that he didn’t want. A job that he didn’t want. A future that he didn’t want.

He couldn’t do this again. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan saw someone walking toward him with an obnoxiously purple umbrella and an obnoxiously turquoise polo shirt. He looked back to the river, but something tickled at the back of his mind. He looked back at the stranger and he took in their face. 

And it wasn’t a stranger, after all. 

Everything in Ronan lit up with recognition, inundated with memories—wet sand between his toes and surf lapping at his thighs. Summer warm hands on his waist. Kisses that tasted like mango gelato. 

Breathless, Ronan said, “Gansey?” 

The stranger looked up. Ronan met a pair of hazel eyes, bright and curious behind gold, wire-framed glasses. He smiled a big, dimpled smile and said, “Ronan? My God, is that you?”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

Gansey jogged the last few steps to meet Ronan on the bridge, and he wrapped his arms around him—one looped around his ribs and the other stretched up to curl over his shoulders. Ronan had to lean down to return the hug. He pressed his face into Gansey’s shiny, windswept hair. Gansey smelled like fresh mint and he laughed delightedly into Ronan’s ear. 

Ronan’s heart was going to explode. 

Gansey pulled from the embrace but kept his hand on Ronan’s arm, umbrella lifted up high so Ronan could fit under it with him. He said, “Wow. It’s really you. It’s been so long.” 

“Yeah.” Ronan knew he should say something else, but his mind was wiped clean—empty but for every memory he possessed of a single summer nearly ten years ago. And Gansey, glowing and radiant in front of him—the sun shining through dreary, gray clouds. 

Gansey smacked Ronan’s arm gently and dropped his hand. “What have you been up to? I didn’t know you lived in Boston!” 

“Yeah. Uh, not much,” Ronan said. He needed to divert the conversation away from him so Gansey didn’t find out what a loser he was. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m just in town for a moment moving the rest of the stuff from my apartment.” 

Ronan’s spirits sank nearly as soon as they’d lifted. “You’re moving?”

“Yes! Back to Virginia. Henrietta to be exact. It’s a lovely town. I’ve been living there for a couple of months, I was just waiting for someone to close on my old house so I could make the full leap.”

“Oh. What’s in Virginia?”

“A position opened up at a law firm where a friend of mine works, and he put in a good word for me! I’m rather excited. It’s so nice to be around like-minded people. People who really want to make a difference. And you should see it, Ronan. It’s so beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve been surrounded by nature’s majesty like that.”

“Yeah, that sounds. Nice.” 

“It does indeed! But I do wish we’d run into each other earlier, Ronan. We could have grabbed a drink, caught up properly.”

“We could get one now,” Ronan pleaded. 

Gansey’s face fell, like maybe he didn’t want to reject him, but Ronan could see it coming anyway. He said, “I'm afraid I don’t have time, at the moment. My sister Helen is waiting for me to return. You remember Helen, don’t you? She’s helping me move. Well, directing the movers. We really need to get on the road soon. Work in the morning, you understand.”

Ronan did not understand, but he said, “Yeah. Sure.”

Gansey thumbed at his bottom lip. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make Ronan’s stomach flip over. He longed for the taste of mango gelato. Just one more time. 

Gansey reached into the pocket of his chinos and fiddled with his phone for a moment before handing it to Ronan. “Listen, give me your number. If you’re ever in Virginia, please let me know. I’d love to see you again. I mean it. We’ll get that drink.” 

Ronan nodded, certain he was betraying his eagerness, but he didn’t care. “Okay.” He put his number in and sent himself a text. 

Gansey smiled. “We have so much to catch up on.” 

And then Gansey’s phone started blaring a generic ringtone. They startled away from each other. “I’m sorry,” Gansey said. “I should get this.” He raised one finger in the air to signal that Ronan should wait, and put the phone to his ear. “Hello Helen.” Gansey shut his eyes. “Yes, I’m on my way back.” He paused while Helen pattered on and on. “I got caught up with an old friend. I’ll be there soon. Not more than a few minutes. All right. I said all right. Bye.” 

Gansey hung up and heaved a great sigh. “Sorry about that. I really should go.” 

Ronan's throat was tight so he cleared it and said, “It’s fine. Go. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

A sad, private smile lit up his face. “I hope so. Well.” He reached out a hand like he was going for a handshake, but changed his mind at the last moment and pulled Ronan in for another hug. 

He let himself sink into his warmth and the soft, solid planes of his body. He couldn’t bring himself to let go, but Gansey could. 

Just like old times. 

“Goodbye, Ronan,” he said, and then he was gone, and it was as if it had never happened at all. 

The entire interaction couldn’t have lasted for longer than a couple of minutes. It shouldn’t have impacted Ronan’s life at all, but something had shifted inside of him. Like Gansey had cracked open a door and some dusty corner of his heart had been exposed to fresh air and morning light for the first time in years. 

He drifted back to the apartment in a haze, floating on the high of Gansey’s touch, replaying his words over and over. 

I’d love to see you again. 

I mean it. 

We have so much to catch up on. 

And then—Henrietta. 

Henrietta. 

Henrietta. 

The first thing Ronan did when he got back to the townhouse was fend off another interrogation from Declan. When he got back to his room, there was no crumpled letter lying discarded on top of piles of dirty clothes. Declan must have taken it, which meant he’d been in his room, which meant Ronan would have to murder him later. 

The second thing he did was boot up his laptop. It took him several minutes to figure out his Goddamn Facebook password, and when he managed to log in, he searched for Richard Campbell Gansey III. He sent a friend request, and waited for a solid minute and a half for a follow back. 

When none came, he Googled Henrietta, Virginia. It was a quaint, bustling little town sprinkled with old buildings and Victorian houses, nestled in the lush valley between the Blue Ridge mountains. He could see why it appealed to someone like Gansey, who, despite his image, had always come alive surrounded by nature and beautiful old things. 

A notification popped up. Ronan swore at it, until he realized that Gansey had accepted his friend request. A surge flooded Ronan’s whole body. He clicked on the tab so eagerly he closed it by accident and then had to reload it. 

He looked at Gansey’s profile. He went through every photo and absorbed every scrap of information he could get his hands on. He knew where Gansey worked, knew who his friends were, knew how and where he spent his free time. The most important bit of information, though, was his relationship status—single.

I’d love to see you again. 

I mean it. 

Gansey had Instagram, too, but the problem was that Ronan didn’t. He couldn’t create a new, empty account for himself, and then follow Gansey immediately. That would look too desperate. So he created a fake one and hoped Gansey wasn’t the type of guy to reject followers he didn’t actually know. 

Fortunately for Ronan, Gansey seemed to be something of an influencer for fucking nerds, and he had a few thousand followers. Ronan was just one of the masses, eager to see more of the man posed on a mountain cliff like an intrepid explorer, or a king looking over his sprawling kingdom. It was possible that some of them were genuinely into Welsh history, but Ronan was willing to bet not many. 

Then Ronan found himself on Zillow, looking into Henrietta, Virginia’s real estate. Declan might have been proud, if it was for any reason other than this. 

***

Incense permeated the air. Holy water was still wet on Ronan’s fingertips. The cushioned wood of the kneeler creaked under his weight. He opened his eyes. 

The church was empty and cavernous. Dust motes floated in a haze of kaleidoscopic colored light. Stained glass stretched towards the ceiling and slipped across every surface.  

Every pillar was a tree trunk. Vines crept up the walls. Flowers sprouted up between cracks in the marble floor. An archway stood where the altar should have been, made of twisting branches and leaves. 

Ronan walked through it, into the forest beyond. It was wild and dense with oak trees—nothing at all like the park by Declan’s apartment. He wandered down the narrow footpath until the ground was taken over by twisting stems covered in thorns. Ronan followed their path with his eyes, up and up, to a throne made out of perfect red roses in full bloom. Sitting on the throne, golden crown on his head, was Gansey.

Even in wire-framed glasses and a turquoise polo shirt, he belonged there—the just ruler of this forest. Of the whole world. 

Ronan climbed up the clusters of rose stems. Thorns cut into his palms, over and over, until blood was dripping down his wrists—a distantly familiar feeling. 

Gansey looked at him only when he’d nearly reached the throne. He held out his hand, adorned by a golden claddagh ring with a glittering ruby at the center. Ronan took Gansey’s hand in his and touched his lips to the ring. 

“Ronan,” Gansey said, amiably. “Get over here.”  

In the space of a blink, Ronan was at his side, standing next to the throne, overlooking his kingdom. Henrietta, Virginia. It was the aerial view he’d seen on Google images. 

An inexplicable sense of rightness washed over him—belonging. Purpose. 

Gansey said, “What do you know about Welsh kings?”

***

Ronan woke up.

He got out of bed and packed all his clothes and his favorite things into three suitcases. He managed to sneak them all into his car without anyone noticing until the very last one. 

With a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he passed by his brothers at the kitchen table on his way to rummage through the fridge. Declan was sipping a latte and Matthew was shoveling a whole piece of burnt toast into his mouth. 

Declan said, ”Ronan, what the hell are you doing?”

Ronan said, “Why don’t we have anything to eat?” He slammed the fridge door. 

“Ronan.”

Ronan slid his own piece of toast into the toaster and turned it on. Dismissively, he said, “I’m moving to Virginia.”

Declan stood up. “You’re what?” 

Matthew said, “What’s in Virginia?”

“Trees and shit, I think.” 

Declan said, “What the fuck, Ronan? You’re not moving, you’re starting school in the fall.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Man that shit didn’t work on me when I was a teenager, what makes you think it will now? I already have the trust, there’s nothing for you to hold over my head anymore. I’m a fucking adult—“ Declan interrupted him with a sharp bark of a laugh. “And if I want to move to Virginia, you can’t stop me.”

Declan pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes in disappointment or frustration or hatred. “What is wrong with you? I thought you wanted to go back to school.”

Ronan snorted humorlessly. “Please.” 

His toast popped, and he slathered it with butter. 

“What are you going to do in Virginia? Do you even have a plan?”

With his mouth full of toast, he said, “Nope.”

Declan stood in the doorway of the townhouse with his arms crossed over his chest. Ronan tossed the duffel bag into the backseat of the BMW. 

Hovering on the sidewalk, Matthew said, “You’re really leaving?” 

His face was frozen in a childlike pout. Why Matthew cared so much was a little beyond Ronan. Matthew would realize in a few days—how much more peaceful and pleasant his life was without him there. 

“Yeah,” Ronan said. “You can come visit when I’ve got a place.” 

Matthew pulled him into a tight hug. It hit Ronan, then, how much he would miss him. How he was the only person on earth who could stand him. And how it was likely that Gansey wouldn’t be able to stand him, either, once he’d seen the person Ronan had become. 

***

Ronan spent the first night in a hotel, and the following day touring rental properties. The first was a freshly remodeled bungalow with an open floor plan and shiny, new appliances. The second was a shabby, 30-year-old two-story several minutes from town, where every surface was the same shade of greige. 

The third rental was a shithole fixer-upper row house four blocks from Henrietta’s sad excuse for a downtown. The wood hadn’t been painted with a fresh coat of blue in years and was starting to rot. The backyard was a fenced-in plot of dirt and crabgrass with one scrawny tree trapped in the far corner. 

Ronan signed a month-to-month lease for way more than the place was worth. 

When Ronan finished moving in (throwing his suitcases on the floor of the living room), he went for a walk around the neighborhood. The downtown area was all old buildings and quaint little shops. 

When he looped back around to the row house, he noticed a bar partially obscured by the flowers and plants crawling all over the brick facing. The sign read Nino’s, and he recognized the name from posts tagged on Gansey’s Facebook and Instagram alike. Gansey hung out here—it was one of his usual haunts, and so Ronan shoved the door open and went inside. 

It was 3pm on a Monday, and Ronan knew that Gansey was unlikely to be at a dive bar, but a wave of disappointment hit him, anyway, when he wasn’t. 

Ronan took a seat at the bar. The bartender approached him. Her dark skin was very tattooed and very pierced and she looked entirely too city to be in this town. 

This was confirmed when she said, in a British accent, “What’ll you be having, mate?”

“Beer, whatever’s on tap.” He’d missed lunch, so he added, “And you got anything to eat in this dump?”

The bartender laughed. “That very much depends on your definition of edible.” She slammed a laminated menu onto the bartop in front of him. He liked her, immediately. 

Ronan glanced at the menu, and when the bartender came back with his beer, he could’ve sworn she was wearing a different outfit—something lacy and orange—but he chalked it up to not paying very much attention to women’s clothing. She said, “What’re you having, hotshot?” and it was just flirty enough that Ronan changed his mind. He didn’t like her at all. 

He ordered a burger, medium rare, and took in the ambiance. The dark, old wood had grime sticking to it like a second skin, every surface comfortable and worn, barely lit by dim, old-fashioned stained-glass hanging lamps. The place really was a shithole, but like the row house, Ronan basked in it. He always felt more comfortable in shitholes. 

When Ronan glanced back towards the bar, there were two identical bartenders. One was in leather, the other in orange lace. Ronan blinked, and another one emerged from the kitchen, tossed a plate in front of Ronan, slipped her apron over her head and left out the front door. 

Bewildered, Ronan said, “Why are there so fucking many of you?” 

The pair in front of him grinned the same blinding, toothy grin and said, in unison, “Identical sextuplets.” 

Ronan popped a French fry in his mouth, and with it still full, said, “There are six of you? And you just decided to work at the same place, to what? Confuse the shit out of people?”

The one in orange said, “Pretty much, yeah.”

The one in leather said, “What’s the point of being an identical sextuplet if not to fuck with people?”

“You’ve got a point,” Ronan conceded. 

Some deranged part of him was charmed by this place and this weird fucking chick and her gang of clones. Ronan’s trust covered the house, but he could use some extra cash. More than that, he needed a way to spend his time, he had experience, and most importantly, it would be a built-in excuse to see Gansey. 

“Hey, I know you’ve got this whole family business or whatever-the-fuck going on here, but are you hiring?” 

“Actually, yes,” the leather one said. “Only three of us work here, and Brooklyn wants to quit. You got experience?”

“Yep.”

The orange one said, “You some kind of serial murderer? A mafioso goon?” 

“If I was in the mafia, what the fuck would I want to work here for?”

“No offense meant, mate, you’ve just got that kind of face. And you don’t seem like a local.”

“Neither do you.”

“Touché.”

“I’m not local, I just moved here and I could use a job, are you hiring or not?”

The leather one grinned and said, “All right, fuck it, you’re hired.”

“Just like that?” 

“Yeah. You ready to start now?”

“What the fuck, I’m eating.” Ronan gestured to his plate. 

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “We’ll have to do a background check and all that shit. And the owner will want to meet you. Bring your shit tomorrow and we’ll get you sorted. I have somewhere to be on Friday and I need someone to cover my shift. What’s your name, guy who is definitely not a mafioso goon?” 

“Ronan.”

She held out her hand and Ronan shook it. “Hennessy.”

***

Ronan started work on Wednesday. He knew what he was doing, so training was pretty minimal, and the owner didn’t seem particularly hung up on the paperwork side of shit. 

He was cleaning up a spill when the front door opened. He glanced at it, only to find another rando instead of a familiar face. 

“Are you looking for somebody?”

Ronan jumped, undignified, and bared his teeth at Hennessy. She was hovering over his shoulder with an insufferable smirk on her purple lips. 

He said, “Who the hell would I be looking for? I just moved here, remember?”

“Then why are your eyes drawn to the door whenever it opens if you’re not looking for somebody?” Ronan glared in a way that made lesser people back down immediately. She said, “Exactly. Now who is it? Some other goon who you owe money to? Your dealer? Or an ex-lover, perhaps? 

Ronan’s jaw clenched. “Shut the hell up.”

“Oh, really?” She grinned. “I didn’t take you for a lover, more of a fighter. You’ve got layers, I see.”

Apparently God was listening to Ronan’s prayers, for once, because they were both flagged to opposite sides of the bar before Hennessy could continue sticking her septum-pierced nose where it didn’t belong. 

There was a man sitting at the bar, all but batting his pretty eyes at Ronan. He ignored him for as long as he could, and then sucked it up and stepped in front of him. 

The guy was good-looking in an abrupt, startling way. He had an interesting face—gaunt, sunken-eyed, but elegant. Ronan’s heart flip-flopped. His hands tightened into fists until his nails bit into his palms. 

The guy tilted his head and gave Ronan a clear once-over. He said, “You’re new.”

Ronan rolled his eyes. “Yep.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around town before.”

“Just moved here.”

The guy leaned his elbows on the bartop. He had the sleeves of his slick, corporate button-down rolled to show tanned forearms, sinewy with muscle. “From where?”

“Boston.”

“Oh, I went to school in Cambridge.” 

Fuck. It was even worse than he thought. The pretty-boy was a Harvard douche. Ronan growled, “Did you want something, or?”

Ronan only noticed the smile in the guy’s eyes when it vanished. His voice was cool when he said, “Gin and tonic.”

Ronan made him a gin and tonic. He handed it to him, and the guy’s long, knobby fingers wrapped around the glass. He said, “Thanks.”

The door opened again, and helplessly, Ronan looked. It was just a small group of twenty-something girls. Ronan sighed in disappointment for maybe the thirtieth time of the evening. 

“Who are you looking for?”

Ronan stilled. How did he keep giving himself away? And more importantly, why was everyone in this bar incapable of minding their fucking business? He turned back to the guy and snapped, “What?”

“You keep looking at the door. You expecting someone?”

“Friend of mine."

“Well, I hope you find them.” The guy held up his glass in a little salute. “I think mine stood me up.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

The guy’s blue eyes narrowed, his pink mouth parted in offense. “You’re awfully rude for a customer service professional, you know.”

Ronan had to work to subdue a grin before it took over his face. “I know.”

As he was making a tequila sunrise for some sweater-wearing local, Hennessy inserted herself into his personal space and stage whispered in his ear, “Is that him?”

“Is who him?”

“Your loverboy. Over there.” 

She pointed to the pretty Harvard douche. Ronan scoffed. “No.”

“You’re staring.”

Ronan’s face was very hot. It was so easy to overheat crammed in a bar with a couple dozen people. He said, “No, I’m not.” 

He wasn’t. And he wasn’t listening, either, to the guy's phone conversation. Not until he said, “It’s all right, Gansey. See you tomorrow. Have a good night.” 

Ronan’s heart kicked into double time. He barely waited for the guy to hang up before he interrupted, “Did you say Gansey? You know Gansey?”

The guy narrowed his eyes at Ronan. “He’s my best friend. You know Gansey?”

He put a lot of emphasis on the you, making the question skeptical and a little accusatory. As if someone like Ronan couldn’t possibly know someone like Gansey. And maybe he had a point, but he didn’t need to be such a dick about it. 

Ronan said, “Yeah, I know Gansey.”

“That’s weird. I thought you said you just moved here.”

“I did.” He sighed, annoyed at having to explain himself. “We knew each other when we were kids. I ran into him last week.”

“Last week. In Boston?”

“Yep.”

“And now you’re here?”

Fuck. “Yep.”

Adam traced his fingertip in the condensation his glass was leaving on the bartop. “Why did you move here, again? 

Ronan grit his teeth. “Felt like it.”

“What are you, some kind of stalker?”

Ronan hadn’t actually considered what other people would think about him moving halfway down the east coast for a guy, but he'd been an idiot not to. What else would it look like, to someone who didn’t know? He said, “No, I’m not a fucking stalker. Just seemed like a nice place, that’s all.”

“So you moved here? Here?”

“You live here.”

“Yeah, but I—“

“What? Your reasons were so much better than mine? What was it? Your shitty job moved you out here?”

“Something like that.”

Ronan sneered, “Cryptic.”

“Does Gansey know? That you’re here? He hasn’t mentioned you.”

“No, I haven’t told him yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’m—“ Ronan tore the rag from his shoulder and slapped it on the counter to start clearing some of the condensation away. So he could avoid the piercing eyes of this pretty stranger. “I’m working my way up to it, fuck off.”

“Oh,” the guy said, deflating. 

“What.”

“You like him.” The guy huffed a humorless laugh. “Figures.”

“Look man, it’s none of your fucking business.”

“I think it is, actually. What was your name again?” 

Ronan wanted to not tell him, to be contrary, to buy himself some time, but it would be easy enough to find out. And if this guy really was Gansey’s best friend, he imagined they would be seeing more of each other, anyway. He said, “Ronan Lynch.” 

“Ronan Lynch,” he said, thoughtfully. “I know that name.”

“Do you?”

“You’re his ex, aren’t you?”

“I guess,” Ronan said, irritably. 

Adam ran a hand through his burnished gold hair. “All right. At least I know you’re probably not here to murder him. It’s almost sweet,” he said, in a way that implied he didn’t much care for sweet things. He took a sip of his drink. “Still creepy though.”

Creepy? Ronan leaned closer than he’d dated up until now, hands on the bar and face close. “Don’t fucking tell him.” The guy didn’t retreat. He just stared, unimpressed, so Ronan added, “Please.”

The guy closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “I won’t. For now. But he’s going to know as soon as he sees you. You’re not exactly being subtle. And I reserve the right to tell him if I think you’re being extra creepy.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, and you should probably know. He has a girlfriend.”

Ronan’s heart stopped. “What?”

The guy rolled his eyes. “He’s bi, not gay.” 

“I know that but what the fuck? That’s not what Facebook says.”

The guy’s face creased with barely restrained judgment. “Well, Facebook officiality notwithstanding, he’s pretty serious about her, so don’t be an asshole.”

Ronan snapped, “Thanks for the heads up.”

Ronan was sulking, and he knew it. He was even more terse than usual, and if he weren’t so damn handsome, his tips would have been in the shitter. His phone was in his hand, the fucking Facebook app open on the link to Adam Parrish’s locked profile. 

He’d been easy enough to find. Adam Parrish was tagged in most of Gansey’s photos. It was difficult to imagine how Ronan could have possibly not noticed him, even consumed as he was by Gansey. He threw his phone into the sink and hoped it drowned.

While he mixed some dickhead's martini, Hennessy sidled up to him, and before she could open her mouth to pry even more, he said, “He has a Goddamn girlfriend.”

“Who, that random guy?”

“Gansey.”

“Ah. The ex-lover, I presume?”

Ronan slammed the martini glass onto the bar and didn’t give a fuck that it splashed the person who ordered it. 

Hennessy didn’t seem to give a fuck, either. She leaned her elbows back on the bar and said, “Ooh, the plot thickens. Is that what your little friend said to upset you so?”

“He’s Gansey’s best friend, apparently.”

“Small world.”

“Small fucking town.”

“Well, them’s the breaks, sailor. Don’t you dare quit before Friday, though. Remember, I’ve got plans.”

“Why would I quit?”

“Because your obsession with your ex is doomed to failure due to him being otherwise involved?”

“Fuck you.”

Hennessy raised both middle fingers and gave him two-handed salute. 

Ronan stood at the kitchen island, shoveling furious bite after furious bite of cold, leftover Chinese takeout into his mouth. 

Adam Parrish. That asshole. His words played in Ronan’s mind on a continuous loop. Who the hell did he think he was? He might know Gansey, but he didn’t know Ronan at-fucking-all. Creepy. 

Gansey wouldn’t think he was creepy, would he? 

Ronan snapped his chopstick in half and threw the splinters into the last dregs of his chow mein. His fingers ached, so he stretched them out and then he found himself reaching across the island for a lonely ballpoint pen, and then he was sketching on a brown paper napkin. 

It had been awhile since he’d drawn anything. Months. No, years. More, since he’d drawn anything good. This wasn’t good. It was just a sketch—an elegant, bony hand with knobby knuckles and raised veins.

He drew it again, wrapped around a glass, before he realized what he was doing. 

“Fuck,” he said, to the empty room. He crumpled up the napkin, threw it across the kitchen, and stomped upstairs to his empty off-white bedroom. He collapsed onto the mattress on the floor and he stared at the ceiling for hours, watching the sun streak pink light across it before finally succumbing to sleep. 

***

He was behind the bar at Nino’s, wiping the same glass dry over and over, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at Gansey, handsome and tan, sitting across from an amorphosly beautiful woman. A caricature of a beautiful woman. Gansey was enraptured by her, hearts bursting from his eyes. This was the way he’d once looked at Ronan, so long ago. 

He fed his date a bite from the plate of chocolate covered strawberries that sat between them and smiled as if she was the most perfect being on earth. They were bathed in pink light and bracketed by billowing red velvet curtains, like a stage play. 

“Ronan,” Gansey said. Ronan was embarrassed at the way he lit up at the sound of Gansey’s voice wrapping around his name, his bid for Ronan’s attention. But even as he spoke, Gansey didn’t take his eyes off of his girlfriend. “Would you please bring us a bottle of your finest champagne? We’re celebrating, after all.” 

The girlfriend giggled and flashed a gaudy, sparkling diamond ring. No, a claddagh set with a red ruby. 

Ronan seethed. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. But they didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t bringing them a bottle of their finest champagne, as if this dump had any champagne to speak of. They were too absorbed in each-other. 

Hennessy said, “Them’s the breaks.”

Another voice said, “I told you.” 

It was Adam Parrish, sitting further down the bar, alone, nursing a gin and tonic. 

Ronan still couldn’t speak. He couldn't breathe past the pressure in his chest.

Adam said, “Just let it go, Ronan. It was never going to be you.” 

[kaunis-sielu]

Sick: 2

“Hello?” Helen says.

“We have an emergency. Something is wrong with Sam.”

“Are you sure you need me?” She asks and you get a sick feeling in your stomach, she thinks this is a fake call.

“Cho! This isn’t a Thor is in his underwear running around the compound kind of call! This is a get here now!”

“Oh, oh my god.” She says as it seems to click for her that you’re absolutely serious. “I’m so sorry,” you hear her say, “There’s an emergency at the Tower, I have to go.” You can hear her parents say something but you don’t know what, “I love you guys.” She says to them, “I’m on my way.” She says to you and you can hear her moving.

“Shit. We need to check on Clint and Tony too. They didn’t show up for movie night.”

“You should stay away from them.” She says, and you let out a quick laugh,

“Helen, I’m probably the best person to get close to them. I don’t get sick, not since my accident.” Ever since you’d been given this power you were unable to get sick, not a cold, not a flu, not even an infection.

“Okay fine. Just keep everyone else away from them.”

“Bucky carried Sam to the hospital wing.”

“Have him decontaminate. Try and keep Sam cool until I can get there. Cool cloths would be best. Cool the room down too.”

“Okay.” You agree sprinting into the room. “Bucky, strip and decontaminate.” You tell him and when he looks at you like you’re crazy you shrug and say, “Cho’s orders.”

“For the record I didn’t say it like that.” She says over FRIDAY but Bucky is already pulling off his shirt on his way to the decontamination shower.

“FRIDAY send DUM-E with some clothes from his room.”

“There should be a pack in there for him.” Helen tells you, you can tell that she’s in a car now, heading toward you, “Get Sam cool.” You hear the shower turn on and make your way to the sink. You pull out some pillowcases and turn on the cold water. You’re wringing out the extra water when Steve pulls open the door.

“Stop!” He freezes in the doorway, “Sam is sick, we’re not sure what’s wrong because I helped him this morning and now he’s unconscious and burning up. You need to stay out.”

“I have the serum.” He reminds you but you’re still not exactly comfortable with him coming in.

“Mask up.” You tell him, and Steve nods then pulls a mask off of the wall as Bucky comes out of the shower in clean clothes with his other clothes in a yellow biohazard bag. “You too Buck. Mask up.”

“Yes ma’am.” He teases as Steve throws him a mask.

“Doll, please mask for my sanity.” Steve asks and you give him a fond little eye roll but you do as he asks and grab a mask from the wall and tug it on your face.

“Steve get out of here. Bucky you’ve already touched him since you carried him in here so I need your help. Cho said to keep him cool, I need you to turn down the heat in here. Then we need to check on Tony and Clint.” You tell him as Steve helps your wring out the wet pillow cases. “Steve go.” You order him and his concerned eyes meet yours. “Please.” He nods as Bucky crosses the room and turns the thermostat down.

“Should I tell the others?”

“No.” You tell him glancing over your shoulder at him, “We don’t need to start a panic.”

“Okay.”

“Just go back to the movie. Bucky check on Tony and Clint. If they’re like Sam get them here then shower again and go to the movie.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks as he too moves toward the door.

“Yes.” You pack the wet cloth around Sam. You cut the shirt off of Sam and place one of the pillowcases over him, you try to think of what else you can do to keep him cool. You’re not sure you’re powers will be much help but you gently touch his cheek anyway. “Keep sleeping Sam, keep sleeping so you can keep fighting.” You can’t help but murmur.

Before you know it Bucky comes back into the hospital wing with Tony slung over his shoulder. You can’t help but notice how much gentler he’s being with Tony than he was with Sam.

“His temp up too?” You ask as Bucky puts Tony on a bed next to Sam.

“Yea, I haven’t checked Clint yet but I’m not optimistic if these two are like this.”

You throw more pillow cases into the sink as Helen comes rushing in.

“Tony too?”

“Yea, I told Steve to keep his mouth shut and get out of here. Bucky is going to go and check on Clint.”

“Do you have any idea what this could be?”

“Sam just didn’t feel good. I didn’t get any specifics but it felt like the beginning of the flu or a really bad cold. Nothing that should do this.” You tell her gesturing to your unconscious friend. Helen puts on some hazmat gear as Bucky hurries back out of the hospital as you wring out the towels for Tony.

“I put Sam to sleep, you want me to do the same to Tony?” You ask as you cut his shirt off too, when he wakes up you’re never going to hear the end of this, cutting one of his soft, expensive shirts.

“Yea,” She agrees as she puts an IV in Sam, “I want to draw blood too.”

“I thought you might. Once I’m done with Tony-“

“You’ll have to get to work on Clint.” Bucky interrupts and your gaze swings to the doorway where he’s supporting Clint who is clinging to consciousness.

“Shit.”

“Bucky, shower again. We’re putting you in the quarantine room.” Helen says as she moves to the other side of Sam to draw blood.

“Yea.” Bucky agrees, not seeming surprised by this information before easing Clint onto one of the beds. Clint’s body shakes with coughs and you move to him.

“Clint?”

“Do it.” He croaks answering your unasked question and after a quick glance over at Helen who nods you place your hands on him and let him sleep. He’s not as hot as the other two but you know that if you’re not careful he’s going to be.

You and Helen run around like crazy for the next couple of hours, you focus on keeping their temperatures down and she focuses on trying to figure out what the hell they’re sick with. You’re so drained, you’ve never constantly had to use your powers like this, and it doesn’t seem to be doing much good.

You don’t leave until the sun is up. Steve is standing on the other side of the glass, tapping it gently.

“Honey. You need to get some sleep.” You see him say the words more than you hear them.

“I know. I’m going to take one of the quarantine rooms.” You say back and he frowns. You know he worries, you are, or were, only human and still needed to sleep.

“Honey,”

“I know. I know. But I can’t leave them Steve. What if something happens because I left?” You tell him through the glass, your eyes filling with tears.

“You can’t help them if you don’t take care of yourself.” You know he’s right, in your head you do but in your heart you can’t leave them. “I’ll come in there.”

“FRIDAY has strict instructions to not allow anyone else in.” You counter and he looks amused.

“You think that would stop me?” He challenges and you frown at him.

“I hope the serious threat of illness or death would.”

“You need sleep.”

“I know but how am I supposed to when our friends could die?” You ask your voice breaking and Steve presses a hand to the glass.

“Honey, please come out.” He says, the concern is evident in those bright eyes of his. “Please.” You glance over your shoulder at Sam, Clint and Tony. “You can’t help them if you’re exhausted.”

“I agree.” Helen says sleepily, “but she can’t come out.”

“What?”

“I’ll watch over everyone and keep working until Jemma gets here but you need to take a breath and be quarantined from others. You and I are already exposed.”

“I’m a super solider.” Steve argues but Cho shakes her head.

“We can’t take the risk.” When she sees how crestfallen he looks she adds, “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll go to sleep?” Steve asks and you sigh heavily,

“Yes.” He studies you for a second, as if he’s trying to decide if he believes you or not. “I promise.”

“Okay. I’ll come by later okay?”

“Okay, I love you.”

“I love you too Honey.” Steve says before Helen ushers you into one of the quarantine rooms.

“You’ll wake me if you need me?”

“Yes.” She promises before she closes the door and you go to sleep.

Tag list:

@foxyjwls007 @andahugaroundtheneck @also-fangirlinsweden @pagina16ps @princesssterek @valsworldofcreativity @dumblani @inkedaztec @loving-life-my-way @animegirlgeeky @shinycupcakebaker @eralen @sophham @gh0stgurl @killcomet @wonderlandfandomkingdom @abschaffer2 @capsiclesdoll @patzammit @sass-masterkittenmama @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory

[roxyspamcake]

If people are curious about what the video title means, I watched it some time ago, and it's actually pretty important info to know if you're going camping/backpacking: heat rises, and cold sinks, so the lowest point of the terrain can become much colder than the surrounding area, especially at night. If the temperature in these low-points drops farther than the temperatures your camping gear is rated for, you can definitely freeze to death.

"Don't sleep in holes" seems like a pretty obvious statement to make a video about. But it isn't talking about what we normally think of when we're asked to describe a hole in the ground. The video is talking about low-lying meadows or depressions, often in cold mountains like the Alps, that are free of trees and large plants. They seem like good flat ground to camp on. And to compound the problem, maybe some poor sucker tried to build a now-abandoned log cabin or shack right in the middle of one that you may be tempted to sleep in, like the one in the thumbnail. But the reason the meadow is free and clear of trees, is because even pine trees, which grow in high altitudes and low temperatures, can't survive the temperature difference. The downhill slope of the terrain collects the freezing air like water in a bowl, and with nowhere for it to go, it may become even colder than temperatures recorded at much higher elevations in the same area. And you'll be right there in the middle of it, because it looked very nice in the daylight. Now? Not so much.

So don't sleep in holes. Best case scenario is that you'll have a very chilly night's sleep and a lousy morning. Worst case is that you won't wake up in the morning at all.

(My memory and explanation isn't perfect, watch the video itself in case I got important stuff wrong. The creator also lists his sources in the video description if you wanted to check those out.)

why would I camp somewhere named Hole Where You'll Freeze To Death

[4x4tyresperth]

4x4 Tyres Perth: A Guide to Choosing the Right Tyres for Your Needs

Selecting the best 4x4 tyres in Perth requires careful consideration of your vehicle’s needs and the types of terrain you’ll be navigating. With tyres differing in traction, durability, and performance across surfaces like sand, mud, and rocky trails, understanding tyre features is essential. This guide covers key tyre specifications, durability aspects, and recommended brands, helping you find the ideal set for your off-road or mixed-terrain journeys.

Key Characteristics of 4x4 Tyres

Choosing 4x4 tyres involves more than selecting the correct size—specific tyre features impact stability, performance, and longevity across different terrains. Consider these factors when assessing tyre options:

Tread Patterns

The tread pattern is essential for traction and handling. Common types include:

All-Terrain (AT): Designed for balanced performance on-road and light off-road, these tyres are suitable for everyday use and occasional off-road excursions.

Mud-Terrain (MT): With a more aggressive tread pattern, MT tyres excel in muddy or loose surfaces, though they may wear faster on-road and can be noisier.

Highway Terrain (HT): Built for on-road driving, HT tyres provide a smooth, quiet ride but lack off-road traction.

Tyre Construction

The structure of a tyre affects its strength, flexibility, and puncture resistance, important for off-road performance.

Radial Construction: Common in 4x4 tyres, this construction offers comfort and stability, suitable for mixed driving on highways and moderate off-road conditions.

Bias Ply Construction: Designed for extreme off-road use, bias ply tyres deliver durability on rough terrains but wear quickly on paved surfaces.

Size & Load Capacity

Selecting the correct size and load capacity is crucial for safety and performance, especially for 4x4s carrying heavy loads or towing. Adequate load capacity ensures stability and reduces premature wear.

Durability Considerations

High-quality 4x4 tyres are built to endure rough terrains without sacrificing longevity. Look for features like puncture resistance, reinforced sidewalls, and heat-resistant materials. Harder rubber compounds are more durable, while softer compounds, offering better grip, may wear faster on rocky terrain.

Recommended 4x4 Tyres for Different Conditions

To aid in your selection, here are some top choices for various terrains, known for their balance of performance and durability.

Sand and Beach Driving

Top Choices: Goodyear Wrangler AT/S, BF Goodrich All-Terrain T/A KO2

Features: These tyres offer wider treads and flexible sidewalls for effective flotation on sand, reducing the risk of sinking.

Mud and Wet Terrain

Top Choices: Cooper Discoverer STT Pro, Mickey Thompson Baja MTZ P3

Features: Aggressive tread patterns with self-cleaning capability ensure traction in muddy areas, and reinforced sidewalls protect against punctures.

Rocky and Rough Trails

Top Choices: Toyo Open Country M/T, Falken Wildpeak AT3W

Features: These tyres feature deep treads for durability on rocky trails, providing protection and longevity in demanding off-road conditions.

Mixed Terrain & General Use

Top Choices: Pirelli Scorpion ATR, Yokohama Geolandar A/T G015

Features: Balanced tread design offers reliable grip on highways and traction on dirt or gravel, ideal for Perth’s varied landscapes.

Tips to Maximise Tyre Lifespan

Given the investment in quality 4x4 tyres, taking steps to prolong their life is essential.

Rotate Tyres Regularly: Rotate every 10,000 kilometres to ensure even wear, especially for vehicles under heavy load or towing.

Check Tyre Pressure: Proper inflation is crucial; under-inflated tyres wear on the edges, while over-inflated tyres wear in the centre. Adjust based on the terrain.

Maintain Alignment & Balance: Regular checks prevent uneven wear and improve handling, essential after off-road trips.

Inspect for Damage: After off-road driving, inspect tyres for cuts or punctures. Prompt repairs prevent further damage.

Selecting a Reputable Brand

In Perth, several brands are recognised for their quality 4x4 tyres suited to various terrains. Notable options include:

BF Goodrich: Known for resilience in challenging conditions, especially in mud and rocky terrain.

Cooper: Offers durable all-terrain and mud tyres with strong puncture resistance.

Goodyear: Versatile for both highway and moderate off-road use.

Mickey Thompson: Highly regarded for extreme off-road applications, providing superior traction and toughness.

Conclusion

Choosing the right 4x4 tyres is key to ensuring your vehicle performs optimally, safely, and comfortably across a range of terrains. Understanding the specific demands of different surfaces and selecting tyres with the appropriate features will maximise your efficiency and safety. For drivers in Perth, selecting the best 4x4 tyres equips you to tackle diverse landscapes with confidence.

[rprservicesllc]

What Are Plumbing Issues?

Plumbing issues come in a wide range of shapes and sizes, from the generally minor and modest, like a dripping or running toilet, or leaking pipe, or the improper sewer system, which can lead to damaged walls, floors, and even the individual property. Property preservation company can deal with all the plumbing issues a property may have, from leaking taps to more severe problems like a blowout pipe or faulty shower. Plumbing services can also include heating jobs to make sure a property is fit to live in, such as installing a new boiler, bleeding the radiators, or other general heating maintenance. The specialists extend a full range of trained services and procedures to ensure your property stays in the best shape possible.

Dealing with your home’s pipelines is necessary for keeping the pure water streaming in and flushing your home’s waste out. The vast majority don’t consider their plumbing until an issue emerges. By that point, nonetheless, they are left with enormous wreckage and, ultimately, a huge bill. Plumbing maintenance is something you ought to do regularly to avoid the small issues to transform into huge problems later.

Some common plumbing problems with the solution Faucet Dripping: Dripping faucets are regular to such an extent that it’s uncommon to discover somebody who hasn’t encountered this issue. The reason for dripping faucets is an internal washer that has gotten hardened, torn, worn, or ousted after some time. Fixing the dripping problem is usually done by the householder, but it demands the right tools to do the work efficiently. Clogged bathroom, toilet drain, and sink: When the washroom sinks, shower, and shower channels get obstructed or blocked by clogs of hair and soap, or the toilet bowl is not flushed well, this leads to the clogging issue. Clearing the blockage may require a plunger to smoothen the water flow. Baking soda and vinegar can break down the clog as well. If it doesn’t work, then a sewer snake, drain guard, or drain auger can be used to open up the blockage. Running toilet: The most common fault of running toilet is a broken flapper valve that controls the water that goes from the tank to the bowl. On the off chance that tank leaks around the flapper and into the vessel, the flapper is reasonably executed. To replace the flapper, first shut off the water valve under the toilet. Flush the toilet to drain out the majority of the water, unfasten the old flapper, and install the newly purchased one. Leaky pipe: The leaky pipelines can damage the furnishings and floors, and the dampness can support bugs like cockroaches to multiply themselves. Leaks quite often occur at the joints. Tape, compounds, and fillers can frequently give a brief fix, however for something progressively permanent replace a bit of pipeline or the related fittings. High water pressure or change in temperature can cause cracks and leak on the pipeline, we can use epoxy putty to stop the leakage for the temporary, or you can call a professional repair vendor to change the particular section of the joint for better results. Sewer system: Sewer system backups are smelly, nasty, inconvenient, and can be costly to fix. If you have various drain and toilets that are not working, then this is likely your concern that there is some issue with the sewer system. Clogging, invasion of the stem or branches into the pipes, or break or collapsing of the old sewer lines can cause depletion of the sewer system. Consider what you flush in your toilet, clean your sewer system as frequently as possible, and during the replacement of the whole system, use the plastic sewer lines, which cannot be decayed easily. General plumbing tips 1. Ensure that you have everything you need before you start your repairs, check all the required equipment properly.

2. Always turn off the main water system before doing any plumbing repair to avoid any water waste.

3. Always wear clothes like the work trousers and top that will protect and keep you comfortable during the plumbing work. Also, consider having more pockets to keep the tools handy.

4. Keep a professional plumbing inspector’s number nearby in case something going wrong and you need immediate help.

RPR Services is a property preservation work order processing company, who analyzes the photos provided by the property preservation inspector, and after a meticulous examination of the presented data, we submit the most appropriate and nominal bid for all your plumbing repairs.

[perthtradedirectt]

Basins Suppliers Perth - Choosing the Right Basin For Your Bathroom

Bathroom products make up a large part of your home. Whether you’re renovating your bathroom or building a new home, it’s important to buy quality products that will last. Choosing the right basin for your bathroom can make a huge difference in its appearance and functionality.

There are many Basins suppliers Perth, and some have even opened stores in major cities. You can also find superior products by visiting furniture exhibitions and events in your city.

Bali stone basins

Using a Bali stone basin in your bathroom adds a touch of luxury and sophistication to any home. It also helps you make an eco-conscious choice for your interior design. It is also more durable and hygienic than a conventional porcelain washbasin. Natural stone is strong and resists moisture, oil absorption, chemical exposure, and dirt. It is also able to inhibit the growth of bacteria and microorganisms.

A Bali stone basin is a beautiful way to bring the tropical feel of Bali to your home. This piece of furniture is a perfect complement to any modern or traditional bathroom design. It can even be a centerpiece of your room.

Bali stone basins are available in a wide range of sizes and motifs. These products are carved by skilled Balinese artisans to create a one-of-a-kind piece that will enhance your bathroom’s style. You can also get a custom-made model to fit your specific needs. The stone basins are made of high-quality materials and are available with either a pop-up or traditional waste.

Ceramic basins

Ceramic wash basins are easy to clean and come in a variety of sizes. They also fit with any design style, from modern to traditional. They’re durable and resistant to impacts, scratches, and heat. They can even be hand painted or glazed for a more unique look.

A non-porous material, ceramic withstands staining and is easy to wipe down. They’re also hygienic and resistant to bacteria. Additionally, they can be easily molded into various shapes and sizes.

They are also a great choice for people with allergies or sensitivities. However, they’re not as heat-resistant as other materials, so they may crack or chip if exposed to high temperatures. This makes them less suited for use with hot water or soaps. Also, they’re prone to scratches if they’re used with metal brushes or sponges. Using a cloth or soft scrub instead is a safer alternative.

Granite basins

Granite is a highly durable and attractive material used for many different types of construction projects. It is ideal for flooring, vanity tops, wall cladding, window sills, and more. It is also a popular choice for kitchen sinks and basins. However, before you buy a granite sink or basin, you should be aware of its pros and cons.

Granite composite sinks are easy to maintain and can be cleaned with a damp cloth. They are resistant to acid and heat, which makes them the perfect choice for busy kitchens. They can withstand daily use of lemon juice, coffee, and other foods that would normally stain stainless steel.

They are available in built-in and countertop versions. The latter can be combined with concealed washbasin mixers. Both types are available in a variety of shapes and sizes, so you can choose the one that best suits your space. They are also available in various colours, so you can find the one that matches your décor.

Stainless steel basins

Stainless steel sinks are one of the best options for commercial and industrial spaces. They’re easy to sanitize and provide a food-safe environment that promotes hygiene. They’re also resistant to common household cleaners and detergents, including chlorine compounds. The best part is that they’re recyclable, so you can reuse them after a replacement.

You can find a variety of stainless steel sinks in a range of sizes and dimensions. Some are more expensive than others, but you can still find a good deal if you’re willing to shop around. They’re also much lighter than sinks made from other materials, making them easier to install at home. They can also accommodate different design aesthetics, from modern to classic. Moreover, they’re affordable and versatile, making them a great choice for any kitchen. A wide range of finishes is also available to suit your needs. Stainless steel sinks are also a durable and long-lasting option for your home or business.