#heavy weight tarp

[creepyclothdoll]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[uk-tarpaulins]

Canvas Tarpaulins for Agriculture Protecting Crops and Equipment

Introduction

Agriculture is a many-sided hit the dance floor with nature, where achievement depends on the sensitive harmony between ecological circumstances and human mediation. Canvas Tarpaulins assume a significant part in this dance, giving a defensive safeguard against eccentric components that can imperil the two harvests and cultivating hardware.

Protecting Crops

One of the essential elements of canvas tarpaulins in agriculture is protecting yields from antagonistic weather patterns. These strong covers go about as a boundary against over the top daylight, weighty downpours, hailstorms, and ice, all of which can inconveniently affect crop wellbeing.

2.1 Sun Protection:

Canvas tarpaulins act as successful awnings for crops, forestalling overexposure to extreme daylight. Delayed openness to brutal daylight can prompt burn from the sun and dry out of plants, hindering their development and lessening yields. Canvas tarpaulins, when decisively sent, moderate these dangers, establishing a favorable climate for plant development.

2.2 Rain and Hail Protection:

Exorbitant precipitation, particularly during basic development stages, can prompt waterlogging, root decay, and yield infections. Canvas tarpaulins go about as defensive layers, keeping water from immersing fields and hurting crops. Moreover, their durable development gives a safeguard against hail, a characteristic danger infamous for harming crops.

Preserving Soil Health

Canvas tarpaulins likewise add to saving soil well-being, assuming a part in soil disintegration counteraction and dampness maintenance. By covering the dirt with these coverings, ranchers can safeguard it from erosive forces, guaranteeing that important dirt remaining parts in one piece and is fruitful. Also, the coverings lessen vanishing, assisting the dirt with holding dampness, which is critical for supported crop development.

Protection During Seasonal Transitions

Farming cycles include advances between seasons, each introducing its difficulties. Canvas tarpaulins work with smooth advances by offering insurance during these weak periods. Whether it's protecting yields from late-winter ices or setting them up for the colder time of year chill, canvas tarpaulins give a solid safeguard against occasional limits.

Protecting Agricultural Equipment

Past protecting yields, canvas tarpaulins assume a urgent part in safeguarding the honesty of cultivating gear. Present day agriculture depends intensely on a different scope of hardware, from farm haulers and furrows to water system frameworks. Openness to the components, like daylight, downpour, and fluctuating temperatures, can speed up mileage, prompting expensive fixes and substitutions.

5.1 UV Protection:

Tarpaulin Sheets go about as a successful hindrance against unsafe bright (UV) beams. Drawn-out openness to daylight can cause blurring, breaking, and debasement of hardware surfaces. By covering apparatus with canvas canvases when not being used, ranchers guarantee that their gear stays shielded from the harmful impacts of UV radiation.

5.2 Rain and Moisture Resistance:

Water, particularly when joined by wind, can saturate the multifaceted hardware parts, causing consumption and lessening functional productivity. Canvas coverings, with their water-safe properties, give an impermeable hindrance against downpours, shielding gear and forestalling expected harm.

5.3 Temperature Regulation:

Outrageous temperatures, whether burning intensity or cold, can unfavorably influence the usefulness of farming gear. Canvas tarpaulins go about as encasings, directing inside temperatures and safeguarding apparatus from the limits of climate. This aids in keeping up with ideal working circumstances and broadens the life expectancy of the hardware.

Customization and Adaptability

Canvas tarpaulins offer a serious level of customization, permitting ranchers to tailor their use in view of explicit necessities. Whether covering a little vegetable nursery or safeguarding broad farmlands, these coverings can be adjusted to various sizes and shapes. This flexibility upgrades their reasonableness in different rural settings.

Durability and Longevity

The sturdiness of canvas tarpaulins goes with them a practical decision for long haul horticultural security. Produced using durable materials, these canvases endure the afflictions of open air openness, guaranteeing dependable and delayed assistance. This strength means cost-viability for ranchers, as they can depend on a solitary speculation for numerous developing seasons.

Environmental Considerations

Canvas, as a material, is biodegradable and harmless to the ecosystem. Not at all like a few manufactured other options, canvas tarpaulins don't add to natural contamination. This eco-accommodating perspective lines up with the developing accentuation on feasible horticultural works on, settling on canvas coverings a mindful decision for naturally cognizant ranchers.

Conclusion

In the domain of agriculture, where the harmony between nature and development is fragile, canvas tarpaulins arise as crucial apparatuses. Their multi-layered job in shielding crops from the components, saving soil wellbeing, and guaranteeing the life span of cultivating gear contributes altogether to the general achievement and manageability of horticultural practices. As ranchers keep on confronting developing difficulties, canvas tarpaulins stand as dependable partners, giving a canvas of security to the development and success of agriculture.

[inej-ruination-ghafa]

NEXT OF KIN - J.T

Warnings: hospitals, near death experience

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x fem!Wilson!reader

Summary: the one where Joaquin nearly dies and you finally have to tell your father

Wordcount: 3.3k

Footsteps echoed through the building, the methodical clicking of heels ricocheting off of the walls. Everyone watched as you ran through the doors, yanking them open and scanning the sign on the wall.

Before the staff behind the desk could stop you, you were storming into the room and that’s where you stood for a moment, eyes glued on the window.

A doctor followed you in, holding his paper to his chest as he looked at you. He just watched for a moment as you reached a hand up to the glass, unable to take your eyes off of the scene.

“Excuse me,” he cared his throat and you turned your head to look at him. There were tears brimming in your eyes and you hoped he wouldn’t notice, “You can’t be in here without authorisation,”

when you said your name, the doctors eyes went wide. Your last name held a lot of power in places nowadays. Wilson. Your father had been apprehensive about you keeping the last name since his rise to fame, not wanting his daughter to get in trouble. Yet, here you were, with the same determined look on your face, willing to get in trouble if you have to

“I, um, I’m Joaquin’s next of kin, you called me,”

the doctor seemed to have gotten over his shock because he nodded his head intently, almost like he remembered calling you, “His fiancée, is it?”

“Girlfriend,”

“Miss Wilson, the injuries are extensive,” the doctor said as he walked over, looking at the scene in front of him.

You looked over again, staring at the surgery. He was under the knife and you just watched as they chopped into him, over and over again. They were keeping him alive, a ventilator on, blood bags ready in the corner.

Your heart was racing as you wondered if this was it. This could be the last time you saw him alive, covered in tarps and surrounded by doctors with bloody scalpels. He looked so fragile.

“I can see,” the words were hoarse coming from your throat.

You had cried most of the way over here. You had been in the middle of a work meeting when your phone had rung and you ignored it for a few moments before remembering that you had said goodbye to your boyfriend and father a few days prior.

joaquin had come to say his goodbye to you before he left, the two of you parting with a kiss before he drove off to work that day. He knew he wasn’t going to be back any time soon. And now here he was, lying on an operating table.

Your heart felt like it was splintering every moment that he stayed on that table. Tears pooled in your eyes as you looked at him in that condition; he seemed so fragile.

“He has been in rough condition but should be out of surgery within the hour, they’re just fixing him up. He broke a few ribs, has a few first and second degree burns, a broken arm,” there was a weight in your chest as you listened to the doctor explain it all, “His heart did stop but there should be no long lasting issues,”

Your eyes went wide and you turned to the doctor, a sharp pain in your chest, “He died?”

“Miss Wilson,” he tried to reason with you.

Your head was spinning and it was like you were drowning in all of your thoughts. You had nearly lost the love of your life, the one person who had ever cared for you so much. He had nearly died and you couldnt do anything about it.

“He died?” You repeated, breath heavy.

“Medically speaking,”

You choked back a sob, hand coming to cover your mouth as the tears spilled over your cheeks. He had died. He had died. That was all that you kept repeating to yourself.

You turned and looked back at Joaquin. You remembered meeting him for the first time at an awards ceremony two years ago. He was standing alongside your father and he had caught your eye in moments. He had come up to you, nervous, hands shaking, yet he kept that suave smile on his face as he introduced himself.

Now, as you stared at the man on the operating table, you realised just how much he meant to you. You would not be the same person if you had not met him that day.

You were so consumed with your thoughts as you stared at the operating table hat you didnt hear the footsteps approaching.

In the glass, you caught your fathers reflection and realised that he was going to see you standing there, crying your eyes out over nearly losing your boyfriend. A boyfriend he didnt know you had.

You and Joaquin had been together for around 18 months now and had decided to hide the relationship from your father because it was easier not to get him involved. He was so overly protective over you and you knew he would be mad if he saw that you were falling in love with someone with such a dangerous occupation.

as discreetly as you could, you wiped the tears from your cheeks with the sleeve of your cardigan, checking yourself in the reflection to make sure you didn’t look too bad before you turned and saw him.

”Kiddo, what are you doing here?” He furrowed his brows at you, giving you that familiar judgemental look, like he was concerned with your wellbeing but was disappointed that you were there, “I dont want you getting caught up in this,”

You shrugged, not sure what to say, “I got a call,”

“As Torres’ next of kin, it is procedure, sir,” the doctor stated, thinking that he was solving the issue.

Silence fell over the room and you locked eyes with your father. He had that look on your face that you hadn’t seen since you were 17 and sneaking Billy Newsome out of your second story window. He was so angry at you that you could feel it in the air.

The doctors eyes went wide as he realised what he had done, exposing something that he had wrongfully assumed was common knowledge.

He took a deep breath, tilting his head as he looked at you, eyes narrowed, ”Excuse me,”

The lack of words made it even worse. Those two very simple words sent a chill down your spine and even if you were 23 years old, you could still feel the panic in your chest, like you were a little girl about to be reprimanded again.

“Dad,” there were no words that you could think of that would fix this.

If your heart wasnt already pounding in your chest from how nervous you were about Joaquin, it was definitely racing now as you realised you had been caught in a lie.

“I am sorry, I, uh, Mr Captain America, I will be back in half an hour when the surgery is complete,” he explained before rushing away.

Neither of them moved as the doctor fled the room, horrified at what he had just caused. You couldnt care less, all you could care about was that Joaquin was going to be okay.

You looked at your father, the man who had raised you, your hero. Now he was giving you that disapproving stare and you were uncomfortable standing in the tension.

“Spit it out dad,”

He folded his arms across his chest, “What do you want me to say?”

“Hey, how are you doing?” You mimicked his voice.

There was that tension again, even if you tried to make a joke. In any other circumstance, he would have laughed but he just narrowed his eyes at you.

“No. Who called you?” He quizzed.

You rolled your eyes as you realised that he was really angry, “The hospital,”

“why?” Sam knew the answer. It was obvious at this point what was going on and he kicked himself for not having noticed it sooner.

He should have noticed how whenever Joaquin would come round for dinner, he would always sit beside you. Or the way that he would watch you at the galas that you would attend, his eyes always following you around the room and tracing your curves.

“I am his next of kin,” you said.

For a moment you weren’t sure what would be the right thing to do, whether you should try to explain it or just rip the band aid off. At the time, the latter made more sense but now as you stood there, looking at the shock on his face, you wondered if it was right.

After the two of you had been together for six months, you had both put each other as emergency contacts. He lived such a dangerous life and you would never forgive yourself if you werent there for him when he needed you.

”I heard that the first time,” your father said angrily, almost as if hearing you say it made it real.

“Then why did you ask again?” You scoffed, furrowing your brow. You’re sure that if anyone had seen the two of you, you’d be mirrors of each others annoyed expressions.

“I thought I was hearing things,”

He folded his arms across his chest and then looked to his right and stared at the operating theatre. They were starting to pack things away and you were glad that he was going to be out of surgery.

You followed his eyeline and the two of you were both silent for a moment as you looked at the scene. Joaquin meant a lot to the two of you so to lose him would have broken you.

You sighed, shaking your head as you remembered the situation you had gotten yourself into. Your father turned to you, giving you that look again, “What is wrong with you?”

that was the final straw. You were sleep deprived from the flight over to the Indian Ocean to see your boyfriend and you were scared out of your mind and you were angry at your dad and all of it just bubbled up at that moment and you exploded.

“Wrong with me! My boyfriend just fell out of the sky. He was hit by a missile and nearly died in the Indian Ocean and you’re asking what is wrong with me!” You yelled it out, hands waving around as you tried to convey just how awful this all was.

Although Sam was still angry at you for not telling him your biggest secret, he could see how much you loved Joaquin just from how mad you got. He had seen you stand up for yourself all the time but never like this.

“Calm down kid, I’m your dad, I am allowed to be mad that you didn’t tell me you were dating my protégée,” he said, shaking his head.

“For this reason,” you brushed your hand over your face, trying to calm yourself down.

“What?”

You scoffed, not understanding who he couldn't see what was wrong, “You are overreacting. You don't approve,”

“Its dangerous to be in love with a superhero,” he stated.

Sam would know. There was a reason why him and your mother didn’t work out, and that’s because of his time in the army. He couldn’t imagine trying to make that relationship work as a superhero.

He could see Pepper sobbing over Tony’s body, or Steve having to leave Peggy. All of those things were because of their superhero powers. He would never wish that fate on you.

“I love him dad,” it was all you could say, all you could think of to try and convince him that this was worth it.

“I can see that, it doesn't mean I approve,” he explained.

“That's why I didn't tell you. Joaquin, he wanted to, he hated having to lie to you,” you reasoned with him.

You thought back to a few weeks ago as you lay in Joaquin’s arms, before everything had gone to shit. He had asked you whether you wanted to tell your father now about the two of you. Maybe you should have done it then.

“He still did it,” Sam shook his head. He saw Joaquin as the son he never had, and he thought that maybe he was the only one worthy for his daughter. Yet he still lied to him for 18 months.

“Dad. He loves me and I love him. I will spend the rest of my life loving that man and the second i found out he had been hurt, I rushed over. I cannot lose him daddy,” your voice broke at the end.

There was silence. You never called him that, not since you were a little kid. He could see the fear, watched as the tears pooled in your waterline, threatening to spill over.

Although he wished his little girl would never grow up, that you would stay that innocent child forever, he knew that you and Joaquin were in love, just from the fear in your eyes.

“Come here kid,” he held his arms out.

It was like all of your lies didn’t matter and he just embraced you, holding you close as you sobbed into his shoulder.

For the first time since you heard the news, you gave yourself a moment to cry, hands clenched onto his jacket as you cried. You had nearly lost Joaquin, your dad could have died as well. Sometimes it was too much.

There was no conversation as you composed yourself, pulling back, wiping the tears from your cheeks. He placed a hand on your cheek, smiling at the woman you had become.

“You are going to live a very long life and so will he, you will get to do that together. I wish you would have told me,” he said.

Although you hated to admit defeat, you knew he was right, “You would have been more worried about him,”

“I am worried about him,” he said, eyes flickering back over to where he was being wheeled away into another room, ready to be transported back to the states, “He’s gonna be okay kiddo,”

“Thanks dad,” you smiled, knowing this was all going to work out.

Joaquin was transported back to the states within a few days, still fast asleep. You had barely left his side, the news constantly on by his bedside so you could see what your father was up to. You were sat by Joaqquin’s bedside as you watched Sam fight the Red Hulk.

“What ya watching?” A voice asked and you whipped your head to the side to see him opening his eyes, looking at you.

A sob racked through your chest and your hand flew to your mouth. You were happier than you had ever been before as you looked at him. He had been awake sometimes with the doctors but you hadn’t spoken to him yet.

“Dad on the news, hes sorted everything out,” you explained, knowing he wouldn’t want to be too sappy.

he hummed in response, closing his eyes for a moment. You watched him, that peaceful look on his face and you thanked whatever God was out there for saving the man you loved.

“You nearly died baby,” you whispered, almost like saying it out loud made it real.

He opened his eyes and looked at you, really looked at you. There were bags under your eyes from his lack of sleep and your eyes were red like you had been crying for days.

Almost like he hadn’t been in a near death experience, he lifted his hand up and brushed a hand over your cheek, almost like he was making sure that you were real and not some kind of dream.

“I’m sorry,”

you shook your head because there was nothing to be sorry for. “You’re here now,” you smiled at him, a tear rolling down your cheek that he quickly wiped away with the pad of his thumb.

“I should have been more careful,” he said like it would have changed it, someone would always get hurt in these situations.

“You wouldn’t be the man I love if you didn’t work so hard, didn’t go out there no care for everyone else,” you said.

that was one of the reasons you fell in love with him, his devotion to his job and his dedication for what is right in the world.

“I should be more careful,” he repeated, “I couldn’t stand not coming home to you,”

You took his hand in yours and placed it in your lap, brushing your fingers over his knuckles absentmindedly. There was something so domestic about the moment, in the way that he looked at you with pure adoration.

“I always knew you would come home,”

He nodded, tears burning behind his eyes but he didn’t want you to see him like that right now, especially when he is already so weak, one hand strapped up in a sling, burns healing over his neck.

“Dad knows,” you broke the silence.

You watched as the fear fell over his face, eyes widening. This was what he had feared for so long, of not being good enough for your father, his mentor, his idol.

“And?” He waited for your response, eyes still wide.

You smiled at his reaction, “He was angry, but he knows how much we love each other,”

Joaquin let out a sigh of relief, “I’m glad, so hes not angry?”

“Just a little bit,” another voice said and you turned to look over your shoulder to see Sam standing at the door, looking at the two of you.

You couldnt tell for a moment if it was a look of shock but then you saw the smile on his face, the way that he looked at the obvious love between you and Joaquin and you knew he approved.

“Sir, I am so sorry-” he started to defend himself but Sam held his hand up, shutting the boy up.

“As long as you look after my daughter then I will not be angry,” he chuckled to himself, “But if you ever lay a hand on her, I will kill you,”

“Yes sir, I would never,” he looked at you, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth, “I love her,”

Sam smiled, “I can see, son,”

Joaquin’s face lit up like he had always wanted that approval from him. You leaned down and pressed a kiss against his temple, avoiding the cut on his forehead that was still fresh.

“Can you give me and Joaquin a minute to talk, we have to discuss his new roles,” Sam said and your boyfriends eyes widened. He wasn’t sure what this meant but it could be about your relationship, or his role as the new Falcon.

“Sure dad,” you leaned down and pressed a kiss against Joaquin’s lips, a chaste kiss that promised that you would be back. When you pulled back and saw your dad’s disgusted face, you laughed, “Go easy on him,”

as you walked out of the room, you looked back at the two most important men in your life and wondered why it took you so long to reveal the relationship.

[xichilie]

Hello, hope it's fine if I request more than once!

How about a Brant x Reader where she ended up as a Pilgrim herself and endured very traumatic events before being found and saved by Brant and the Troupe. As a result of said events, she never spoke so everyone assumed she was born mute until she eventually speaks to Brant due to feeling safe around him. How would he act before that (thinking that she's mute) and how would he react when hearing her voice for the first time?

Hello 👋

It's fine. You can send as many requests as you like ♡

Brant x (fem) reader

A silent voice

The moment Brant saw her, huddled among the wreckage of yet another forsaken Pilgrim’s Sail, he knew she had suffered greatly. She was thin, her clothes torn and ragged from the unforgiving trials of Penitent’s End, and her eyes—haunted, wary—spoke of horrors she would never utter. Or so he thought.

The Troupe of Fools had found her on one of their rescue missions, bringing her back to the hidden refuge of Fool’s Elysium. Like many before her, she was taken in, clothed, fed, and given a space to heal. But unlike the others, she never spoke a word. Not even in pain, not even in comfort.

At first, Brant assumed she was mute, like some of the others who had survived the journey. Many who faced the Dragon of Dirge lost more than their voices—some their minds, others their very will to live. Yet, despite her silence, she was strong. She adapted, she learned the unspoken rhythms of their troupe, and she carved out a place for herself amongst them.

Brant, ever the performer, took it upon himself to entertain her. Whether it was through grand gestures, exaggerated tales, or whispered stories in the quiet glow of the cavern fires, he would always find a way to bring some light into her somber eyes. It became a routine—him speaking, her listening, her presence a comfort he never knew he needed.

Still, the silence lingered, an invisible barrier between them. A part of him ached for her, wishing he could ease whatever suffering had stolen her words. But he never pushed. He never asked. He simply stayed.

Until one night, when everything changed.

The storm raged outside Fool’s Elysium, the entrance sealed with heavy tarps to keep the howling winds at bay. The firelight flickered, casting shadows against the stone walls, and Brant found her in her usual spot—knees drawn to her chest, staring into the flames. He approached as he always did, settling beside her, his warmth a familiar presence in the cavern’s cool embrace.

“I suppose you’re waiting for another tale,” he mused, voice tinged with the soft lilt of amusement. “Or perhaps a song? Something tragic and romantic, fitting for such a dreadful night?”

She didn’t move, but he felt her gaze shift toward him, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing between them. He exhaled, leaning back on his hands. “You know, I always imagined my soulmate would be someone loud. Someone who could match my theatrics word for word. But here you are, proving me an absolute fool.”

A small, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips. Not quite a smile, but enough to make his heart lurch. He continued, emboldened. “But I don’t mind. You don’t need to speak for me to know what you’re thinking. It’s in your eyes. Always in your eyes.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm outside, the distant echoes of laughter from the others deeper within the cavern. And then—

“…Brant.”

The voice was soft, hoarse from disuse, barely more than a whisper. But it was there. Real. Hers.

Brant froze, his breath catching in his throat. He turned to her, wide-eyed, as if he had imagined it. But she was staring at him, waiting, her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves. Her expression was uncertain, hesitant, like she had just crossed an invisible threshold and feared what lay beyond it.

His heart pounded. Of all the things he expected in that moment, hearing her voice—hearing her say his name—was not one of them. He opened his mouth, but for once, words failed him.

“Say that again.” His voice was barely above a whisper, a fragile plea carried by the firelight.

She hesitated, then, softer this time—“Brant.”

It was his name, just his name, but it was everything. A single word that shattered the silence, breaking through the walls she had built around herself. And it was for him. Only for him.

A sharp breath escaped him, and before he could stop himself, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce embrace. He felt her stiffen for just a moment before slowly melting into him, her head pressing against his shoulder. He held her tightly, as if anchoring her to the present, as if trying to shield her from every nightmare she had ever endured.

“You spoke,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You actually spoke.”

She nodded against him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. He could feel the slight tremble in her hands, the way she clung to him like he was something solid in a world that had once been cruel and uncertain.

He laughed, though it came out choked, overwhelmed. “You… you have no idea how much this means to me.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her expression softer now, less guarded. “I… feel safe,” she admitted, voice still rough but steady. “With you.”

Brant’s breath hitched, and he cupped her face gently, his pink eyes searching hers. “Then I’ll make sure you always are.”

The storm outside raged on, but inside Fool’s Elysium, wrapped in Brant’s arms, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—home.

And for the first time since she had arrived, since she had endured the horrors of the pilgrimage and found sanctuary in Fool’s Elysium, she felt something close to peace.

Brant didn’t let go of her hand for the rest of the night.

[sukunasteeth]

Your First Time on Sukuna's Bike

You lost a bet. 

That’s ultimately how you ended up here.  

"Hey," Sukuna is calling your attention to him, sitting on his motorcycle with a spare helmet outstretched in your direction. "Put it on."

The sun was just starting to set behind him on the horizon, casting him in this warm orange flavored glow that was almost comforting. Almost. 

"'Kuna, maybe this is a bad idea." You stay where you are a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot nervously. "Maybe you should go to the meetup by yourself-"

He interrupts you with one call of your name, effectively silencing you. He raises a brow.

"C'mere," He's smirking at you, seeing your unease as a challenge. Like he always did. 

"No, totally, I would. It's just-I- " You can't find the words to deny him. They don't come to you anymore. Your heart aims to please him in everything but your body is frozen in fear. Your brain scrambles to produce something- any kind of lie under his lion-like gaze. "I just remembered that Yuji asked me to do something with him-"

"Yuji's with his goth boyfriend." Sukuna rolls his eyes, quickly swapping the helmet to his other hand and leaning across the short distance between you to grasp your wrist instead. He tugs you closer to him, until your shoe is nearly touching the tire of his bike.

He's grinning up at you, with that convincing little squint to his eyes.

"Chicken shit." He accuses.

You gape at him.

"I am not afraid of your little motor bike, okay?"

"Then put the helmet on, Braveheart." He shoves said helmet into your hands and releases it before you can say no to fully grasping its weight. You fumble with it, trying not to let the piece of equipment slip to the asphalt, it felt expensive and heavy with quality, just as a lot of Sukuna's things did.

When you finally have it secured to your chest, safe and sound, you pale at the thought of the next step. 

Now, Sukuna was nothing if not a gentleman. You knew that. But, he also was constantly toeing the line of gentleman and... complete and utter vagrant menace. He would come over to your apartment after a meetup like the one the two of you were going to, with wind whipped cheeks and adrenaline clearly glimmering in his eyes. Occasionally, he would even ask you if you had a spare tarp so that he could cover his bike in case the police came around the neighborhood looking for a similar one.

Being in one of his turbo kitted cars was different. If there was an accident, it wasn't just between you, the heavy leather jacket Sukuna had bought you, and the rough merciless asphalt of the street.

You're staring down at the helmet like it's a death sentence when Sukuna calls for your eyes again, his hand coming up to caress the back of your arm with a gentle, coaxing touch. He ushers you until you're within his airspace, creating a timeless bubble where only the two of you exist. 

You’re slightly guilty when you look up at him. You hated questioning Sukuna, especially when it came to something like your safety, which he would never put at risk, but you can't help the nerves curdling in your stomach.

His gaze melts into something similar to sympathy, still slightly amused with you. 

"Why're you scared?” He wants to know. He knows just which soft and low tone of voice to use on you- to make every secret you have come rushing to the surface, desperate to please him just like the rest of you was. 

"Scared? Of a stick with two wheels that can go in between cars that weigh literal tons while riding at a speed of 120 miles per hour? No. No, why would I be scared?"

"120 miles per hour?" He repeats, cocking a brow at you. "And put my little chicken shit in danger? Are you insane?"

You bite your lip. 

“Can we go slow?” 

Sukuna merely laughs, turning back towards his bike and turning the key to kick start the ignition. The time for conversation was clearly over. 

“Put it on.” ~

Sukuna actually does go at a reasonable speed for the majority of the time. You get used to the feeling of the wind gliding over every inch of you, hissing so loudly in your ears that all other sounds become moot. It’s almost like white noise. 

Sukuna’s body is warm and sturdy against your front, and you press more of yourself than needed into him, just to be closer. Occasionally he’ll reach down and squeeze your thigh or point something out for you to look at, but otherwise he lets you take in the scenery at an easy pace. 

After an hour of riding, you may very well say it was comforting on the bike. 

At least, until you get to a long stretch of highway, that is. Empty and wide as it is long. A highway to some rural part of the city you had never been to before. 

Sukuna taps your knee, and then reaches up and tightens your hold on his waist. It was a signal. 

“Wait-” Even if Sukuna could hear you past the helmets, the unrelenting wind, and the roar of the motorcycle beneath you, he didn’t give you a chance to say much. 

The bike climbs speed as your heartbeat climbs in speed and if it weren’t for the helmet, it would be impossible to breathe easy with the wind whisking around you in such a flurry. Your thighs press into Sukuna’s, and you peek over his shoulder at the speedometer to watch it hit 95. It felt so much faster to you. It felt like you were flying. 

You can’t help the giggles that escape you as exhilaration plucks them out of you. 

Fear had long since revealed itself as excitement to you, and Sukuna could tell in the way you would kick your feet as he revved the engine that you were on the same page now. 

By the time the two of you make it to the meetup, you’re buzzing like a ball of electricity. Sukuna parks the bike, kicks the stand out, and immediately turns around to unclasp your helmet first. 

You tear it off of you, barely containing yourself long enough for him to remove his own before you're winding your arms around his neck. Giggles are still leaking out of you and into his ear, which is searing cold beneath your lips. 

“I told you you’d like it.” He chuckles, leaning backwards into you and forcing you to be the one to keep the both of you upright. You use your free hand to pull on his hood, forcing him back even further until you can press a kiss to his prideful smile.  

“That was fun.” You whisper.

“Good.” He whispers back, grabbing his keys from the ignition without moving his head from your grasp. “You’re drivin’ us home.” 

[skzdreamer13]

Rest

LeeKnow Cuddle Time 🖤

Minho x Reader

Minho's turn for the cuddle time Chapter!

Thank you @intrikatie, my love for ideas! ♥︎

Cuddle Time Masterlist ~ Here

Info ~ fluff, cuddling

“Ugh, Finally!” You shout as you step out of the passenger side of the car, leaning back with your arms up in the air to stretching your back with a loud ‘ahhh’

Two hours in the car isn’t very long but it was uncomfortable nonetheless. 

"I'll get the tent set up" Minho says as he walks around from the drivers side and plants a quick peck on your cheek.

He smiles fondly at you and walks around to the trunk of the car to start unloading.

After about an hour and a half of setting up you both finally rest in your respective chairs, next to one another with a campfire blazing a few feet in front of you.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" You say getting up excitedly and running over to the car.

Minho raises an eyebrow at you, but you are too preoccupied to notice. When you return you have a large thermos in your hands and as you walk towards him, the inquisitive look on his face still hasn't dissipated.

"Hot chocolate silly! Remember I packed it this morning." You say and excitedly plop back down in your camping chair to pour a cup of hot cocoa for each of you.

"Oh yeah! That's what you were doing? That's sweet." He smiles at you softly as you hand him his mug, and he takes it. He may not be as expressive as most but you cherish when he is, as it's such a rarity. Almost like an occasion. They way his lips curl upwards and his teeth peak out, a cute soft gummy smile that makes him look like an adorable bunny.

For awhile you both sit in a comfortable silence, drinking hot chocolate, watching and listening to the crackle of the fire. One of your hands are intertwined with one of his, dangling your arms slightly over the armrest of your chairs. Anything to be closer to one another.

His thumb is softly rubbing circles into the skin on the back of your hand as he takes a big sip and finishes his drink. As he lets go of your hand to set his cup down, a loud clap of thunder sounds around you.

You jump slightly not expecting the loud, almost booming sound. A wide smile paints his lips and a chuff leaves him as he finds your reaction endearing.

Your eyebrows knit in annoyance and you push his arm slightly as a small laugh leaves him. He gets up and plants a kiss on your forehead before reaching his hand out for you to grab.

You place your hand is his warm grasp and let him guide you out of your chair. You both stand at the end of the covering, that the tarp you set up earlier, provides as the rain starts to pour down.

Minho wraps his arms around your middle as you lean back into him, your mug of hot chocolate warm in your hands as he rests his chin on your shoulder. You both love to just watch the rain together, the sound of water beating down bringing you both peace.

Peace brings relaxation and relaxation brings drowsiness. You start to slump in his hold, laying more of your weight back into him, your head leaned back into his shoulder and the now empty mug is held loosely between your hands. Feeling you start to grow heavy in his arms, Minho grabs the mug from you.

"Let's go to bed." he says and puts the mug away so no critters get at it in the night.

You shuffle over to the tent and are grateful that you both worked so hard earlier to have everything set up as you can just lay down and rest not with no preparations.

You lay down in what is basically a pillow/blanket fort. Four or five blankets on the large air mattress in the tent, dim light from a battery power gives just enough illumination to the small sleeping space. You get under the many blankets, and as Minho enters the tent and zips it close behind him, you reach your hands up making 'grabby hands' at him.

A smile graces his beautiful lips and he crawls into bed beside you. You snuggle in close to his chest letting his distinct smell surround and relax you. His arms wrap around you, he instantly makes you feel safe and attended to.

"Thank you, for making the time to do this with me." Your voice is soft, just above a whisper so he can still hear you over the pitter patter of rain that still comes down above you.

"I'll always make time for you." His arms wrap around you tighter with his words and you feel his sincerity through it.

Slowly you fall asleep surrounded by his warmth and soft rain around you.

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[400badrequest]

Captain Money | John Price x F!Reader

SUMMARY: "It goes like this: Corporal Samuels - Sammie - a spunky blonde lesbian who has at least 15 clear plastic space holder piercings in at once (and we’re not just talking about ears here), spends a week on 141’s service. She’s not much more than a desk jockey for them, but Samuels starts sending photos to the girls’ group chat. Hidden ones - mostly of Sergeant McTavish eating shit and landing on his face, Lieutenant Riley at stupid angles that made him look like a thumb because of his stupid mask and Sergeant Garrick drooling on paperwork. And so, a tradition is born. There’s no prize, but whoever takes the stupidest photo wins. Wins what? Who knows."

WORD COUNT: 5K

cw: mild stalking (from reader), drinking

Crossposted on AO3. Insp by @abc-ok artwork here

There’s an ongoing joke amongst you and the other female recruits. It has a fair amount of tangled lore; spanning a lot of stupid drunken shenanigans, a busted humvee that’s hidden under a tarp at the back of the massive base garage and a group chat - that for all intent and purposes - is probably illegal to exist. 

But it goes like this: Corporal Samuels - Sammie - a spunky blonde lesbian who has at least 15 clear plastic space holder piercings in at once (and we’re not just talking about ears here), spends a week on 141’s service. She’s not much more than a desk jockey for them, but Samuels starts sending photos to the girls’ group chat. Hidden ones - mostly of Sergeant McTavish eating shit and landing on his face, Lieutenant Riley at stupid angles that made him look like a thumb because of his stupid mask and Sergeant Garrick drooling on paperwork. And so, a tradition is born. There’s no prize, but whoever takes the stupidest photo wins. Wins what? Who knows.

But suddenly, it shifts. It starts with one photo - of Captain Price, taken by Corporal Ainsley. It’s probably a million degrees out, hot enough that there’s a mirage shimmering in the background. It’s shin up and despite the slight blur it's focused pretty well. He’s drenched in sweat, bare chest and beefy arms slick with it. All of him is covered in a thick dusting of dark hair that’s sticking to him from the heat. But that’s not the best bit; no, the best bit is that the only two scraps of clothing on him is a fucking jockstrap and his stupid hat. It hides absolutely nothing. His cock is flaccid, but the bulge is round and heavy. There’s two thigh straps pulled tight, the muscle squished to hold them, and a tact belt too, along with shoulder straps for what would be a concealed carry that outlines his large arms. The dark watch doesn’t help either. There’s a glock held comfortably in his right hand, and he’s standing casually, as if he’s not basically buck naked. Price is looking off, most likely listening to someone talk.

And from there on, the chat is called “CAPTAIN MONEYYY”.

As the corporals on the same base as 141, it’s not hard to sneak photos of him. Well… it’s hard because he’s vigilant and a bloody highly trained soldier, but you’re a group of women who grew up in the era of sneaking phones in class and zoom capabilities on commercial phones have gotten considerably better since you were using a shitty flip phone back in year 7. 

You were almost notoriously good - it helped you had a bit of an eye for it too. It wasn’t as all your shots were art, but deciding to splurge for an olympus xa2 definitely upped your game. It wasn’t even about Price at this point; it was about being the best. The olympus xa2 was light weight, small enough to hide in the breast pocket of your fatigues and didn’t make a single noise, even when you wound it - except for the tiniest little click when you took a photo. It was so silent that you struggled to hear it over a single conversation. It being film meant that every Monday morning you’d upload a week's worth of photos of Price to the group chat - it’d become a bit of an event. 

What the groupchat didn’t know was that you kept all the physicals - in a small shoebox tucked in the very back of your closet. It was definitely tipping into stalker territory if you thought too hard about it, but… no one knew. 

“Here,” Samuels says, sliding you what looks like a… vodka redbull? The bar is bustling, you and the other female recruits crowded into a small booth. A few of them have disappeared - either to get laid, or piss; it didn’t matter so long as they were in pairs. Samuels takes a seat on your lap, and you instinctively slide an arm around her waist to hold her there. She’s taller than and generally larger than most of the women, but you’re stronger. You sip at your drink, twirling the straw in your mouth. 

“Is that NSYNC?” Ainsley asks, tucking a dark curl behind her ear. She’s a small bright Scot, a few years younger than you, but faster with a knife than most. “Baby bye, bye, bye!” She sings along to whatevers playing over the din, and you have to bite back a laugh at her heavy Galsweian accent. It smells like salt, sweat and beer in here and you roll your eyes as she blows cigarette smoke across the table. 

“That’s a disgusting habit Ains, and you know it,” you reply, nicking the cigarette and taking a puff before handing it back. The tipping paper is sticky with a myriad of shades of red lipsticks, glinting with lip gloss.

“What, singing?”Ainsley asks, brow furrowed. 

“No, smoking,” Sammie corrects with a tipsy laugh. “They’re being a little hypocrite,” she smirks, scooching back to be comfortable. You grunt, readjusting her weight.

“I only socially smoke,” You say with a roll of your eyes, but you don't go to shuffle her off your lap, despite their being sitting space when a few of the girls get up to commandeer a pool table. 

Ains and Sammie trade silly barbs for a while, while you tap your foot along to the beat of whatever divorced dad rock plays over the speakers. “It’s Green Day, actually,” you add aimlessly to the conversation as you scan the crowd absentmindedly - for what you’re not sure.

Until you spot him.

Price is lent up against the bar - a casual dried grass green coloured button down that was faded at the collar, sleeves rolled up, faded boot cut jeans and Timberlands on. You can see the jut of a concealed carry, almost completely hidden under his shirt. The warm bright lighting from behind the bar slides over him like water as he stands at an angle, hair slightly longer than you’ve ever seen but still sticking up. Price’s beard is shorter than usual and less mutton chops and more actual full beard. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he talks to the bartender - he’s distracted enough that you slide out your small camera without a second thought and there unheard click happens as you capture a casual Price. John. You capture a photo of John, and it almost makes you dizzy as you bring the tiny camera down. 

“This spot taken?”

You startle, both Ainsley and Samuels shutting up as Sergeant Garrick smiles at the three of you. The camera slides easily into your pocket, unseen. “Uh, not at all,” you reply, and Ainsley shuffles so she’s pressed up against you. 141 slides into the booth - Garrick, McTavish and then Riley. Sammie - being the extrovert she is, immediately pulls the sergeants (“we’re off duty, drop the titles, please.”) into some colourful conversation about 90s pop music that Ghost adds to, in a way that always causes some form of loud outrage. 

Eventually, Price slides in next to Ghost, directly across from you with a tray of drinks. Two beers, one whiskey and a coke. He gives you a small smile when the boys grab their drinks. It feels like the camera is burning in your pocket, and you resist the urge to touch it. You sip aimlessly at your own as the conversation shifts, more to sharing stories about missions that won’t get you in proper trouble. At one point you have to pinch Ainsley under the table when she starts to mention a certain humvee - you might be hanging out now, but they’re still your superiors. 

You rest your chin hooked on Sammie’s shoulder, idly contributing to the conversation, but generally keep your gaze on the crowd - scanning around at the other women, making sure that there’s nothing but comfortable smiles on their faces. It’s an old habit from your uni days, being the group fighter (in both D&D and real life, always ready to smack down any woman) meant you also were preventing fights too. A good skill was knowing when to run away - pride was counterproductive.

Eventually your eyes slide to the group. Even in your slightly tipsy state, you can see Soap is poorly trying to steal Ghost’s coke, that Gaz has an arm stretched behind Anisely’s part of the booth, worn leather creased under his arm. You meet his eyes and quirk an eyebrow - he shoots you a cheeky grin. Price is chatting idly with Ghost, a small smirk on his face at whatever Riley is saying. His forearms look deliciously thick, sleeves straining a little around his shoulders. Whorls of dark hair peek out of the front of his shirt where the first few buttons are undone, a thin sheen of sweat on him from the heat of the bar. You want to lick it off him. Would he taste a little smoky? Faintly like soap? Or just like salty skin? The ice in your drink has melted, condensation wet on your fingers - would he like the cold touch of your fingers on his hot skin?

A loud laugh from Sammie snaps you from your day dream and when you look up, you realise Ghost is staring at you, gaze piercing. You force yourself not to flick your eyes away from him in the embarrassment of being caught staring at his Captain, but instead wiggle your eyebrows with a cheeky grin - his shoulders hitch a little as he huffs a small laugh.

“Ew, cmon,” Sammie bitches as you smear the cold wetness on her exposed midriff. “That’s gross,” she grouses, trying to wriggle away. 

“It’s condensation, idiot,” you say with a laugh, eyes creasing with a smile.

“So how long’ve you two been together?” Soap asks as you press your cheek to her shoulder, arms wrapped around her waist. 

“Oh we’re not- no that’s not-” Sammie says through a laugh, and Ains chokes on her drink. You slap her back until she stops, batting your hand away. “Jesus Ains,” you say, cupping the back of her head with one hand, gently pressing your mostly melted ice drink to her lips, getting her to slowly swallow it. “Good girl,” you say softly as she settles. “Solid?” “Solid,” she replies, taking your glass.

“We’re not together,” you clarify, turning back to Soap, while snaking an arm back around Sammies’ waist. “Samuels is just a clingy puppy at any given time.” You pause, realising all four of the men are staring at you with looks varying from hot to startled. “What?”

“A clingy puppy who can beat your arse,” She cuts in, pressing a sloppy wet kiss to your cheek, eliciting a laugh from you. 

“Ew, don’t lick me you grot!” You shriek, shoving her face away while still holding her to your lap. You hear Soap laugh when you scrub your face on her shoulder. The rest of your drink goes down easy, more water than anything else at this point. “Alright, anyone want a drink?” You grunt as you stand up, sliding Samuels off your lap when you stretch to stand. You get a few answers and you nod, collecting all the empty glasses and piling them on the tray. 

“Wait,” Price calls, slipping a few bills out of his wallet and pressing them into your hand. “I’m not going to let you pay for my team,” he adds. His hands dwarf yours, warm and a little rough. A flush burns hotly across your cheeks. 

“Ah- no it’s fine-” you start. The sound of your heart beat drums harshly in your ears. 

“No.” He cuts, not unkindly. “Please.” His eyes are warm and good natured, and you can hear Sammie sniggering. 

“Captain Mon- ow!” Sammie yelps as Anisley jabs her in the side.

“Okay,” you squeak with a nod, turning on your heel and beelining for the bar. The tray is balanced expertly on your palm and slides perfectly onto the bar - the bartender thanks you and takes the cash from your hand along with your order. You fight down your embarrassed flush at hearing Sammie almost called Price 'Captain Money’. 

You look back at the booth - they’d all fallen back into conversation. There’s a fine haze over the bar, someone probably smoking in a corner where they shouldn’t be, though it’s not as if you can really talk. The bar is a little tacky under your hands as you watch them. They’re shrouded in a slight shadow, tinted a warm amber. The camera almost slips unconsciously from your pocket as you line up the shot, zooming in on the Captain. He’s lent back in the booth, one arm up against the back of it. There’s a soft crinkle to his eyes as he smiles at something that Soap says, drink almost at his lips when you take the photo. The glass looks almost tiny in his hands. 

“What’re you doin’?” Ghost’s rough voice comes from behind you. 

“Christ!” you startle. The camera drops easily into the top pocket of your jacket, hidden away the millisecond you turn around. It’s not even an active move, but a reflex that you’d built at this point. “Don’t scare a girl like that!” you say with a grin. He stares down at you, eyes boring into you and it takes everything you have not to twitch or let your hand flutter to check that your camera is tucked away properly. 

“Hn.”

“What are you, Batman?” you say with a grin. The bartender finally returns, sliding you the tray. Ghost goes to take it and you hip check him gently, taking it. “I was a waitress for a lot of highschool, I’m good at this,” you say, easily carrying the tray on one hand. You see his mask shift a little, indicative of an eyebrow raise. “What? Were you a waitress?”

“Waiter,” he corrects, and you wave him off. 

“Same difference,” you say with a small laugh. “Were you?” you ask again, with honest curiosity this time as you weave through the crowd. They part for him, but you’ve learnt the art of sliding around people. 

“...No. A shelver at the library,” He replies. 

“Wait, really?” Your eyebrow jolts to your hairline. “That’s kinda cute.” He huffs a laugh at that, hands in his pockets. 

“Don’t let Price here say that,” Ghost says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. 

You get back to the table before you can ask questions. A small cheer erupts, a grin ticking at your lips. 

“Uh…” you blink, realising there’s nowhere to sit. Ains has popped her boots in Sammie’s lap - to anyone else, you’d knock their feet off and sit in Sammie’s lap, but you know that Ains only does it when her knee hurts. “I’m gonna go get a stool-” Turning to walk away, you jolt when a large hand wraps around your wrist softly. 

“Nonsense,” Price starts and gently drags you into his lap. You squeak, stiff as he pulls you so the swell of your arse is pressed back against his crotch and stomach. “We’re off duty. Relax.”

“I- uh-” you stutter out, looking at Sammie in panic who is clearly fighting back laughter. John copies how you were sitting earlier, wrapping his thick arms around your waist, chin hooked on your shoulder. His grip isn’t tight, but feels incredibly steady. The edge of his beard tickles your jaw. 

“He’s drunk,” Ghost offers, sliding you your own drink. “We pregamed.” you wrap your fingers around your glass and take a few heavy sips before putting it down, wincing as the alcohol burns its way down. 

“That’d do it,” you reply nodding, still twitching with nerves. 

“Relax, lovie,” John murmurs in your ear. “Nothin’ to worry about.”

“Yes Captain,” you reply, doing your best. A small squeak comes out of you when he pinches the squishy inside of your thigh. 

“Naw yer Captain right now,” He says. “Jus’ John’ll do.” The low rough brogue of his tone has you fighting down a whimper - but it shows enough on your face that you see Ghost smirking with this mask rolled up to take a drink out of the corner of your eye. 

“Yes, John,” you reply obediently. He pats your tummy. A flush colours your cheek as he keeps his hand on the softness there, kneading a little. “Attagirl.”

You feel like you’re going insane - everyone acts like you sitting in his lap is absolutely normal, like he doesn’t majorly outrank you. He’s touching you; rough hand slipped a little under your shirt, fingertips skating across your ribs and tracing the underside of your bra. You fight to keep your breathing steady, unable to focus on the conversation. His left arm is crossed over you, hand sat on your right thigh like a seatbelt. Someone keeps feeding you drinks - Sammie, probably. The alcohol flows like oil over a raging fire.You can feel the swimmy lightheadedness that comes from drunkenness, eyes drooping a little. Your laughs come easier. At some point, you feel John tug your hair tie out, solely with the purpose of smelling it. 

Eventually the drinks catch up to you, and you go to stand - John growls a little in your ear. “No.”

“I gotta pee, John,” you whisper, and he relents, albeit reluctantly. The table is cold and a little damp under your fingertips when you use it to steady yourself.

“Easy, doll,” you hear, and it’s not John, but Ghost who grabs your shoulder. “I’ll walk you.”

You nod, his big hand on your shoulder to keep you up right. Tension bleeds out of you when you walk down the hallway, the air clearer and quieter. “Here, give me your jacket,” Ghost orders softly. “Don’t want you getting it damp.” he tugs it off your shoulders, leaving you in a shirt. 

“Thanks,” slurs out of you, and he nods.

The floor swims a little when you come back out, smelling like hand soap. Ghost gently guides your arms back into your jacket. “I think I’m done,” you say seriously. “Home time.”

He huffs a small laugh, guiding you outside. Even with a booze blanket, the cold air nips at your flushed cheeks. 141 is there, along with Ains and Sammie - who cheer when you appear. 

“We missed yoooou,” Ainsley wails drunkenly, koala hugging you. You huff a little, shifting her a little higher so you can hold her comfortably. 

“Don’t leave!” Sammie joins in, draping her weight on your back. A grunt is pushed out of you, as she stops supporting herself, arms wrapped around your neck. There’s a laugh from somewhere behind you. 

“‘M not leaving,” You reply, starting to walk back to base. It’s about a twenty minute walk while sober, closer to forty while drunk and carrying two fully grown women. You get about eight steps when you feel Ghost sigh next to you. 

“You really gonna walk back?” he asks. He doesn’t stop you as you continue to move forward at a surprisingly even pace. 

“We walked here an’ I can’t drive,” you reply. “Sammie, stop dragging your damn feet.”

“Sorry,” she slurs, and awkwardly wraps her long legs around you, crossing them over Ainsley’s back. You take a steadying breath, but Ghost stops you.

“I didn’t drink. I drove. C’mon.” He takes your shoulder before you can protest and guides you into the back of a large Jeep. Gaz is sprawled in the back too, and John is strapped into the front. Somewhere along the way, the soft rocking of the car knocks you to sleep.

---

Ge’off me,” you groan, pushing Samuels off you. She moans in turn, rolling onto the mat. It’s midmorning, and the three of you are currently attempting to participate in training.

Attempting.

Ainsley threw up next to the mat about 5 minutes in and had been walked out. You and Sammie were shittily attempting to grapple, both of you buckling under crippling headaches, vestiges of last night.

You’d woken up tucked neatly into your own bed in the same shirt as last night but braless and pantless, shoes lined up neatly next to the foot of the bed. Two painkillers and a gatorade on the nightstand with a note that read ‘Didn’t peek. Got you to drink some water before you fell asleep. Samuels and Ainsley are in their rooms. See you at training - LT Riley’

Right now, Ghost wasn’t extending any of that friendliness to you.

“Get up, Corporals!” He barked, standing at the edge of your sparring mat. “Being hungover is no excuse for poor form!”

You groan and Sammie mumbles something foul under her breath as you sluggishly stand back in position. However she pales and turns around, immediately puking on Ghost’s boots. The yellowish liquid splashes onto the cuffs of his pants. 

“Shit-” She groans. “‘M sorry, Ghost.” instead of yelling, he just sighs. 

“Go to infirm. Take the day off.” He grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. She nods, shooting you an apologetic look as she scrambles out of the room. “Oi! All of you, get the fuck out of here!” Ghost snaps, and the rest of the corporals scatter quickly. “Not you,” He adds low enough only for you to hear.

You sigh tiredly, scrubbing at your face. “Thanks for getting us back last night.”

He nods. In the daylight, he looks sharper, less… friend shaped, without the blurry filter of drunkness over your eyes. “You’re a good bunch. Wasn’t just gonna leave you there after getting you drunk,” he replies, a smirk laced in his words. You laugh weakly, wincing as a bolt of pain shoots through your skull.

“Fair. We don’t usually drink on Sundays. We were stuck with backlogged paperwork on Friday and Saturday so…”

He nods, understanding. “I get it.”

A moment of silence passes. The plastic of the mats squeak under your feet. “Did you need something or…?” 

Ghost doesn’t reply, just pulling your camera out of his pocket. It looks tiny in his hands, basically fitting in his palm. Your stomach drops. “Where- where did you-”

“You dropped it.” 

You know you didn’t. You never drop it. It’s your baby, your prize possession. You’d assumed it would still be in the breast pocket of your jacket.

“I got the film developed for you,” he adds. “Some… interesting photos you got here.” Even with the balaclava on, you can tell there’s a mean smirk on his lips. Blood rushes in your ears, and the edges of your vision blur. “A lot of the same subject matter, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ghost- whatever it is you want I-” 

He scoffs in his throat. “Do you really think there’s something you could give me that I’d want?” Anger flares in you, a scowl twisting your face. Fucking prick, you think, nose scrunched. 

“Fine. What’s the point, then?” You ask, trying to hide the shake in your voice. 

“Just… remember I know.” he replies, patting the breast pocket of his jacket - you hear the familiar thwum thwum of printed film. A snarl explodes from your throat, and for some damned reason you launch yourself at him.

“That’s mine,” you hiss, as you both hit the mats. Your fingers scratch at the front of his jacket as you try to grab them and he laughs, before grabbing you by the ends of your hair and yanking. “Fuck-” you gasp in pain. Ghost continues to pull, mean and harsh. He shifts so he’s standing, you stuck awkwardly crouched as he tugs. 

“Really thought that was going to work, huh?”

“Give them back!” you yell, trying to hit him in the knees. He grabs your face hard, fingers biting into your cheeks. 

“Lose the fucking attitude,” He hisses. “Consider this a warning.” 

Instead of hitting you like you expected, he shoves you to the ground and walks off, leaving you sprawled on the mats, head throbbing. 

---

You pull the coward move. 

You disappear for a week - not AWOL, obviously, but you have more than rough backlogged PTO that no one really blinks an eye. It’s hard to convince yourself that this is a strategic retreat. To regroup, of course. 

Home is too far, so you spend it holed up in a cheap motel, sitting in the scratchy bed while reruns of The Nanny and Seinfield crackle on the small box TV, staring at it unseeingly. Part of you just wants to get drunk; ugly sloshed, to the point where you puke up nothing but bile and clear fluid. But what good would that do? Ghost has the photos already. He has a week, maybe more, worth of film photos. It would be delusional to pretend that he wouldn’t be reporting them to Price - none of them were from missions, but out of the ones in your shoebox, a few of them were. 

You where fucked.

“When’re you coming back?” Ainsley asks over the phone. It’s cradled against your ear while you paint your toenails, black polish wet. “It’s been 6 days.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you sigh. “I just needed a break.” You hadn’t told them. It was stupid - maybe you should’ve. But the embarrassment of telling someone that you had managed to be caught with your metaphoric pants down was enough to make your face burn. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Her voice is tinny through the speakers, small and concerned. A small smile twitches at your lips. 

“I’m okay, Ains,” you placate. “Just needed some time off, okay? I’ll be back soon.” Sometimes you forget how young she is - that you and Sammie are all she really has here. 

“...Okay.”

“I’m serious. One more day and I’ll be back to stealing your brownies,” You tease, cursing quietly when a bit of polish drips off the brush and onto the bedspread. Ainsley laughs and starts bitching about how it’s not fair you never take Samuels’s treats. The tension leaks from her voice and your shoulders as the sun slowly sets, your nail polish drying and lamps flicking on, washing the room in a faint warm glow. 

“Oh, I forgot to tell ye,” Ainsley adds just before you hang up. “Captain Price was looking for you. I told him you were on leave, and he said to tell you to come to his office when you’re back.”

“What?” You croak.

“Yeah, he didnae say why. I gotta go, mess is starting! Bye!” 

The phone beeps in your ear. You can’t help but curse lowly. 

It didn’t make sense - why would Ghost show him? He had nothing to gain from torturing you like this! 

You groan, burying your face into your hands. 

---

“Price wants to see you,” Gaz greets you, leaning in the doorway of the corporal's office space. His hat is on, but tilted up so you can see the curiosity in his eyes. The only sound is your keyboard and the faint whirring of a desk fan. Warm noon sun filters through the slats of the window, along with a tepid breeze that smells like grass and gravel. “But you already knew that.”

“Mhm,” you reply, not looking up. When you had finally come crawling back, you had the decent excuse of backlog to avoid seeing the Captain. But three days later you were at the point of triple and quadruple checking your reports just to get out of seeing him. 

Gaz doesn’t move, continuing to study you with interest. “You know why he wants to see you.” It’s not a question.

“Mhm.”

“Avoiding him isn’t going to make it go away.” He pauses. “Whatever it is.”

“I’ll be honest, I’d rather be dishonourably discharged than see him,” he laughs a little at that. “But I guess I’ve played the coward long enough.”

You groan as you stand, something in your back clicking. Gaz continues to stare at you, though out of his periphery now as you fall into step with him. The hallways are bustling with people as you walk side by side, doing your best to not drag your feet. Trepidation starts to burn in your chest.

“You know, I was instructed to make sure you made it to Price’s office no matter what,” He says conversationally, hands crammed into his pockets. “Even if it meant knocking you out or carrying you. It’s a bit of a pleasant surprise for you to willingly come with me.”

Your eyebrows jolt to your hairline. “Knock me out?”

“Or carry you,” Gaz adds helpfully. You glare at him. “So? What’d you do?” 

You grumble. He raises an eyebrow. The crowd of the hallways has started to thin out the closer you get to the office. Your heart trips over itself in your chest.

“Nothing,” you lie.

“Sure,” he replies amicably, nodding along. “He’s just been in a foul mood since you left because of nothing too then, right?” 

A scowl flickers across your face. He chuckles, and heat warms your cheeks at being caught. 

“I’ll find out eventually.” You know it’s supposed to be a passing statement, but it feels like a threat.

Gaz doesn’t even knock - you feel a flicker of panic shoot through you. You needed that split second to steel yourself. 

“I gottem,” Gaz says singsongly, the door swinging open. 

You had been inside this office a few times - it always smells faintly like cigar smoke and printer ink. Today is no different. Sweat gathers on your palms as you walk in, and it feels as if you’re walking towards your death.

“Sit,” Price orders, not even looking up from his paperwork. You sit. 

A few moments of silence pass, before he sighs and looks up. “Are you going to keep standing there?” he directs at Gaz who’s leaning curiously in the doorway. He shrugs with a grin. Price levels him with a look and Gaz sighs a little dramatically.

“Fine, spoil all my fun,” Gaz says with a slightly put on disappointment. The closing of the door feels like a death knoll.

[pankowcrumbs]

Hard Scene to Film X Rudy Pankow (requested)

MasterList

Outerbanks and Cast Masterlist

The sound of waves crashing against the shore served as a constant backdrop on the Outer Banks set. The once lively chatter of the crew seemed subdued today, a reflection of the heavy scene we were about to film. My character, Tessa, was meeting her end, and the thought weighed on me more than I’d expected.

I took a deep breath, adjusting the edges of my costume as I sat on a weathered bench near the trailers. Rudy appeared from around the corner, his familiar grin replaced by a more serious expression. Seeing him like this was rare—his usual lighthearted energy had been replaced by something quieter, heavier.

“Hey,” he said softly, taking a seat beside me. “How are you holding up?”

“Good,” I lied, trying to muster a smile. “It’s just… weird, you know? Knowing this is Tessa’s last scene.”

He nodded, his fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie. “Yeah, I get that. Feels like saying goodbye to someone you’ve really gotten to know.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but rather filled with unspoken understanding. Finally, Rudy leaned back, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“You’re gonna kill it,” he said, his voice steady but kind. “I mean, not literally, since it’s a death scene, but you know what I mean.”

I laughed despite myself, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “Thanks, Rudy.”

“Always.” He turned to me then, his blue eyes searching mine. “And hey, just so you know, JJ’s reaction? That’s gonna be all me. Not JJ.”

My heart squeezed at his words. Rudy had a way of saying things that felt like both a confession and a reassurance, wrapped up in his usual charm.

“You’re gonna make me cry before we even start filming,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“Good,” he said with a smirk. “Use it.”

The set had been transformed into a storm-ravaged shoreline, the sand littered with debris and the sky artificially darkened by massive tarps overhead. The sound crew tested the crash of distant thunder, and a light drizzle from the rain machines slicked the ground beneath our feet.

I lay on the damp sand, my costume stained with fake blood and dirt. The makeup team had gone all out, giving my skin a pale, almost lifeless hue. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of the scene settle over me as the director called for final checks.

“Quiet on set! Rolling in three, two…”

The clapperboard snapped, and the scene began.

I could hear the chaos around me, the shouts of characters calling for help, the sound of feet splashing through shallow water. And then, Rudy’s voice—JJ’s voice—pierced through the noise.

“Tessa!”

He stumbled into frame, his breath hitching as he saw me lying there. His knees hit the sand hard, and his hands hovered over me, trembling as if he didn’t know where to touch, afraid to hurt me further.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Tessa, come on. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

I let my head loll to the side, my half-lidded eyes meeting his. “JJ,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the storm.

His hand found mine, gripping it tightly. “Stay with me, okay? Just… stay with me.”

The script called for me to smile faintly, a bittersweet expression that hinted at acceptance. It was supposed to be a goodbye, but as I looked into Rudy’s eyes, filled with raw emotion, it felt like more. The lines between acting and reality blurred, and for a moment, it wasn’t JJ holding Tessa’s hand—it was Rudy holding mine.

“I… I tried,” I murmured, tears pooling in my eyes. “I tried to make it.”

“You did,” he said, his voice breaking. “You did, Tessa. You don’t get to give up now. You hear me? You don’t get to leave me.”

The director’s voice came faintly from the monitors. “Push it, Rudy. Let it break.”

Rudy’s face crumpled, and a sob tore from his throat. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine, his tears mixing with the rain.

“Please,” he whispered, the desperation in his voice cutting through the scene like a blade. “Please don’t go.”

I let my hand fall limp in his, my eyes fluttering closed. The storm raged on around us, but all I could hear was his broken breathing, the sound anchoring me even as I let the character slip away.

“And… cut!” the director called.

The set erupted into applause, but I couldn’t move. Rudy stayed frozen, his hand still gripping mine, his forehead still pressed against mine. Finally, he sat back, blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off the lingering emotions.

“That was… intense,” I said softly, my voice hoarse.

He looked at me then, his eyes red-rimmed but steady. “Yeah. It was.”

Later, after the makeup had been scrubbed off and the costumes returned to wardrobe, I found Rudy sitting on a folding chair near the edge of the set. He had his phone in one hand, scrolling absentmindedly, but his expression was far away.

“Hey,” I said, taking the chair next to him.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice quieter than usual.

We sat there for a moment, the silence between us comfortable but heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he turned to me, a small, sheepish smile on his face.

“Sorry if I got too into it,” he said. “That… that scene just hit different.”

I reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “Don’t apologise. You made it real. That’s what makes you so damn good at this.”

He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, you made it easy. You always do.”

The sincerity in his voice made my chest tighten. I leaned back in my chair, looking up at the night sky. The stars were starting to come out, their light faint but steady.

“You think they’ll keep it?” I asked, referring to the scene.

“They’d be idiots not to,” he said firmly. “That was magic.”

I glanced over at him, catching the way his gaze lingered on me, soft and unwavering. And in that moment, I realised something—Rudy wasn’t just talking about the scene.

Maybe, just maybe, he was talking about us.

[butterbabyflapjack]

Since it's probably gonna be a few weeks before I can post the next chapter of wild animals, here's a little scene where Brian straps you to his table (or at least so it seems)

You grab what grocery bags you can, each filled with giant tarps and duct tape and heavy-duty stretch wrap; swallowing thickly as you do.

“Have you ever killed anyone like this?” you ask Brian beside you, trying to keep your mind busy with anything besides what you're about to do. “Like Dexter does…?”

He grabs a few bags, too; his filled with heavier hardware. “I sure as hell tried.” He spares you a glance. “Or at least–I tried, to…” one corner of his lips slowly quirks, “gently encourage, someone else to.”

His own brother, as you recall. Because that's not fucked up in the slightest.

“As you’re well aware,” he continues, undisturbed by whatever your expression, “seeing as how you likely helped dismantle that would-be crime scene.” 

You eye him as he adds to the weight of how many bags he carries; the memory reforming in your mind. Of breaching that little garage attached to the small, white house your trail toward catching the Ice Truck Killer led you and your team to. That little white house which belonged to him; or at least, to Rudy Cooper. And why he bought it under his own well-known alias, paraded as it was within the walls of your precinct itself, is just another testament to how cocksure the man beside you can be.

Looks like arrogance didn’t pay off for him that time.

And you find yourself barely smirking at the thought of how aggrieved that must still make him. Though its shape is quick to die, falling completely, as you remember what Deb looked like on that day you found out who Rudy Cooper really was. Her brown eyes murky, barely conscious; her frail body naked and bound to that plastic-drenched table your team found her strapped to.

For a second, a harrowing flash, you see yourself as her; can't seem to scrape the unwanted image. Tied to the chill of a lone, isolated table. Stripped bare, wrapped tight in clear plastic, helplessly unable to move, as Brian stands there just beside you. Eying you before a halo of light which hangs high above him, even higher above you. Large hands wreathed in pale, latex gloves, which creak with the motion of his fingers as he tests the trigger of some sort of drill, just within your vision, like he wants you to see as its engine burns just for you. A handsome smile on his face as he makes a meal of your abject horror beneath him.

You're forced to blink to somehow rid yourself of such a horrid scene, with it taken like smoke back to whatever paranoia it surely spawned from. Though you still struggle to think beyond how it lingers, uninvited, against the far reaches of your addled mind. Like a ghost, a warning, that still haunts you.

[uk-tarpaulins]

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