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ceilidho · 28 days ago

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'still wakes the deep' au

prompt: You're an environmental scientist conducting research on an off-shore oil rig with only a few days left before you're slated to leave. The eldritch creature they accidentally awaken throws a wrench in the works. First Meeting masterlist

Choppy waters like Neptune’s eye meet your gaze when you look back at where you came from, the land on the other side but a beige striation on the horizon.

“Afraid of heights, doctor?” your escort asks, his amusement borderline distasteful. It must stroke their ego to watch newcomers come aboard and flounder, gawking at the swells and waves crashing against the oil rig, each wave so cataclysmic that it’s a wonder the structure stays upright. A wonder of engineering, that is.

The rig manager stands closer to the railing, staring without fear out into the ocean surrounding you. His sea legs are likelier studier than the ones that wash up ashore every fourteen days when he’s due for his OSHA mandated break. His knees don’t even buckle at the sight of the barnacles clinging nerve-wrackingly high up on the rig legs. Far too high up for comfort.

“No, sir,” you reply, shaking your head. “Just water.”

He barks a laugh at that. “Plenny o’ that around here. Wouldn’y go leaning my head over the rail then, if I was you.”

You take another look down, balking at the frothy white streaking the latticework barrier around the jacket legs. No worries there; there isn’t a chance in hell you’ll be going anywhere near the rails. You’re too high up to know for sure, but you wonder if there are sharks plumbing the depths beneath the rig, excited by the noise and activity on board.

You’d be shark chum if you went overboard. Beyond that, you’d be fish food; no sympathy from the sea to be found this far from land.

“Where should I set up?” you ask instead.

Sensing your eagerness to get started—and to get away from the edge of the rig—he gestures for you to follow him and sets off towards the door closest to you, leading you into the interior of the rig. “This way, doc—got a room already set up for ye. Cozier in there than out here.”

The first few days aren’t so bad after that. You spend the first day getting unpacked, your suitcase already waiting for you in your quarters, which doubles as your office, and then turn in early after prepping for the next day.

As anticipated, you spend the next day hunched over the toilet bowl, stomach roiling from spending too long staring at the turbulent waters below. You’ve done this before but it never gets any easier. Despite your chosen field of research, you’re suited for dry land, not the sea. It’s the price you have to pay though.

No coffee that first morning. Just tea to help settle your stomach. And it does for a bit—lets you get through your first day worth of tests without you upchucking while collecting water samples from the discharge point. You’ll save your indoor work for the days when the crests of the waves are high enough to spray the working deck. By dinner, your stomach is a little more settled, but still you elect to eat in your quarters instead of with the workers in the mess.

You haven’t been on the rig long enough to have made any enemies, nor do you think that’s something that’ll happen during your brief time on board, but you definitely haven’t made any friends. It comes with the territory. The men that work on these rigs out in the middle of the ocean—even the ones on land, for that matter—tend to view your kind with distrust at the very least, if not outright hostility.

It’s hard to blame them. The purpose of your visit isn’t to shower them with praises. You’re stationed on the rig for the next few days to collect data and samples to assess the environmental impact of the rig’s operations. It puts you somewhat at odds with them, the outcome of your work being potentially to the detriment of theirs.

Some whisper the word like blasphemy. Government worker. They say it like you’re the Baba Yaga or a witch living in a cottage at the edge of the village, like uttering the word too loudly will summon you. There’s too much work to do around the rig for them to cluck their tongues like gossipy hens, but the men find time for it anyway. You’d roll your eyes if you were any greener.

The truth is though, you’re used to it, and at this point in your career, you don’t have it in you to act like it’s such a shock that they wouldn’t give you the red carpet treatment. All you need is a hot cup of coffee, an office (or even just a desk) to write your reports, and some space to conduct your research without being badgered with questions.

Most of the men tend to blur together, a medley of fluorescent yellow hard hats and navy coveralls, respirators strung around their necks and goggles covering their eyes. It’s easy enough to mistake them for one another.

Only one of them has managed to catch your eye so far, though you can’t say it’s for a particularly good reason. Of the lot of them, he’s the loudest. Which is saying something, considering that the crew tend to speak in shouts and hollers to make up for the crashing waves beneath them and the howling winds above them. He’s also among the tallest, broad shouldered and muscled—a former first responder or military, if you had to guess, though you keep your assumptions to yourself.

You know better than to ask questions around him because you’ve learned in the short time that you’ve spent on the rig not to give him—Soap, they call him, or MacTavish when the rig manager is particularly pissed off—even an inch.

It’s another crew member that gives you that heads up. “Din’y pay him any mind.”

“Who?” you ask, looking up from your work.

The crew member nods to the man posted on the other side of the main deck. “Soap. Bit of a showboat, that one. Always stirrin’ up the boys, gettin’ ‘em all riled up. Din’y let him distract ye too much.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You look back down at the data sheets in front of you. “I’m not worried though. He hasn’t been too much trouble.”

Famous last words.

He isn’t too much trouble until he suddenly is; until he’s suddenly everywhere, always in your way somehow. Not so much underfoot as just always around the corner waiting with his stupid smug smirk that you’ve grown to despise and half-lidded electric blue eyes roving up and down the length of you. Aggravating you at every turn.

Your first meeting is an accident. At least, it seems that way, and likely is—he seems too blunt for coincidences or chance meetings, happy to tell you to your face that he manipulated the situation in order to get you on your own.

You’re wandering down one of the many circulatory hallways and slightly lost when a door suddenly opens, blocking your way. A jumpsuit-clad man twice your size walks out, his hair just brushing the top of the doorframe. Though you recognize him instantly, you’d never gotten close enough for the details to cement in your mental image of him. Up close, you get a better look.

The faint lines around his eyes and mouth betray either his age or the life he’s lived. Weathered; bronzed from days at a time spent under the sun. You’d noticed the mohawk earlier, but staring at the side of his head now, you can see the faint puckering of a healed wound splintering out from his temple into his hairline. Though the sides of his head are freshly shorn, the scar looks old—maybe a year, maybe more.

When he notices that he’s not alone in the hall, his head turns in your direction and he stops, one foot still in the other room. Two thick brows go up at the sight of you standing there with your tablet clutched to your chest.

“Hullo gorgeous,” Soap purrs, pupils suddenly pinpricks and your stomach drops.

Because of course he would. You’d long figured he might be an arrogant piece of work from what little you’ve observed of him from across the rig, but you should’ve known he’d also be a flirt. He’s too good-looking not to be one. Tall and broad, with biceps the size of your head. You’re sure he rolls his shirt sleeves up just to feel them strain against the muscles of his arms. You certainly can’t help the way your eyes are drawn there.

“Ah ken who ye are,” he says, taking a step towards you until the tips of his boots nearly touch yours. The door is still wide open behind him, swinging slowly towards the wall behind it. Soap towers over you easily, tipping his head to stare down at you. Your lips press into a tight line when his eyes drop to your chest, staring at the outline of your tits through your cardigan.

“Okay,” you say through stiff lips.

“Yer that lass from the government. Ah thought ye'd be auld,” he jokes, shit-eating grin on his face.

You nearly groan. It’s too early for this shit and you’re too tired from being up all night working on your report on the rig’s discharge water quality.

“Well, I’m not,” you reply woodenly instead, altogether unimpressed with him.

For as fit as he is, you’re not here to flirt or hookup, and you’re good at separating work and your personal life. If anyone manages to get under your skin enough to tempt you, it won’t be the man undressing you with his eyes while covered in a thin layer of grime and sweat.

“Nae, yer no’,” he agrees, voice a low burr. His eyes flick up to meet yours. “I’m John, by the way.”

“I know.”

“…It’s polite tae give yer name when someone introduces thersel's tae ye.”

“I’d rather you just call me doctor.”

“Doctor, eh?” Soap purrs, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “Dae ye dae house calls, doc? Hae been feelin’ a wee bit feverish lately.”

You can’t help the way your cheeks heat at his comment. “Not that kind of doctor. Do you mind getting out of the way?”

“Jesus, I din’y ken ye’d be so fuckin’ prickly. Thought ye government workers were cheery a' the time.”

“Not when we have work to do,” you bite out, decidedly uncomfortable with his shameless perusal and eager just to get on with your day. “Can you move please? I have somewhere to be.”

All that does is force him to take another step closer, toe-to-toe with you now. You should’ve known he’d take that as an invitation. He reeks of grease and brine, the smell pungent and clinging to his skin and clothes. Almost like he sleeps and works in the same pair of coveralls instead of bringing his dirty clothes down to the laundry facility like everyone else at the end of the week.

You tell yourself to stop staring at where his coveralls open to a sweat-slicked chest, dark hair poking up over the neckline, but your eyes don’t comply. A small cross dangles from a chain around his neck, nestled in the hair just above his pecs.

“Good Catholic lass, are ye?” Soap asks, noticing the focal point of your gaze.

You scrunch up your nose at that. “No. I didn’t—it’s none of your business anyway.”

The stutter is where his eyes light up, a little gleam in the blue that lets you know you’ve caught his interest. Like seeing a storm well off in the distance and bracing for it anyway, knowing that you’re in its path no matter what you do.

“A’right, doc, Ah'll leave ye tae it. Gotta get back myself anyway,” he says, rolling his shoulders back and standing up taller, and it’s only in that moment that you realize how low his neck had been bent in order to get closer to you. “Wait. I can’y let ye go lookin’ like that.”

You’re about to ask him what he means when he suddenly grabs you by the front of your cardigan and pulls you towards him, getting the grease on his hands all over the fabric. Your eyes nearly bug out of your skull as he pops the topmost button into its corresponding hole, the only one you’d left purposefully loose.

The only reason you don’t snap at him to take his hands off you is because your tongue is a knot in your throat.

“There we go,” Soap coos when the button is in, looking down at his handiwork all over the front of your shirt. “Lookin’ like part o’ the crew already.”

Your heart pounds in your chest long after he lets you go. When he steps to the side, the door flush with the wall by now, you dart around him, walking away as fast as your legs can carry you without sprinting. You ignore the way he belts out a laugh at your swift departure. Ignore the way your stomach cramps at the sound as well.

He might end up being more trouble than you thought.

#ceil writing #soap x reader #cod x reader #soap/reader #soap x you #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader

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metamatar · 8 days ago

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Employers desire foreign workers who are accustomed to the hazardous work sites of industrial construction; in particular, they specifically solicit migrants who do not have a history of labor organizing within SWANA. In response, labor brokerage firms brand themselves as offering migrant workers who are deferential. Often, labor brokers conflate the category of South Asian with docility; [...] as inherently passive, disciplined, and, most important, unfettered by volatile working conditions. "We say quality, they [U.S. employers] say seasoned. We both know what it means. Workers who are not going to quit, not going to run away in the foreign country and do as they are told.” [...]

For migrants, the U.S. oil industry presents a rare chance to apply their existing skill set in a country with options for permanent residency and sponsorship of family members. Migrants wish to find an end to their temporary worker status; they imagine the United States as a liberal economy in which labor standards are enforced and there are opportunities for citizenship and building a life for their family. [...] What brokers fail to explain is that South Asian migrants are being recruited as guest workers. Migrants will not have access to U.S. citizenship or visas for family members; in fact, their employment status will be quite similar to their SWANA migration.

While nations such as the Philippines have both state-mandated and independent migrant rights agencies, the Indian government has minimal avenues for worker protection. These are limited to hotlines for reporting abusive foreign employers and Indian consulates located in a few select countries of the SWANA region. [... Brokers] emphasize the docility of Indian migrants in comparison to the disruptive tendencies of other Asian migrant workers. [...] “Some of these Filipino men you see make a lot of trouble in the Arab countries. Even their women, who work as maids and such, lash out. The employer says one wrong thing and the workers get the whole country [the Philippines] on the street. [...] But you don’t see our people creating a tamasha [spectacle] overseas.” [...] Just as Filipinx migrants are racialized to be undisciplined labor, Indian brokers construct divisions within the South Asian workforce to promote the primacy of their own firms. In particular, Pakistani workers are racialized as an abrasive population.

[...] While the public image of the South Asian American community remains as model minorities, presumed to be primarily upwardly mobile professionals, the global reality of the population is quite to the contrary. [...] From the historic colonial routes initiated by British occupation of South Asia to the emergence of energy markets within the countries of SWANA, migrants have been recruited to build industries by contributing their labor to construction projects. Within the last decade, these South Asian migrants, with experience in the SWANA oil industry, have been actively solicited as guest workers into the energy sector of the United States. The growth of hydraulic fracturing has opened new territory for oil extraction; capitalizing on the potential market are numerous stakeholders who have invested in industrial construction projects across the southwestern United States. The solicitation of South Asian construction workers is not coincidental. [...] Kartik, a globally competitive firm’s broker, explains the connection of Indian labor to practices of the past. “You know we come from a long history of working in foreign lands. Even the British used to send us to Africa and the Arab regions to work in the mines and oil fields. It’s part of our history.”

Seasoning Labor: Contemporary South Asian Migrations and the Racialization of Immigrant Workers, Saunjuhi Verma in the Journal of Asian American Studies

#labour #readings

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wynnyfryd · 8 months ago

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Trailer park Steve AU part 59

part 1 | part 58 | ao3

cw: canon-typical horror/gore (like for real this time), emetophobia, reference to minor character death. ty to @thisapplepielife for indulging my weirdly specific research about headstones

Steve tries to follow her — gets shot down before he even gets within speaking range, Max shouting at him to give her a minute the second she spots him coming over the hill. He backs off, hands raised in surrender, and then…

Well, then he’s already out of the car.

Well then his feet know where to take him.

His dad’s grave isn’t far. Maybe a football field away, close enough that he’ll be able to hear it if Max calls for help. He moves toward it without thought, his legs carrying him past simple overgrown markers in the oldest part of the park — crumbling remnants of civil war soldiers, farmers and shopkeepers and factory workers, people who worked the mines, people who died before his grandfather was born. People who might have been loved once, before time and moss and water stripped their names off of the stones.

Up the next slope, the markers get more elaborate, shift from bronze to granite to marble, to monuments and mausoleums and a fucking obelisk; ostentatious displays of the town’s oldest money. The coal barons, the oil tycoons. Rotten bastards, Wayne might say.

The Harringtons aren't that rich. They're further down the hill in a neatly manicured row of Indiana limestone; fresh flowers on each grave, the weeds plucked, the grass trimmed.

Dad's buried right next to Grandpa Otis.

It almost looks nice.

Crisp, clean, dry. Nothing to suggest the messy wet red of his father's demise. Steve shoves his hands in his front pockets and steps up to his dad's plot, toes the edge of it, the rounded lump of earth, sparse grass and loose soil where his father's bones are laid. The ground gives a little under his weight, the dirt compacting. Could he dig this up with just his hands? Could he claw through until he reached the bottom, pry open the box and peer inside? Unbidden, the image forms in his mind: worm food and rot, half a man left inside, somehow still frowning in disappointment with his jaw bone shining clean.

Steve's stomach turns. A sick shiver runs through him, saliva flooding his mouth, sweat beading at his hair line.

This isn't right.

Something's not right.

There's a sudden chill in the air, frigid wind carrying a smell like roadkill in the summer — heat wafting from the pavement, death clogging up his throat. Steve covers his nose and wills his shoulders down from his ears; tries to mutter words of comfort to himself under his breath. “Just a graveyard, Steve. Just a totally… normal…”

Ice on the back of his neck. Steve tenses every muscle, turns his good ear toward the sound of whatever's creeping up on him; something taller than him, something slithering and wet, its rasping rattles of frozen breath sending goosebumps down Steve's arms. His hands twitch inside his pockets.

Then, a voice — a voice that isn’t his, that can’t be anyone’s, because the man it belonged to is dead. “That Munson boy was right about you."

Steve can't fucking breathe. Dark clouds roll in around him, violent as a blooming bruise, and that voice behind him echoes — distorted, vicious; hungry.

"You are a black hole."

Steve grabs two fistfuls of his own hair and tugs; wills the pain to dispel the nightmare, his eyes swimming from the sting.

The thing behind him laughs. "Look how you ruined your mother," it snarls. "Look how you tore her apart.”

"Shut up!" Steve barks with his hands over his ears.

“Steve…” The voice deepens, beckons, thick with malice and rot. Steve slowly turns to face it, trembling all over, pulse thudding in his ears, and his shoes squelch in the dirt, and when he looks down he sees that the dirt has turned to mud that now turns to oozing red, a viscous river beneath his feet, flowing up over his ankles, pouring from his father's grave. And there, in front of him, a mangled remnant stands. The ruined corpse of Richard Harrington, his skin shriveled and gray, the torn parts of him held together by his clothes. There’s a hole in his torso where the exposed ribs glint like knives.

Steve throws up on himself.

The ground gives way beneath him, goes spongy like rotting meat, and the thing wearing his dad's face cackles as Steve sinks into the earth, the grave swallowing him whole, up to his calves, his knees, his thighs. "Join me," it offers, lipless smile full of teeth.

The glamor peels back to reveal a monster underneath, its scarred skin crawling in mucus-coated vines; naked, long-limbed, stitched together with burnt flesh.

Steve screams as he scrambles for purchase, up to his hips now in the muck, his feet on the lid of his dad's casket. He claws blindly at the loose ground but it’s all thick and wet with red, and the air itself is red; blood in the sky, in his eyes, in his lungs. He's going to die here. The voice tells him so. It's in his head now, a bellowing echo as the monster draws near, one hideous hand outstretched, an all-consuming join me, join me, JOIN ME—

“HEY!!!”

Max shouts directly in his face, shaking him hard by both shoulders where they're crouched on the cool ground, Kate Bush leaking from the headphones slung around her neck. Steve gives a startled shout and jerks back out of her grip, falling hard on his ass, landing harder on his elbows.

The world shifts back to blue. To dry, clean grass. To breathable air.

Steve pants up at the sky. His shirt clings to him where he's soaked it through with sweat. When Max offers him a hand, he stands on shaky legs, looks at the ground beneath his feet and screams again, scurrying back until his ass hits a stranger's headstone.

There’s a dent in the earth where he was standing. A smudge of packed dirt where he really did sink in. Steve stares at it; feels it reaching out for him, the dark patch thudding like a heart beat, spreading out like snaking vines.

He clutches at his heaving chest. Max’s eyes are huge on him.

"Okay, what the fuck?" she begs.

"What the fuck yourself!"

No heat behind the words, but they burn him, anyway, pushed out on a weak gasp. Is this what she was talking about? Is this what she calls nothing?

This doesn't feel like fucking nothing.

“Shit," she says, and her eyes go even wider. Steve can see the veins in them. "Shit, Steve, your nose…”

He swipes his arm across his face.

It comes back red.

—

part 60

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #max mayfield #vecna

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arlana-likes-to-write · 10 months ago

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Not Like I'm in Love with You

Summary: For the longest time, it was you and Maria. A package duo. A dynamic team. Agent Hill and Gaia. But you were always just friends, nothing more. Until a mission goes wrong forces Maria to admit her feelings for you.

Warnings: jealously, angst with a happy ending, surgery, medically induced coma, bomb, eco terrorist?, reader is enhanced, mention of drinking and sexual activity, love confession

Word Count: 5.2k

“My savior,” Natasha groaned as you handed the redhead a coffee and a breakfast sandwich. She moaned, taking a sip of the coffee. “I could marry you right now.” You shook her head at her antics and passed the rest of the goodies to the team. Clint had his feet on the table and head thrown back, and a pair of sunglasses covered his eyes. He grunted out a thanks when he set his order down. The rest of the team was in different states of hungover, barely muttering a greeting. You chuckled.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have gone out on a school night,” you teased, sitting down at your desk so you could eat your own. Clint groaned.

“You aren’t my mom,” You felt like it.

“Where’s the boss?” You questioned.

“Probably untangling herself from the blonde she went home with,” May mumbled, holding a cold towel to her forehead. Why did your stomach drop when she said that? The team had the right to party after a job well done. The case had a breakthrough, and they wanted to go out. Like always, you refused, you weren’t much of a drinker, and you didn’t trust yourself drunk with your abilities. You were an Eco-empathy, allowing you to connect deeply with the environment and sense, understand, and manipulate the natural world. SHIELD nicknamed you Gaia, and your fellow agents called you various Earth-related names. You and Maria were just friends, right? When Fury picked her as Deputy Director, she prompted you alongside her. You were her second in command; while she went out in the field, you stayed behind to run point. It was how you two operated a well-oiled machine. Co-workers. Best friends at most. Like you’ve been, right? Natasha raised an eyebrow at you.

The door opened, and Maria walked in. “Ah, she emerges from her walk of shame,” Natasha teased. Maria flipped her off and thanked you with a smile for her breakfast.

“Ain’t nothing shameful what I did last night,” Natasha cringed. Thankfully, Maria’s back was to you, so she missed the frown on your face. The redhead saw it. “Alright,” she said. “What’s the plan?”

“You missed a hell of a party,” Maria said as you handed your mock battle plan for the upcoming mission. It would go through her than Fury before it was green lite; the more eyes, the better when it came to people’s lives.

“All these years you’ve known me, you know clubs aren’t my scene,” you sat on the edge of her desk. There was a picture of you and her during your SHIELD graduation. “Besides, how long were you there until an innocent woman fell under your spell?” You teased, but it didn’t feel enjoyable in your mouth.

“She wasn’t so innocent when I had my way with her,” you faked a gag. It was typical behavior between you two to talk about the woman you brought home; more times than not, Maria had the stories. But why did you feel like you could throw up right now?

“I can tell by that hickey on your neck,” you pushed the bruise, and she squatted your hand away. She was your ride-or-die. So you weren’t jealous.

“What is your schedule like today?” You sighed, looking at your nails on your left hand.

“Leading a training with May, a meeting with Phil, and I think Clint wants to go over some new trick arrows,” you rattled off. It was a typical busy day for you. Maria nodded.

“Do you want to go get lunch? We could go to that Mexican place you like.” That sounded nice, and you liked the burritos and mock tails they had. You sighed.

“How about a ring check? Nat asked if I could get lunch with her today,” Maria liked to joke that you made her soft. She rarely held up the mask to hide her emotions around you. There was no need. Now you saw the mask slowly creep up to hide her true feelings.

“Yeah, of course, she forced a smile. “Now get out of here before I write you up,” she teased. Rolling your eyes, you jumped off her desk.

“See you later, Ria.”

“Stay safe out there, Willow.” You rolled your eyes at the nickname but her office to start your day.

“You love her,” Natasha said as you took a bite of your sandwich. You choked on it, and the Black Widow smirked at your misfortune. You rubbed your chest to help the food pass and took a sip of water.

“I have no idea what the hell you are talking about,” she took a fry from your plate and popped it in her mouth.

“Please, Cherry, you’ve been in love with Maria since I’ve known you, and according to Phil, it’s been since the academy,” you gasped.

“Why is this office gossip?” You asked.

“We have to talk about something,” she shrugged. SHIELD agents were moths to a flame when it came to gossip. “Don’t worry, we won’t discuss it with Maria.” That was not reassuring.

“Look, Maria and I are friends. We have been forever; the way I feel is black and white.” You were curious to know if Natasha believed you. Hell, you barely believed yourself. It wasn’t like you stayed up at night overthinking the possibility of you and Maria has a couple. Nah, that would be dumb.

“Are you sure?” Yeah, it was fine. It was cool. It wasn’t like every time she talked about having sex with some random hookup at a bar, it made your stomach burn with jealousy because you wanted her body all to yourself. You wanted her more than anyone else. It’s not like you were in love with her.

“Shit,” you mumbled, slumping back into her hair. Natasha smiled, sipping on her chocolate milkshake.

“Glad you admitted it,” you hadn’t admitted anything. What was she talking about? “So, are you going to tell her?”

“No!” You shrieked, and you drew the attention of the other patrons. You felt your body warm up due to the extra eyes. Natasha chuckled. “God, no. I can’t. It will ruin everything. Besides, I doubt she feels the same.”

“She does.” The Black Widow glanced at the watch on her wrist. “Shit, we have to get back.” It was supposed to be a quick lunch because Fury called for an emergency meeting. You nodded, throwing your half-eaten food in the bag to take with you. “You know,” Natasha held open the door for you as you walked onto the busy DC sidewalks. “You should tell her. You both could be happy.” She said it as if it was easy and not scary. It’s not like you were losing your mind thinking about her in your bed. It started slow, but like dominoes, you started free-falling with no control. You were doing a shit job at hiding it if your friends knew the truth. It’s not like you were in love with her.

“I’m going on this mission,” you said, a little surprised.

“Yes,” Fury said, his arms behind his back and one good eye trained on you. “Your skill set is what this mission needs. Is that a problem?”

“No sir,” you said without hesitation. You kept up to date on your physical and firearm certification, and you met with SHIELD’s psychologist. You were always mission-ready when the time called for it, but it never did. You glanced at Maria, who was oddly quiet. Her face was in a permanent frown. But you couldn’t worry about her now; you had a mission to lead.

Maria found you in the locker room, tackle suit around your waist, and you were holding your dad’s dog tags in your hand. It was your good luck charm. “Want me to put it on you?” She asked. You nodded, handing her the necklace. Carefully, she placed the chain around your neck and locked it. The cold metal caused goosebumps to cover your shin. “I don’t like you going on this mission without me.” She admitted and sat down next to you on the bench. You chuckled.

“You’ll be watching my back,” you looked over your shoulder. “No, you’ll know how I feel every time you run off into danger.” You tried to make light of the situation, but there was a frown on your face. “Here,” you removed the necklace and placed it around her.

“What are you doing?” She asked. “You never go anywhere without it.”

“I don’t need it,” you said. “I got you watching my back. That’s all the luck I need.” Maria was quiet. It was unsettling for her to be quiet. “Ria, we got this. I get this. I’ve learned from the best, so I’ll be the best.” She laughed, and you were glad you could pull a sound out of her.

“Just-”

“Clover,” May walked in and cut Maria off. “We are all set, just waiting for you.” You told me you’d be there in 5 and turned your attention back to Maria.

“Just stay safe out there, Willow.” You wondered what she was going to say if she wasn’t interrupted.

“I’ll see you later, Ria,” you smiled. “Promise.”

You learned to listen to your gut instinct. It was your most valued tool as an agent. Even when you ran point back at headquarters, you listened to it when your stomach tightened with anxiety as you sat in the wooded area that surrounded the factory. This factory was responsible for releasing toxins into the air. Usually, this type of case wouldn’t gather attention from SHIELD, but the damage they were doing to the environment was affecting the locals: memory loss, muscle spasms, and strange hallucinations. The problem was that it was impossible to locate the idiots responsible for the mess. You could feel the environment dying in this area. May place a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Are you okay? She asked. You nodded, unable to open your mouth. You let out a few shaky breaths, trying to loosen the anxiety knot in your stomach, and tapped on the com in your ear.

“How are we looking?” You asked.

“They are about to make the guard change,” hearing Maria’s voice helped calm you down. “Are you doing okay, Willow? Your heart monitor is spiking.” You rolled your eyes and bit back a huff of annoyance. It was Phil’s idea to add pulse and heart detectors into the suit.

“Yeah, they’ve caused a lot of damage to this area. It’s making me all jittery,” you admitted.

“We’ll stop them,” this time it was Natasha’s voice through the coms. The Black Widow was recovering from a shoulder injury that left her benched until it was healed. You lead the team with Clint, May, and a handful of qualified agents.

“Shift change is in 3,” you put on your gas mask. “2 and 1. Stay safe, agents.” That feeling remained in the pit of your stomach. Anxiety, dread. You needed to figure out why. You moved through the building with ease and worked towards the control room. It was your, May’s, and two other agents’ job to turn off the factory while Clint protected the outside in case the alarm was tripped.

“We made it to the control room,” May said.

“Perfect, insert the flash drive. It should take 5 minutes to shut down the factory and copy the information they have on it.” Maria explained. May pushed the rolling chair out of the way.

“Go stand guard,” you ordered the other two agents. They obeyed and went into the hallway. The mission was almost over, so why were you so anxious? When May inserted the flash drive, an alarm went off, and metal walls trapped May and you inside the room.

“Houston,” your friend said. “We have a problem.” The room began to shake as a trap door opened, and a bomb rose from the floor. The red numbers clicked down from 10 minutes.

“Houston,” you repeated, and you took off the gas mask. “We have a bigger problem.”

“Turn on your cameras,” you turned on your body camera and heard the sharp intake of Maria’s breath.

“Guys, we have multiple heat signatures heading towards the factory,” Phil said. You walked over to the bomb, staring at the mysterious liquid.

“Barton, pull back. Gather all agents to the secondary position,” you pulled your hand back, clutching your hand against your chest—a fertilizer bomb.

“Willow, what is it?” Maria asked. You glanced at May; you knew she saw the panic in your eyes.

“It’s a fertilizer bomb,” you admitted. “Big enough to take out the factory and the surrounding bomb.”

“Fucking hell,” you heard Natasha mumble.

“May-”

“Already on it,” she cut off Maria as she rapidly typed at the control panel, trying to disarm the bomb.

“All agents have made it to the secondary location. Just need you two.” Yeah, that was going to be a problem. The sound of your team frantically discussing how to disarm the bomb became white noise. You walked the room length, gliding your hand over the metal wall. To your surprise, you felt pieces of earth within the metal sheets. Of course! All you had to do was focus on the impurities within the metal. You let out a shaky breath and concentrated. The metal moved underneath your palm.

“I have an idea,” you said suddenly.

“Am I going to like this idea?” Maria questioned. Probably not. You took your normal stance, feet shoulder length apart and knees bent slightly. You put your hands together, and then your palms faced the metal walls. Slowly, you began miming as if trying to rip something apart. At first, nothing happened. Beads of sweat trickled down your neck. Finally, the metal started to crumble and pull apart. A small doorway appeared. You fell to one knee, chest heaving. May ran to your side.

“That was wild,” she said. “I don’t know you could do that.” You chuckled as she helped you to your feet.

“Neither did I.”

“Nice work. No, get out of there,” Maria said. You quickly turned off your body camera and your and May’s com.

“You’re staying, aren’t you?” She asked.

“I think I can contain the blast.”

“You think?” It wasn’t an exact science, and you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to contain it.

“Go,” you told her. You had to try. If not, so many people would die, including your team. Your friend hesitated but took off towards the exit. You faced the bomb and turned on your com again. There were four and a half minutes left.

“Why aren’t you leaving with May?” Maria questioned. You took a shaky breath and retook your stance. “Willow, it’s just me and you. What are you doing?”

“I gotta try, Ria,” your voice strained with exhaustion, arms shook at each metal wall you bent around the bomb. “If I don’t, hundreds if not thousands of people are gonna die.” You said. It was your responsibility to get your team home and protect the innocents in the area. Maria whispered your name. It was so rare that someone said your real name it took you by surprise. The bomb was fully wrapped in metal, but you were exhausted already. “You got my lucky charm, right?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I got it.”

“Good, good,” you mumbled, digging your feet into the metal floor. “I’ll see you later, Ria. I promised, didn’t I?” There was so much more you wanted to say. A three-word sentence danced on your lips, but you held it back. It wasn’t fair to her to say it now. Each nerve in your body was vibrating. Every breath you took burned. You sent a silent prayer to your father as the explosion rocked your body. You held the metal to contain it. A scream left your lips as it became too much, and your world went black.

Maria knew she had this aura that surrounded her. An aura that screamed authority. It told newer agents not to fuck with her. She knew she was good at what she did and wanted everyone to know that. As she walked to the med bay with Natasha close by, she was murderous. Rationally, she knew it was no one’s fault. It was par for the course when it came to this line of work, but she needed someone to blame and push guilt onto someone. May was resting in a chair with an ice pack on her head. She looked up when she heard the approaching footsteps. “She’s still in surgery,” she mumbled, and Natasha sat beside her. “Doctors are worried about the amount of blood she lost and the toxins that entered her lungs.” A heat of anger washed over Maria, but she tried to push it down.

“May, go shower and eat,” Maria ordered. Her voice strained. She saw the protest form in the agent’s eyes. “That’s an order.” You risked your life to save her and the rest of your team. It would do no one good if May stopped taking care of herself. “That’s an order.” May sighed.

“Yes, Hill.” She stood up and left. Maria took a seat in her spot, elbows resting on her knees.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha asked. Maria refused to look away from the wall she was staring at.

“I need her to be okay,” Maria admitted.

“Is this why you wrote her out of every mission?” The Black Widow questioned. Maria slowly leaned back and looked at the redhead. “Come on, Hill, it was obvious. With her on the field, missions would be over in half the time, but you didn’t want to risk her getting hurt.” Maria remained silent. “Now, why would you do that?” Her eyes locked onto Natasha’s green ones; there was no judgment like she had expected to see. “We do crazy things for the people we love.”

“I-” Maria let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know, Nat.” She whispered. “I just need her to be okay.”

“She will be,” the Black Widow smiled. “She’s strong.” Of course, Maria knew you were strong. She’s seen you at your lowest point when your father passed away, but you pulled yourself out of it. Your screams right before you collapsed were repeating inside her head. It was like a bad song stuck in there. The only thing that gave her hope was the steady beat of your heart monitors within your suit. You were alive, barely but alive.

“Deputy Director Hill,” her name said, but the approaching doctor caused her to stand up.

“How she is?” She asked.

“Stable,” the doctor said. “The next 24 hours are critical. I must admit she has a few guardian angels looking out for her. There was a major piece of metal in her stomach and left thigh. She also had small pieces in her arm. We think she hit her head due to a cut on the back of her head.”

“May said you were worried about her lungs,” Natasha said. The doctor nodded.

“She inhaled a great deal of the fertilizer before she was found, so we are worried about the lasting effects.” She explained.

“Can-can I see her?” Maria asked.

“Of course, we’ve placed her in a medically induced coma to allow her body to heal.” She faintly heard Natasha say she would inform Clint and the others of your condition. Maria wasn’t sure if the doctor was talking about your prognosis, but soon she was alone.

The only noise in the room was the steady sound of the machines connected to you. It seemed unreal that you were hurt. For the longest time, you seemed untouchable. Now, you were bedridden and too pale for Maria’s liking. She took your father’s dog tags off her neck and opened your hand to put the chain in it. “Lucky charm is back where it belongs.” She formed your hands into a tight fist and placed it on your heart. “Come back to me,” she whispered, kissing your forehead. “Please.”

There was a heaviness that surrounded you. It started at your chest and then moved to your limbs. The pressure was suffocating. Catastrophic. Slowly, you opened your eyes to the bright light of med bay. You felt metal in your hand and opened your palm to see the dog tags you gave Maria. “You’re awake,” you turned to see Natasha. A deck of cards in your hands and glanced down at your chest. You interrupted a game of war.

“Why are you using me as a table?” You deadpanned. Natasha shrugged.

“Had to kill time as we waited for your dumbass to wake up,” you rolled your eyes. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a semi-truck,” you groaned and sat up slowly. The door opened to the bathroom, and Clint walked out.

“Shit,” you said. “You’re alive.” You scuffed, rubbing the bandages on your chest.

“I’m glad you had so much confidence in me, bird man,” Clint took a seat across from Natasha. “The team is okay, right? They all made it out.”

“Yeah, you saved their lives,” Natasha said. “Maria is pissed at you.” You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“I’ll deal with her later.” You closed your eyes. Now that you were a little more awake, you could take a better inventory of your body. Every small breath you took caused your chest to burn; it felt like a fire was starting. You sighed, wincing slightly, and turned to look at Natasha. “How bad?” The Black Widow sighed.

“There is potential damage to your lungs due to the fertilizer, and you had a metal that they had to remove from your stomach and thigh.” Cool, you thought, real cool.

“Just think,” Clint started. “At least you are off breakfast duty for a while.” You laughed at his poor attempt to lighten the mood but hissed. “Shit, sorry. No laughing. Got it.” You waved him off that you were okay.

“I’ll go get the doctor. Don’t move.” Natasha said, standing up. You scuffed. Yeah, you would make a grand escape with a hole in your stomach.

“You had everyone worried,” Clint said once Natasha was gone. You remained quiet, lost in your thoughts. It wasn’t your intention to scare everyone. It was your job to protect your team and bring them home. So, you completed that part of the mission. It so happened you were hurt in the process.

It was night when you woke up again, and Maria was in Natasha’s seat. Her eyes were closed, but you knew she wasn’t asleep. Even in the dim light of the room, she looked exhausted. Bags were under her eyes, and her face looked pale. Natasha told you that you were in a medically induced coma for five days. Maria barely slept, had to be forced to eat, and left her office. “I know you aren’t asleep, Ria,” you whispered. Her eyes shot open. “You look like shit.”

“Says the girl with the hole in her stomach.” You smiled.

“They stitched it up all good. Besides, I had my lucky charm,” you picked up the dog tag around your neck. To your surprise, Maria took your hand in hers. Your body felt warm at the simple act. It wasn’t like you hadn’t held her hand before this moment felt more intimate. “Ria,” you whispered. “Are you okay?”

“I thought I lost you,” she admitted. “God, Willow, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Didn’t mean to,” you said. “I needed to save the team.” She shook her head.

“It was the right call to make, but,” Maria sighed, and you felt her take her hand away, but you held her tight, not wanting to let her go. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” you promised.

With the surgery and injuries, your movement was limited. The most straightforward actions were impossible for you to do without pain shooting through your chest. It was deemed you would move in with someone until you fully recovered. Natasha was the first to offer but was quickly overruled by Maria. So you moved in with the Deputy Director, and it was strange. You needed help washing your hair, changing, and undressing yourself. You couldn’t understand the look in Maria’s eyes for every action you required assistance with. It wasn’t the first time you shared a living space with Maria, but now you walked on eggshells around each other. A part of you wanted to go back before the mission before everything felt complicated between you and your best friend.

The physical limitations weren’t the worst part of your recovery. It was the mental scars. Nightmares plagued your mind almost every night of that mission. It would change constantly. Sometimes, your team would die, or you would fail to save Maria. It was exhausting, waking up in a pool of sweat, your heart racing, and your lungs unable to get air into them. You wanted all to stop.

Maria was sitting at her dining room table, a bottle of whiskey opened, and she needed to work on a few case files. Her mind was a million miles away and not on her duties as Deputy Director. It wasn’t entirely her fault; a lot had happened over the past two weeks. Her best friend was almost killed; Natasha forced her to admit she was in love with said best friend, and she had to watch you piece yourself back together. It was exhausting, but she knew you would do it for her. This was how it had always been. You and Maria. Agent Hill and Gaia. A package duo that never crossed the line as friends. So Maria filled the void that was missing with one-night stands and drunken sex that meant nothing to her. All she wanted, needed, and craved was you. She could not risk the friendship; it was the most important thing in her life.

Small whimpers from your room pulled her out of her thoughts. Standing quickly, she made her way to the guest room. She carefully opened the door. You lay on the bed, mumbling something Maria couldn’t quite understand. On socked feet, she walked over to the bed and sat at the foot. “No,” you mumbled. “Take me. Not her. Please.” Maria’s heart broke.

“Sweetheart,” Maria whispered. “Wake up. Come on.”

“Maria,” you mumbled, thrashing slightly. “Maria, please, I’m sorry.”

“It’s just a nightmare. Wake up. Wake up.” You woke with a start, chest heaving and eyes frantically looking around.

“Ria,” you forced out. There was a thin layer of sweat on your body.

“It’s okay—you’re safe. I’m safe. Breath,” she gently touched the back of your neck and brought your forehead against hers. Your eyes closed as you took a few deep breaths in and out. Finally, you pulled away, and Maria hated to admit she missed you being close. You slumped back on the bed, arm across your face.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked. She was curious to know if you heard her. With your other hand, you grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

“I’m scared,” you said. Your voice shook at every spoken word. “I feel broken and weak and-” You aggressively rubbed your eyes as tears filled them.

“You are not broken,” Maria said. “You are healing. In time, you will return to your old self that I-” Maria cut herself off. You removed your hand from your face and slowly sat up.

“You what?” You asked, crossed your legs, and tried to cover the grimace of pain that crossed your face, but you moved closer to her. “Come on, Ria, tell me,” she was looking at every decoration in the room so she wouldn’t have to look at you. Finally, you used your index finger to tilt her chin to look back at you. “Finish your sentence,” you wore a smile on your face. It was a smile that Maria learned to look for in a crowd, in a meeting, or on a video call while on a mission. Your smile filled her with a sense of peace. It warmed her body and made her feel at home.

“That I fell in love with,” Maria softly spoke as she finished her sentence. You made a surprise sound that originated in the back of your throat, but you recovered quickly.

“You love me, Maria Hill?” the agent huffed a laugh, shaking her head.

“Shut up,” she mumbled. “If you are going to make fun of me, get it over with.”

“I’d never make fun of you, not about this, at least.” You added with a smirk because you have made fun of her about other things. “Can I kiss you?” You asked, inching closer until Maria felt your breath mingling with hers.

“Please,” you connected your lips with hers. Maria hated how often she thought about this moment. She would go to her grave before admitting out loud how many times she had to bite her lip during sex to stop herself from moaning your name. Fair too soon for her liking, you pulled away and rested your head on her shoulder.

“Why have we waited so long to do that?” Maria chuckled. “Will you stay?”

“Always,” the open bottle of whiskey and mission reports could wait another day.

When you woke up the following day, you are disappointed to find an empty bed. Maria’s side was cold, but you heard a commotion in the kitchen. Carefully, you stood up. The mornings were always rough due to being in the same position for so long. You slowly made your way out of the room and into the kitchen. Maria was at the stove, her back to you, and you walked over to her. Your arms wrapped around her waist, and you buried her head in her shoulder. Her body tensed up but soon relaxed in your arms. “Morning,” you mumbled.

“Morning. Breakfast is almost done. Why don’t you go sit down?” You shook your head.

“Your arm,” you said, kissing the skin you could reach. You were happy with the goosebumps that formed on her skin. Her body shook with laughter.

“Go sit. I’ll get your medicine, too.” You pouted, walked over to the couch, and pulled a blanket over your lap. It wasn’t long before Maria joined on the sofa with two plates of food.

“I can help you know,” she said with a smile. She brought back two mugs of coffee and water with your medication. You kissed her cheek as your thanks and took the three white pills with water.

“I should probably say this,” you bite into the eggs. “I love you too,” she smirked.

“I would hope so, or this entire thing would be incredibly awkward,” she teased. You rolled your eyes and pumped your shoulder against hers.

“You are a dork,” you smiled.

“I’m your dork,” that was also true. Oh, how you liked that sound.

“Mine,” you mumbled, kissing her. “And I’m yours.”

#maria hill x reader #maria hill x you #maria hill

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simply-ivanka · 3 months ago

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Kamala Harris’s ‘Joyful’ War on Entrepreneurs

When Democrats talk about boosting the middle class, what they mean is government employees.

By Allysia Finley Wall Street Journal

Americans who tuned in to Kamala Harris’s coronation last week heard from plenty of celebrities, labor leaders and politicians. Missing from the “joyous” celebration, however, were entrepreneurs who generate middle-class jobs.

No surprise. Cheered on by the crowd, Democrats took turns whacking “oligarchs” and “corporate monopolists.” By the time Ms. Harris took the stage, the pinatas’ pickings had been splattered around. This is what Democrats plan to do if they win: destroy wealth creators so they can spread the booty among their own.

Corporate greed is “the one true enemy,” United Auto Workers President Shawn Fain proclaimed. Vermont Sen. Bernie Sanders insisted the party “must take on Big Pharma, Big Oil, Big Ag, Big Tech, and all the other corporate monopolists whose greed is denying progress for working people.” Pennsylvania Sen. Bob Casey railed against “greedflation” and accused corporations of “extorting families.”

Barack Obama lambasted Donald Trump and his “well-heeled donors.” “For them, one group’s gains is necessarily another group’s loss,” Mr. Obama said. “For them, freedom means that the powerful can do pretty much what they please, whether it’s fire workers trying to organize a union or put poison in our rivers or avoid paying taxes like everybody else has to do.”

Democrats treat wealth as a zero-sum game, and so Mr. Obama’s straw men are rich. They get richer by making everyone else poorer—and taking away from the well-off is the only way to enhance the lives of the poor and middle class. Hence, the left’s plans to raise taxes on “billionaires” and businesses to finance more welfare.

It isn’t enough that the top 1% of earners already pay 45.8% of federal income tax, which funds government services and welfare for the bottom half. As for poisoning rivers, perhaps Mr. Obama forgot that his own Environmental Protection Agency caused the 2015 Gold King Mine disaster, which spilled toxic waste into Colorado’s Animas River.

Quoting Abraham Lincoln, the former president invoked “the better angels of our nature” even as he appealed to America’s darker angels. His speech brought to mind a recent homily by my local parish priest about the dangers of class warfare and envy, one of the seven deadly sins.

Success, the priest explained, isn’t a zero-sum game. When a businessman succeeds, he creates jobs that help the poor. Envying and tearing down the successful makes everyone poorer. Rather than plunder the wealthy, society should celebrate success and try to help everyone prosper.

Democrats derisively refer to such ideas as “trickle-down economics.” They denounce and diminish business success, and claim the wealthy have profited from greed and government support. Who can forget Mr. Obama’s line in 2012 that “if you’ve got a business, you didn’t build that”?

Rather than try to make it easier for businesses to succeed—say, by reducing taxes or easing regulations—Democrats want to do the opposite. They call for “leveling the playing field” and “growing the middle class out,” euphemisms for taxing success so government can hand out money. But government doesn’t create wealth. People do.

While business success isn’t zero-sum, government growth can be. Its expansion makes it more difficult for business to thrive. The result is fewer jobs, lower wages and less tax revenue, which finances essential public services such as law enforcement and the “safety net” for the indigent.

Mr. Trump’s appeal in 2016 partly stemmed from slow economic growth during Mr. Obama’s presidency. The Republican promised to make all Americans richer by liberating businesses from government’s shackles. Mr. Trump’s deregulation and tax cuts worked: Average real wages increased nearly 70% faster during his first three years than during Mr. Obama’s presidency.

Yet most Americans have become poorer under Mr. Biden, as government spending has fueled inflation, which has eroded wages. Job growth has become increasingly concentrated in sectors that depend on government spending. When Democrats talk about boosting the middle class, they mean the class of government workers.

Government, education, healthcare and social assistance account for more than 60% of the new jobs added in the last year. In the 17 states where Democrats boast a “trifecta”—control of the governorship and both legislative chambers—the share is 98%. In the 23 states with Republican trifectas, it’s 47%.

Likewise, average wage growth since the start of the pandemic has been lower in high-tax states such as Illinois (13.6%), New York (14.4%) and California (17.2%) than in low-tax Florida (22.5%), Texas (23.3%) and South Dakota (26.9%). If middle-class Americans want to get richer, they ought to move to Miami, Dallas or Sioux Falls.

“As long as we look to legislation to cure poverty, or to abolish special privilege,” Henry Ford once observed, “we are going to see poverty spread and special privilege grow.” That’s the joyous future Americans can expect during a Harris presidency.

Appeared in the August 26, 2024, print edition as 'Kamala Harris’s ‘Joyful’ War on Entrepreneurs'.

#wall street journal #kamala harris #tim walz #obama #schumer #pelosi #AOC #Democrats #Biden #trump 2024 #trump #president trump #repost #america first #americans first #america #donald trump #ivanka

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roughridingrednecks · 11 months ago

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Boydstun

#boydstun #oil field worker #redneck #tats #cap #stubble #oil field trash

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nectardaddy · 4 months ago

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'88 Ford | Kita Shinsuke

chapter two | stormin'

masterlist

ignore timestamps

track two . . . daylight

It rained hard. Droplets beating at the tin roof of the barn overhead, the downpour overflowing the gutters as water escaped in droves; the open rolling doors of the building looking more like a waterfall as it rained. A sigh escaping his lips as his eyes flickered over towards the entrance, there went the rest of his field work.

Wiping oil and grease coated hands on an old shop rag, he then swiped a hand over his forehead; traces of the dark liquids being left in place of the sweat that was once there. It was humid and sticky more than anything, water vapor sticking to the tin walls and staying as it had no where else to go; he couldn't take a deep breath without thinking it was harder to breathe.

"Sorry I couldn't be much help, sir," stating an apology as he looked over to the older man next to him. Shoving the, now dirty, rag into his pocket to not further the mess of the barn.

"Quit apologizing," the older man, his boss, griped. "I d'know' what the hell is wrong with it either, son." Tagging on the latter name with ease; a familiar verbiage Shinsuke, had to quickly, become accustomed to upon getting the job. To the man, workers were either 'son' or 'asshole,' to which he much preferred 'son.'

Brown eyes watched as the other backed away from the piece of machinery that both once tried to fix, deciding it was better left alone for the time being or his temper would get the best of him. However the sharp tone of a phone ringing cut off the older man's woes completely, grunting as he fished the phone from his pocket and looked at the caller id. "Damn, what did she do now?" Muttering to himself before answering.

Shinsuke couldn't help but feel fairly out of place during the interaction, stepping backwards as to not be within ear shot; but not knowing what to do after. It would be rude to walk away completely, and it was pouring outside regardless, but he didn't want to make it seem like he was eavesdropping. So he opted for turning his gaze towards the ground, hell bent on making his presence feel as small as possible.

"It's easing up some now," he heard, suspecting the man spoke about the rain. "Kita'll' come get you while it's slowed, we'll come back and fix it once it stops." The mention of his name garnered his full attention, raising his head and looking over to his boss in confusion. The man saw his puzzled expression and took the phone away from his ear, holding it towards his shoulder. "My daughter had the genius idea of barreling down the gravel road across the way and got a flat tire," he groaned. Earning a, frighteningly, audible I can hear you through the phone.

"The road that goes into town?" Asking a clarifying question as he realized he was being volun-told to do something, to which the other man nodded. While it wasn't out of the ordinary for him to be asked, or matter-of-factly told, to do something, this situation was far from any others. Asked to be around the woman that made him a puddle of a man created a pit in his stomach. "She alright, sir?"

"Fine. But mad as hell, so get going," he groaned, to which the pit in his stomach only grew more. While one concern was dashed, another took precedent within his mind. How he would manage to reel in his emotions was beyond him. Never rude, and never overstepping, frankly terrified of the repercussions of so much as thinking about her too much, but he was wholeheartedly a lovesick idiot.

A lovelorn moron who adored the very woman he was told to pick up, the daughter of the man who gave him his job in the first place. While he thanked a higher power he was dependable and trustworthy, this was awful. "Yes, sir," he replied before tightening his jaw, "I'll go get her."

It was still raining, however, the wash out had turned to a gentle shower; but he knew it would soon turn back to beating down, the clouds still low and dark as he exited the barn. He quickened his pace to a jog to prevent his, already dirty, clothes from becoming soaked as he neared his truck.

Opening the door, he stepped up, dirt and mud falling from boots as they came in contact with the step bar. He closed the door once inside and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.

It'll be fine. She's as pretty as sin, but it'll be fine.

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@h3xi2g0n3 @localgaytrainwreck @mollyrolls @causenessus @diorzs

@rory-cakes @phoenix-eclipses @pattys-got-cakes @girlkissersco

#haiykuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu smau #haikyuu!! smau #hq x reader #hq smau #kita shinsuke #shinsuke kita #kita shinsuke x reader #shinsuke kita x reader #hq kita #haikyuu kita #series: 88 ford

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bighermie · 2 months ago

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Armed Venezuelan Gangs Steal Oil, Copper Wire, Assault Workers at Texas Oil Field | The Gateway Pundit | by Cristina Laila

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justagirlwholikesadam · 10 months ago

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Farmer! Sandor Clegane Headcanon

don't own these pics

Summary: Just a few headcanon of Sandor Clegane as a farmer.

A/N: Thinking about this man as a farmer has me down on my knees. Comment and like below, maybe I can do next farmer Sandor meeting reader. Enjoy-L || Border Credit: @cafekitsune

Warning: SFW, sad childhood, Sandor being himself, dog dad,

Farmer!Sandor always knew he wanted to be a farmer from a young age. He liked working with his hands and moving around. He never wanted a desk job, he couldn't imagine his 6 '6 self sitting on a small computer chair for nine hours a day, five days a week. He had low patience dealing with idiot people, so retail was out of the question, any job that required dealing with people was a no. So far the only thing talking back to him were the animals on the farm and he was content with that.

Farmer!Sandor isn't much of a people person but he will sometimes invite Tormund, a worker from the market he goes to for groceries once in a while over to watch the game or just for a beer. Sandor only does it because Tormund doesn't shut up about coming over. After two six-packs, Tormund isn't so bad to be around and he doesn’t ask him about his scars.

Farmer!Sandor gets up right before the rooster crow at dawn. He likes to watch the sunrise while drinking black coffee. He nibbles on some toast or some corn muffins. On Sunday, he makes a big breakfast meal since it's the only day he rest. Eggs, bacon sometimes with ham and grits.

Farmer!Sandor wears a white beater shirt and his dark coarse chest hair peeks out. It shows off his broad shoulders and his muscular arms, it was all thanks to the hard manual labor he does. He ties his long hair with a black hair band, he keeps a spare around his wrist. He wears old blue jeans that hang low on his hips. Sometimes he wears a flannel shirt, when it gets too hot, he takes it off and wraps it around his hips. He wears these heavy size 12 boots with rubber outsoles on them.

Farmer!Sandor sweats alot after a long day of work. He uses the flannel to wipe the sweat off his forehead, neck and tone arms. He showers immediately after walking into the house. He leaves the boots outside and goes into the shower to clean the dirt and sweat off of his body. He makes sure he cleans himself, rubbing the body wash thoroughly through his chest hair and his long hair.

Farmer!Sandor walks out of the shower and looks at himself in the mirror. His burn scars are a bit red from being out in the sun all day. He reminds himself for tomorrow to wear his hat. He grabs face cream from the medicine cabinet to help with the redness. Some days Sandor can't stand the sight of him, that's why he liked being alone in his farmhouse. He dislikes the stares and pointing he got when going into town.

Farmer!Sandor still has issues about his face, it has gotten much better after going to the doctors. He has even done surgery for his hair to grow a bit, he usually combs his hair over to cover the slightly bald spot. He applies oils on his beard regularly and it helped his beard grow a bit back. His right brow has grown a bit as well, but the burn scars on his cheek and ear are still very visible.

Farmer!Sandor dresses comfy to get started on dinner. He walks into the kitchen and turns on the radio or sometimes the tv. He's listening to the news while cutting some veggies he has grown from his garden in the backyard. He usually grills his steak in the backyard when he's not tired. Opening a beer, he sits down and eats in silence. Sometimes he eats in front of the tv and watches whatever is playing. He's not picky on what to watch on tv.

Farmer!Sandor was on the field the next day on the tractor when he heard barking. He turns it off and looks over his shoulders to see it was a dog a few feet away from him. There isn't usually strays around, he makes sure of it since he has some chickens and pigs. He walks towards the dog, its shaggy fur is white and gray. Its ears are floppy and its tongue is hanging out as it pants.

“You alright, pup?” He asked, not really expecting it to answer but to his surprise. It barks at him, making him smile.

He carefully stretches his hand out when he notices it wasn't going to bite. He pats its head and even scratches behind its ears. Asking if it wants to eat, the dog’s tail starts wagging like crazy. Sandor decides he’ll have lunch early that day. He smiles once more when he notices it’s following him all the way to the house. He sits outside on the porch swing as he eats his sandwich and drinks a cold glass of ice tea. He watches the dog eat the leftover steak from dinner last night.

Farmer!Sandor decides to keep the dog after it kept following him everywhere for the past week. When he finds out it’s a girl, he decides to name it after his little sister, Ellie. The dog didn’t seem to mind, it followed him whenever he said it. He liked having company, it was less lonely when he wasn’t working. He lets Ellie sleep on the foot of his bed.

Farmer!Sandor doesn't smoke that much, he really only does it when he has a rough day. He’s sitting on the porch swing with a beer in one hand and the cigarette in the other. Since he’s alone, he does alot of thinking as he watches the sunset. He thinks about his life before he started to farm. He has been thinking about his little sister lately since the dog came around. His little sister was his best friend when he was younger. He had told her about his dream of having a farm. He smiles to himself as he remembers her telling him that he had to have horses for her to ride. He promised her that he would when he was a kid he had even promised her that he would have two horses so they could ride together.

Farmer!Sandor didn't have a good childhood, his parents were never around and his older brother was a bully. His older brother was the one to burn him when he was a kid. While holding his face on the hot coals, his little sister tried to help him. She hit the older brother on the back with her tiny fist. Furious that she was hitting him, he had smacked her. He hit her so hard that she fell back and slammed her head on the coffee table. Ellie lost a lot of blood on the way to the hospital and did not survive. His older brother was 18 at the time and was sentenced to prison. Parents couldn't handle it and left Sandor, who was placed in foster care.

Farmer!Sandor gets brought back to reality when he feels Ellie rubbing her head against his knee. He threw the cigarette out and placed the beer on the small table near him. He pats the seat next to him and makes sure that the swing doesn't move as Ellie jumps up next to him. He leans back as she rests her head on his lap. Sandor pats her head softly as he looks over across the field and stares at the half built stable he was building, he was going to get those horses and complete his promise to his sister.

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