#Impact sockets wrenches

[impactsocketset]

Shingare Industries is the leading Manufacturer and Exporter of various engineering goods such as Impact sockets are mainly used to empower the work efficiency of impact wrenches and drivers. Impact sockets wrenches are used to add or remove nuts or bolts in vehicles by applying a great amount of torque. As this type of torque can vary on a large scale, so normal sockets cannot tolerate the impact very well. Bhartiya distributor Impact Sockets, by nature of their application are subject to extreme stresses, therefore special application sockets such as thin wall, hex driver, accessories and slugging wrenches are specifically excluded from the replacement warranty.

[ki-adi-money]

My dad when I was in highschool "when are you going to give my skilsaw back it's been almost two days"

My dad now when I ask when he's going to bring back my compressor and tools he borrowed two months ago "I'm almost done, I'll bring'em by next weekend"

[ferreterrotools]

JHALANI: Unveiling Excellence in Socket Set Tools and Impact Socket Set Wrench — Precision Redefined

In the world of hand tools, precision is paramount, and JHALANI stands as the epitome of excellence. As a distinguished manufacturer of hand tools, JHALANI introduces a comprehensive range of socket set tools and impact socket set wrenches that redefine precision in every task. Trusted by professionals and DIY enthusiasts alike, JHALANI’s commitment to quality craftsmanship is evident in its diverse array of tools.

[toolssuppliersinuaedubaiuae]

Explore the world of socket sets, also known as socket bunches, and discover their versatility in handling various fastening tasks. From standard socket sets with common-sized sockets, ratchets, and extensions to deep socket sets for hard-to-reach places, and shallow socket sets ideal for limited access areas – each category serves a unique purpose.

visit: https://medium.com/@toolssuppliersinuaedubaiuae/want-to-know-the-types-of-socket-bunches-read-on-451a56a1c9e6

[toolboxwidgetau]

Explore the transformative benefits of 1/2 Impact Socket Holders. Learn how efficient organization can elevate your toolkit, providing quick access and durability for every project.

[witch-and-her-witcher]

nessriel | E | hurt/comfort, modern AU - magic/CC inspired

Aux officer Cassian brings a stray home with him and he doesn't want to let her go. Lieutenant Azriel, and his life partner, thinks he has a bleeding heart and an undiagnosed mental health condition - until he meets Nesta Archeron for himself, sweating and vomiting through a self-led alcohol detox, and decides ... yeah, they should keep her. Nesta is at an all-time low, all her bridges burned, but she's going to pull herself together and try to keep her mess from spilling into these ridiculously gorgeous, kind-hearted Auxie's lives.

ao3

(Thank you @popjunkie42 and @thesistersarcheron for the support read throughs!)

For Day One: Beginnings of @polyacotarweek!

Chapters 1-3/9

Preview Below

~*~

Everything fucking hurts: Cassian’s knees are jammed up, his spine crackles along each vertebra, his balls feel like tenderized meat, and his godsdamn shoulder. Ripped out of the socket by a feral leopard shifter, high on pixie dust.

As if the hit that knocked him off of his feet wasn’t bad enough, the amount of paperwork he’d had to fill out because of the right hook he’d landed out of self-defense driven instinct afterwards was even more painful.

Cassian can feel the impact from his wing meeting with the concrete just as much as the strain in his neck from standing bent over the counter at the Aux. 

Like the asshole knew how low tech they are.

“Mother fucker,” he mutters, slamming the unit door shut behind him. 

He waits to hear the double beep of the lock before shoving the keys in his black jean’s front pocket and shuffling for the stairs to his apartment.

All Cassian wants is to get out of this fucking oppressive bullet-proof vest, kick off his boots, strip off his pants and sprawl on the couch with one hand down the front of his briefs and the other holding a cold beer. Put a game on. Maybe mess around with Az by sending him some dirty pictures.

An image of high cheekbones splattered with a dark flush, hot to the touch, flashes in his mind. Pupils blown wide and hand covering that seductive mouth to hide embarrassment.

Yeah, thinking about the pretty blush that will spread over his partner’s face? The way Az will jerk his head up to make sure no one saw … and then sneak another peek, maybe find an unoccupied room that doesn’t have cameras in it for some privacy?

Cassian grins wickedly.

He will definitely send dirty pictures.

Maybe after a beer or two, his shoulder won’t hurt so bad either and he can send a video tease. Get Az all worked up so he comes home in the morning ravenous, like a male possessed, ready to put Cass in his place for winding him up so tight —

A loud clatter right as Cassian rounds the stairwell to head up to the second floor cuts off his train of thought.

Engrained Aux training makes him hesitate.

Voices rise up behind the closest door.

Shit.

Apartment 132. A real sleazebag.

“— I’m a dirty whore? Yeah? Have you seen your fucking bed sheets?” A female’s voice becomes clear, growing louder along with heavy, slightly muffled footsteps on a carpeted floor. Drawing closer. “Learn how to do the laundry, you infantile asshole!” 

The doorknob jiggles a few times along with a few incoherent curses before the door is wrenched open. Unsure what kind of scene is about to spill into the bottom floor of his apartment complex, Cassian holds still aside from his hand edging closer to his holster.

The female has her back to him, still yelling into the apartment with her middle finger in the air. “Your cleaning skills match the size of your cock, unsatisfact- ow!” 

Cassian is braced for the collision course, but the female hasn’t been paying attention to anything but lobbing insults at the vampire arguing back half-heartedly from somewhere deeper in the apartment. She jumps as her bare shoulders connect with the kevlar covered metal plate on Cassian’s chest.

She whips around, hellfire seething from her. “Watch where the fuck you’re —”

The words die on her lips as she cranks her head up: taking in the uniform, the badge, the fucking Aux uniform aviator sunglasses perched on the bridge of Cass’s crooked nose.

With his polished talons gleaming two feet higher than his nearly six-and-a-half-foot height, he knows he looks intimidating as hell.

Her gaze lingers on the breadth of his shoulders, the swell of his biceps under his shirt sleeves, the thick column of his neck.

Cassian also knows he looks fit as hell.

“Shit,” she curses, but it’s breathy enough to sound unintentional. 

The vampire is quicker than a whip, tossing a purse onto the concrete and slamming his door shut. The contents spill out of the purse because he hasn’t bothered to close it: chapstick, a pack of gum, various IDs and brightly packaged condoms ‘ribbed for her pleasure.’

Sleazebag.

The purple-colored veteran Aux ID in the discarded pile catches his attention, but Cassian doesn't give away his recognition.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, cocking one brow up.

The hallway is open-air, but it does nothing to reduce the scent of chain-smoked cigarettes and strong alcohol coming off of the female.

The drop-dead gorgeous female.

read more

[jedipoodoo]

love you to the moon and to saturn

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven

part four: a million little stars spelling out your name

Notes/warnings: suicidal ideation, kidnapping, hostage situation, gags and restraints, Omega blames herself for all the bad things that has happened, but then she gets cuddles.

Omega kept herself tucked behind Wrecker as he eagerly shot a stream of blaster fire down the hall. Crosshair's shots were staggered, but more precise, taking out the TK Troopers one by one with careful calculation. Omega helped where she could with her stolen blaster, aiming carefully the way Echo had taught her.

Echo handed Wrecker a shock grenade, listing off a series of numbers to him and Crosshair. Wrecker launched the grenade with just the tiniest bit of restraint, so that when Crosshair shot the grenade, it maximized its field of impact and took out a majority of the TKs.

Wrecker gave a joyous whoop. “It's good to have you back, Cross!“

Omega looked up at her prodigal brother, and just may have caught the flash of a smile.

“So what do we do about Hunter?” Crosshair asked.

“The pill should have worn off by now. He'll meet with Rex and Cody at the command center to procure escape transport for all of us,” Echo said.

“How's it going with the lifts?” Wrecker asked.

Echo's scomplink was hooked up to the access for the turbo lifts. There was only one in the entire mountain to prevent escape, such as this occasion. If Echo could shut off the lift's security, he could gain access to allow the rest of the clones to escape.

“Their backups are kicking in, security’s going into overdrive. Where's Tech when you need him?” Echo grunted.

Omega bit her lip and tried not to cry, the tears would block her vision. She couldn't afford to mourn her brother and the family that would never be together again, not when they were so close to victory. She grit her teeth and kept firing, even as her eyes stung to the point where she didn't even notice her blaster had run out of juice.

“Omega!” Crosshair barked. He grabbed her shoulder and shoved her behind him.

“You'll jam your blaster that way. Grab a magazine from one of the dead troopers.” He waved passively at the smattering of bodies that lay in the small space between them and Echo at the lift’s door. Each of the fallen TKs had a blaster of their own, with a magazine at at least half power. Omega grabbed the nearest on and began to disassemble it the way Wrecker had taught her, when the lift gave a soft chime.

“Are we in?” Wrecker asked in almost glee.

“That wasn't me…” Echo said nervously.

The lift doors opened, and the Commandos visor immediately locked onto Omega.

He only took one step towards her when Echo drew his blaster and jammed it into the belly of his chestplate, taking him out at point blank range. The next commando in the lift body slammed him, ripping his scomp from the wall socket.

“Echo!” Omega leaped to his aide with and empty blaster, finally drawing Wrecker and Crosshair's attention.

The third and final commando in the lift didn't seem interested in a fight. He grabbed Omega by her bad arm, wrenching it backwards until she cried out in pain. Wrecker shot at the offending commando, but missed, and his comrade shot back.

Wrecker shielded Crosshair as Echo lay still on the floor, his scomp arm smoking, and tried to fend off two fronts at the same time.

The two surviving commandos dragged Omega into the lift and sealed the door behind them. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.

Omega could hear Wrecker shouting her name for just a moment, and then the lift shot upwards, leaving her stomach behind.

It was a few moments before the pain in her shoulder subsided enough that she could breathe, though the commando still held it in a death grip so that she wouldn't escape. The pain dulled to a throb, and her bottom lip trembled with every measured breath.

The door opened, and Hemlock was waiting for her with three more TK guards.

Omega's eyes went wide, and she froze in terror.

"Move out," Hemlock snapped, nodding down the hall. The five TK troopers marched after him, dragging Omega with them.

"No!" Omega shrieked as she realized what was happening, and dropped all her weight, determined to slow them down, but the one TK trooper kept a firm grip around both her wrists as his companions slipped binds around them.

"Let go of me! Let go!" Omega struggled harder, but the TKs weren't interested in fighting her. They yanked her forward and tossed her over a shoulder, not at all the comforting hold that Wrecker had on her.

"Hunter!" She screamed.

"Keep her quiet!" Hemlock snarled. The trooper tried to cover her mouth with his hand, but Omega jerked away, writhing in his arms.

"Echo! Wrecker! Help me! Hun-"

Since she was proving uncooperative, one of the other troopers snatched a belt used to strap the subject to the table, cinching it around her head and gagging her mouth shut.

Omega tried to cough around it, forcing herself to breathe through her nose, but the troopers hardly cared for her comfort. They followed earnestly in Doctor Hemlock's footsteps. Omega felt around her head, searching for the belt release. It cut into her cheeks and pulled at her hair, but she couldn't find the buckle, so she tried tugging on it instead, trying to dig her fingers under the strap to pull it loose, to let Hunter and the others know where she was.

Hemlock knew that she was the only one who could stop this attack. Her brothers would fall back, so long as they were allowed to retreat with her. But he would be a fool to hand her over, because in the moment that he surrendered his prize would be the moment his complete and utter destruction was assured. So long as he had his hands on Omega--alive--he couldn't be touched.

A few moments after this realization, the trooper set her down, convinced she would walk without resistance. He was immediately proven wrong when Omega attempted to dart off down an empty hall, and she had a blaster shoved between her shoulders again.

This part of the mountain almost seemed abandoned. The clones were down in the lower levels, fighting their way towards freedom, so where was Hemlock taking them? He was obviously trying to escape, but how?

This question was answered when Hemlock approached an otherwise nondescript door, quickly punching in his usual access code. Omega almost had it memorized after seeing him do it so often, but she could never catch a glimpse of the middle two numbers.

The door swooshed open to reveal a hidden hangar, with a single quad-jumper.

It couldn't have seated more than five people, max. It wasn't meant to be lived in the way that they lived on the Marauder, but half of the ship was made up by the two giant engines on either side of the rear access ramp. It was fast.

Omega's eyes widened in fear, but the blaster between her shoulder blades kept her moving forward.

This was it. Hemlock would take her away again. Her brothers would never find her. She would be alone, hurt and terrified, for the rest of her life.

"Omega!"

One blaster bolt hit a guard in the chest, another fell with the squelching of blood as Hunter drew his knife.

It was him. He was alive, just like Echo said. He was alive, and still fighting his way towards her on unsteady feet. The tattooed skin above his eyebrow was purpling and bruised, and he squinted to see where he was going. His jaw was set, and he smelled heavily of blaster fire and the fresh blood of the trooper he had just knifed.

"Hunter!"

The gag fell, hanging around her neck, and Omega tried to make a run for it.

Her head was yanked back, and she screamed as fingers were laced into her hair and twisted sharply.

"Stop him!" Hemlock screamed, fear dripping from his voice. The three remaining commandos that had been escorting them charged at Hunter, but Omega and Hemlock both knew they would be no match for the sergeant of the Bad Batch.

Hemlock continued towards the solitary ship as briskly as he could while dragging Omega by the hair. Omega managed to free her hands from the belt and clawed at his arm with her fingernails, trying to work her hair free. She didn't care how badly it hurt, or how much hair she lost, all she wanted was to be with Hunter again. To be with her brothers, to feel safe, to be a family again.

He reached the ramp, and Omega dropped to her knees. If Hemlock wanted to take her with him, she would only go kicking and screaming.

Hemlock’s composure was beginning to slip. He kept his fingers ensnared in Omega's hair, trying to hold her at a safe distance from his face as Omega lashed out wildly with her arms.

“You little-”

"I'm coming, Omega!" Hunter shouted. He kicked one of the commandos in the neck with a loud crack, another took a vibroblade to the shoulder, and the last one was shot in the throat. Hemlock didn't have anything else he could throw at Hunter to distract him now. Even though he fairly limped towards the quad-jumper, he still looked terrifying, or at least he must have looked so to Hemlock.

Omega reached out for Hunter. She wasn't crying, but sticky tears streamed down her cheeks from the pain in her head. Hemlock’s grip tightened, and Omega felt the muzzle of a small blaster pressed into the back of her neck.

“Stop right there, or she dies.” After a brief breakdown, Hemlock was back to his calm, collected aura.

Hunter stopped a few feet away, his eyes locked on Omega's.

“Hunter, please,” her bottom lip quivered. She didn't care about the blaster. She would rather be shot dead right then and there if the only other option was to be trapped and alone with Doctor Hemlock.

Hunter held up his weapons, pointing them away from Omega.

“It's okay, kid, it's gonna be okay,” He said softly, like she was the only one who could hear his promise.

How? How was it supposed to be okay? Hemlock and the Empire had them on their knees. Hemlock would take her again, somewhere isolated and far away, somewhere dark and sterile, like Kamino, where she would never see her brothers again.

“I have to say, I'm impressed. I actually didn't think you would make it this far.”

“You'll find I'm full of surprises,” Hunter quipped, an impatient edge to his voice. He was never one for smart remarks, that was always Echo or Wrecker, but he was angry, and angry made him snarky.

Hemlock dropped to one knee, but kept his hands where they were, leaning in close so that he could taunt Hunter by whispering in Omega's ear.

“I've read the files, you know. You're a talented leader, Sergeant. A perfect record under your command, and a refusal to never leave one of your own behind. Well, until one of your own turned against you, that is.”

Hunter bristled. Omega knew from the beginning how much it pained Hunter that Crosshair refused to go with them. But how were they meant to force Crosshair to come with them when he kept trying to kill them? Even after his chip was confirmed to be removed.

“It must have been quite the shock to realize that he tried to contact you after so long, and with a warning, of all things. I'm sure your first instinct was to drop everything and find him.”

Omega bit her lip, and Hemlock stood, tugging in her hair even more.

"But no..." Hemlock droned on, "You're their leader. You know better. You would never take such unnecessary risks..."

Omega refused to look at Hemlock, though he shook her roughly. She'd spent enough time with him to know that spine curdling sensation that created a pit in her stomach meant that Hemlock's eyes were on her. Studying, no, examining her like a dissected frog.

"Tell me Omega, was it you who begged them to rescue Crosshair? By any means necessary?"

Omega's throat swelled shut as her eyes began to sting.

"It's a wonder you came for her," Hemlock laughed darkly. Hemlock didn't chuckle, he laughed, as if he actually took joy in making others suffer. In making clones suffer.

"All the trouble she's caused. Think about it, Hunter, is she truly worth all of this? You could have lived the rest of your life in seclusion, parading around the galaxy without a care, but you had to come back for her. For them."

"They're my brothers," Hunter snarled, "And she's my sister."

“Oh really?” Hemlock hummed in amusement.

There was an explosion in the distance, and the mountain shook with the sound of a thousand men crying for freedom.

Omega was yanked to her feet with a yelp. Hunter lunged forward, but Hemlock pressed the blaster deeper into Omega's neck. It felt like it was cutting into the skin. Hunter froze.

“I'm afraid my time has run short. Pleasure, as always, Sergeant. Relay my greetings to your brothers, will you?”

Hemlock dragged her up the ramp and Omega drew rapid breaths, trying to keep calm. This was it. No success for the infamous Bad Batch this time.

"Hunter, I...I'm so sorry!" She sobbed, "I didn't mean to get captured!"

"I know, kid, it's okay."

"Big words coming from a man with no leverage." Hemlock took his hand with the blaster from Omega's neck, reaching over to shut the airlock.

That was all Hunter needed.

“Shut up you hut'uun.”

The unfamiliar word made Hemlock pause just long enough for Hunter to fire.

Hunter shot Hemlock five times in rapid succession. Omega leaped away from his corpse as he crumpled to the floor. She tumbled down the ramp and into the waiting arms of Hunter. He pulled her close as he gasped her name.

"I've got you, I've got you," He whispered, and Omega sobbed.

She tried to pull away. It was too dangerous, there was too much at stake. They couldn't stay like this for long, someone was bound to find Hemlock's secret hanger bay and capture them all again. And though Hunter surely knew all of this, he kept his arms firmly around Omega, carding his hand through her hair in a soothing motion that made her breathing slow and her body's trembling subside.

Omega stopped trying to pull away, and let herself sit in his arms. Her arms were pinned against her chest, and Hunter refused to let go of her, so she was left to let her tears run down the tip of her nose and disappear into the folds of Hunter's scarf.

The chaos and alarms of the base faded farther and farther away, and Omega turned to hide her face in Hunter's chest, her nails grating against his chestplate for some kind of grip.

"I-I'm so, s-s-so so-sorry!"

Hunter took her face in his hands, making her look him in the eyes as he tried to wipe away the river of tears that ran down her face.

"Omega, you have nothing to apologize for."

How could he say that? After all she'd just put him through?

His hands were trembling as he caressed her face. He had to be in so much pain, how could he bear to touch her like this?

Omega sniffed loudly, feeling less and less like the soldier she wanted to prove she could be and more and more like a scared little girl. "Hemlock’s right. None of this would have happened if you had just left me on Kamino."

"Oh Omega," He whispered. The words caught in his throat. His fingers dug into the shirt at her back, and Omega let him pull her closer and closer.

"If I had left you on Kamino, I would hate myself. I know that for a fact."

Omega had to stop and take a deep breath, thrown off by this confession.

Hunter sighed, and it was impossible to miss the hitch in his voice.

"I missed you kid," He whispered.

At this, Omega finally broke down.

She let out a strangled cry in the midst of her sobs and finally managed to wrap her arms tightly around his neck.

"I missed you too, Hunter," She sobbed. Her fingers were tangled in his hair. It was greasy, like he hadn't showered, but it was still soft, and smelled faintly like the ti'il blossom shampoo that he liked so much. The thought of flowers reminded her of Pabu, filling her stomach with a sudden calm in the midst of its acrobatics.

"Are...are we still going back to Pabu?" She whispered in a shaky voice.

She felt his head nod a yes. "If that's where you want to go. We can go wherever in the galaxy that you want." He promised.

Before Omega could question whether Hunter intended to make good on his promise, his comm buzzed.

"Hunter! It's gettin' hot out here! Did you find Omega?" Wrecker asked.

"She's right here, Wrecker," Hunter thumbed on his comm, keeping one arm firmly around Omega as he picked up his helmet, "Lock onto my coordinates, and let's get out of here."

He gathered her gangly, skinny limbs in his arms and stood. Omega instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, and Hunter kept one hand on her back, the other supporting her bottom. She was just starting to nuzzle into his neck when they heard the door buzzing.

Hunter shot before Omega could blink, locking the door and keeping the Empire out.

"Omega, no matter what happens, hold onto me. Got it?"

Omega froze, locking her arms around him. The distant explosions and alarms filled her head like they had the day Kamino was attacked. Locked up, alone in Nala Se’s lab. Ninety-Nine told her to stay there, to hide no matter what.

He never came back.

“Omega,” Hunter patted her cheek insistently, and she blinked back at him.

Hunter grit his teeth and pulled his helmet on. “Just stay with me, okay kid?”

"Okay," She whispered, terrified that the troopers would hear her despite the fact that they already knew they were here.

Hunter carried her over to the corner, where the controls of the bay door glowed in the dim, one-ship hanger. He fiddled with a few of the buttons for a moment, and with a "ding" of approval, the doors began to open. Slow and loud, rising from the floor. Then the sun hit her eyes, and Omega winced, burying her face in Hunter's scarf again.

Hunter ducked under the door, stepping out onto the edge of the cliff carved into the mountainside.

Engines shrieked in the distance; the twin ion engines that haunted her sleepless nights, and a set of heavier, modified engines, streaking towards them over the emerald forests she hardly let herself dream of seeing again.

The Marauder swerved to a stop, hovering just at the edge of the cliff. The ramp extended, and Crosshair stood at the top, extending his arm towards them.

"Come on!" He snapped.

Hunter backed up a few paces, still holding her tightly. Ignoring however many of his injuries that were plaguing him at that moment, he took a running leap. Omega felt her stomach drop as they were airbourne for one blissful moment, and then they tumbled into the hold of the Marauder.

“Get us out of here!” Crosshair snarled to Echo in the pilot’s seat.

“We’re still waiting on the last ship. Wrecker, how are we doing back there?” Echo asked.

Wrecker laughed, “Keep ‘em coming, boys! I can do this all day!”

Hunter chuckled, and Omega could almost bring herself to smile. Crosshair pulled them both into the seats, and not a moment too soon. Echo poured as much of the Marauder’s energy as he could into the engines. Omega held on to Hunter as the ship was tossed about, dodging blasterfire and distracting the Imperials at Weyland long enough for the last ship bearing all the clone prisoners to take off.

“Everyone’s clear boys, make the jump!” A familiar voice that could only be Rex crackled over the ship’s comm.

Omega lifted her head so she could see what was going on, and the brilliant blue light of hyperspace filled the cabin.

Taglist (comment/dm to be added): @chopper-base @giganonyx @groguandthebadbatch @avathebestx @fettclonegifs

[toasterdrake]

aaaaa ok i really hope im not bothering you bc i'm requesting two times in a row, but can i have another yelena oneshot with some hurt/comfort? maybe r gets a life-threatening injury and yel mother-hens r back to health? if that's too specific you can do whatever you want for the 'hurt' part of hurt/comfort

my friend, the day has finally arrived. this beast has sat in my drafts for many many months -- years, even, i think? -- and i have finally accepted i'm never going to finish it. i went suuuper off-script so i've condensed it into just this block before things go haywire. other than that, this is entirely unedited as i last left it, notes and gaps and all. i hope the rest of it (of which there is too much) never again sees the light of day.

if i can even say this any more, enjoy. with this, my time in the mcu fandom truly comes to an end.

Angel

Yelena Belova x Avenger!reader

word count: 4K

Engine malfunction, systems failure, hull compromised, oxygen leakage, proximity alert, eject failure -- every alarm blared impossibly loud in the tiny cockpit, barely audible over the rushing vacuum of wind. 

A stream of creative curses spilled from your mouth as your fingers flew across the sparking dashboard, trying desperately to make something, anything work as your jet's descent steepened, plummeting through low-lying clouds.

Coming up with no other option than to try to limp to a nearby island, you yanked the control stick as hard as you could, bracing your legs as you strained with all your might to pull the plane out of its nosedive. 

You fought gravity itself: your arms feeling as if they were about to be ripped from their sockets. You were trying to lift tonnes of metal with one human's strength alone.

You let out a patriotic scream, blood pumping gloriously. Your cry to the heavens was drowned in the violent wind, the strain of the wings in the wrenching of your shoulders.

Alas, the jet wobbled and shook, breathing black smoke.

The cockpit was beginning to feel like a furnace due to the engine fire below. You were burning up in your heavy aviator's gear despite the cracked canopy's icy flood of air. Your breath came in short pants, crackling in your mask, and the broken radio screamed in your ears.

Land -- no, you'd failed, water -- rushed up to meet you. From the cockpit's window, the lake was a giant gaping blue maw opening wider to swallow you whole. And it would; given the chance, the slightest wavering of will.

Not one to simply accept fate, you struggled out of your buckles and into an emergency parachute, fingers shaking as they worked frantically in your small window of time.

The parachute cord caught on a displaced hunk of metal just as you ripped off your helmet. Masses of white fabric filled your vision. 

Senses clouded, the great boom of impact told you you'd hit water. It rebounded like astral ascension through your bones.

With the whiplash, you jerked forward, slamming into the centre console hard enough to elicit an intense ache in your chest. Your head connected with the dashboard. 

You pulled yourself upright, star-crossed for a moment, darkness clawing at the edges of your vision.

A sharp pain blossomed at your hairline; a thousand needles drove into your skull and twisted. You groaned as the dizziness sent you reeling a second later.

Something hot and wet and dark dripped down your forehead. You wiped it from your stinging eyes. You didn't have time for this. Through dancing stars, the jet was sinking rapidly into unfathomable depths; dragging you down with it never to be seen again.

Shaking off the disorientation, you scooped up your helmet from the floor and began attacking the glass canopy. Your movements were hindered by the limp parachute crowding what little space you had, but still the crack grew. 

Water spilled in faster, faster, sloshing around your shoulders. Finally, the entire pane collapsed into shards. You inhaled the deepest breath of air you could muster milliseconds before--

A great puff of depressurising air thrust you bodily out of the cockpit, as water flooded the jet entirely, wholly conjoining it to the lake. 

You tried to yank your rucksack free of where it was wedged, but it was stubborn and you didn't have seconds to spare. You abandoned it in favour of surging upwards.

You kicked your legs wildly, reaching above your head for filtered sunlight in a desperate bid for fresh air. The pressure in your lungs mounted and mounted.

Your heavy clothes and tired limbs weighed you down. You couldn't struggle out of the woolen aviator jacket; couldn't spare the few moments to let it drag you deeper in freefall.

Still, it was as if you had never left the jet. 

The light above didn't seem to be any closer, your progress like revving with the handbrake on. Your desperate kicks and thrusts weakened, bubbles streaming from your nose, dancing to the sky like ash as time trickled out.

It was dark. So dark. Cold. Lonely. You were thrashing. Water was filling your lungs. You were drowning. You were about to be lost to nature's most powerful force, and no one would know.

A muffled splash above echoed through the dark expanse of water. 

An angel from the surface had come to save you. 

Her form was silhouetted by dancing sunlight wings. Golden ringlets of hair splayed around her head in a halo. She swam down to you, powerful limbs propelling her down in an illusion of ease; a true display of power. 

The strength of her arms was reassuring.



Coughing and spluttering, you jolted upright. Water gushed from your mouth, spilling down your already soaked chest as you sat up. You found curious chartreuse eyes. Somehow, instinctively, you knew they belonged to the angel who saved you.

"Where are your wings?"

"What?" Her accent was dark velvet: authentic slavic, you recognised vaguely. It sent shivers down your spine as much as the chill of the water.

"Cause," A wet cough, "Cause you're an angel -- oh shit that's blood." 

"You have internal bleeding, probably," She said, smoothing back darkened blonde hair, peeling it from her shirt by the disturbance. She was just as soaked as you, as was the patch of grass you occupied.

Frothy, bright red spots of blood littered your hand. A sharp pain in your abdomen made itself present. Dizziness washed over you, but you pushed through to pull up your slick shirt and reveal a deep red discolouration on your chest. 

For some inexplicable reason, you poked it, and winced when a wave of pain crashed through the area. You blushed upon noticing her scrutinising gaze, clearing your throat. Your ribs ached in complaint.

You gratefully took the hand she offered, letting her display that strength again as she hauled you from the ground. She led you from the shore up to a cabin, which dominated what appeared to be an island.

"What's your name?" You asked.

A quiet moment of debate. "Yelena. You?"

You owed each other that much. "[Y/N]."

She hummed in recognition.

"Lie down. It'll help your blood flow more naturally," She said, tone not unkind.

You obeyed, then swallowed awkwardly around the dryness in your throat, piping up, "Could I have a drink of water?"

"Not until you've been treated," Yelena said, words accompanied by a privately playful smirk, to which you pouted. 

You drummed your fingers against your leg, looking around at what of the room you could see, as Yelena became otherwise occupied attending to her dog.

A goatskin rug had been draped over the back of a rocking chair in the corner, almost like hotel decoration. A blazer hung from a peg next to the door. A perfectly pruned arrangement of flowers sprouted from a ceramic vase shaped like a stylised duck, something that looked glittery lacing shards together. A misshapen candle's flame flickered cheerily on the windowsill.

Contrast of lived in and new. Yelena trying to make a home and not knowing how.

Yelena reentered, throwing a set of fresh, baggy clothes at you.

"So, you live here?" You said conversationally, looking out a window at the pine forest outside as you changed painstakingly slowly around his injury.

You could just make out a distant shore beyond the mist-obscured treeline, the grey lake lapping at a dark gravel beach.

Yelena stiffened. You watched out of the corner of your eye as she chewed her lip, face turned away from you. "No," She said, wary. "I'm only here to look after the island for my parents."

You nodded, even though she couldn't see you, and returned to gazing outside. Maybe her parents are in hospital or something? Whatever the depth of her reason, it sounded personal. And complex. You shouldn't pry.

And you shouldn't take advantage of an innocent woman's hospitality, your conscience scolded. No choice, you rebutted.

Just then, someone knocked at the front door. Yelena shot you a look that carried a strange cocktail of warning, concern, and apprehension, before disappearing to attend to the visitor.

You weren't left alone for long. Yelena re-entered the room, biting her lip before glancing away and standing awkwardly in a corner. She was followed by a man slightly taller than her, whom you assumed was the doctor by his discoloured beige clinical coat and briefcase.

The doctor himself could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. He introduced himself as Dr. Graham in his warbly, squeaky voice. His face was mottled by acne scars, his chin weak and bare as if it had never borne a single hair. His babyish eyes popped out of their sockets, making him look like an eternally frightened rabbit. His hairline had already climbed up his forehead, leaving only wispy fawn tuft behind his ears.

Puberty must've hit him like a plastic toy car, you mused.

Dr. Graham did his necessary medical things quickly enough, diagnosing you miraculously concussion-free. You provided an easy lie about falling down the stairs when moving boxes, which the doctor accepted with a degree of coldness and Yelena listened to with something like caution in her eyes.

"You need four weeks of bedrest," Dr. Graham sternly gave his departing orders, crossing his arms over his chest in tepid persistence.

"But--"

"No buts."

"But--" Yelena tried.

"No. Buts. Good day to you." He stressed, glaring at each of you -- the effect somewhat disheartened by his buggish eyes -- before striding out the door.

"We'll see if your hairline lasts four weeks," You grumbled darkly. Yelena snickered at that, which drew your attention to her. 

"So."

"So," Yelena prompted when you trailed off, looking at you quizzically.

"So, is it okay for me to stay with you that long? I can't exactly go anywhere else; the jet had all my money and cards in it." The bandages wrapped around your chest flexed uncomfortably with stretching muscle.

Well, Tony's cards.

"Sure, why not. I don't plan on going anywhere for a while," There it was again; that cautious reservedness showing itself to maintain the simmering distance between you. "I will need to pick up some groceries from town though. Will you be alright here with Fanny?" Yelena said, moving to the doorway again.

"We're on one of the Thousand Islands, right? How does an entire town fit? I mean I can understand a doctor, but--"

Yelena rolled her eyes. "The town is on the mainland. I'll be taking my boat, Paučók." She said, a hint of motherly pride slipping through at that. "Also, the doctor used his own boat. We're alone on this island."

"Oh," Heat rose to your cheeks.

She rolled her eyes again and strode away. An unmistakable bulge in her pocket caught your eye. Your mood darkened. Maybe her parents aren't in hospital after all.

With that fun revelation, you decided to do some harmless snooping once Yelena was out of sight. The front door clicked shut, the lock twisting with anxious finality.

Pulling yourself off the chair, you leaned against the wall, riding out an immobilising wave of pain for a few long moments, your eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted. A little internal bleeding wouldn't stop you!

Fanny fretted at your heels, seemingly unperturbed by your being a stranger. You petted her reassuringly, and she scampered off down the hallway, leaving you to trail behind her at a snail's pace.

Y comes back, confesses past nervously, R guilty, reveals snooping, Y angry, trust lost, R works to apologise and reopens wound



A week later, Dr. Graham called requesting you go to the clinic for a check-up. You took the call since Yelena was in the boat shelter doing maintenance on Paučók. Because you had started a streak of regaining trust, you decided you would obey the doctor. Just this once. 

You didn't like pissing people off, contrary to popular belief -- it was messy to fix and sent you completely out of your depth -- even if it was endlessly amusing to annoy the doctor. Besides, Yelena would give you an earful if you hurt yourself again.

Heading out to find the aforementioned Russian and inform her, you took a plated stack of the pancakes you'd made, just in case she hadn't eaten yet. She'd been up and gone by the time you got moving, just dumping a used coffee cup in the sink as you appeared in the kitchen.

Walking through the bracing early morning mist, you got the sensation it wasn't going to shift for the rest of the day. The icy vapour stung your cheeks and whipped you into full vigilance: a hard slap from Mother Nature. You pulled your aviator's jacket tighter over your shoulders.

Stepping into the boat shelter, you went unnoticed by Yelena. This was strange, considering that in the time you'd known each other she'd always seemed to have a sixth sense for detecting your presence before you'd even walked through the door.

The cause of her distraction was soon revealed, as the whirring of machinery permeated the workshop.

Oh shit. Okay. She's ripped. Damn. Okay. Cool. Okay. Okay. Take a deep breath. One, two, three, release. Okay. Now use your words.

"I-I brought you, um, cakespan -- no, uhm -- pancakes!"

...What?!

You cringed.

(Gae muscle panic)

The doctor's clinic was, for whatever reason, not located on the mainland. Instead, it inhabited one of the larger islands alongside a few other residences -- enough to form a hamlet -- that sat just a few hundred metres into the lake, near the main feeding river's mouth. The clinic itself was a converted gothic mansion, all arching stone masonry and high, gilded ceilings that made rooms echo eerily.

The place wasn't busy; you were seen after just a few minutes, the only other patient being a pregnant woman accompanied by her wife. Yelena trailed after you into the examination room, stuck on the boundary of limiting your association and keeping you in her sights at all times.

You exchanged an apprehensive look upon noticing an unfamiliar boat moored to the island's jetty.

Yelena pulled in quietly, killing the engine and letting Paučók drift into place on the current. You both stepped out onto the platform, gaze locked on the stagnant house through sentinel trees. Its dark windows gazed back steadily with quiet amusement. 

Yelena bent to secure Paučók's ropes. She reached into her pocket and handed you a loaded semi-automatic handgun, as well as drawing a revolver for herself.

You handled the handgun with familiarity. "God, how many guns do you have on you?"

"Enough to be prepared."

Together, you crept up the beaten dirt track to the house, guns poised to react. The building waited for you patiently.

A bird swooped low over your heads, flapping hurriedly to ascend. You and Yelena startled at the abrupt action. The desperation in its wake left a strange, almost oppressive tension heavy in the crowding mist. 

In the next moment, it was dispelled like a river bursting as Fanny came sprinting after the bird through the trees, barking freely. She skidded to a halt at Yelena's feet, who quickly bent to attend to her dog. She slipped Fanny a treat and ruffled her thick coat, speaking to her as if she could answer.

"What happened, Fan? What are you doing out of the house, huh?" Yelena cooed. Fanny panted happily in response.

"Fanny!" A new voice called jovially through the opaque mist. 

A second later, a hazy humanoid solidified into an approaching silhouette striding toward them. With every muted step, their features sharpened to reveal fiery red hair draped over slim shoulders, a vest secure over a dark bodysuit, green eyes eclipsed by the dreary surroundings.

"Fanny," Natasha said again, scolding this time with a playful lilt, coming to a stop in front of the three.

"Natasha," Yelena answered, wide-eyed. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Yeah, Nat," You piped up. "What are you doing here?"

Natasha looked at him, surprise evident in her expression. "[Y/N]? What are you doing here?"

"Okay, we're getting nowhere with this. Let's go inside." Yelena said, leading the way up to the house. Fanny ran ahead eagerly, twirling in impatient circles as everyone traipsed behind her.

Once inside, the frigid mist shut out behind a heavy wooden door, you immediately moved to the fire. You rolled up the sleeves of his jacket to expose your forearms, but didn't shrug it off, still feeling the chill in your bones. You stirred up the glowing embers; feeding them another log and coaxing a true, strong flame out of it.

Meanwhile, Yelena hung up her overshirt on a peg and stepped into the adjoining kitchen, shuffling through cupboards. The kettle's whistle crescendoed cheerily a few moments later. 

Natasha kicked off her boots at the door, falling into an armchair with a grateful sigh. She produced a dog toy from a pocket when Fanny jumped onto her lap, teasing the Shepherd with it but neither wanting to move too far.

Accepting the mug of coffee from Yelena when she padded back into the living room, you took the other armchair, leaving her to claim the plush loveseat. Fanny jumped off Natasha's lap as she received her beverage, instead lying down on a rug in front of the resplendently roaring fire.

You inhaled the steam, the soft fragrance providing gentle caresses of nostalgia. You blew on the hot liquid until it was cool enough to sip safely, smiling at the taste. 

Yelena and Natasha sipped quietly from their own mugs -- labelled 'blood of my enemies' and 'keep it up and you will be a strange smell in the attic' respectively -- while staring introspectively into the fire. Well, Natasha was. Yelena was admiring Fanny. As she rightfully should.

"So, Natasha," The blonde finally said, facing the other woman with a somewhat annoyed expression, "What has brought you here?" 

Drizzling rain began to fall outside. Fresh symphonies of pine wafted in through a cracked open window, condensation forming in the corners of its rustic frame.

Natasha tore her gaze from the fire to meet her sister's over the rim of her mug. "Mason called me to say you'd requested extra time. He wanted me to make sure you hadn't gotten yourself into trouble."

Yelena nodded absently. Her hazel eyes were glazed over; distant in thought. You looked between the sisters, utterly lost. 

"Mason? Is he your landlord? Are you leaving soon?"

The log crackled and popped, jolting hard enough to cause everyone in the room to startle. Yelena stared into her mug guiltily.

"No. He's… this a safehouse. I'm waiting for some media controversy to blow over." She confessed to the hot chocolate.

"Controversy surrounding the death of an important army benefactor?" You asked.

She looked up at you, clearly surprised and a little wary, but nodded. You sank a little deeper into the armchair, trying to make yourself smaller. Yelena looked to Natasha for an explanation. The avenger smirked.

"[Y/N] here had to leave the states pretty urgently after being framed for that benefactor's murder," She supplied, clearly enjoying every moment of what was to come.

Yelena gaped for a few moments, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, before she finally managed coherency. "Shit, I'm so sorry! I promise I wasn't the one to point any blame at you."

You waved her off, red-faced. "It's fine. We know who it was. Unfortunately, no official will even consider it, and demand I be put behind bars."

"Tony's working on the legal stuff," Natasha reassured you, before returning her attention to her drink. 

"Tony? As in Tony Stark of Stark Industries? Iron Man? You know him?" Yelena gushed, eyes shining.

"WellI'mkindofanavenger," You mumbled sheepishly. Natasha snorted in amusement.

"[Y/N] is one of the cool kids I run around with," She said in answer to Yelena's confused frown.

The Russian was struck speechless. Fanny sighed and shifted, briefly drawing her attention from blank staring, which gave you a breather to compose yourself.

"Yes. I'm an Avenger," you said; steady and strong. You were proud of your occupation. You'd saved lives -- the entire planet! -- countless times, and you'd do it again in a heartbeat. Yelena had every right to understand that.

"So," Natasha said, finishing her drink in one gulp and standing, "I'll be calling Mason to tell him everything's fine, and the other safehouse in Yukon is free since you're both staying here. That right?"



Natasha ended up staying with you. 

In a quiet conversation by the patio firepit after Nat had gone to bed, you and Yelena both agreed that the avenger needed this more than she cared to admit. 

The next morning, Yelena invited her sister to stay with you for the whole run of your supposed bedrest, to which she reluctantly agreed. 

(Honestly, your insistence swayed her more than her own volition. She couldn't resist three sets of puppy eyes.)

It was hard for Natasha to let go of work.

The boys and Wanda were a mess without her, and she received numerous disgruntled or chaotic calls throughout the day. She talked herself into flying back to the states multiple times, but you wouldn't let her. 

Yelena tried telling the team to back off -- to just let her relax -- but they failed to learn how to function without Natasha. 

Eventually, Pepper intervened and the calls stopped. 

Before this, you had put Nat's phone on silent and hidden it while she was showering. Yelena returned with clothing flown over from the compound (she'd been lending hers to her sister until now since Nat didn't bring any) to find you taped to a wall and Natasha in a frenzy.

That day, her paranoia swiftly devolved into a panic attack, which turned into a full breakdown. 

It was heartbreaking to watch your friend fall apart. Yelena helped her through it, and after a therapeutic cry Nat was more willing to ignore the others. The team knew the emergency code. She was finally ready to accept a break.

Released from the tape by a sheepish Natasha, you gave her a loving hug to melt into, then texted Pepper.

Nat was much happier after that. Her soul sang free like the spring songbirds for the first time. Even during the three years in Ohio, the shadow of the Red Room had bound her wings, and the recent ordeal of taking down Dreykov, of Antonia -- coming face-to-face with her greatest nightmare -- had been emotionally intense. To say the least.

Finally getting a true break allowed the reality of those horrors to be released. A huge weight took flight from her shoulders. 

Of course, healing takes time, and is not a linear journey. You and Yelena were there for Natasha every day.

Yelena's mood improved with her sister's, and soon the two were acting as if they'd never been trained assassins separated for twenty years. They were just a normal family. Happy, content.

Mealtimes were filled with cheerful banter and laughter, the result of weaving around bodies crammed into the kitchen and steam clouding cracked open windows.

Mornings were spent lazing in bed, followed by sunbathing on the porch with a coffee. Nights were either filled with alcohol and stumbling to bed; or books, cozy blankets and a roaring fireplace. The rest of their day was occupied with chores, exploring the island, and swimming in the lake. Natasha mostly played with Fanny around the island. She was almost more infatuated with the dog than Yelena, if that was even possible.

At some point, you ended up gravitating into Yelena's bed.

[kaywavy]

transforming soffits reorganizing keys formalizing immersion joints justifying kick extractors advising aggregates managing elbows recasting connectors achieving aluminum trowels officiating disks exhibiting absolute spigots progressing coil hydrants jerry-building reflectors informing casters inventing rubber hoists performing wrenches judging chalk adapters upgrading ignition paths

regrowing flashing recommending ratchets approving barriers sweeping impact fillers sewing mirrors detailing collectors enforcing measures distributing systems presenting plugs interwinding registers piloting ash diffusers gathering cranks supplying eave pockets undertaking scroll stops accelerating straps designing fittings protecting diamond boilers logging downspouts correlating shingles uniting mallets qualifying electrostatic lifts sharing clamps obtaining circular fluids ranking foundation gauges sensing miter brackets originating space networks translating drills regulating guards selecting gable padding utilizing pellet dowels reconciling artifacts altering pulleys shedding space filters determining vents representing mortar remaking flash rakers supporting funnels typecasting rotary chocks expressing junctures resetting auxiliary vises professing strip treads inlaying matter trowels questioning drivers forming edge fittings sketching blanks overshooting spark breakers rewriting controls playing tunnels inventorying buttons enduring joint handles effecting ratchet bibbs unwinding couplings forsaking vapor conduits defining sockets calculating heaters raising grids administering tiles measuring resources installing ignition remotes extracting corners manufacturing ventilators delegating consoles treating mounting stones enacting jig deflectors intensifying alleys improvising cargo pinpointing bobs prescribing arc masonry structuring metal chucks symbolizing lathes activating plumb kits adapting coatings fixing channels expediting cordage planning compressors enlisting hangers restructuring keyhole augers shearing ridge hardware collecting reciprocating bolts maintaining corrugated dimmers whetting hole collars conducting mandrels comparing assets compiling sealants completing paths composing equivocation wheels computing dampers conceiving electrostatic treatment ordering cotter grates organizing ties orienting ladders exceeding materials targeting thermocouples demonstrating emery stock expanding latch bases training wardrobe adhesives overcomming[sic] fasteners streamlining storm anchors navigating springs perfecting turnbuckles verifying gate pegs arbitrating arithmetic lifts negotiating outlets normalizing strips building surface foggers checking key torches knitting grinders mowing planers offsetting stencils acquiring bulbs adopting rivets observing avenues ascertaining coaxial grommets slinging wing winches instituting circuit generators instructing wicks integrating pry shutters interpreting immersion lumber clarifying coils classifying wood bits closing cogs cataloging matter strips charting holders conceptualizing push terminals stimulating supports overthrowing shaft spacers quick-freezing connectors unbinding ground hooks analyzing eyes anticipating gateways controlling proposition rollers converting power angles coordinating staples correcting benders counseling joist gaskets recording gutter pipes recruiting drains rehabilitating rafter tubes reinforcing washers reporting guard valves naming freize sprues nominating rings noting straps doubling nailers drafting circuit hoses dramatizing flanges splitting framing compounds refitting stems interweaving patch unions placing sillcocks sorting slot threads securing mode cutters diverting catharsis plates procuring load thresholds transferring syllogism twine directing switch nuts referring time spools diagnosing knobs discovering locks dispensing hinges displaying hasps resending arc binders retreading grooves retrofitting aesthetics portals seeking stocks shrinking wormholes assembling blocks assessing divers attaining lug boxes auditing nescience passages conserving strikes constructing braces contracting saw catches serving installation irons recognizing fluxes consolidating fuse calipers mapping shims reviewing chop groovers scheduling lag drives simplifying hoists engineering levels enhancing tack hollows establishing finishing blocks

[sinning-23]

Socket Wrench: Chapt. 1

OKAY I finally found a name so if you read the introduction to the DK x reader this is the official title lol I was drawing a blank for a minute. Anyway, here's Chapter 1! Enjoy!

Introduction found here

Chapter 2 found here

Chapter 1: Am I dead? Or is this just Ohio?

Floating doesn't even describe half of what you're doing right now. If anything you feel like you're being launched gently in an unknown direction by some unknown gravitational force in the middle of what looks like sky??? A galaxy maybe? Whatever it was it was so damn ominous, but nothing peaceful lasts forever. You find yourself speeding up and burning into another tunnel, hopefully, a means to an end. The tunnel hurls you forward, the feeling of what seemed like grass breaking your fall for the most part. 

You heave from the impact, searching for the brothers but failing to see anything but jungle and wilderness. The last thing you needed was for some animal to decide that your time was up and they were feeling kinda hungry. In a situation like this, you figured the best thing to do was to sit ya ass down and wait for help but once again you choose to not follow the voice in your head. Hauling ass in any direction, you jump as every slight rustle of leaves and twig break. Clearly, this shit was no joke. 

Maybe you were dreaming? 

You ruled both out when you pinch yourself and take a niceee deep breath. At least you weren't completely useless, you knew how to throw a mean punch when needed. You trudge forward, and what seemed like a temple door becomes visible through the thick shrubbery of the jungle. You sign, feeling stupid for what you were about to try. There was a 50% chance someone answered as well as an equal chance for no one to be here at all, leaving you stranded in….where the hell you were. Where was this anyway? Florida? Nahhhh. 

You hold the door's handle, using it to give three firm knocks, sounding more like the police than a friendly passerby looking for instruction. You roll your eyes, a heavy sigh escaping your throat but before you coil try and knock again or even turn away to accept your fate, or even devise some kind of plan to get back home, you’re greeted by what seemed like the world's largest gorilla, a roar of sorts making you scramble, hands put up in defense. 

“JESUSSSSSS!” You screech, feel trying their best to get you back standing but you're far too startled for that.

Is this mf wearing a jacket….He’s wearing clothes???? Someone's pet maybe? You gulp, trying to gather your thoughts and try to communicate at least a little bit. This was a completely different world from your own…at this point, the only way to get back home was trial and error and you'd be damned if you gave up before even trying first. 

“I-I need to get back home. I don't know where I am or who’s in charge here. But I need help finding my….friends and getting home.” You speak, a sense of false confidence rushing over you as you try and make yourself look tough as nails even though you were about to piss your pants about 2 seconds ago.

The gorilla steps forward, trying to see through any facade you had, doing so successfully before stepping away. And then it…speaks.

“Get in.” 

—-----------

This was madness…..there's an entire civilization here…and it looks to be ONLY gorillas from what you could tell. Maybe you and the brothers were the only humans here… or maybe not? You were running off pure adrenaline at this point and even so, all questions you had were making themselves cozy in your mental filing cabinet The water is crystal clear as you travel by what seemed like a pretty modified Jeep. Your driver, the gorilla that SCREAMED IN YOUR DAMN FACE earlier, swerves and speeds like nothing down the wooden roadway, missing other cars by mere inches. It didn’t help that this thing didn’t have any seatbelts either, you felt that at any point in that crazy ass ride, you would have flown right out of your seat. You would give him props though because he got you to what looked like a palace temple in no time at all. Dusting yourself off you try and make yourself at least a little bit presentable to meet whoever was the ruler here. You had questions that needed answering effectively immediately. Hopefully, this ruler was merciful enough to not send you to a dungeon or some shit.

Pulling your braids to tighten your ponytail, you make it through an aisle of guards. Taking note of their attire, you're finally greeted by what looked like a smaller, older monkey sitting in the throne.

“Welcome to the Jungle Kingdom! Now what do you want,” His voice booms, as you raise a brow at the bluntness. 

“Just need some help, you just told me where I was so that's one question knocked out.” You explain, trying your best to be respectful seeing as apparently this was the ruler. You make a mental note to try and avoid conflict and get on his good side. 

“I came here through a pipe with two other people…my friends, well mentors? Or at least I think they came after me? I don't know. All I know is I came through a pipe and landed here. Your bouncer scared the shit out of me and now I'm here. I need to get back to them but I don’t know where they went.” You explain, realizing how unbothered this guy seemed at some random waltzing up to his Kingdom's front door and making it in.

��Sounds nice enough, what are you useful for? Anything you can offer in return for staying here?” He questions, most likely thinking of kicking you out to figure out this mess on your own. That was the last thing you needed. You had to try and convince this guy…

“I’m a mechanic? I noticed the cars you guys ride around in, I can help with that and you can help me. I scratch your back, you scratch mine?” You suggest, seeing him become slightly more interested in the fact that you knew your cars. 

“Well, they’re karts, and before I make any final decisions, where did you come from again?” He hums, stroking his beard. 

Was this mf not listening? You came from the magic pipe… well one in practically the asscrack of Brooklyn and now you’re here. 

“Brooklyn. And my name’s y/n” You explain as he waves you off as if to try and silence you. 

“Have my son take her to the garage. She can try her hand there, and in return, we help find her… associates.” You’re almost immediately accompanied by two guards keeping you in one direction and before you find yourself being shoved through the large double doors leading to the rest of the palace, the king speaks,

“And if she fails, put her back where she was found, I’m sure she can figure it out.” He chuckles, seeing the look of bewilderment on your face. 

—---------

The halls are long and quiet, only the sound of your shoes hitting the stones beneath your feet and metal armor clanking echo in the silence. This was only a means to an end, you would prove your worth and skill and then you'd be out here in no time! At least you hoped so. Maybe you'd even learn something for your own spot. Knowledge was power right? Who says interdimensional skills can be transferred?

“Soooooo, who’s his son? The prince right? That makes him a prince?” You try to fill the quiet with the conversation but the guards ain't budging. Their job was to simply transport you from one big ass room to the next. 

You huff, coming to a rather abrupt stop. The guard to your left knocks, awaiting an answer to wish there is none. 

“Sir, your father requests you take this woman to the garage.” 

“My name's y/n I promise it's not hard to remember.” You shoot back, hearing footsteps before the door swings wide open revealing who you could only assume was the king's son. The prince? 

This guy looks far too douchey to be a prince. The tie he’s wearing is loose and what you would assume was his initials on it was far more conceited than you’d imagine. He's eyeballing you like you're crazy and before either of you could ask any questions, the guards are long gone. 

“I don't like this any more than you do dude, I just got here okay?” You huff, putting your hands up in defense. 

“Yeah great. What did my dad need?” He's short with his response, whatever he was doing prior MUST have been far more important than this simple task his father requested. 

“Take me to the garage, see if I'm useful, if not kick me out and let me fend for myself.” You explain, arms folded. 

He shrugs, leading you through more halls now. At least it wasn't dead silent anymore, this one was far more chatty than the others you’d encountered thus far. 

“Soooo, this garage, whatcha got in there? I work on cars back where I'm from.” You ask, trying to catch up to him, then finally keeping pace at his side. 

He puffs out a bit of air before absolutely throttling you with information. He was awfully talkative, turning the conversation from that of the karts to him. Guess he reeeeally loved talking about himself. Typical prince behavior…sorta. 

“It's funny actually that I ended up here. I'm sure my odds elsewhere wouldn't have been in my favor. At least I can work.” You interrupt, more so talking to yourself now. 

“I’d just opened my own shop back home, gosh it was such a big deal and my dad doesn’t even think I can do it. I'm sure my services would be better off here anyway.” You chuckle bitterly. 

He was much taller than you, a stupid shit-eating grin splayed over his features, you're gazing upward at him, a slight tension building. 

“I'm sure you’ll be just fine. Seems like my dad and your dad have something in common.” The statement sounds a bit bitter but you don’t question it.

“Yeah… Hey, you’re chatty, bet the others just love you don’t they?” You joke, and he confirms this fact. Guess ‘ol boy was a bit of a celebrity. 

“That's cute, you like the attention?” You ask, trying to be somewhat flirty. He catches on and only leans toward you, making sure you knew how much bigger he was,his height, and just overall build make you shrink a bit. 

“Yeah, and I bet you prefer to keep to yourself? How cute.” He mimics, that stupid smile still splayed over his face. 

You'd hardly noticed how much time had passed talking to him but after wandering parts of the palace, you finally made it to the garage, the sound of work being done is exciting. You try to stop yourself from squealing in excitement but fail. The prince, who you decided to refer to by the initials on his tie, seemed somewhat intrigued. Your jaw almost drops when you walk in, the plethora of materials being used to build such intricate machines

“Please tell me I get to build a kart.” You whisper out, trying to take it all in.

“If you can figure out how you don't have to get kicked out. You look like a smart girl. I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out. Plus the mechanic stuff helps.” He chuckles, watching you look at the selection of cart items. 

“Teach me. Show me the basics, please? This is some other shit. We don’t have this in Brooklyn but I promise I’m a fast learner.” You hum, eyes wide at how easily some of the steps to building a kart had become with whatever system they were using. 

“No can do, lady, you gotta try your hand at it on your own. Don't worry, I know you just love my presence so I'll come to check on you in a while. Have fun.” He chuckles, leaving you to fend for yourself in the business of the garage, a series of glares practically burning into your back. 

“And my name’s not lady!” You call out, a smile creeping onto your face.

[pepsi-maxwell]

you asked for it <3 mcmg ficlet, rated pg at best, ~300 words, spoilers for the latest impact

-

There's nothing new to a beatdown, nothing Shelley hasn't experienced before.

His body aching from Moose's fists and feet tenderising him is more than familiar. It's a pain he can power through, has powered through plenty of times before. The sharp pinprick pain of hands dragging him upright by the hair, raking at his face, well, that just pisses him off, makes him want to fight back, even though it's hard to when he's getting jumped two, three on one, in his street clothes.

And the thing about being in a tag team for so fucking long means it's hard to fight the muscle memory. It's instinctive for him to want to reach out in the direction of the corner Sabin should be standing in, tag in, let Sabin take over while he catches his breath.

It happens in singles matches sometimes. Whenever it does, there's a moment where he laughs to himself for forgetting that as much as they're in each other's pockets, as much as they've got each other's backs, this time, it's his fight alone.

But now, dazed as he is from the blows to the head, with his shoulders wrenched back in their sockets and his legs wanting to collapse under him, he's forced to look into the corner of the ring. Sabin's corner.

The X-Division title gleams under the bright lights, and he tries to pull his arms forward, to reach out, but...

It's dangling from the hand of Lio Rush.

Sabin isn't here.

Sabin isn't going to be here for a while.

Sabin is out of action for god knows how long.

His heart sinks in his chest and he slumps in Bully Ray's grip.

Lio ducks out of the ring. Bully Ray turns him around, pushes him towards Myers, his arm outstretched—

As he falls backwards, just before his head hits the mat, he thinks, this fucking sucks—

[artsycervidae]

Moksha: Chapter 8

It's a fight scene.

Word Count: 5.2k

Refer to the masterlist for triggers and chapters.

     "That's not true! I have company right here. What more could I want?" Hinata insisted, not wanting the demon to discount himself. Frankly, this was the most comfortable they had felt in a while: other than the disgust and wariness of others, they rarely felt anything as strongly as a demon's biological metrics. With a body so strong it was like a fresh sip of air to their senses; they were so tired of being numb, save for the small instances of human fear. 

    He laughed although Hinata had spoken honestly. "If I'm your idea of company, then you must be really unpopular!" Then he threw his head back with a cackle. They shrugged it off, frowning more at the demon's self-deprecation than the truth he offered. Would he even believe them if they told him how he made them feel on sight; how impressed and curious they were; how he made their heart ache?

     'They have to be a Hashira,' Gyutaro thought. 'No way they couldn't be.' Which was as exhilarating as it was terrible. Daki just received her blood reward from Master Muzan and hadn't practiced at all with her newfound power, not to mention Gyutaro was already revealed to the enemy. Yet it was only the human's strength and speed that lended weight to his theory. Yasumoto's behavior otherwise defied everything Gyutaro had believed constituted a Hashira worth their merit: it was a pillar's style to control the situation and aim to end it all fast. Not chat it up in a clearly bleak situation.

    Yasumoto's reactionary fighting allowed Gyutaro to strike first-- and somehow, even when he knew to expect it, they flickered past his scythe and into his personal space. They were fast but repetitive. He caught their sword with his arm this time. It sliced cleanly through his knuckles and anchored into the bed of his wristbones. He flexed, curling the remnants of his limb around the weapon, and brought his other scythe up into their underchin--

     Or he would have, had they not copied his tactic. His kama stuck fast in their left hand, a disjointed mess of angles and shrapnel and not meat. "Goodness! Your style is so vicious and effec--"

     Hinata's mind blanked. Perhaps it was partly due to the piercing poltergeist shock working itself between their ulnar and radius-- but their words faltered when they gazed into the flickering bonfires of his eyes, the veins pointing accusatory fingers to the contorted pupils, 'Upper Rank' and 'Six.' They paid for their stutter-- the demon yanked hard enough that they felt the 'pop!' of his shoulder leaving its socket, the other snapping completely at the elbow. He wrenched hard to free the disjointed limb then he barrelled forward, the other arm already whole and armed, one of those scythes set to gut them. Hinata retreated-- twisted their hand and sword away at once, launched into a desperate backwards somersault before leaping to their feet to appreciate how the demon, unaffected, unbothered, healed these wounds as soon as the razor edges passed through-- such incredible regenerative ability, of course it belonged to a Kizuki! The idea struck home again: they had been right. They were vindicated! One of the Upper Ranks was here! 

     They delighted in how frequently they had to dissuade death with a single weapon-- nigh impossible! A soft sigh slipped from them as they twisted their own left wrist 'out of place.' There was no bone there to snap, but the three pairs of stolen chopsticks keeping the weapon reeled in cracked audibly.

     Gyutaro pressed on, a flurry of bloodied crescents came spewing out of his arteries and veins like seeping evil. "Let's see you stop these!" He announced, the projectiles moving faster now with the pre-built momentum. Yasumoto's permanent-splattered blade deflected them, but rather than dissipate like ones before, the airborne blood spiraled out and swung back in on the human for a second impact.

    'This Blood Demon Art!' Hinata was astounded at the flexibility of this hemomancy; their appetite already whetted against the power in each cut. They were starving to know more! 

     Gyutaro swore that they had uttered "Marvelous" as their silvery gaze flickered about their unfortunate state. Rather than despair, that prosthetic hand whipped out. 'It'll take more than a simple block to stop this, idiot.' He wasn't prepared for the liquid blades to slam into each other, their speed carrying them into a new motion. His control over them was still limited enough that it was like having them slapped right out of his hands. They careened around the swordsman in an echoing crash of tinkling and squelshing.

     Yasumoto jerked their left hand again, its outline now skeletal thin. From what used to be an empty grasp, a barbed net spun itself into a tight whip, whistling to its wielder and settling into the dirt obediently. "They were heavier!" The Slayer sounded borderline ecstatic as they gestured with the ribbon of stars-- the shimmering nodes were made of fractured nichirin pieces. Someone's broken sword had been recycled into a nightmare web that distributed his strikes evenly and swept them away. 

     "What's your name?" Hinata asked, unable to help it. This guy was really making them work for their life! Their brain lit up like a struck matchbook. It wouldn't be long before their heart rate and body temperature spiked as their Immolation Breathing gained traction. Their hands were already shaking, and they couldn't discern if it was from anxiety or adoration.

     The demon tilted his head, his face split open in a cruel, amused grin. Like the maw of a wild dog, wondering what exactly this excitable whelp was yapping at. "Why do you need to know, Yasumoto?"

     This had the opposite of the desired reaction. Anytime Gyutaro drawled his victims' names, it elicited a cringing wince, at least a disdainful frown. Instead, Hinata's mouth fell open in pleasant surprise before beaming. "Let's say it's for sentimental reasons," they encouraged as they bounced on their toes; the net sang out, thirsty for demon blood.

     "You're confident," Gyutaro griped, "I've eaten four Hashira now and countless other humans." Daki had eaten only a single Hashira-- the kill that she stole credit for. That made five total kills under his belt.

    It occurred to Gyutaro, suddenly, that with such compliant movements of the net, it meant Yasumoto had to be tethered to the weapon somehow. 'Finally. A way to control the situation.'

     Yasumoto glimmered at the intimidation, emitting an appreciative whistle -- Gyutaro didn't know how to take that. Normally flaunting his body count would rouse some fury or sense of justice. The amiability had to be a thinly-veiled rage, because that was what a comrade-in-arms felt knowing their friends had been brutally murdered. But here Yasumoto was, sword in one hand, net in the other, shivering in place as if their energy threatened to burst out of them...

    "My name is Gyutaro," he said simply, taking slow steps to Yasumoto's left.

     Hinata allowed this and echoed, "Gyutaro." It probably wasn't his real name-- this happened with demons. They forgot their past lives and only remembered what Muzan's blood spared: what made them useful. "Gyutaro! You know my name, then. Introductions are made--"

     Gyutaro sprang midstep-- but Yasumoto moved too. 'I didn't leave any tells that time,' Gyutaro thought bitterly. He was faster than this human and they were still keeping up: their sword guarding his melee swipes, the net catching airborne attacks, and always slipping just beyond his reach like a trick of the light. He had to recalibrate again, leaping out of the raining fragments' reach before Yasumoto swung it down as though to net a bug.

     "You must be strong! That was enough to make anyone else stumble," Gyutaro complained, stalling for an opening as the dust settled. They clearly had no issue with chitchat. He would use whatever was available. "And that's a fancy weapon. Whose sword is that? Not yours, obviously, it doesn't have the same color."

     "You know about that!" What a catch: observant, sly, powerful. Just what Hinata had always hoped. "Yes, I'm afraid you're right. It's not mine, originally." What could it hurt to be honest with the last person they intended to meet in this lifetime?

     "Maybe it belonged to your last tsuguko," Gyutaro ventured, "before you had to get a new one." He struck a chord, but it produced the wrong note. Yasumoto's mouth opened as if to gasp, eyebrows raised, but their cool eyes reflected only the demon himself. He could hear their heartbeat picking up-- couldn't discern its reasoning. 

     "You flatter me," which wasn't what Gyutaro wanted to hear, but he still held his suspicions, "I'm afraid you're wrong. I have no students and am in no place to retain a tsuguko. I lack the privileged position, see." They began to sidestep in a slow semi-circle-- mimicking his earlier action. He raised his dual kama, his spiteful nails biting into his palms regardless. Gyutaro refused to play on the defensive and instead prepared to strike once he found an opening.

     "So I'm to believe you're not a Hashira. Yeah. Right. They revoke your certificate or whatever?"

     Yasumoto laughed like a large, resonous bell, the artificial tinkling of their net underscoring the sound. "Ha ha ha! You're funny too! Man, this is spectacular. I like you, Gyutaro!" And then they blinked, as if they hadn't expected to say that out loud. "Maybe that's strange to think, after only having met."

     There were way more circumstances that made that declaration bizarre, but Gyutaro wasn't one to be distracted so easily: not when Yasumoto was creeping so close to the side of the road, where the terrain was less even and the trees limited those brutal nichirin weapons. "I suspect that 'liking' me won't encourage you to roll over and die, though?" he mocked.

    "What fun is there in that?" which was a fair question. The moment their heel planted on the side of the path, Gyutaro struck out, arms swinging in wild calculation to emit more flying sickles that could only be deflected by the net-- but Gyutaro flung himself into the fray. Of course, the nichirin barbs responded in kind, swiping the whorls of blood and coming back for him. He seized it and whirled it from an open net into that twisted whip. The shards melted holes into his flesh as though he'd grabbed janky coals, ripping and biting and shredding, but he bore his teeth and held on. He pulled vigorously, hauling the Slayer bodily by their own cabled tool. Gyutaro moved to swipe his victim's head clean off their shoulders at the weak angle of their ear and jaw. The sword shifted in Yasumoto's hand, their legs tucked upward.

     Gyutaro felt the shock down both arms-- namely because Yasumoto had caught the length of net remaining between them, reeled themself in at the same time to wrench the distance closed between the blades, narrowly blocking decapitation. That gruesome left hand gripped the net-wrapped katana then and they kicked hard off of Gyutaro's chest. 

     But for that brief moment they were in his grasp, he knew he had an opening-- though they were already fleeing, he sliced a shallow gash across their front, expecting to watch blood spill. Instead, flowers flowed into the air and Gyutaro automatically howled at the sudden needling welts that soft petals left on his skin. 'Fucking wisteria? Seriously?'

  Gyutaro let them go, but not without a flurry of scythes to chase after the human. No good-- a rapid unfolding of the net, a pirouette spin, and it was all captured and sent overhead and brought to the ground behind them again. Yasumoto paused to examine their front, pressing a hand to the cut and pulling it away. The red was only a smear-- Gyutaro's blood boiled at the missed opportunity. If only he had worked out that poison idea, then they would have been his.

     "Good grief!! You frightened me! I thought I was a goner for sure." Hinata's filter was deteriorating-- between the fever and phantom pains wracking their muscles, the rest of their attention was tunneling down on Gyutaro. Even the laceration was a far-off feeling when they switched to Recovery Breathing mid-stance. They had never exerted their Third Form to this extent before. It worked best as an all-around offense, but so far it only neutralized the Demon Art projectiles. There was a cost being rung up the longer this went on, but it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered except Gyutaro, right here, right now, the strongest demon they had ever met.

     'There it is.' Gyutaro grinned. He noticed their weight shift, favoring the left side. Left leg? Left abdomen? 'No wonder you've got that thing. You're compensating. For what?' "I haven't even begun trying yet," Gyutaro taunted. There had to be a threshold to their confidence-- a tipping point where this stopped being fun and games.

     Yasumoto raised their head, mercury eyes and needle teeth flashing, they laughed "I can't wait to earn your sincerity, then! Ha ha ha,"-- and the noise seemed off-tune. This laughter was, in actuality, panting and shaking: a thin sheen of sweat had worked to their skin where the night air cooled it, unbearably warm and cold. 'They're enjoying this.'

     Their gaze locked on him. They were both grinning, chests heaving, and keeping in stride at a solid stalemate.

     A sudden shock of déjà vu: a crowd of people, insatiable, vying, admiring. Staring up towards him, but never at him.

     There was no mistaking it this time: these eyes were for him and him alone.

     Gyutaro's first thought was 'What the hell?' before dismissing the idea completely. Just adrenaline and bloodlust. Fights always got heated, especially when Gyutaro had to think at the same time. Demon Slayers were like cockroaches sometimes, with how they just refused to die.

     Unfortunately, it was in that moment's disarment that the Slayer raised their net and smattered semi-scarlet blade. Gyutaro reacted-- a stupid decision, but at the same time, he couldn't help the stab of dread that he needed to get the first shot in against this nonsense opponent. So he moved alongside the path while firing off crescents he'd judged to be approximate to the net's nodes. That wasn't enough-- he raised his scythes, prepared to exchange blows again. He had been right to do so: Yasumoto's net had been struck from the air, but the drag did little to nothing by way of slowing them. Their sword kept moving, kept moving, kept moving-- their fighting form was becoming more fluid, more frenzied, but Gyutaro had the benefit of experience.

     Hinata couldn't stop moving now. That was the vital rule of Immolation Breathing: once their brain dumped bucketloads of endorphins, they had to press on lest they smother the bonfire lit inside their chest. This was fine to them-- if anything, this was the best part. When the rest of the world fell to the sidelines and all that mattered was the person before them. How he moved. The way he breathed. The expressions he made. The decisions he took to shape the future.

     Hinata had yet to truly appreciate Gyutaro to his fullest. He was holding back-- 'But he thought I was a Hashira,' and they could have blushed at the idea. They kept attacking and forcing him back, drinking in his every reflex and reaction which in turn fueled their fire.

     The push for ground had devastated the area. Trees were slashed, scorched, shredded, pock marked, and gashed with stray parries. That wasn't unusual for Gyutaro, but if anything the degree of destruction was significantly higher than usual. The earlier attacks had been so precise and particular; Yasumoto could  control it, but hadn't.

    That wasn't the action of someone who fought for the preservation of life. More specifically, it seemed the action of someone who wasn't expecting to help or be helped. It would have been great news, if Gyutaro could pull his ass out of the corner and start dealing some damage. He was making off-the-cuff decisions with every move and Yasumoto's attention wouldn't let up. It aggravated him. It exalted him.

      Gyutaro wouldn't be receiving any slices that he didn't anticipate. And while he did let a blow or two slip by, just to feel his excess blood run liquid for a moment (and attempt a couple sly ambush slices-- which had been hopeful thinking), he had survived the assault. Obviously. Yasumoto eventually backed out first, swirling away, flickering in and out of vision. Their vicinity sparkled with sweat and sword pieces as they caught their breath. "You can't even really feel this, can you?"

    Which stopped Gyutaro short. "Of course I feel it," he scoffed. 

     "But not fully... your nervous system is altered somehow. It's like..." Yasumoto's eyes drifted away from Gyutaro's face, traveling over his frame as if the words were etched into his skeletal system. "It feels blunted or softer, in a way? Your brain knows my sword is sharp, but the pain is rounded out and... More like a pressure." They paused for a moment, and then considered, "Pain isn't all that unpleasant to you, is it?"

     That was creepy. It hadn't occurred to him before, that his sense of pain was incomplete, but their words struck true. How could they know that? "What are you talking about?" he diffused, forcing boredom into his raspy voice. 

     Hinata hypothesized: Gyutaro's Blood Demon Art lended itself toward regeneration, possibly even overgenerating, and his demonic nature had made up for how goddamn painful such a power would be. It was such a strange ability... imbalanced somehow, though incredibly simple for a Demon Art. The hemomancy was a creative way of weaponizing himself, just like Danno and all his parts. Was this a pattern for stronger Kizuki, or did it mean there was a deeper rabbithole to be followed? Where did the human end and the demon begin? 

     "Just wondering," Yasumoto said, lifting their sword. It was only the flash of light across the blade that brought Gyutaro back to his miserable reality: he was running out of time, the night sky healing from its deep-blue bruise, turning purplish and green as the sun threatened to break the horizon. He had gotten lost in the obsession of trying to rip off Yasumoto's head. He hadn't provided a red herring, he couldn't even scrounge any food for Daki; realizing how much of a personal failure the night was made him grind his teeth together. 

     "No more messing around," he snarled. One more rampage of sickles-- Gyutaro made the offense this time, putting more anger and effort into manipulating Yasumoto out of the way. "This is when you try to kill me!" Gyutaro raged, "and where I cut you down!" It's when the Hashira proclaimed that he would suffer for his crimes, and Gyutaro would laugh in their face before rendering their bones to dust and their eyes to jelly, ripping them into pieces and devouring them to the very last scrap after they had given it their all and exhausted their reserves.

    Someone had failed to tell Yasumoto that part of the job. They kept getting away, dodging, dancing, vanishing, panting-- backing out any way they could manage, and Gyutaro screamed in sheer frustration. "Get back here! I'm not done with you! Coward! Sad sack!" Yasumoto had wasted his time and energy, made him fuck around in the wilderness with nothing to show for it, and there was a price to be paid in offal. It was practically stealing-- what did Gyutaro gain from this, besides the heat of the moment and the afterburn of shame? All of this, over a human.

     Gyutaro's sudden rage hurt. Literally, the demon's mood swing made Hinata's skull grip their brain like a vice. 'High blood pressure for a demon who has too much blood--' Hinata would have laughed if they weren't being split in half by the agony, doing all they could to not die. His words washed over them in a wave, half of the pain numbed by their sudden dizziness. Their hopes of survival began to steadily descend. They had to get serious too.

     They dashed back and there was space between the fighters again, leaving Gyutaro to stand his ground, torn between absconding and attacking, their arena stinking of sweat and saliva, charcoal and ash. They raised both weapons again as a silent, sturdy inhale filled their diaphragm. 

     "Immolation Breathing," they uttered, "Third Form: Gluttonous Inferno."

     Gyutaro could dissect it this time. Yasumoto's body shook with the intensity of violent energy burning inside them before they exploded into motion. The net swept the area, sparking and skipping across anything it could land on (several of those damnable shards shredded flesh from his raised arm), and the katana bit and clawed in the same illusory flicker of Yasumoto's movements. Any soul, animate or not, would have perished at too close a distance; anyone would have turned tail and escaped the bounds of the hungry forest fire, the only sensible thing to do when some lunatic sets their own body ablaze with bloodlust. 

     Gyutaro chose to retreat: not because he was scared or particularly wounded, but because the ultimate fire in the sky was coming, and it had a vaster reach than the Slayer. While Yasumoto was distracted by their own destructive frenzy, he would see to his main priority: he had promised Daki he would be home before the sun rose. Before all else, his sister's puckered brow and worried frown was what he had on his mind. There was no question of meeting the Slayer again, and Gyutaro knew this with a conflicting smugness.

     Hinata burnt all the fuel they had left in their body. They drew the net to their side and heaved, their stomach twisting in pain that was wholly their own. The terrible strain in their legs was not: the sensation of running so hard and fast that the muscle fibers ripped themselves apart, healed together, ripped, healed, ripped, healed, left, right, left--

     'He's running?' The disappointment hurt more than the hunger pangs.

     Then they saw their stubborn and unwanted saving grace, the softening of the night sky. Hinata scoffed and began to run after Gyutaro, following the thrumming and singing of his nervous system. The demon vastly outpaced them, not to mention the headstart that he had. Even so, Hinata hounded him, high and livewire but running on fumes.

     The district was quiet. The parties had long ended, and the only life to behold were the day-to-day shufflings of early risers responsible for breaking fast and renewing energy. Gyutaro scrambled down the buildings, his long fingers gauging into wooden beams and clay roof shingles, forcing the window open for him to roll inside Daki's room and burst into rough coughs. "Gyutaro! Gyutaro! Older brother, what happened? It's so early... where have you been?" He felt Daki's hands on him, pawing his shoulders to a sitting position and cupping his face. Honestly fretting, as if she truly thought he could have been lost to her. 

    "Daki, the Demon Corps are here." He let her hold him and felt instantly better. Being in the room was like returning to his lair, but being in his sister's grasp was like returning home.

    "I know."

    "That's not all. They sent a Hashira."

    She set his head on her shoulder as she began telling him about the Slayer she had seen downstairs, making it easier for him to simply sink into her muscles and bones. Vaguely, he recognized the boy she described as the rider-- though he doubted Daki's insistence that the Slayer was eight years old maximum. "Did he see you?"

     "No," she said immediately. "He was with one of our patrons, but they're gone now."

     Gyutaro was too tired to be annoyed with her laziness. He wished she had spied a little more, figured out why the Slayers were here if not for demon-hunting. He was listening as she went on to complain about Madam Tamaki and the ingrates surrounding her, instead telling him her schemes to get the humans back in line, but as his aches eased away, Gyutaro's mind wandered to Yasumoto again. The adoring, wanting look in their eyes: 'Why would they look at me like that?'

     ... It didn't matter. He and his sister wouldn't be flushed out from their home, he swore. They would murder the Slayers and devour their hearts. Gyutaro looked forward to watching those quicksilver eyes watching him before glazing over in death. And he was going to tell Master Muzan himself just who had dealt the final blow to this particular Hashira. 

------

     "No!" Hinata cried, stumbling to a stop with their hands on their knees. "No! Where'd you go?" They hopped off the rooftop, landing soundlessly and trotting a little further. No good. The trail was cold and nonexistent.

     Gyutaro vanished. This had happened a handful of times before and not a single time had been convenient: teleportation, shapeshifting, skin-shedding. The possibilities of demonic spells were endless. Hinata agonized at the idea of not being able to find Gyutaro whenever they wanted. 'Would he bother seeking me out?' they wondered. They had ended up in Yoshiwara, the red light district-- the same area the suitor had been. Such luck! Such a close shave! But mostly, what luck! Because finally, Hinata met Gyutaro-- and the name made much more sense!

     He wasn't one of Muzan's smoke bomb Lowers, not just a demon leeching off the underbelly of society. He was a fledgling but the potential he held was palpable. Gyutaro was everything Hinata could have hoped for. 'The Corps won't be able to ignore this. If I start the domino effect, they'll HAVE to listen. They'll have to acknowledge me.' They suspected Nobutoshi hadn't really believed an Upper Rank was here, and they grinned through their heavy breathing, imagining his stoicism cracking in the face of Hinata's victory. 

     This was it: All of Hinata's restless nights, weeks of studying, months of multi-tasking, years of hunting-- it had all come to a head. To a single demon. It was the end of the race and Hinata beat Nobutoshi to it, the Mist Hashira practically blessing the plan. He was always so blind sometimes, thinking he knew everything that happened, yet unaware that a stray cat had made off with his fish dinner. 

     There was so much to do. 

     'I'm going to earn my freedom back and more. I'm going to unfuck what you did to me,' Hinata thought eagerly. 'Or I'm going to die trying and take you with me, Nobu.' But Nobutoshi was swiftly forgotten as Hinata reflected on the masterful battle: Gyutaro obscuring his killing intent until the moment's strike, his speed in a class of its own, and those haunting eyes. They recalled the reach of his limbs, the slouch of his spine, the dexterity of his form. Hinata shivered a final time-- terror and fondness and loathing allowing one final wave of energy before the crash.

    And they crashed hard.

     Hinata stumbled into the nearest wall, their insides cramping all at the same time. They dry-heaved once, twice, thrice. But they had dieted scrupulously so there were no remains to regurgitate. Just a lot of saliva as their body revolted against the abusive drawbacks of Immolation Breathing. The injury across their lower rib had stopped bleeding, thankfully, but without Gyutaro's undead cells to focus on, there was nothing but the soft, vulnerable sickness preceding the suicidal thoughts. 

     They hated this body. They hated that they couldn't gorge on nutrients, hated being alone... but above all, they hated the people living their lives in blissful ignorance, taking advantage of others who suffered for them and still being so unkind as to sneer down on those who struggled to get anywhere-- people so out of touch with the big picture that they took themselves far too seriously.

    'Get over it,' they thought unkindly. 'The world moves on. Kill yourself after you take care of Nobutoshi, if that's what you really want to do.' They would be able to do anything, after all was said and done.

     They shifted their weight and put their back against the building, reaching under their clothes to pat at the pouches underneath. The ones that held food and wisteria blossoms were predictably empty; they instead withdrew their hand crank. They unfolded it and, with great fatigue, placed it in the socket located at the base of their prosthetic. They slowly rotated the handle, reeling the cables of their net back into the crevices along their wrist and knuckle joints. They needed food. They needed rest. But most of all... they needed to prioritize the next step in their plan.

     And so they blearily and shakily forced their legs to walk, letting their kimono robe hang off their left shoulder and wrapping the excess cloth around their dangerous hand, the handle tucked into their ribs. Hinata suffered to move, but lucky for them, there were food stands outside of the red light district, and their batches were fresh. The warm smells of smoked eel and steamed doughs made them nauseous-- so hungry that they couldn't stand the idea of food in their mouth, but one of the entrepreneurs had an irresistible smile. It faltered when Hinata approached, predictably, but seeing the money this pitiable creature fished out from their tattered clothes, he couldn't help but ask "What can I make for you?"

     Hinata walked away with two bento boxes, a kebab of dumplings, and five sets of chopsticks, 'just in case.' The man seemed annoyed that his patron elected to saunter off without eating in front of him. Stupid reason to get angry at someone, but it didn't stop Hinata from scowling on their own, someone else's misplaced frustration captured in their chest to fill the void.

     True comfort came in the form of sunrise-- and good God, what a comfort. The light that had driven Gyutaro away deigned to caress Hinata's cheeks and throat, forgiving them for their own ungratefulness. Being a weakling was infuriating but it was always good to remember that the alternative was far worse: so long as they weren't a demon, they could feel assured knowing that they probably hadn't condemned anyone else to eternal hellfire. 

     After choking down the sweet-and-salty snack, Hinata sat down and used three of the chopsticks to jostle the internal parts of their left hand, squeezing them past the spool and into the braking mechanism inside. It clicked, and they retracted the handle cautiously. With the blade parts seated against the skeletal hand, they flexed their fingers tentatively. No shuddering, no looseness. They sighed and folded the hand crank again, tucking it back into its pouch.

     Though they had been the one to buy both lunches, they paused and stared at the boxes quizzically: why had they purchased so much food again? Who had been on their mind when they decided to bring sustenance with them? Maybe it had been habit, after years of practically sharing a stomach with Nobutoshi--

     "Oh shit," Hinata uttered, recalling Tetsuya; the unexpected variable, an obstacle in their murder-suicide schemes. Nobutoshi's spy. Junko's brother.

    This complicated things.

[ferreterrotools]

Impact socket sets and wrench tool suppliers in India  IMPACT SOCKET:Impact sockets are highly recommended hand tools manufactured by Jhalani hand tool manufacturers and wholesalers.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Perched Unlikely (chapter 1)

Trapped or Freed

Pairing: soap/ghost

Tags: httyd!AU, blood, injury, gore, hurt/comfort, violence

Ao3 link || Chapter 2

"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles [...] If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle." - Sun Tzu "The Art of War"

---------

SNAP!

The beast let out a screech as razor netting sprung up around it, cutting deep into scales and skin. Yellow-spotted purples and greens flashed to swirling blue-edged reds and browns. A lock of sharpened wiring caught on its eye as it struggled, leaving a red, weeping streak behind.

“Quick! Cut the frill before it gets away!”

“Bind its mouth!”

“Pull that edge up!”

A craze of flailing blades and ropes before someone took control of its head. Grabbing one of its fangs and forcing the head down to the ground. Another pair of too harsh hands began yanking at the webbed spines behind its head. Red-brown clay washed over its body as it tried to jerk out of the grasp holding it down. There were too many of the malevolent creatures, more hands tugged and prodded; forcing it into submission.

The frill splayed open on the ground, pulled painfully wide by tight gripping hands from either end. Its neck and head were wrenched into an uncomfortable position to display its frill, bleeding eye pressed stingingly into the ground. The wicked edge of silvery sharpness caught the sun. the thing came down hard and fast. The impact first, pressure and then release, and then…

PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! Nothing! PAIN! Nothing! PAIN! Nothing! PAIN! Nothing! PAin! Nothing! Pain! Nothing…

~~~~~~~~~~

It was a split-second decision that had him abandoning his post; the first time he’d ever done so; and sent him dashing through the trees. Another screech of agony rang through the trees, and something ticked in his heart. He barely managed to duck in time to avoid a low hanging branch from taking out an eye.

The trees opened up into a clearing; well as much of a clearing that removing a few trees from a crowded forest could create. There were dozens of men swarming the area, wearing black tac-gear, but no visible insignia, patch, or other organization indicator. These guys were clearly not working inside the law. Not that the dragon caught in illegal razor netting didn’t give it away.

The dragon struggled weakly as the soldiers wrestled it into a crudely small cage for transport. The dragon’s head jerked in his direction for a moment and he could see a straight, cringe-worthy, deep laceration running the length of its face, right across its eye. Another angle gave him visuals on an even more grotesque sight. The huge frill at the base of its skull had been cut, almost all the way down, right through the middle.

He should call this in, notify base what was happening here, that was protocol. He was going to, his hand was on his radio. Just then the dragon heaved its massive finned tail around, knocking a handful of soldiers off their feet. There’s never a better advantage than chaos, and Ghost is never one to punch a gift-horse in the mouth.

He lept into action, he turned to the ones holding down the ropes around its maw. It was only a second before the attention was turned on him. Only half the guys drew guns, the other half pulled out large bladed weapons. From the cover of the trees it was easy to take out the ones with guns, before his own clicked empty. The others were a different story, they had time to make good distance, and he didn’t have any to reload. Five down, six to go, plus check for a driver. He swung his gun across his back, out of the way.

He slipped out two knives, lost one in the eye socket of the first to reach him. Slashed the second through another’s throat, leaving him to drown in his own spraying blood. He pulled out another knife from his vest, and gripped his other in a firm grip; glad his gloves were broken in properly. Seven down, four to go. He dug one blade in through the base of the shoulder twice before opening his jugular to leak blood everywhere. The next he uppercutted in a swift movement before sinking his blade into the trachea, he whirled to launch the blade into someone coming up behind him, before gurgling sounds reached his ears. Ten down, one to go. The last one caught him in the thigh, just barely, before he too was collapsing down into a growing pool of his own suffocating blood.

The dragon was still thrashing on the ground, trying to get free, but he couldn’t release it yet. Not until he checked the vehicle. He locked eyes with the creature for a second, he tried to convey as much comfort as he could with his eyes. It still struggled to get free, but the deep growling changed to a shrill nattering as he crept around the side of the armored jeep. He kept his steps light, doing his best to keep his shadow hidden as he snuck over to the door. There was one guy, as he suspected, completely tense and ready to strike. He pulled out a fixed blade and swung. Ghost wasn’t quite fast enough and it sunk deep into the muscle of his shoulder. Quick retaliation gave the man a knife in the thigh, before his own was ripped from his hand and returned in his carotid artery.

He blew out a breath as the last man clawed at his own throat, before turning away. He keyed his radio as he limped back to the creature tied to the ground.

“Watcher, this is Bravo 7-0.” he tugged at one of the stakes shoved deep into the dirt with a grunt.

“7-0, this is watcher, did you get the HVT?” Laswell's voice sounded in his ear.

“Laswell, What d’ya on poaching in the area here?” he said with another grunt, disregarding her question.

“Did. you. Get. the. Target?” Laswell was a determined woman, who demanded respect, if he’d ever met one.

“No, intel was a bust. Too many guards, no target.”

“Fine. What poacher, bird? Quadrupeds? Apes?”

“Dragons.” He removed the last stake, and began pulling at the net, as Laswell's side lapsed into silence for a moment. The dragon had stopped struggling, and was really only making weak whimpering sounds.

“Looks like there’s quite a few here, Ghost.”

“Are any of ‘em private or unaffiliated? These guys don’t have patches.” pulling the last of the net shredded right through his gloves. He’d need to replace them when he got back.

“What species did you find?”

“Uh unsure. Looks bipedal, large head frill, long tail with a fin, two smaller arms.”

“Sounds like you have a hobblegrunt. I’m seeing two possible options, one is unnamed, the other goes by ‘Shadow Company’.” he shucked his gloves off, as laswell spoke. Moving slowly he tried to get a good look at its eye before it pulled away.

“What do we know about the head frill? Or injuries to it?”

“Not a lot. They can read and alter emotions and the surrounding environment with it. All recorded cases of injury to it seem to show that they lose most if not all of its abilities. Essentially making them blind.” he blew out a breath. “Ghost?” Laswell called out to him when he didn’t respond.

“Can you call Nik? Tell him I’m ready for exfil.. And to bring the cargo plane, and the large medkit.” he asked, “please.” he added a moment later.

“I’ll let him know. Are you injured?”

“Bastards cut it up, real good.” Laswell let the silence drag on, knowing who would win, “... nothing a few stitches won’t fix.”

“Good. I'm sending him your way, he says two hours, you good ‘til then?”

“Yeah. 7-0 out.” he let the line go dead before focusing on the task at hand. He somehow had to get both himself and the dragon back to exfil without injuring either of them further.

First thing first, he had to take care of his own wounds so he wouldn’t pass out. Once he had some bandages hastily slapped on he turned towards the dragon.

“They really did a number on ya, huh?” it just looked at him warily. Slowly he held up the rest of the gauze for it to see. He pointed to it then his own patched shoulder, then at the dragon. Hoping he was right in assuming it was smart enough to understand him. Blue and purple spotted the brown tones as red faded out of its scales.

Still moving slowly he ran a gentle hand up its face, stopping just before the wound to inspect it. It was still steadily weeping blood, but not it had bits of dirt and other ground matter stuck in it, which couldn’t have been good. He grabbed his canteen, moved back to where he assumed it could see him then mimed himself pouring water over his eye. It blinked at him, then shifted its head closer. Slowly he slid back over to the injured eye, uncapped his water, and let a steady trickle rinse away loose dirt and blood. Once satisfied he gently covered it with a sticky gauze to hopefully keep anything else from getting into the wound. He wasn’t sure it would do much else, not with the severity of it.

“Good. that's a good… boy?... girl?” he spoke in what he hoped was a soothing tone. It gave a little trill at the last bit. “Good girl. Can I see your frill?” he stroked over her nose softly as he spoke. Another surge of brown and blue washed over her with an almost whimper like noise from her throat.

“shh ok. I won’t touch it. I won’t touch it.” he moved back over to her line of sight as he continued stroking over her nose. The other cuts and scrapes along her body seemed to have stopped bleeding for the most part, it was the eye and the frill that was the most worrying to him. And he still had to get them to the exfil location.

They stayed like that for another minute before he decided they had to get moving. They were a good ways into the trees and with the condition they were in it’d probably take them some time to get back out.

“C’mon we should get going if we wanna make it in time.” he gently urged the dragon up.soon they were slowly making their way out… sort of.

The eye seemed to make depth perception difficult, and the damaged head frill; still dripping blood; sagged with its own weight, occasionally getting caught in roots with pained cries. Not only that but she seemed to have trouble navigating regardless, it was like she was blind. Ghost wasn’t sure if it was the eye or the frill or both, but he ended up having to nudge her in the correct direction more than a few times to avoid trees and other obstacles.

By the time they broke through the tree line Nik was radioing him, and he could see a growing speck in the sky.

“Not long low, Ghost.”

“Aye, I see ya. You got that medkit?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. see you when you get here.”

“See you then.”

They ended up only needing to wait another ten minutes before Nik was touching down. Loading up was only a minute at most and then they were off.

[n2qfd]

This deep sea creature is the original anode from the AOSmith water heater I put in a few years back. Meant to replace it last year but things...

So is 30-45% spent I'm guessing. I replaced it with a box store special. The sausage link sort as I don't think form factor counts as much as fresh metal..they are made so you can install if you don't have 40" of vertical over the tank.

If cathodic protection (sacrificial anode) is a new idea for you, it works sort of like this. As the steel wall of your water heater's inner jack starts to corrode or develops a crack, the metal of the anode (commonly magnesium) will through the magic of electro chemical reaction migrate into the damaged area "healing" it. This means the zinc rod "melts" away "sacrificing" itself for the steel tank. Pretty nifty and most bury fuel tanks had them once upon a time and many of the pipelines I worked on still use a variation of this idea. We use an external current applied to the thing we're protecting but there is still a "sacrificial" metal employed in many cases.

What did I learn on this job? Just start with an impact wrench if you're doing this. I broke a socket wrench and a few pipes on a breaker bar.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

no one left behind

prompt: rope burns

whumpee: neal caffrey

fandom: white collar

hi here's an ol reliable wc fic...it unfortunately is not the best bc i am so busy and tired lmao. life is sure a thing this week. but we're managing. we're managing. anyway hope you enjoy!

Neal’s entire body aches. He doesn't know how long he’s been here, hanging by his wrists from what he’s pretty sure is a pipe. At first the pain had been sharp, the feeling of his shoulders being wrenched nearly out of their sockets, the strain on his muscles as he’d tried and failed to keep his feet in contact with the ground, the burn of the coarse rope against his skin. 

Now, though, it all just aches. He’s become used to the pain, such that it’s no longer sharp and overpowering. It’s just there. 

He wishes terribly that someone would come into this empty room. He can’t talk his way out of a situation if there’s no one to listen. 

He can’t wriggle his way out, either. He’d tried. Many times. The ropes are too thick and too well-tied for him to be able to move his wrists at all. They’ve gone sort of numb, in fact, from being pressed up against each other. 

He’s just stuck. He’d tried shouting, offering information, threatening, begging. Nothing had worked. No one had come. He hasn’t seen a single person the whole time he’s been here, wherever here is. He’d simply woken up, in complete darkness and with his head aching and fuzzy, in exactly the same position that he is currently in. 

He doesn’t know who has him. Why they have him. Part of him, the part that wants to be the cool con artist, the professional CI, is annoyed. He’s just sitting - hanging - here. And for what? The least his captors could do is give him the courtesy of knowing why they’ve taken him. 

But another part of him, the part that’s just Neal Caffrey with no strings attached, is anxious and afraid and hurting and wants nothing at all except to get out, to be somewhere safe. 

Nothing happens, for better or worse, for another similarly unidentifiable stretch of time. Neal wishes there was a window in this room to let in some light. Wishes he could hear anything at all besides his own breathing. Wishes the horrible ache would just go away. 

He is still completely alone. 

And then he isn’t. 

A door opens on the opposite side of the room, looking impossibly far away. He’d had no idea it was even there in the darkness. But it’s certainly there now, letting in a small amount of light which silhouettes a figure. 

He doesn’t know who it is, besides, he figures, someone involved with whatever’s going on. He wants to yell at them, wants to say something witty, to complain, to question, to plead. He wants them to let him go. To tell him what it is they want, so he can give it to them or figure out a way to lie about giving it to them. 

All he manages to say is, “please.”

The person comes closer. The light from the door isn’t strong enough to illuminate the whole room, and they pass into darkness as they get closer. Neal feels like he can barely breathe. His body tenses up, waiting for a blow. 

It never comes. Instead, he hears a familiar voice call his name. 

“Neal?”

“Peter?”

“Where are you?”

He has no idea how to answer that. “Here,” is the best he can offer. 

“There’s no light switch in this room, can you believe that? All this space and nothing to light it up. Just hold on, I’m coming to you.”

Peter’s voice does indeed sound like it is steadily getting closer. Neal learns this for certain when Peter walks right into him. 

The impact makes him swing slightly, makes the pain in his wrists and shoulders spike. He makes a low, quiet noise of pain that is nonetheless very audible in the silence. 

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m not bleeding.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m hanging by my wrists from…a pipe or something.”

“Okay,” Peter says, like this is totally normal, like everything is going to be okay. Which it is, Neal knows, now that he’s here. “I’m gonna cut you down.”

With sort of vague directions from Neal, Peter manages to find the rope that is tying him to the pipe. Once they’re both sure he’s not in danger of cutting Neal instead of the rope, he saws through it with a pocketknife. 

This takes an excruciatingly long time, and every tiny movement of the knife causes the rope to move, which causes a wave of pain to travel down Neal’s arms. 

And then, at long last, the rope breaks. Neal collapses to the ground immediately, the other end of the rope still tied firmly around his wrists. 

The impact hurts, sure, but it alleviates the strain that had been placed on his shoulders for so long. He’d be very content to just lie there on the floor for a long time, but then Peter’s next to him asking if he can walk. 

“Probably,” he decides. 

He can walk, it turns out. After some fumbling, Peter gets Neal to his feet. It feels weird standing up normally, both of his feet firmly on the ground. 

They walk closer and closer to the door, until at last they’re in the light. Neal looks at Peter for the first time. He looks exactly the same as he always does. He’s wearing the same clothes he was wearing the last time Neal saw him, which means Neal hasn’t been here too long. He supposes there’s some comfort in that. 

They pass through the door and into a hallway. In the full, almost blinding, light, Neal looks down at his wrists. 

The rope is still there. It looks like any other rope might. Brown and sturdy. He thinks he probably could escape from it now, but he’s exhausted and starting to feel shaky and it’s going to hurt, so he doesn’t try. Peter will be able to do it, anyway, once they’re out of here. 

They walk through a veritable maze of hallways until suddenly, Peter opens a door and they’re outside. It’s evening and there are other buildings nearby, all industrial. Neal turns around and looks at the place that had been his prison. It just looks like all of the other buildings. Nothing special at all.  

The Taurus is here, looking distinctly out of place in its surroundings. Neal wonders for a second about why it’s only Peter here - this seems like the kind of place where backup might be appreciated - but then Peter’s unlocking the car and telling Neal to sit down in the passenger seat and he stops thinking about it. 

Sitting down feels just as nice as lying on the floor. The complete absence of any strain on his body is wonderful. The aches are all still there, of course, but everything feels much more bearable now. 

Peter is crouched in front of him with his pocketknife, cutting through the rope for a second time. This seems to Neal to be a much quicker process than cutting him down had been. 

After a minute or two, the rope simply falls away. Neal flexes his wrists. They hurt, scraped raw and red. He stares at them and thinks about the fact that these fairly mild injuries are the only physical evidence of the pain he’d experienced. Probably this is a good thing, he thinks. Rope burns are easy to deal with. They aren’t even bleeding, much less threatening to leave scars. 

Peter drives them out of the industrial lot. Neal catches a glimpse of the sunset as they pull onto the road. It’s brilliantly orange, almost surreal after spending so much time in the dark. 

“Where are we going?” he asks, wondering whether there will be anything standing in the way of him simply collapsing into his bed and falling asleep for a very long time. He only wishes he didn’t have to go home to an otherwise empty apartment. He’s had enough solitude for quite a while. 

“Home,” Peter offers. “I’ll make up the guest room.”

Home, Neal repeats in his mind, turning the word over and over. The Burkes’ guest room. A big, comfortable bed and other people nearby.

Nothing in the world sounds better than this. 

thanks for reading! i did not do much editing so i am sorry if there's mistakes. also i fear tomorrow's fic will also be not so good bc i am again busy as hell...so unfair that school is kicking my ass when it's literally my birthday next week lol