#Metal spraying services

[creativitycache]

Alright apparently I’m now outnumbered in my small office for not carrying anything defensive like pepper spray, a taser, or a metal baton every day.

[wjabpainting]

Why Electrostatic Paint Looks Brighter And More Beautiful?

Painting is not only about putting color on; it also aims to get the perfect look that makes a surface appear lively and appealing. For getting this lightness and attractiveness in painting, electrostatic paint is one of the best choices. Why does paint applied by electrostatic methods appear more vivid and attractive than that with conventional techniques?   The magic of electrostatics To begin, it's important to grasp the functioning of electrostatic paint. Differing from normal painting techniques that just spray paint on a surface, this kind uses electrical charge. This electrical charge causes a strong pull between the particles of paint and the surface that is being painted on. a) Perfect coverage The main reason the color from electrostatic paint solutions Miami appears very bright and attractive is because it covers surfaces well. The paint particles that have a charge stick to the surface similar to how magnets work, making sure all small corners get covered in an even way. This even spreading gets rid of uneven spots and lines, giving a smooth and perfect surface that makes the color look brighter. b) No overspray woes Overspray troubles many painters because when they are painting, some paint does not hit the surface it is supposed to. Instead, it goes into the air and causes waste and untidiness where they work. Electrostatic painting reduces much of the excess spray. Because the particles with charge move toward the object, they usually don't go off course. This means most of the paint reaches its intended destination.  c) Enhanced adhesion Another reason why electrostatic paint is bright and looks good is because it sticks very well. The electric charge makes the particles of the paint stick tightly to what you are painting, making a strong connection that does not chip, peel off, or lose color easily. The strength of this makes the paint work last longer and keeps its new and bright look for more time.

d) Smooth as silk Do you know the feeling when you touch a surface that was just painted and it is very smooth? Smoothness as silk is one benefit of using electrostatic paint. The particles with charge spread out uniformly over the top area, giving it a flat feel that bounces light off nicely.  e) Resistance to environmental factors The attractiveness of a painted surface can lose its appeal fast when exposed to things like sun rays, water in the air, or changes in how hot or cold it is. Electrostatic paint is made to resist these kinds of problems. The paint is made to last long and sticks very well, so it doesn't fade, crack, or peel when outside. Because of this strength, the color from powder coating services in Miami stays bright and looks good for many years.  A lasting impression Electrostatic paint makes things look good for a long time, such as chairs, metal bars, or the outside of a big house. It is special because it brings out bright colors well, covers surfaces completely without problems from the weather, and keeps looking perfect. This kind of paint is very popular when people want to make their painting work shiny and attractive.

[sarcoatingsllp]

The Importance of Industrial Spray Painting for Heavy Equipment

At first glance, industrial spray painting may not appear as an art form, but it demands a level of skill and expertise that rivals that of the finest artists. It's a craft that works with various liquid materials, including paints, stains, and primers, to transform heavy equipment into more than just machines. The benefits of industrial spray painting extend far beyond aesthetics, offering unparalleled control and a flawless finish on a wide array of surfaces.

Why Does Heavy Machinery Need Industrial Spray Painting?

Many individuals and companies turn to experts like SAR Coatings for industrial or commercial spray painting services  for their heavy machinery. But what drives this demand? The primary objective is to safeguard these colossal machines from rust and maintain their appearance, eliminating the risk of old paint chips contaminating the products they handle.

Industrial spray painting techniques are carefully tailored to protect the underlying materials, shielding them from the natural wear and tear that heavy equipment inevitably faces. The choice of coatings can vary based on the equipment and materials involved, with popular options including epoxy, urethane, and Line X paints.

How Is Industrial Spray Painting Done?

To ensure the success of an industrial spray painting project, meticulous preparation is essential. Whether the equipment is made of steel or has undergone sandblasting, the surface must be free from rust, debris, or stains. Any imperfections in the surface can cause the paint to fail to adhere properly, leading to premature peeling.

The process typically begins with a high-pressure wash using specialized equipment, effectively cleaning the surface and preparing it for painting. Following this, a primer is applied to facilitate paint adhesion and create a smooth finish. Once the primer has set, the industrial spray painting process can commence. The final step involves applying a top coat, providing added protection against environmental elements and further reducing the risk of rust.

Key Considerations in Industrial Spray Painting

Industrial spray painters are not mere technicians; they are artisans in their own right. They carefully consider various factors to ensure a flawless finish. Here are some critical aspects they focus on:

Substrate Preparation

Preparing the surface for painting is a pivotal step. Industrial spray painters must ensure that the substrate is impeccably cleaned, as nearly 80% of painting failures can be traced back to inadequate surface preparation.

Paint Thinning

Paint sometimes needs thinning for proper application and coverage. The choice of thinners can vary depending on the type of paint being used. While mineral spirits are suitable for most paints, others may require different thinners.

Spraying

Achieving the desired metal finishing requires precise spraying techniques. Factors such as the type of finish, paint type, and substrate material come into play. Industrial painters have a wide array of spraying devices and guns at their disposal, allowing them to customize the painting process to meet specific requirements.

Commercial Spray Painting Methods

Different industrial spray painting methods offer distinct advantages and disadvantages. Airless sprayers, for instance, provide greater control over the finish and reduce paint waste by recirculating excess paint. Here's a breakdown of a few industrial spray painting methods:

Air Gun Spraying

Air gun spraying is ideal for delicate work, including lacquers, paints, varnishes, shellac, and other finishes. It utilizes air and fluid compression for atomization, ensuring even application.

Electrostatic Spray Painting

This modern technique, widely used in the automotive sector, ensures even coverage on various surfaces, including metals, doors, windows, railings, and metal fencing. Specialized equipment such as air-assist guns and HVLP sprayers is employed.

HVLP (High Volume Low Pressure)

HVLP spray painting relies on turbines and heat to stabilize paint, reducing atmospheric condensation and improving adhesion. This method is suited for glossy, smooth-textured coatings.

LVLP (Low Volume Low-Pressure)

LVLP spray painting utilizes less air volume and lower air pressure compared to HVLP. It can still achieve a transfer efficiency of 65% or better.

Airless Spray Guns

This technique involves pushing paint through a nozzle via a hose, eliminating the need for compression. It's ideal for glossy, glass-smooth-textured coatings.

Liquid Painting at SAR Coatings

SAR Coatings stands as a testament to the art of industrial liquid painting. They continually invest in high-quality machinery to meet customer demands. We excel at providing high-quality painted finishes that meet exacting standards. They offer specialized coatings, enhancing insulative or conductive properties using electrostatic spray, fluid bath, or heat shrink processes. Furthermore, our team also conducts rigorous testing of finishes, including gloss level, coating thickness, adhesion strength, porosity, colour shade, dielectric strength, and insulative or conductive properties.

If you're interested in discussing your industrial spray painting requirements, don't hesitate to contact SAR Coatings today. For more captivating articles on manufacturing and technology, explore our blog.

For any clarifications or queries, please feel free to contact us:

Mobile: +91–9311813406

Email ID: info@sarcoatings.com

Website: www.sarcoatings.com

[mayuri-manufacturer]

Liquid Spray Painting In Pune, India | Sidhant Enterprises

Experience the excellence of liquid spray painting services, tailored to meet the growing demands of both commercial and screen molding applications. As one of the top providers in Pune, we take immense pride in delivering premium liquid spray painting solutions that elevate the visual appeal and durability of your projects. Our skilled team of professionals utilizes cutting-edge techniques and top-quality materials to ensure flawless finishes that leave a lasting impression. Whether you require precise and intricate coatings for commercial products or want to enhance the aesthetics of screen molding projects, we have you covered.

[sinsofnivan]

ani x reader smut

can't stop, won't stop. — Anakin Skywalker x YOU — SMUT!

SUMMARY: anakin just loves spoiling you rotten, buying you the things you want, giving you the things you want, and giving you all the pleasure you craved for.

all of it.

PAIRING: ANAKIN SKYWALKER/you.

WARNINGS: porn without plot, fingering, inappropriate use of the force, dirty talking, overstimulation, forced orgasms, save me service dom anakin, established relationship, au where the jedi council isn't really that strict yk.

WORD COUNT: 855

A/N: i can only think of one person that's name ani and that's my pookie wookie anakin skywalker. if that's not him, idrk who you mean . . . crossposted on my AO3.

NSFW UNDER THE CUT!

your cunt squelched ridiculously loud as anakin slipped his fingers in and out of your slit, his digits coated with your addictive essence. you laid on top of your boyfriend, back resting on his chest, and your body secured in place by his metal hand; squeezing and toying with one of your nipples. "ani," you squirmed, and anakin only shushed you as he licked and gently nipped on your cheek. "shh, baby," your body writhed, back arching beautifully—and anakin wished he could see it from above. 

"you don't want obi-wan to hear you, do you?" anakin whispered in your ear, a tongue tantalizingly running over the delicate shell. "or maybe you do . . let everyone in here know that you're mine," his laugh rings in your ear, and you gasped when you feel a thumb run over your soaked clit. "you like that, baby? you're clenching around my fingers so tight," before you could even say anything else, his fingers began to pump into you in an ungodly pace—and you had to slap a hand over your drooly mouth to keep the noises at a minimum. 

the tips of his fingers kept hitting in all the right places, curved upward to keep grazing against that spongy nub that made your eyes cross. a cold, familiar sensation circled around your clit, but it's not his fingers, no—you knew his fingers better than that—and you can only assume it's him using the force on you. the hand on your mouth is useless because you squealed when you feel your clit being gently pulled and pinched. "anii . . ani—! stars, oh my stars," 

"yeah? y'feel good?" you could only nod, mind only focusing on this bliss he could give you. "it feels good—love it when you fingers fuck me!" you babbled. "i don't believe you. if you really felt good—," you feel a suckling sensation on your clit, and you're left stupefied and slack-jawed. "if you really felt good, you're gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over my fingers," "but i'm not—'m not close yet," "oh, but you are,"  he cooed, doubling the intensity on your clit. "you are, baby. don't you feel that?" 

and you were at a loss for words.

coherence forgone, all you could do was stammer anakin's name. you hadn't even noticed he moves beneath you, making you wrap an arm around him as he captured your lips. it was sloppy—your tongue only languidly glissading over his. it's messy, and anakin did most of the work, but he's not complaining. he loved you like this. "come on, baby. don't you feel good? do you want me to stop?" he won't stop, of course not, but he wanted to hear how much you needed him. it always made his cock twitch under those restricting undergarments.

"nooo . . no p , please,"

there it was. his precious girl. "then you're going to cum for me, baby. you know y'wanna," another curl of his fingers against your sensitive spot makes you wail and sob, your orgasm spraying everywhere all over his hand. "theeere you go . . " anakin had his eyes affixed to your pussy—how his knuckles were glimmering with your essence, and how your cunt gushed with every slide in of his fingers. "there we go uh-huh. that's it," he kissed your temple, encouragement whispered into your ears—though, you haven't processed his words yet. and he didn't stop there, no. 

he would purposefully slide his fingers slowly, and shoving them back in swiftly and forcefully, coaxing small fountains from you. 

and you? 

you were a drooling mess—eyes barely open and only whining when anakin was riding your orgasm out with his teasing fingers. "i knew you could do it, baby." he purred, capturing your lips once. "what do you say?" "th , thank yo—♡?!" your words were abruptly cut off, his fingers began to fuck into you again, with your squirt making it easier for him to reach the deepest parts of you; the sucking sensation back on your clit—and more intense than ever. your eyes were wide, legs beginning to quiver from overstimulation, but you could feel phantom hands keep your legs spread. "a , anii—♡! m, my cunt—!"

your moans echoed around the room now, and probably outside those thin walls. he didn't care if passersby or obi-wan or whoever the fuck else heard anymore. "yeah? what's wrong with your cunt, baby? c'moon, tell me." "cunt's feelin' s, sensitive—oh my stars,♡!" "aaw, you poor thing . . . think y'just need to cum, Y/N." that thumb brushing over your clit is not a coincidence, and a grin quirks up on his lips when you screamed his name, your body doing as he says and cumming hard.

his pace doesn't stop this time, and your pussy ached with oversensitivity—and anakin could see it from how your hips bucked, trying to writhe away from his merciless fingers. "do you want me to stop, darling? want these fingers to leave your cunt empty and cold?" and oh, you precious thing. anakin couldn't stop himself from chuckling as he watched you hesitate, and then shake your head. 

"that's what i thought . . give me a kiss, baby," 

end.

A/N: i will make a part two of this, but i just want to let people know that i accept requests! <3 thank you for reading!

[luxaofhesperides]

puddle

Your writing is amazing btw

Danny is usually fine with the cold. He's got an ice core, he's practically made for the cold. But Gotham autumn cold is another monster, especially when it comes with so much rain.

The city is constantly damp and dreary, switching between sprinkling on and off to a heavy deluge of rain.

Listen, he can handle the cold but not the cold and wet. That's just asking for too much.

He says as much to Duke over the phone, peering out from under the awning of the theater he's trapped at, hoping the rain will let up soon. It hadn't been raining when he left the apartment earlier to watch a movie, killing time until Jazz got back from her internship with Gotham's social services, so Danny had been caught totally unprepared when he stepped outside and got hit with a spray of rain as a bus drove past.

Duke laughs at him, his voice carrying a little static over the phone, and Danny pouts. No point in hiding it when no one's around to see it.

"How have you not learned to always carry an umbrella with you by now?" Duke asks, amusement coloring his voice. "Hasn't it already been a year since you moved here?"

Danny pouts and stares out into the heavy sheets of rain coming down just a few feet in front of him. "I was running late to the showing so I didn't check the weather! And it was almost nice out earlier so I thought it would be fine."

"Alright, new question: how have you not learned to stop trusting Gotham's weather? If it's good, then it'll get worse. If it's bad, it'll stay bad. That's how it is."

"This city is out to get me," Danny complains. "If I get sick because of this rain, just leave me to die."

"You're so dramatic," Duke says fondly.

"You would be too, if you were stuck out here." He takes a step to stand just beneath the edge of the awning and peers up at the sky. Heavy gray clouds hang above the city, hiding the sky from horizon to horizon. The wind isn't strong today, which means the clouds are barely moving. No doubt the lower streets have already begun to flood, water rising as storm drains struggle to keep up with the heavy rain. He sighs and reaches back to draw his hood up to cover his head. "I think I'm just gonna have to make a run for it."

Noise erupts from Duke's end of the call; rustling, doors slamming, metal moving. "Wait, stay where you are! You're at Harbor Theater, right?"

"Yeah."

"Give me like ten minutes. Don't move!" And then the call ends without another word, leaving Danny to blink out at the rain, confused. He pulls his phone away from his ear, stares down at the screen where "Call ended" stares back up at him, and shrugs.

Sure. Okay. This might as well happen.

He retreats back to the door, more protected from the rain, and leans against the brick wall of the building to wait. It's only ten minutes, and he's not in a rush to do anything else today, so he can wait. As long as he stays mostly dry, he'll be fine.

Despite his many complaints about the rain, Danny does enjoy Gotham storms. They're quiet and steady, with only the really big storms carrying thunder into the city. The storms in Amity Park were always loud, with howling winds and earthshaking thunder, lightning flashing nonstop until it was over. Compared to that, Gotham rain is peaceful; the steady patter of raindrops against windows is soothing and has made him fall asleep more than once. As long as he's safe and warm inside, he likes the rain.

As it is, when he's outside and stuck hiding beneath an awning, he very much does not like the rain.

The street is mostly empty as everyone with common sense is inside where it's dry. A few cars pass by, driving fast despite how hard it must be to see, and send water splashing towards him. He's just outside the splash zone, thankfully, but that doesn't stop him from glaring and muttering curses to those drivers.

Danny sighs again and closes his eyes, hoping to make the time pass by faster if he makes his mind drift.

It doesn't feel like it's been ten minutes when he hears Duke call his name. It barely even feels like five. Danny opens his eyes and pushes off the wall, looking down the street where he can see a bright yellow umbrella moving up and down as Duke runs through the rain to meet him. Did he really run all this way, just to get Danny an umbrella? That's really sweet. Danny bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too much like some kind of lovesick fool.

Which he is, to be fair, but he doesn't need to show that.

"Dude," he says when Duke reaches him, stumbling to a stop under the awning to catch his breath. "Did you seriously run from your place to here? Don't you live on the other side of Gotham?"

Duke shakes his head and takes a moment to catch his breath. "I was nearby," he says, gesturing vaguely behind him, "Don't worry about it. You heading back home?"

"That was the plan, yeah."

"I'll walk you then. C'mon."

Duke offers his elbow as though escorting Danny to the ball. Danny takes it, stepping beneath the umbrella, so cheerfully yellow it almost feels aggressive. "My hero," he teases. "My knight under yellow umbrella."

"Listen, it was the only one I had that wasn't broken and it was a joke gift from a friend."

"A joke gift?"

"It's a Signal umbrella. Look at the handle."

Danny looks. The curve of the handle ends in a bat symbol. "That's amazing," he says, biting back a laugh as they step out into the rain. The umbrella protects them, but he can see that both their shoulders are getting wet; it's hard to fit two bodies beneath one umbrella. He pulls at Duke's arm, tugging him closer, so they can both fit more securely under the umbrella, walking arm in arm down the street.

It would have been nearly perfect if it wasn't for the fact that the streets were full of rainwater and a step into a puddle too big to avoid leaves his shoes and socks wet.

"Aw, man," he groans, frowning at his shoes. "I just can't win today."

"You used up all your good luck calling me," Duke jokes.

"Worth it, if it gets me you," Danny says without thinking. Then he squeezes his eyes shut and regrets because flirting with Duke has become a habit when they became friends, and it's a dangerous habit know that Danny's figured out his massive crush on Duke.

"Sweet talker," Duke retaliates. He's unfazed, carrying on normally, so Danny relaxes. As long as he can keep his crush quiet alongside his many other secrets, he's fine.

Leaning into him a little more, Danny ducks his head to hide a smile as they keep walking. Under one umbrella, together under the sheets of rain, it feels like there's no one else in the world but them.

Maybe there is something to enjoy about rainy autumn days.

Even if it ends with him walking home in waterlogged socks.

[dusterbishop]

we can go forever until you wanna sit it out

summary. || you are an amplifier gifted with the ability to strengthen the power of other mutants, a skill that earns you a place on team x. learning to work with them is a sharp curve, especially with the lonesome newest member, logan.

pairing. || logan x f!reader (slow burn)

count. || 2.1k

notes. || warning for character death and violence. this is my first time writing for logan, but i have been bewitched by the tiktok edits.

part one. || part two. || part three. || part four.

You meet Logan when you are young, but he is far older than you initially assume.

Stryker takes point in the introductions, as usual. You linger patiently at his back, just a pace behind, idly scuffing the dirt with the toe of your boot. The air is sour with the stench of stale blood and decay. War isn’t new to you. Neither is recruitment for new soldiers.

“Who’s your little friend?” One of the men jeers, a sharp smile edging the curve of his mouth. This one is Victor Creed, you think, and it’s confirmed when you glance to the other side of the cell and see the other brother sitting back, unimpressed. That one is surely Logan.

From the files that Stryker let you and Zero parse through, you expected more… reaction. He has been tracing their movements for the past two months, and you have seen the bullet list of their service history and grim achievements. They are deadly predators, mutated to efficiently slaughter their prey. Animals, Zero had remarked, and you had silently conceded to that point. Not that you haven’t killed, but you also have human hands that do not morph to tear apart flesh.

“Less who she is, and more what she can do for you both,” Stryker says. On cue, you wander a step closer and set your amplifier alight with a flick of your wrist. You’ve mastered the range just enough to brush the soles of their feet, a fleeting-faint taste of your ability. The hand movement is still an instinct you can’t quash despite the disapproving look Stryker gives you when he sees it.

Victor sucks in a deep, rumbling breath, twitching with a suppressed lunge. Logan doesn’t make a noise, but merely closes his eyes as if a weight has been lifted. Your own body tingles with rippling electricity, every nerve set alight with adrenaline. Like a caffeine rush, you’ll feel the impact of the fall later, but for now you neatly dim your amplifier to a low buzz and shuffle back a half-step to escape their range. The pair slumps against the wall the moment it escapes them. Victor bares his teeth in a grin, and Logan gazes at Stryker with half-lidded eyes. It’s a dark, calculating gaze. Weighing the competition, you think.

“Now that I have your attention,” Stryker says, but you can’t help but notice that both the brothers are looking at you, instead. Their mistake.

Three months later, the brothers once again leave you pinned behind metal-gilded crates with enough gunfire to rattle your teeth in your skull.

“Good God,” you spit out, hauling yourself back behind cover. “Can you stop the self-sacrificial antics for a moment?”

“Sacrifice?” Victor laughs. His skin ripples with regeneration, leaving merely a smear of blood behind as proof of the healed bullet hole. His clawed hand flexes at his side, the elongated tips of his fingers scratching lightly against the floor. “I’m not the one dying, Star.”

You pull a face at the name, but you don’t have the time to argue it. Bullets spray in patterned bursts against your cover, and you have to hunch in on yourself to protect your extremities. The perk of your power is that you can keep your team from burning out and improve their reflexes. The downside is that your power does absolutely nothing in terms of protecting you; your protection is your team.

So you draw in a slow breath, flick your wrist, and summon a surging wave of amplification. Victor surges to his feet with a giddy-mad laugh and delves into the fray. Logan follows in close pursuit behind him, though he takes more care to skirt the edges of the bloodbath, cleaning up the loose ends.

The brothers are an odd addition to this mismatched army of mutant soldiers, though Stryker is pleased with their formidable prowess in battle. In the three months you’ve worked with them, you can see why, and there is a foreboding sense of dread that wells inside you as you listen to the choked-off screams of the enemy ahead. You clench your fists and hold the amplifier steady, silently grateful that for the moment, the only mutants in the room are the ones less likely to tear you apart. No doubt Victor would revel in slicing the flesh from your bones to expose what lies beneath your skin. Logan would be less inclined, perhaps, but you know he follows his brother above all else.

Yes, of course Stryker values their addition to Team X. They are nothing but monsters.

Nothing but monsters, and you have a leash on every one of them.

Stryker has a keen interest in your power, or rather what your power does for the team. You aren’t invulnerable, and you don’t have hyper senses. You don’t teleport or shoot with terrifying accuracy. On the surface, you appear nothing more than a young woman with military training and a nervous tic in your hand.

Underneath the surface, you burn bright.

Your father had been an amateur astronomer. When you were growing up, he would sneak you out to the backyard past your bedtime and the two of you would watch the sky and plot the path of constellations. He was the one that taught you about the sun, the moon, and the stars. My girl, he would say, you are made of the cosmos.

He must be partially right. There’s a staggering core of cosmic energy stored in the cradle of your ribcage. You have spent long moments staring at your own bare reflection in the mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of it. How do you look so ordinary when there is a blazing sun in your chest?

Yet you do. Stryker had been skeptical of your ability when you first met him, but by that point he had recruited Zero and Bradley, so it only took a little wave of your hand to boost their abilities and prove your silent mutation. Proving it had sealed your fate: under the codename Cosmic, you were an infinite battery pack to the newly forged Team X.

Yet it’s moments like this, when you’re stranded in a rare week of downtime, that you feel like an outsider looking in.

It’s been four days since the job that got you shot at, the same job that let Victor unleash utter havoc, and you’re all going a little stir-crazy while you wait for things to cool down. John Wraith has somehow secured a deck of cards, and he’s managed to wrangle Bradley, Victor, and Wade in a game you don’t follow. The rules seem to change the more they drink and bicker over the play, so you toy with your own can of half-drunk beer and stare out the living room window of your temporary housing. There are stray stars speckled in the night sky, and you feel such a deep-ridden surge of grief at the sight of them.

The arguing gets louder around the kitchen table, and none of them notice when you slip out the front door. The night is hushed when you close the door behind you, and some unknown tension eases from your shoulders with the sky exposed high above. It takes some wandering to properly immerse yourself in the pitch dark, but you find a patch of grass cleared of undergrowth and sprawl out on your back, tucking your hands beneath your head. The safe house that Stryker has your team staying in is hours from the nearest large city, and the sky is clear of light pollution. You can see a scattered sea of stars, all of them twinkling in familiar greeting.

My girl, you are made of the cosmos.

You have to swallow back the sudden swell of emotion in your throat. It’s quiet this far from the house. Without any heightened senses, you can’t hear anything other than the soft rustle of the wildlife shuffling through the trees. It’s lonely, but not in the way that you felt lonely sitting in that room with the rest of the team. Their abilities serve them; your ability just makes them more.

You’re reminded of that fact in a fierce strike of terror when a figure appears at the edge of the clearing, moving too quiet for your human hearing to pick up. You bolt upright, curling your hands into fists, all too aware of your pitiful human strength and basic military training. It would do nothing against a mutant intent on rending you apart.

“Thought you were asleep,” Logan grunts, rubbing a hand over his chest in discomfort. The adrenaline from his sudden appearance spiked your amplifier, and you have to focus on leveling your breathing as you slowly retract your power back to your core. “Took you too long to notice me.”

“You were in your room,” you accuse. It’s mostly the fear driving the annoyance in your tone, but you don’t have the patience for an apology. “I wasn’t expecting to see you lurking in the woods.”

The clearing is half-lit by the light of the moon, though Logan lingers near the edges. He’s wearing a short-sleeve white shirt that clings to the curve of his torso, the muscled tone of his arms flexing as he crosses them over his chest. You can barely make out the way he raises a brow at your choice of words, his profile half-shadowed.

“Lurking,” he repeats, almost amused. “Says the stargazer.”

“Cosmic,” you remind him. “Comes with the territory.”

“What, you charge them, too?” You don’t expect him to step closer, but he does. In the moonlight, the tousled curl of his hair softens the incredulous look he’s giving you. There isn’t the same degree of mocking like the kind you would expect from Victor, but then again, you haven’t spoken to Logan much. He’s content to focus on the work rather than the idle play. Unlike Zero, however, there isn’t the same air of arrogant distaste.

He almost seems… ordinary.

“Funny,” you say dryly. You shuffle your weight and lay back down in the grass, pointedly ignoring the low chuckle he gives at your exasperation. There’s a kernel of truth stuck in your throat, so you blurt out, “I think they charge me.”

“Right,” Logan says, his tone decidedly skeptical. “And I get my claws charged up by sunshine and rainbows.”

You shoot him a glare. “I’m serious.”

“So I am, bub.”

He takes another step from the edge of the clearing. He’s closer now, enough that he looms over you. The stars speckle the sky above his head in a crown of twinkling light, and you flex your fingers, silently summoning the rush of energy that the sight of the sky gives you. Logan shivers, cursing under his breath, though he doesn’t back away.

He takes a step closer, nudging your hip with the toe of his boot. His posture doesn’t change, but he’s flexing his fingers into a fist, almost subconsciously. You wonder how it feels for him, to have his bones shift and extend into claw-like weapons. The first time you watched him kill, you grimaced at the sight of his hands. The sharpened claws of Victor’s nails were tame in comparison to the mutation that rearranged Logan’s skeleton.

You’ve never seen any indication that his ability hurts him, yet the way he flexes his hands now makes you wonder. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, only staring down at you with that unapproachable expression. You wonder, too, if he’s out here for the same reason that you are. Surely not; you’ve seen the way he follows Victor, and the way Victor turns to him, expectant in battle. They are tied together in a way that reminds you of a hangman’s noose.

“Sunshine, huh?” You say. “Suits your happy personality.”

“Like you know a fucking thing about me,” he says, and the laugh trailing the end of that sentence is far from amused. When he steps back, you almost miss the warmth of his presence filling the sky above. “Pay attention before you get yourself killed.”

“I’ve seen enough,” you shoot back, stung by the sudden seethe of his tone. You sit up to properly glare at him, but he’s already turned and heading back into the darkness of the woods. You call to his retreating back, “You and that brother of yours are gonna get the wrong people hurt.”

“Save the altruism for someone else,” he calls over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

You glare up at the sky instead. The yawning black abyss above you feels lonelier than ever.

[nekomanager]

.—♡ 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐒 {KOZUME KENMA}

your surprise for KENMA's birthday surprised the both of you even more

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 ⋮ f!reader, overstimulation, blowjob, slight exhibitionism, nekomimi, creampie

It's already late at night. This must be the perfect time for you to give Kenma your official gift. Quietly, you walked out of your walk-in closet, planning to surprise him.

Your boyfriend, who turned 28 today, was busy playing the game you bought for him. His birthday stream just finished and he's now playing while in a call with his teammates from high school, though they might be done with it already.

“Kenma?”

Hearing you, he gave a quick glance then returned his attention back to his game, until it dawned to him…what you were wearing.

He instantly looked at you, gasping and staring at the puffy cat ears on top of your head, the collar around your neck and the thin fabric of your pink string bikini; your top bearing a cat-shaped hole in the middle showing your cleavage and he guessed that your panties had the necessary tail. Just for him. He thirstily swiped his tongue across his lips.

You shyly crawled towards him and he gulped, just lost at the sight of his little kitten all willing to service him, taking the floor like the good girl that you are. His eyes travelled down to your collar, and a grunt escaped him when he saw what’s engraved in the metal plate, Kenma’s.

All of this. All of you. Is his.

Kenma dropped his console and removed his headphones.

You placed your hands on both his knees, parting them further so you could place yourself in between. His breathing got heavy and you cupped his cock, now turning stiff on your touch. “Y/N,” he closed his eyes and blew out a pained exhale.

Your fingers fiddled on the zipper and button of his pants, opening it with eyes full of wonder. He sprang right onto your face and you just stared at his growing erection. You licked your lips at how pretty his dick looked for you. Too pretty. You slowly glided your tongue along his length, taking your time in feeling his warmth and softness. Getting to the the tip, you circled your lips around, taking him in but not reaching half his shaft before you removed your mouth.

“K-Kitten, please…” he whined, face all reddened, “be my good girl.” Seeing how needy he was of you, you finally devoured him completely.

The tip of his cock reaching the back of your throat as you bobbed up and down him, your hand wrapped around as well, pumping him with the right grip. You felt the ache in between your legs as he kept huffing and moaning repetitively. Your ass wiggling as you sucked him, making him rock in your mouth harder.

“Mhmn…” you mewled.

He cupped the back of your head, fingers all tangled up around the strands of your hair as he pushed and pulled in and out of your mouth. Tears now brimming at the corners of your eyes, while your saliva almost spilled out of your lips as you were filled by him. His girth fitted your mouth perfectly, numbing at the sensation.

Kenma groaned, feeling that he’s coming close. He pulled your face away and his cum sprayed all over your face and your innocent pink kitten lingerie.

Both of you just stared at each other still catching your breaths. Breathing heavily, he took you in. Your lips now bearing the same color as your cheeks while you panted, breathless.

His eyes just pinned you when he spread his legs and tapped his thigh. You gulped and heeded like a good kitten, taking over his lap. He aligned the tip of his shaft along your dripping entrance and you sank all through his entire length. Your head swung back at how deep he hit you.

Your body was shivering at how good he felt, and he wasted no time bouncing you on his lap. You gripped your wrist around his neck so you won't fall with how wildly he was thrusting in you. Your hearing was filled with his soft huffs and moaning which made your walls clench around his cock tighter.

"Augh- Y/N!" He said as he moved at the edged of the seat. His hand hands gripped your ass firmly, moving your body to meet his deep and forceful strokes.

"Aaaah...aahh...I'm close! K-Kenma! Kenma!" You whined, finally orgasming.

However, Kenma wasn't done yet and he's not gonna let go of your cute kitty pussy until he shot his birthday cum inside of you. He placed your body on the floor and began slamming down his cock so rapidly that your knuckles are turning white and so was your vision.

You just came...You just came! Another one...another one! Your toes curled, cumming around him again. Your mouth hung open and drool slipped down to your chin.

He hugged you tight, placing a hand below your head as he gave two strong pumps before filling your pussy.

“Holy shit! Did you and Y/N just did what we thought you were doing?”

Your heads both sharply turned to the headphones beside him. Kuroo?

“H-How long have you been there?” Kenma took his headphones and asked, panicking.

“Damn! Just enough." Tora commented.

Lev added, "We're supposed to greet you, but we're the ones surprised!"

"Why didn't y'all put down the call?!"

And Yaku..."We thought it’s just a game thing until now."

"No, you put the call down next time,” Kuroo reprimanded Kenma then chuckled. "Wow. What a happy birthday. We'll leave you two alone. That's enough show for us today," continued by his best friend who ended the call.

Kenma froze, his face even redder. It's his entire team. However, he couldn’t do anything about it anymore, and his head was still light with pleasure

Running a hand through his hair, he returned his focus back to you. You were almost passed out, breathing through your parted lips. You looked so adorable that he wanted to squish you more in his arms. He sighed and smiled. At least, he got you as his special present for the rest of the night.

Happy Birthday to me.

⏝︶︶⏝︶ ୨୧ ︶⏝︶︶⏝

© nekorei 2023 - All rights reserved. No work shall be reproduced, reposted, modified, translated in any form or by any means.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

The Rift - Chapter Five

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Marcus Acacius x Marcus Pike x f!Reader

Rating: M, adult content, 18+ only. Next chapter will be E!!

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Marcus Acacius is a shameless flirt, yearning and sexual tension, Marcus Acacius as the author stand-in who gets impatient and straight up pushes everyone's face together

Summary: At the same time that Marcus Acacius is growing more and more accustomed to modern living, you are settling into your strange new life with an unconventional roommate who only speaks Latin, an FBI Agent you're secretly in love with, and the leader of the Heroics. All three of them are mainstays at your apartment, and you couldn't love the situation more. Or could you?

A/N: Is it heating up in here, or is it just me?

Masterlist | Chapter Four | Next chapter>>

(Acacius)

Marcus Acacius performs the now-familiar task of turning on the water for a hot shower, turning the little handle to exactly where you showed him and pulling the little knob on the faucet. Water immediately cascades into the tub, and as he steps under the hot spray with a satisfied groan, he wonders to himself why he desires to return home at all.

Now that more intricate, technical conversations are possible with the help of Moreno’s magic devices, you and Pike have been able to explain in more detail about the strange world he finds himself in.

Now he understands that he has traveled thousands of years into the future, and many of the incomprehensible things he’s seen have begun to make sense. Having studied history in his own time, he’s perfectly familiar with the progression of society and invention. Extrapolate this over thousands of years, and you have such things as cars, skyscrapers, and tee-vees.  

He could ask question after question about this world all day long, but the two of you seem just as interested in his life, and he finds himself talking about his service as a general, the wars he’s fought in, and even stories of his childhood.

The other man, Moreno, seems to be curious too, and stops by every few days for dinner and conversation, and the four of you often talk late into the night, satisfying his every curiosity from airplanes to elevators. One night, he receives a crash course in the meaning of the word ‘Heroic,’ discovering the man’s otherworldly abilities when someone bumps into a small table, sending a lamp crashing to the floor. Or, it would have crashed to the floor, if it had not begun floating in the middle of the air just before reaching the ground. He watches in dumbfounded awe as the Hero guides the metal object through the air with one hand outstretched and sets it back down gently on the table. 

Marcus Acacius is… content. 

He dresses himself in some of the new clothing you and Marcus had given him, puts his translator in a pocket, carefully places the earpiece in one ear, and heads to the kitchen. 

“Morning!” you greet him brightly. “Marcus has a few meetings that he had to go in for, so it’s just us today until the afternoon.��

He nods good-naturedly and gives you a smile. You always seem to fluster when he does so, and he isn’t sure how to react. In his own time, he had no trouble calling on women–or men, for that matter–but this world is so different, and he does not know the conventions of courting, or what is considered to be proper and improper. Both you and Pike are attractive, and you both fascinate him. If he were in his element, at one of the Emperor’s feasts, perhaps, he would entertain the two of you at once. As a high-ranking official, he’s certainly no stranger to the pleasure of many bodies entwined on a bed at once. 

He wonders, sometimes, if this sort of thing is still done. 

Marcus retrieves a mug from the cabinet and fills it with the black coffee drink you and Pike enjoy so much. He finds he rather likes it too, provided enough sweet cream and sugar are added to dilute the bitter taste. He swirls a spoon around, watching as the drink takes on a lighter shade of brown. 

“What do you want to do today?” you ask as you sip from your own mug.

Marcus thinks for a moment. “I want to watch another one of these ‘films’ that you put on the teevee.”

You laugh. “You liked that, huh? How about we wait for Marcus to get home, and then we’ll watch another.”

“I like the one with the small people and the magic ring.”

“I figured you would.” 

“In that case, do you have any more books that are in my language?” He had already finished the first one you’d given him, happy to have something familiar and comforting in his hands.

“Oh, absolutely,” you answer. “Come with me. We’ll find you something.”

He follows you into the little room that is filled from floor to ceiling with books and watches you peruse the shelves. 

“If it is no longer spoken by any living person, as you say, why are so many of your books in my language?”

You pause thoughtfully, one finger resting on the spine of a book. “People have studied these works for centuries. Historians, philosophers, politicians–many people in this time study the works of people who lived thousands of years ago.”

“I find it comforting,” Marcus muses, “that there is so much of this world that I do not recognize, and yet these words endure.” He thinks for a moment, frowning. “How is it that so many people are familiar with these texts if the language is no longer spoken?”

“Oh, well most people read them in English–or whatever modern language they speak.”

“And yet you have them as they were written,” he points out. 

You duck your head bashfully and look away from him–Why? “What I do for work…” you begin carefully. “I study ancient–well, ancient to us–civilizations. My specialty is Imperial Era Rome–your time. I’m kind of considered to be an expert.” You laugh nervously, still looking away from him as you explain.

Marcus finds it endearing, your reticence, but your area of study explains why the Agent brought him to you in the first place. He steps closer, so that you can no longer avoid looking at him. “You are an expert in… me, then?” he teases.

He revels in the surprised bark of laughter that you can’t suppress in response to his joke. 

“Lots of people are fascinated with objects from the past,” you explain, still smiling. “We put them in big buildings called museums and people come from all over to see them.”

“I would like to see this,” Marcus decides immediately. 

You hesitate. “Moreno doesn’t want you to be out in public any more than strictly necessary,” you tell him carefully. “There’s a lot of tension over how the Rift–the door to your time–was handled. If people knew you came through, he worries it would cause even more chaos.”

He considers this. “It is strictly necessary for me to see the museums,” he decides. 

You giggle softly. “Let me ask Pike, see what he thinks. Maybe we can sneak you over there. Ah! Here–” you hand him a book. “You’ll like this one.”

“Aenē̆is,” Marcus reads from the cover. “Thank you,” he says gratefully, choosing not to use the translator.

The two of you read in your living room until the late afternoon, when you’re interrupted by a light tap on the door. 

“I should really give you a key at this point,” you joke as you open the door to Agent Pike.

Marcus watches his face with interest, noticing how his lips part and his eyes widen with surprise before he quickly shakes himself and gives a noncommittal response. When you turn away and walk back to the couch, retrieving your book, the man’s eyes follow you the entire way. When he notices he’s being watched, he quickly looks away. 

“Marcus!” the Agent greets him brightly, clearly attempting to cover up the fact that he was just caught staring. Marcus isn’t sure why the man is so desperate to hide his obvious attraction to you. Is this a modern custom, or is it simply an idiosyncrasy of this man, in particular? 

“Are we expecting Moreno tonight?” you ask.

“I haven’t heard from him,” Pike answers as he sinks down onto the couch next to you.

“You should text him,” you suggest as you elbow the man in the shoulder. “Tell him we’re watching movies now.”

“I could,” he shrugs. 

Marcus decides to speak up. “I enjoy the evenings where there are four of us,” he says. “You always order extra food.”

The Agent snorts. “We can do that.”

Marcus smiles. It might have been said as a joke, but the sentiment was genuine. There is a particular kind of energy in the room that he enjoys when the four of them are together. It isn’t just the conversation that he finds so interesting; Moreno and Pike both wear every emotion on their faces–even more so when the wine flows–and Marcus has always been excellent at reading people. 

The attraction Moreno has for Pike is obvious. Pike is harder to read, because while his interest in the other man–and in Marcus himself–is clear from his body language, his feelings for you appear to be nothing short of infatuation.

And you… you’re interesting, too. The interactions between you and Pike indicate a history of affection and friendship, but he sees the way your eyes dilate when you look at Moreno… and when you look at him. 

And when the four of you are together, Marcus thinks, the tension is delicious. 

(You)

The best thing about watching a movie with Marcus Acacius, you decide, is not the movie itself. It’s watching Marcus Acacius watch the movie. You can’t help but watch the man’s face for his reactions to every scene. Your recliner has a lousy view of the TV, so the four of you are crammed onto the couch–because Moreno did show up, after all–sipping glasses of wine and watching Braveheart. You’re seated between Pike and the General, and Moreno is on the other end next to Pike.

Unfortunately, because you keep looking at him, the Roman keeps looking back at you, too, and it worries you that he’s getting the wrong idea. The man is gorgeous, of course, but your heart belongs to someone else, and has for quite some time now. When this is all over, you really need to tell Marcus–your Marcus–how you feel. At the same time, you don’t want this period in your life to end. You’ve never been a person who has many friends at once, and the three men who crashed into your life–and your home–have given you more companionship in the span of a few weeks than you’ve felt in your entire adult life. Each one is a comforting presence in their own way, and when all four of you are together, you’ve never felt more at ease. 

Not to mention each man is devastatingly handsome. You’ve been head-over-heels for the FBI Agent ever since he showed up at your office with an unbelievable story about Roman artifacts and a pleading look in his pretty brown eyes. Marcus Acacius, well–his commanding, charismatic presence in your home is impossible to ignore. He’s a terrible flirt, you’ve discovered, not just with you, but seemingly with Pike as well. You think he mostly does it to fluster the man, but there seems to be genuine affection behind his playfulness. And the leader of the Heroics? He hardly needs an explanation. Marcus Moreno was your first celebrity crush. Pushed into the superhero limelight in his early twenties, he was a mainstay in teen magazines during your high school years. Sometimes you can’t believe that the hero is a regular at your apartment, so familiar to him now that he helps himself to the six pack of beer that you keep in your fridge.

A set of unbelievable circumstances brought you together, and now here you are. On the couch. Feeling the fabric of Marcus Pike’s soft henley on one arm, and the bare skin of the Roman’s bicep barely contained by the t-shirt he’s wearing on the other. 

You can’t tell if it’s the wine or their proximity that’s making you more lightheaded. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Moreno subtly shift closer to the man beside him. 

You don’t know how the rest of them are able to concentrate on the movie.

You watch as a brutal fight scene shows on the screen, and you instinctively look to Acacius to gauge his reaction. He notices, of course, and raises his eyebrows in challenge. 

“The fighting seems so real, it is difficult to remember that these men are playing pretend,” he observes. He shifts in his seat, crossing one ankle over his knee and stretching his arm out on the back of the couch, just behind your shoulders, and seeming to accidentally brush the side of Pike’s neck with his fingers.

The Agent’s eyes flick sideways with a small, questioning frown at the touch.

“My apologies,” the Roman says, but before he returns his gaze to the screen, he gives you a subtle wink. 

Marcus Pike murmurs something about needing more wine and gets up. 

“Bring the bottle,” Acacius says. “Another round for us all, yes?”

The other man obeys, bringing the bottle and filling each glass in turn. When he comes to you, your eyes meet as more burgundy liquid splashes into your glass. You don’t know what’s darker, the wine, or his pupils. 

When he sits down, you note, he’s even closer than before. 

“What I simply do not understand,” the Roman suddenly says to the man beside you, the deep timbre of his voice felt in your chest, “is how you can be so deeply enamored with this beautiful woman beside you and do nothing.”

“E-Enamored?” Marcus chokes. “I–I’m not–”

“You are not?” the other man teases. “Then you do not mind if I partake?” 

“Stop that,” you scold. “You’re just trying to elicit a response and you know it.”

“Ah, I did not specify with whom I was speaking of partaking,” Acacius says darkly. His fingers caress the other man’s neck again, this time with intent. 

Marcus sputters wordlessly, his mouth opening and closing, but you can feel the soft tremor that runs through him at the soft touch. 

“Hey–” Moreno protests, looking irritated and put-out. 

“Shhhhh,” the Roman cuts him off. “You would be more than welcome to join, hero.”

Moreno’s mouth snaps shut. 

“But ah,” the man teases, “what rude guests we would be if we stole our hostess’s bed for ourselves, no? I think we should invite her as well.”

“You’re serious,” Moreno remarks skeptically.

“Is it not done in your time?” he asks, feigning innocence. “A group of people simply enjoying themselves?”

“No, it’s–it’s definitely done,” you say shakily. “It’s just that… I mean, we don’t know if we all want–”

“It is a simple matter to ask,” Acacius interrupts. “I will begin with you. Would you care to join all of us in bed?”

He speaks about it so plainly that it makes your skin tingle and your heart starts to race. All three men are looking at you: The Roman with patient expectation, the Heroic with obvious curiosity, and the Agent—his intense gaze burns you from the inside out. 

“Yes,” you hear yourself answer. “Yes, I–I would.”

“And you, hero,” the man moves on. “Are you interested in a night spent together?”

Moreno shrugs, as though he can’t think of any reason not to agree. “Yeah,” he says, chuckling softly in disbelief. “Sure, why not?”

Acacius fixes his gaze on the one remaining person to answer. “And you–the man who found me in the darkness. What say you?”

Marcus’s eyes flit rapidly between the three of you, hesitating.

Say yes, you plead in your head. Say yes, Marcus. 

You watch as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. He makes you wait for an eternity.

Then, he nods.

[notquitecanon]

Sacrifice & Devotion // Din Djarin x Reader

Hurt comfort lil fic

here's a fun lil game of spot the dialogue I stole from criminal minds!

tw: no mentions of gender, mention and description of canon typical injury, mention of canon typical violence, reader is a bounty hunter, specifically a sniper, unedited, written in one sitting while I pulled an all nighter

fics where two idiots who are obviously in love are so terrible at pretending to not be in love that it circles back around to one of them thinking its unrequited/being so oblivious they still don't notice are my bread and butter

Summary: Reader and Mando both have insecurities that are starting to boil over and cause some heavy miscommunication. It takes a blaster wound for them to talk it out.

You had stalked off to lick you wounds before the Crest’s engines even cooled, finding a cozy rooftop with a good view of the city, dark enough to feel concealed but enough ligh to tend to yourself. 

Mando hadn’t been able to catch you, he had to deliver proof of service to your contractors. The waiting credits were much needed to repair the ship’s latest malfunctions if either of you wished to leave this system in the next rotation. 

Not to mention the med pac that would need replenishing after you were done. In favor of not bleeding out, you had started with the most severe, the blaster wound to your shoulder. The med scanner had informed you it was primarily superficial, but was at risk of infection. 

You sniffed, for something so superficial, the wound sure was leaking blood like a broken tap. The scanner had suggest a bacta infusion, but after your last hunt, the last bacta infusion was only half full. Still, even half would slow the bleeding and lower the risk of infection. You hissed after spraying it with a coagulant and then cursed with the auto-injector of the syringe delivered the half dose of bacta. Next, you moved onto bandages, wrapping the gauze in looping circles. 

Metal clinked quietly behind you, alerting you to your company. Mando hovered in the shadows until you turned halfway towards him, like he didn’t want to startle you but also didn’t want to attract you frustration if you hadn’t cooled off yet. 

His modulator didn’t hide the concern in his voice, even if he tried to, “Those are too loose, you’ll get an infection.” 

“Well, are you gonna lurk in the shadows or come help me?” You sighed, nodding to the other discarded cargo crate beside the one you had pulled into the light, “How’d you find me?” 

Mando looked around as he approached and sat beside you, like it was obvious, “Easily accessible rooftop, city views and eyes on the ship. Removed but still involved. Sniper’s paradise.”  

You tried to ignore the flush of heat up your neck, sometimes between the very few words Mando spoke it was easy to forget  how astute his observations could be. It always shocked you when he voiced his perceptions of you, and flustered you when they were correct. So you cleared your throat, “Where’s the kid?”

The bounty hunter chuckled before stepping to the side, revealing the pram, closed, “Little one’s been asleep since we hit atmosphere.” 

Mando waited a moment before holding his hand, “Let me help you with those.” 

You licked your teeth before offering the roll of bandages to him. His gloved fingers closed around it before unraveling your previous handiwork. Fortunately the bleeding had mostly stopped, but you didn’t miss how his visor paused on the stained smears of blood down your arms and across your clothes. It made you bristle all over again, which he obviously noticed since he quickly started wrapping the injury before you rescinded your cooperation. It pained you to say he was right, your wrappings had been way too loose. Still, the tightness made you flinch more than you were proud to admit, making you feel like a child at a doctor’s office. Especially with how gentle he was being, how sincere his apologies were with every flinch. Your frustration welled back up at his gentility, your jaw setting which only made the split of your lip hurt worse. 

“You’re upset.” He observed, taking the bacta gel and spreading it on a cotton swab so he could dab at the open slice across your thigh which gave him the perfect excuse to drop his gaze from yours.  Sometimes you wished you also wore a helmet, make it a little harder for Mando to read your emotions. Make him play body language trivia during every interaction of every day, “I shouldn't have left you alone. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. You have every right to be upset."

Especially, if he was going to to read them incorrectly and break your heart in he process. Of course he thought that’s what you were upset about. The Mandalorian- all beskar steel, blaster smoke, and the worlds he balanced on his shoulders. 

You slumped your shoulders, ignoring the ache from your newly bandaged wound. You averted your gaze off to the Razor Crest, watching half a dozen workers frantically making two dozen repairs. Mando sighed, gingerly working the bacta into the gash with one hand, meanwhile you became acutely aware of his other gloved hand holding your thigh still. Gentle, yet firm, and his thumb was rubbing soothing circles against your exposed skin.  Mando took so much on himself and never expected any sort of reciprocity, didn’t know how to accept it. It filled you with anger all over again.

“Mando. I’m not mad at you for not being there to protect me.” You shook your head, glancing at his hand on your thigh before meeting his visor. You wondering if his eyes were as sad as his posture let on, quickly followed by a train of thought about his eyes that you decided to misattribute to the blood loss. 

“I should have been there. That sleemo never should have gotten close enough to touch you, much less do this.” He growled, taking the tube of liquid bandage and squeezing it across the gash. 

“Yeah, Mando, you should have been in two places at once and done my job for me. You’re right.” You groaned sarcastically, trying to snatch the tube out of his hand only to have him catch your wrist. Seeing your sharp look, he dropped your wrist but didn’t hand over the tube, instead finishing his application in silence. 

“Oh my stars- that was sarcasm Mando. I’m being facetious.” You were gobsmacked, did that helmet cut off airflow? Was his brain so oxygen deprived that he thought you truly expected that of him? How deep did this self martyrdom run? 

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” You finally asked, breaking  all contact to retract your legs from him. If he kept rubbing those circles on your thigh… you might do something dramatic, “I know I’m not a Mandalorian, and I’m probably not the best bounty hunter you’ve ever met, but if you can’t trust me to do my job then why let me keep tagging along.” 

Mando’s helmet was kind of doing a little spiral motion as if trying to follow your logic, “What? I trust you, of course I trust you.” 

“But not enough to do my job.” You snipped, “If you trust me so much why do your part of the job and mine before I even get the chance? Always swooping in to finish things, even when I have it under control. Why call me your partner if I’m basically a piece of cargo you have to feed? Why keep me around if I’m such a hinderance?” 

Mando actually flinched back at your sudden outburst, and you quickly looked away, maybe you had let more of your own insecurity show than you meant to. But it was all true. If he told you to take care of the perimeter, he’d flush out the inside and do a perimeter sweep before you even got to a good stakeout spot with your rifle. If you were both engaged in hand to hand combat, he’d recklessly rush his fight so shoot your opponent for you.  

The armored warrior was silent for a good long while, his visor watching you as you started to squirm under his gaze. You were about to interject, tell him to drop it and not worry about it, but as you opened your mouth he held a hand up to stop you, “I have no reservations about your skills. I trust you with my life.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, reopening the cut through the one over your left eye, “Then-“ 

Once again, he interrupted you by saying your name quietly… reverently. You went silent. 

“When I went against the guild on Nevarro, you were the only guild member to stand with me. I never would have made it off planet with the child if you hadn’t intervened. You gave everything up to help me, you didn’t know me and yet you threw your life away to help me escape with the child. You could have earned enough credits to retire three times over by turning me in, you’ve had chance after chance to betray me, and yet,” He paused to look at you,��really look at you, “You’ve risked your life time after time for the child, for me. You devoted yourself to this quest as if it were your own. How could I do any less than you?” 

His gloved hand reached for yours, his thumb grazing over your split knuckles from a up close encounter with a pirate, “Every time I allow someone to hurt you, it’s an affront to your sacrifice.” 

Your eyes softened, letting him dab that bacta cream across the marred skin, “Mando, we’re bounty hunters. Getting hurt is an occupational hazard. I knew the risks when I did what I did.” 

He was silent; his visor tipped away from you over to the pram where the Child slept, “You do too much for us.” 

“Hypocrite.” You teased, trying to lighten the mood. His confession had eased your frustrations, a balm to your own insecurities. Of course this had come from a place of protectiveness, how very… Mandalorian. Considering him for a moment, you angled your body back towards him. You knew all this duty weighed on him, and often there wasn’t much you could do to help, but at the moment, on your perfectly chosen rooftop, you knew what he needed. You handed him a new cotton swap and the small bacta patches that would prevent the cuts on your face from scarring, “Do my face so we can find some dinner?” 

He nodded quickly, taking the supplies and pulling you a bit closer to him, so close that you knee overlapped his own armored thigh, and you were close enough to count the scratches on his chest plate, even in the dim light. The slight lean taxed your sore core and back muscles, so you steadied yourself by placing a hand on his knee. He almost jerked, but cleared his throat, taking a moment to relax again. Your lip tugged up, he unconsciously moved closer. 

You let him work in silence for a long pause, enjoying the night breeze. He gingerly cleaned each cut and scrape, gloved fingers grazing your cheeks, the slope of your nose, your lips and a whole bunch of other places you knew weren’t injured. You tried not to let your breath catch, in case that would spur him to stop. 

Eventually, he stopped pretending to be using both hands, leaving his left one cupping your cheek ’to keep you still’. You leaned into the touch, allowing the softness of the moment before your next bounty or side quest came along. You liked when it was just the two of you, Mando talked a lot more, he was unintentionally one of the funniest people you knew.

You were shocked to find his company so enjoyable after all the rumors of him being only slightly more human than an assassin droid. Sure he was stoic, usually silent, focussed, but he was also kind, more compassionate than he would admit, and unwaveringly loyal.  Dank Farrik, he made it hard to stay mad at him. 

Closing your eyes (a big sign of trust for a sniper), you laid your hand over the one cupping your cheek, “Mando, I didn’t make this sacrifice expecting anything from you. I just wish you’d let me help you more, you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I hate seeing you hurt, more than I know how to explain.” His voice was gruffer than usual as he placed a patch over the split in your brow. Your hand on his knee squeezed gently. 

“I don’t need you to protect me, I need you to know that, especially at the risk of your own safety.” You reminded him with a softness to your voice that you seldom used to anyone other than the Child. A thumb brushed across the peak of your cheek before moving a stray piece of hair so he could patch a scrape under the corner of your eye. 

“I know that, ner kar’ta.” His tone matched yours: soft, gentle, intimate. Your head cocked to the side, but Mando wasn’t feeling up to explaining so he continued on, placing another patch across the bridge of your nose, “Still, I think I’ll stay on the job a while longer.” 

________

After dinner and chasing the pit droids out of the Razor Crest, it was time for some well needed rest. Mando had managed to scrounge up some light dosage pain medication when he stopped to replenish the medpacs. Not enough to leave you delirious, but strong enough to make you drowsy and a little loose with your thoughts. Nothing you’d regret, just a couple more direct than usual questions for you beskar wrapped bunkmate. You watched him putter around the cargo hold from your cot with half lidded eyes, as he went through and checked over everything the droids might have touched.  

“How much longer?” You couldn’t help but ask, wondering if your days with the Mandalorian were already numbered. Mando’s helmet turned towards you before sliding the circuit panel back into the wall. 

“Sorry, I’m almost done. Try to get some sleep.” He answered quietly, trying to minimize the noise he made as he moved about the small space. 

“Not that.” You waved him off, the motion much clumsier, heavier than usual, “Protecting me- a fool’s errand by the way. You said you’d stay on the job a while longer.” 

Mando sighed, moving towards his rack, the one with the closing door that he’d tried to give to you, but you refused. It was the only place other than the privy he could remove his helmet, you refused to let him give that away. He flicked lights off as he went, leaving only the dim glow of button lights to reflect on his armor. He was silent long enough that the darkness lulled you into a bit of a half sleep. Maybe that was his goal, still he answered you. Quietly, in that same reverent tone he’d said your name with earlier that evening. 

“Every single day for the rest of my life.” 

Exhaustion, blood loss, and narcotics dulled the effect of that declaration, but you heart still clenched at the sincerity of his voice. Your eyes wouldn’t open anymore and your thoughts were becoming increasingly sluggish with every beat of your heart. 

“Thanks, Mando.” You breathed, listening to the clicks of his armor being disassembled and neatly placed away, finally the hiss of his helmet being disengaged, knowing it must be dark enough he wasn’t worried about you seeing his face. 

“Din, that’s my actual name. You can call me Din when it’s just us.” He breathed into the night, barely registering in your mind, but you tucked away that information where you’d remember it tomorrow. You heart clenched again at his offer to you, showing how much he trusted you. 

“Thanks, Din."

-----

Ner K'arta - my heart

now that's what I call shitty writing

[penvisions]

garnish {chapter 2}

Pairing: Head Chef! Joel Miller x Bartender! Reader

Summary: Joel can't seem to make up his mind when it comes to you: one minute he's kind and thoughtful, the next he's cruel and cutting off your every word. You're just trying to keep your head above water, work becoming something that is not so simple anymore.

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: pining, mutual pining, masturbation, mention of sex toys, use of sex toys, use of recreational drugs, marijauna, joel is a meanie in this, power dynamics, degrading talk, age gap (reader is late 20's, Joel in his 40s)

A/N: diving full force into this story while i'm trying to navigate finding jobs to apply to and calls to places i'm interested it. hopefully this chapter is received as well as the first! please let me know what y'all think!

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist

It had been a hectic two weeks of prepping before your normal bartending shifts.

There had been application posted to fill the position of the sandwich station worker who had called out all those days ago and then just never returned. But in the meantime you had been given the opportunity to prep the station for whoever would be manning it while Joel took over the main hot station that did a majority of the heavier cooking for the entrees as well as the garnishing before plates were deemed ready to go out onto the floor.

Everyone in the kitchen seemed to be under the impression that without a dishwasher until the service began and that it would be a collective effort to keep them in line and working through the washer and then added to the drying rack.

Except for yours.

The items you used and transferred out in the station were left in the bus tubs lining the intake area of the dish pit. You didn’t let it get to you, used to having to keep up with glasses and garnish cambros with the steady if not hectic business of the place. You were in the middle of rinsing out a giant bane when someone placed their own beside you directly in the dish pit and it knocked the ones in your hand enough to cause the spray of the nozzle to wash over you.

You cursed under your breath as it doused you from head to waist. It was a cold shock and you frowned as you continued to get the dishes from your prep cleaned and dried. As soon as it was all set and you double checked everything for the station’s workers for the night, you walked over to where the employee lockers were.

Thoughts of how things had been going overall swirling in your mind as you made your way over to the shared space at the back of the kitchen. Eyes followed you sometimes, people aware of the weird dynamic of someone working both front of house and in the kitchen. But people were outwardly friendly with you still, no animosity other than the business with the dishes. Joel’s eyes often caught your own as he handled his own prep and went about his supervision of things going the way they need to for him to run his kitchen. He would tackle the dishes every so often as well, telling people to line them up if he was able to spend time in the dish pit. Casual conversation were still an occurrence, more so now that you were in the kitchen with people you often talked to through the expo line and the width of the bar top. It was something that just wasn’t worth bringing up and potentially change the easy going dynamic that had been set.

You untied your apron, a black thing with a simple floral pattern that wasn’t really allowed as it didn’t match the uniform of the kitchen staff. But it had been allowed as it was a custom with your name stitched on the front pocket and the one you used to set up the bar. You tossed it into your locker, also labeled with your name, and moved to peel the wet black long sleeve you had worn for the day. Underneath it was a dark heather gray tank top that was lined with lace on the neckline, paired with black denim pants. Your belt was a little kitschy, the buckle a silver metal heart.

You were too preoccupied digging around in your locker for replacement to notice that someone else had come into the locker room. When you made a triumphant sound at finding another shirt, you pulled it out quickly only to come face to face with Joel.

“Oh!” You startled, feet taking you a few quick steps back, or they would’ve if you hadn’t been jammed in the middle of your back by the open locker door. The fabric fell from your hands as you exclaimed again in pain. “Oh, fuck!”

Expletives rained down from your mouth, some in English and some in Spanish, your mind getting tangled as you tried to deal with the pain.

You braced your hands on your knees and leaned down a little, trying to stretch the sharp pain out of your throbbing back before it could cramp and get worse. It was the wrong move as Joel had just leaned down himself to pick up the dropped shirt and your chest was practically in his face. The cleavage from your tank top allowed him an eyeful and he caught sight of the rose-colored bra that you had picked out that morning. He quickly stood back up and shoved the shirt back into your open locker and left the room as quickly as he had come in.

You straightened back up as well and felt the heat rush to your face as you realized what had just happened.

The rest of the shift went by well enough, though you had to be careful with twisting and maneuvering a little more than normal to avoid twinging your sore back. You were sure there was a large bruise that had bloomed to life on the skin but wouldn’t be able to tell for sure until you were home. The restaurant had closed, the last customers were walking out as you began to break down the bar.

You had all the mats in the washer and had started to replace bottles you had grabbed from the shelves lining the back of the bar above the small counter. A particularly full bottle of pomegranate liquor was a hard reach for you and your back spasmed with the effort to reach the middle shelf. Losing your grip on the bottle, you braced yourself for it to fall but a large hand was catching it by the middle before it could lose too much air and placed it atop the shelf for you.

You turned to see Joel standing unnervingly close, his body was a warm line beside you, his chest practically pressing up against your side as he had swooped in to save you from dropping the bottle completely.

“Would hate for it to have gone to waste.” Was all he said as he stood back, his hands resting atop both counters that made up your area, effectively blocking the entrance as he took up the space with his broad form. He watched you as you continued to put bottles away and placing stoppers the ones in the well, wiping them all down with a clean sanitizer rag as you did so. When you got to a good scotch that you had taken weeks picking out, you picked up two rocks classes and filled them with two fingers of the amber liquor each, you slid one over to him. He regarded you as he took a drink from it. His plush lips pressing against the glass in a tantalizing way despite the casualness of the action. “You didn’t eat anythin’ tonight.”

“No, I didn’t have much time. My barback called out and it was just me mixin’ and runnin’.” You explained as you took a sip from your own glass. His eyes traced the movement of the glass much like you had done with his own as he took a drink. Your fingers were adorned with a new coat of dip, having allowed them to grow out a bit and treat yourself to the splurge. The dark green of them adorned with small golden stars must’ve caught his eye as they glinted in the soft lighting of the dining room.

“Could’ve put in a takeout order to have something sent over. I woulda comped it for ya.”

“I’ll just have something when I get home.” You set your glass down on the back shelf, by the register and out of reaching hands should another employee come looking for a post shift treat. You had already made a last call for everyone, some people taking you up on it.

“It’s late.”

“Yeah, but I need to study anyway, so it’ll be okay.”

“Study?”

“I’ve got a midterm tomorrow. I’ll be up for a bit.”

“Didn’t know you were in school.” Behind the casual curiosity you could see a worry about your age, as did everyone when you mentioned school. But the reality was that you had taken a few years off to focus on family and get some personal things straightened out before returning.

“Hmm,” You absently responded as you wrapped up the tops of the squeeze bottles with cling wrap and gathered them in a large storage basin to put in one of the many coolers beneath the bar. “Only part time, graduate this fall.”

“Lemme make you somethin’ to take home.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. You looked up from where you were now loading the guards for the drains that lined the bar top. Pausing as you had moved to put something into the washer on the other side of the space. Taken aback by the shift in his tone from casual to one he would adapt on the line.

“Oh, no, it’s okay, chef. Really.”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Chef, really, it’s okay.”

“Joel’s fine, darlin’. Chicken or beef?”

“You know, this is the most we’ve ever talked.” He didn’t take the bait, the comment a distraction from his attempt. The last sip of your own drink was quickly downed, and you turned to face away from him as you placed your own glass in the washer. When you turned back around, his eyes were still on you. There was a slight glint to them, something you couldn’t quite make out, but it had you crumbling all the same.

“…beef, please.” You sighed, rubbing your hand over the small of your back. A shy smile taking over your lips as you tried to avoid meeting his eyes with your own. The glass he still held in his hand was knocked back, the remaining liquor downed in a single swig and he was stepping into your space to load it into the open dishwasher. His arm brushed against yours and you felt your face heat up at the proximity.

“Comin’ right up.”

“Lemme know what you think,” He placed one hand on the hood of your truck, the other on the side of the open door and leaned inside the cab a bit. The scent of him filled the space, winning out over the dying air freshener you had yet to replace out of sheer laziness. His cologne was faint after a long shift but the cedar undertones of it were heady as they filled your nose. His lips were suddenly brushing the apple of your cheek, the contact brief. “Good luck on that midterm, see ya tomorrow.”

He took your shocked stillness as a sign to close the door, a smug grin taking over his features as he did so. You watched him through the glass of your window as he walked back to the building, turning to look at you once more with a wink before he disappeared inside.

You sat there for far too long, willing your heartrate back down before you turned the engine and took off toward home. For most of the drive, you found yourself pressing a hand to the skin his lips had touched and glancing over at the two takeout boxes he had secured in a tied-up plastic bag.

The campus was crowded, so incredibly crowded. You had to circle the various parking lots three times over before you were able to snag a spot. The sound of the truck door was loud as you pushed it closed and locked it up before rushing towards the main buildings. You were nearly late, but had just made it down the hall and could see the open door as the time for the beginning of class displayed on the small watch you had adorned today. You had actually been able to dress like normal, only going into the bar later to do inventory and place an order before your day off tomorrow and next. A little break, the manager had said, to help you relax after summer midterms.

Fall was around the corner in a few months and you needed to get things lined up and ready for the menu change that staff meeting had been about a few weeks ago. The skirt of your sundress, black patterned with sunflowers, swirled up as you rushed through the door and turned to take the first seat that was open. Your short sleeves not allowing you much warmth in the colder air of the classroom. As you sat, you pulled out a mustard cardigan and shrugged it on. You felt eyes track your figure as you had walked the entire length of the classroom to the back and took a seat in the back row and plopped down. The shift to the air of the building wasn’t the only reason you decided to don your little sweater, fingers shaking slightly as you buttoned it up completely.

“Alright, now that everyone is here,” The professor offered you a kind smile as they spoke, shutting the door and locking it to prevent anyone from entering from the outside. “Let’s tackle the exciting world of biological evolution.”

An hour and a half later, your hand cramping from writing so fast to catch your thoughts and theories down into tangible words, you turned in your small, stapled packet. You were one of the last ones in the class, everyone else rushing off to enjoy the rest of their day, thankful that class wasn’t running the typical three hours and taking advantage of the early hour before noon. Fingers brushed against your own as the professor reached out to take the paper from you. You felt a jolt of anxiety race up your spine and you offered a weak smile before taking your leave.

Your smaller sized backpack was placed in the heightened bar seat beside you. The laptop you bought for school last year open and glowing in front of you with the white blankness that was the ordering screen for the company the restaurant preferred to use. It was early, only Joel in the kitchen for early prep due to a lot of reservations and the manager doing the same as you, taking inventory before placing orders.

You looked over your notes, unsure of what you had scrawled down on one page, but it didn’t seem to matter. It was about the lamb special, something that Joel was still working on. Uncrossing your legs, you hopped down from the stool you had been sat it for far too long. The tingling of blood flow returning to your legs had you walking stiffly toward the kitchen, the thump of your healed boots louder than normal on the floor of the dining room as you crossed the space. Your hair was down, the scent of your shampoo calming you as you approached the door.

Thoughts of the man just on the other side of the door had plagued you all night. You tried to fight a heat that threatened to rise as you recalled the way you had called out his name in a loud whimper when you had come undone with the help of your vibrator. It had been all encompassing, recalling the heat of him as he had stood close to you and roped you into allowing him to cook for you after close, the brush of his warm skin along your arm, the plush give of his lips as he had leaned in to touch them to your cheek. The care he had put into the food he prepared for you, enough for dinner and lunch today if you hadn’t gotten so high and gave into the desires of your stomach and cunt so easily.

Taking a deep breath to settle your nerves, you pushed open the swing door, your nails clinking softly on the dark metal. As you crossed the threshold, Joel’s eyes snapped up from where he was on the line. You were suddenly self-conscious of the dress you were wearing, cardigan laid over the back of your stool at the bar.

“Chef, I had a few questions about the special. I know we went over it at the meeting but-“ The words cut off in your throat as you looked up to see his eyes hard and heavy on you. He had only glanced at you before looking back down at what he was doing but it seemed his attention was focused solely on you now and it made you squirm after the awkward morning you had had.  Maybe he was upset about food safety, your hair was down, and the dress had rather short sleeves and low cut. “Oh, I have a sweater I can put on and a hair tie if you’re worried about food safety.”

“No.” It was quick, the word flying from his lips and followed by the sound of him clearing his throat rather harshly. You could practically feel the heat of his gaze in the metal of the necklace around your neck, the simple chain reacting to his eyes on you much like your skin was. His next words weren’t as harsh as that first one. “No, don’t worry about that, should be fine.”

“Um, okay.” Fingers wringing around each other, you took another couple of steps into the kitchen, closer to the expo line you were peering at him through. “Did-did you decide on the balsamic for the fall special?

“Testing it out today, want to help?”

“Oh, oh no, I couldn’t!” You put a hand on the empty space of the expo line, nails clinking as you did so, and the sound drew his attention to it. You worried he was going to tell you to remove them before your next shift. But he had seen them yesterday and not said anything. “It’s your kitchen, I don’t want to intrude on prep time when I’m not even on schedule.”

“You’re here off the clock?”

“No, I clocked in, but it was…supposed to be my day off. Mary- she gave me the weekend off to relax after midterms.”

He didn’t say anything, his eyes going over your attire again in a sweeping gaze. The way your chest was slightly pushed up as you leaned against the slightly higher counter. His gaze moved back to what he was doing, out of your line of sight.

“Hop back here and we can figure it out together.”

“I-I can’t, really, I’m just here to do the order.” You didn’t want to turn down the offer, something he wasn’t keen to hand out to people in the kitchen let alone anyone else. But his close proximity was a heady thought and your body hummed with the prospect of being behind the line with him. It was dangerous, a line that shouldn’t be crossed and he was sending you such inviting signals. You didn’t need gossip to start, focused on you and how you seemed to soften the man in charge of the kitchen though you hadn’t really done anything.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“Chef-“

“Joel, thought I told you to cut that chef crap out?” His lips twitched up slightly, the hint of a dimple appearing in his right cheek through the scruff along his face. You closed your eyes in a long blink as you felt a pulse of desire underneath your dress. He was so enamoring, the hint of his true personality peeking through the work persona he took on, or maybe just another facet of the man who you couldn’t seem to get out of your head.

“Joel, I can’t. I have stuff to do today after the order. I’m sorry, I’m not trying to offend you but it’s-“

The openness of his expression and the light behind his eyes dulled, slipping back to the normal emotionless one he wore when service started.

“Got it,” His hands became rough with what he was doing, and you realized he had been chopping up the brussels and sweet potatoes you were asking after. The knife was making a fast-snicking sound as his eyes focused on the cutting board in front of him, his focus on the task at hand. His voice had lost the jovial tone he had taken up, now rough and no nonsense. “Balsamic will most likely be a glaze thrown on before they roast.”

“Heard, chef.” You found yourself pushing off the expo line, feeling small, and made your way back into the dining room. Quickly shutting the laptop, not bothering to wait for it to save anything or power down, you shoved it into your bag along with your cardigan. You swiped your keys off of the counter beside the glass of water you had poured for yourself and took hurried steps toward the entrance. You scrambled for the handle of the door and pushed it harder than necessary, tears springing up in your eyes at the thought of confrontation as you heard the kitchen door swing open.

Heavy, even footsteps through the dining room had you forgetting to lock the door back up and you were throwing your bag into the passenger seat of your truck parked on the curb, having been told you could do so since the place wasn’t due to open until regular hours. The sound of your driver’s side door slamming was loud even to you as you jammed the keys into the ignition and the engine roared to life.

You didn’t spare a glance up at the outline of Joel standing on the curb you could see out of your peripheral, jerking the gear shift into drive and taking off with a sob bubbling up from your chest. His signals were so confusing, making it hard to figure out how to act around him. Work was supposed to be work, easy. Clock in, prep, make drinks, clean, clock out. Not this mental game of gymnastics with a man who seemed to warm up to you one second and then ice you out the next.

You were called early Sunday morning by an apologetic Mary. Saying that the bartender on shift for the brunch service had called out. You calmed her down, knowing it would be good to get the hours and tips and said you would be there in time to open the bar. Brunch was an earlier ordeal, the only day that the restaurant wasn’t open for dinner service. An easy shift, only a few hours between nine and three. A baby shift, and you would have the opportunity to order something sweet to go. A treat to enjoy on the couch with a dumb comedy playing on the screen of your living room.

The service went by quickly, jugs of orange juice and bottles of champagne piling up in your trash bin in a whirlwind of orders. Mimosas were easy money, strawberry syrup an easy upcharge to get people excited about. You had spilled tomato juice on your apron earlier and the cloying acidity was making waves of nausea roll in your stomach every time you caught a whiff of it. Things were winding down with only an hour and a half left of service. Another forty-five for kitchen orders, but you would be pouring until about ten minutes to close. You rang in a to go order of French toast and a side of scrambled eggs.

You had forgotten all about it until you were wrapping up the takeout order of someone at the bar, realizing yours had never made it over to you at the bar. It wasn’t as if you were about to eat it during service but still, it would’ve been nice to close everything down and have it ready to grab on your way out the front door.

You locked the door for the customer as you followed them to the front door. The last of the day and turned the lock after they safely across the public parking lot. With a sigh you turned toward the kitchen and braced yourself to interact with the man who had weaved his way into every one of your thoughts.

He had been professional throughout the shift, allowing you to pass clearance on dishes that needed to be run when you had come back to check on the lag created by servers flooding the sparse kitchen with orders. Allowing you the ability to do so as he always had done.

“Um, chef?” His eyes snapped to you for barely a second before he went back to gathering the stuff he needed to clean the grill. He made a grunt of acknowledgement to show he heard you. “I was wondering if my ticket was ready? I put it in before the cut off but-“

“We sold the par for what you ordered. Didn’t have enough for it.” His back tensed as he raised a hand to pour a good drizzle of oil over the entirety of the grill, grill brick ready in his other hand. The black gloves looked tight over his knuckles, like he was tense.

“Oh, um, okay.” You shuffled on your feet, aware of the two other cooks glancing between you both at the interaction. They were busy wrapping things and storing them into their respective stations, gathering dishes and things that needed to be washed. A grumble from your stomach urged your next question, too tired to attempt grocery shopping or cooking yourself. “Is-is there anything I can swap it out for?”

“We’re already shut down, can’t you see me cleaning the grill?” He turned around, items still in his grip as he finally faced you head on. “Shoulda come and checked before service closed. It ain’t my job to look after mistakes made by the front of house.”

The heat climbing up your face startled you, shame bubbling up alongside embarrassment. But you ignored it as your teeth ground against each other with the pressure of your jaw clenching. Eyes flicking over the items on the line in front of you. There was plenty he could throw together for you; he just didn’t want to. You nodded once before speaking in an even, professional tone. Your own mask falling into place.

“Apologies chef, it won’t happen again.”

You tried not to let the whispered words of the other two cooks hurt too much as you moved through the door. The two of them followed slightly as they came out from the line and made their way over to the dish pit.

“I thought I saw a second tray prepped in the walk in.”

“Me too, she must’ve done something to piss him off.”

You wallowed on the couch until late, the brightness of the screen playing across your blank face, eyes not really seeing the movie playing across the screen.

previous chapter || next chapter

[lunarmothim]

nevermore - simon riley x reader

part i: grief is a funny thing - in the wake of devastating loss, nothing looks the same.

word count: 1.2k tags/warnings: mention of major character death, brief description of gore, heavy angst, grief, suicidal thoughts, language. implied ghoap.

notes: and here it is! this labor of love (and many tears) has given me grief for the last two weeks. i decided to start off on this blog with a bang and make the boys suffer :) i have this thing plotted to the last chapter and i'm already preparing a preemptive apology. welcome to hell, population us, i hope you enjoy :)

141 SAFEHOUSE 23 NOV 2023, 10:00 HRS SOMEWHERE IN THE UK

Grief is a funny thing. 

With all the loss in his life, Simon would have thought he'd be used to it by now- the hollow ache in his chest, the empty spaces in his life no amount of alcohol can fill. Some days are easier than others, the pain reduced to a dull, manageable throb. Others it's like a knife between his ribs, pressure building with nowhere to go as the blood pools in his chest cavity. Either way it's familiar. He should be used to it.

But something about this one feels different, hurts more.

Maybe it's that this one is still fresh, the image of his fallen sergeant still burned into the backs of his eyelids like a macabre tattoo. 

Maybe it's that he'd been there for the end, had watched Johnny go down in a spray of blood and brain matter, had pressed trembling fingertips to his neck in search of a pulse he'd already known he wouldn't find. 

Or maybe it's that the infuriating Scot had gotten so deep under his skin that Simon couldn't dig him out if he tried, planting the tentative seed of something better, something kind, something he didn't deserve.

Whatever it is, it keeps him curled up in a too-small bed in a dingy safehouse as many kilometers away from London as he could get on half a tank of gas, staring blankly at the wall with a hangover that feels like a pleasant tickle compared to the agony that winds through every crack and crevice Johnny had carved into his armor, filling the spaces between his ribs until it's pressing against his lungs and he can't breathe under the weight of it.

He can't remember grief hurting this much. He doesn't know what to do with it, how to ease the pressure. 

Well. He knows one way. Cold steel taunting him from a bedside table drawer, always loaded. Always ready. 

Always tempting. 

He reaches for it now, one arm stretching out to slide open the drawer. He doesn't pick it up, just running his fingers over the barrel. It would be easy. Pick it up, feel its weight in his palm. A kiss of metal against his temple. A single squeeze of his finger. He considers it. Has been considering it for the last two days, since he'd stood outside the service entrance to the channel tunnel and watched the bodybag zip closed.

Two days. It feels like no time at all has passed. It feels like it's been decades. 

Some pieces of Johnny are already fading. Simon can't remember their last interaction, the last thing they said to each other. If he'd smiled, what he smelled like beneath the haze of cigarette smoke that clung to him after tailing the hacker. They'd shared a fist bump in the back of a military vehicle as they approached the tunnel, maybe, a silent see you on the other side that had become ritual over the years. Something instinctual, gravitational, a minute offering of something steady before everything went to shit as it often did.

Fuck. His hand retreats from the gun and slams the drawer shut before scrubbing down his face, the rough fabric of his balaclava scratching at his skin. He remembers a different hand, much gentler, following the same path in the opposite direction to yank it off his head. He drops his hand like he's been burned.

He's so wrapped up in the mess in his head that he almost misses the faint footsteps outside.

The sharp snap of a twig is what cuts through the white noise like static in his ears. It's like a switch flips in him at the sound- in the split second between breaths Simon becomes Ghost, the gun in his hand a familiar weight as he snatches it from the drawer. He rolls off the bed, hitting the floor just as the door is blasted clean off its hinges.

Assess the situation. Heavy footsteps. Boots, multiple. At least six, spreading out around the room. The familiar sound of a grip adjusting on a rifle.

"Know you're there, Ghost." That voice. That fucking voice, that lazy southern drawl that drags him back to that night in Las Almas, Johnny bleeding on the ground- "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"The fuck are you doing here, Graves?" His own voice is rougher than usual, hoarse and scratchy, throat still raw from yelling orders in the chunnel. From yelling for Johnny. Focus. He doesn't rise from the floor just yet, straining his ears. No movement, just the sound of tense breathing. 

"Got orders to bring you in," Graves answers like it's the simplest thing in the world, and Ghost's eyes narrow. "Alive, they said, but you know how accidents happen."

"Who's orders?"

"Army, CIA, Interpol. Take your pick." The finality in Graves' tone says he isn't interested in answering anymore questions. A shame, really, because Ghost has a lot of them and he'd love to beat the answers out of the smarmy asshole. "Now drop your weapon and come out with your hands up. I won't ask again."

Ghost thinks about it for far too long of a second- putting up a fight he likely won't win. Sure, he's brought a knife to a gunfight against Graves and his Shadows before, he'd stand even more of a chance with a pistol, but his mind is stuck on who'd given the orders. Army, CIA, Interpol. He hasn't done anything illegal- lately- that he remembers, certainly nothing that would put him on Interpol's radar, so he makes a choice.

A shit choice, but if the CIA's involved he's sure Laswell is too. Maybe if he cooperates he can get some answers.

Mind made up, Ghost tosses the gun up onto the mattress. It's not the response Graves wants judging by the way he tuts, but he holds out his hand in a stand down motion to his Shadows anyway when Ghost slowly rises to his feet, fingers splayed wide and hands out to his sides to show them empty. You know how accidents happen. There's no doubt in Ghost's mind Graves would shoot him if he so much as twitched in a way he didn't like.

"That wasn't so hard now, was it? Let's go." Graves taunts, nodding to the Shadow closest to Ghost's side of the room. He doesn't fight it when the soldier zip cuffs him with trembling hands, though he could easily take the kid out before any of the others could react and both he and Graves know it- it's why Graves hadn't come over here to do it himself, keeping what he thinks is a safe distance.

It's not. No distance from Ghost is safe enough for Graves, not when he's part of the reason Johnny's dead.

Makarov may have pulled the trigger, but Graves and Shepherd's egos had made it possible.

Five minutes to confirm a kill, and maybe Johnny would still be here.

He stamps out the spark of pain igniting again along the edges of his frayed psyche, shrugging off the hand guiding him to the door. Despite the zip cuffs that speak to the contrary he walks out of his own volition, ducking his head to slide into the backseat of the SUV on the curb when the door's yanked open for him. He doesn't bother to hide his distaste when Graves slides in next to him, keeping his gun trained on him like he's expecting Ghost to do something stupid.

He won't... for now. Not until he knows what's going on. 

Laswell better have a good fucking explanation for this.

part one - masterlist - part two

please like/reblog if you enjoyed! :) dividers by: @/gildui

[wjabpainting]

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Painting, a form of metal finishing, not only enhances the visual appeal of metal but also improves its durability and longevity. The paint layer acts as a shield, safeguarding the metal from scratches, abrasion, and fading. With proper surface preparation and application techniques, the painted metal can withstand harsh conditions, ensuring its visual appeal remains intact for years to come.

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Liquid painting, also known as surface treatment, offers a myriad of benefits for elevating metal’s visual appeal. By enhancing aesthetics, providing corrosion protection, and ensuring durability, surface treatment has become a go-to method for transforming metal surfaces. Whether it’s a large industrial structure or a delicate metal artwork, liquid painting adds a touch of beauty and longevity. With its ability to create visually stunning finishes and safeguard metal from the elements, surface treatment has revolutionized the way we perceive and utilize metal in various industries. Its impact on enhancing the visual appeal of metal surfaces cannot be overstated.

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[blackcoldcrackedheart]

So two things:

1) think I found a new song for Buck and Tommy, Head over Feet by Alanis Morissette

And 2) I'm feeling write-y, but this should be short and sweet.

Buck's loft had a nice bathroom set up, it was sleek but simple though. A glass shower stall and dark metal finishes. It felt nice to stay under the spray and lean against the tile as his muscles relaxed after a grueling shift.

Tommy's bathroom though was entirely something else though.

For a guy who could be perceived as having simple tastes based on his clothing alone, Tommy's house had some amazing features, which included the main bathroom.

Tommy had talked to Buck about how he had bought the home on a whim before the housing bubble bursting. Tommy had made the home his and one thing he splurged on was the bathroom.

It felt like walking into a spa, with its bamboo like cabinets, dark finishes, and emerald green tiles. Of course Tommy had plants in his bathroom, including a eucalyptus tied to his shower (which had those amazing side showers and those rain shower heads that made Buck feel like he was heaven).

(The shower was also big enough for two people as well....)

What Buck was definitely surprised about was the tub.

It was massive as well, he knew Tommy was a fan of baths since he liked to take them after a tough work out.

What he didn’t expect was coming home after seeing Maddie to see Tommy waiting at the door.

"You seem excited to see me." Buck joked as he kissed Tommy and took off his shoes.

"Aren't I always?" Tommy grinned, pulling Buck by his belt loop for another kiss. "Mm, guess what?" Tommy asked softly, his hands now on Buck's hips.

"What?"

"Since you and I have had some very rough and physically taxing shifts these last two shifts I figured we could do something hmmm....steamy." Tommy smirked.

Buck smiled excitedly, already ready for whatever Tommy had planned for them. They were always good physically and Buck loved every moment they had having sex. "Really now?"

Tommy came behind him, covering Buck's eyes with his hands as he walked them over to what Buck assumed was their bedroom.

The first thing his sense picked up was warmth, more so the humidity he suddenly walked into. The other was the smell.

It smelled warm and spicy, like someone made pumpkin pie but used bourbon and rum in the mix.

"Surprise."

Buck felt Tommy's hands fall away and he opened his eyes to find himself in their bathroom, electric tea lights surrounding them and the tub filled with steamy water that smelled like spiked pumpkin pie. By the tub, Buck eyed a bucket filled with ice and what had to be a bottle of champagne.

"A bubble bath?" Buck questioned, unsure as he looked at the tub.

"Yeah." Tommy smiled, "I figured we could have a quiet night in but I wanted us to relax and figured, a bubble bath with my boyfriend sounded nice."

Buck pressed his lips to keep from laughing, not because he didn't like the idea or he thought it was ridiculous.

It was just so ridiculously romantic.

Like beyond ridiculously romantic.

"You don't like it?" Tommy asked, Buck could tell he was masking his disappointment. "I know it might be too mu-"

Buck grabbed him by the face to kiss him, making sure Tommy would be left breathless as he pulled away to tell him, "This is honestly the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me....probably the only romantic thing anyone has ever done for me." Buck admitted after thinking about.

He was all about big gestures, all about proving he was thinking of his girlfriends at the time he was dating them when he would plan date night. He knew love language wise, Buck was a sucker for words of affirmation, quality time, and acts of service.

Tommy nailed all three with this. Especially after telling Buck "You deserve to have every romantic thing." Kissing Buck on his birthmark, a move that had Buck blushing furiously and made his heart flip.

As Buck got undressed, Tommy poured them both a flute of champagne and started playing music to set the mood.

"What?" Buck as he noticed Tommy was just looking at him as he walked to the tub, completely nude and unabashed.

"Just thanking whatever deity there is that I get have Evan Buckley."

Buck shook his head at that, never getting used to Tommy being smooth. "You think you have me, huh?"

"Mmhhmm." Tommy hummed as he took off his clothes. "You had me the moment you walked into the harbor, so only fair that I have you."

Buck said nothing, smiling bashfully as he sunk into the hot water, he felt his muscles relax as watched (ogling) as Tommy got into the tub as well. While there was plenty of room for them both, Buck pulled Tommy so that the older man would be laying against Buck's chest.

It was nice, intimate in a way that had Buck smiling ear to ear as something in him felt settled for once. He adored how Tommy had done all this for him, how Tommy had always managed to surprise him in the best ways.

He hugged his boyfriend closer, adoring the way the steam had curled Tommy's hair.

God, he was in love.

Tommy laughed as Buck buried his face into Tommy's neck, kissing and biting at every chance.

"So I take it you like it?" Tommy asked, laughing and letting out a moan as Buck bit a sensitive spot.

"Love it." He continued to kiss Tommy's cheek and neck, enjoying how Tommy was turning pliant in his hold. "You should know, I'm keeping you." Buck told him seriously. "I can't not have you anymore, especially after this. You're mine forever, Tommy."

He pulled Tommy's face towards him, feeling a swell of victory as he noticed Tommy's eyes were glossy and lust filled. "Promise?" Tommy asked roughly, a sliver of fear had Buck clutching him harder.

"Promise."