#Valve Greases

[eightglass]

this is meeeeeeeeeee

wild brass instruments running free in a field eating quater notes, which is the grass on music planet

[neotechniques]

Reciprocating Compressors

Neo Techniques authorized dealer of Atlas Capco Reciprocating Compressor in Hyderabad. A reciprocating compressor is a type of gas compressor used in a variety of applications to increase the pressure of a gas. It works by compressing the gas in a cylinder, which is then released to provide a higher pressure output. 

[rattled-by-the-rush]

Trying to practice my trumpet because I need to but I keep having to do maintenance on it so I'm not getting any practice I'm just trying to make my instrument less of a piece of shit because it is.

[hoseline]

High pressure hydraulic valve for GSE and more.

[i-am-owner]

All tips go to the Reed & Rosin fund

Pls donate.

[niconiconwo]

As it turns out what I thought was a set of two bolts is actually just one bolt which means I'm spending another 16$ to buy another bolt tomorrow. But I guess being optimistic, at least I was able to confirm I got the right helicoils so once I get that other bolt I'll be almost set to do the job.

[prachikulkarni]

https://www.phoenix.ind.in/instrumentation-valves-accessories-manufacturer-india.php

[wandering-pirate]

When the moon fades, the stars guide

Part 1

Part two of "How does a moon lose its shine?"

Summary: When the chaos went down, what led up to it? And what will happen next in the dark, metal casements of the Tulpar?

Pairing: Father figure! Swansea x reader

a/n: ask and you shall receive~ thanks for y'all's patience!!

Trigger warning: Depictions of sexual abuse and violence. There are no explicit scenes of the rape itself but the trauma and experience of y/n is very much described. Please take care of yourselves while reading <3<3

Day of Departure

The Tulpar’s engines hummed steadily, a sound you came to think of as the freighter’s heartbeat. Three years on this ship, and it started to feel like a second skin at this point. But still, every haul gives you that faint, familiar buzz of excitement, like the thrill of stepping into something bigger than yourself. Responsibility.

You leaned against the inventory console, triple-checking your clipboard. Rows of numbers and codes blurred together, but the satisfaction of seeing everything in order made the strain worth it.

"So, you’re the famous Y/N," a voice chirped behind you.

You turned to find Daisuke, the new mechanic intern that Curly told the crew about. He looked barely out of his teens, his uniform covered with a bright yellow hawaian-patterned shirt that he somehow managed to smuggle and had a grin a little too wide. Newbie's buzz, you thought.

"And you’re the new grease monkey," you teased, extending a hand.

"Mechanic-in-training," he corrected, shaking your hand with exaggerated seriousness. "Big difference."

Swansea scoffed from the other side of the utility room, tinkering away with a coolant valve. "Big talk for a kid who just learned what a carburetor is."

"I thought it was a coffee maker for cars," Daisuke mumbled to you, pouting.

Biting back a laugh, you shot Swansea a grin that practically dared him to roll his eyes. He didn’t disappoint.

Jimmy entered the room, clipboard in hand. His presence had always been grounding, his confidence infectious. He nodded at you as he passed. "Inventory’s in good hands, as usual."

"As if you’d trust anyone else," you replied, your tone light but your chest warming at the compliment. He smirked, tapping the clipboard.

The ship’s intercom crackled to life. "Alright, folks," Curly’s voice boomed. "Buckle up, we're launching at five."

Your hand froze on the console. No matter how many times you’d done this, the Tulpar's jump during the launch always lit something in you. The co-pilot once commented how you're like a puppy with a treat dangling in front of you.

As a kid, you’d been obsessed with the idea of outer space. Not in a “memorizing star charts” kind of way, but in a way where you just admired them every night that you gazed at the night sky.

Whenever you see pictures of galaxies, stars, or any heavenly body, it was like looking at something familiar, something that made sense to you. The outer space wasn’t just an escape; it was home.

Anya appeared at your side, her medical bag slung over one shoulder. She flashed a small smile, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Let me guess," she said, her voice relaxed. "Gonna watch the Earth fade away again, huh?"

"Every. Damn. Time." You nudged her playfully, earning a laugh.

"Swansea's really rubbing on you with those words."

When the Tulpar lurched, you gripped the edge of the console, your gaze already flicking toward the viewport. For a moment, the universe stretched out in every direction, infinite and vast. You couldn’t help the grin on your face.

Out here, it all felt right. The stars, the ship, the crew… they all came together in a way that felt as natural as breathing. For now, at least, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

One Month After the Crash

When you thought things were about to get better the night you broke down, helpless, at the lounge... you were desperately wrong. Somehow, the man who betrayed you, the monster you treated as a friend, a mentor—hell, even family—claimed Curly's title and is set loose.

And now? You were cowering at the corner of the utility room, covering your ears as the voices outside grew louder with every passing minute. Funny how one voice made you gag and the other made you feel secure.

“Come on, Swansea. I told you, I’m not gonna hurt Y/N, alrig—”

“If you’ve got a death wish,” Swansea’s voice, low and bristling, cut through the tension. “Keep yappin’.”

It had been a month. A month of watching your back. A month of slipping between rooms, dodging Jimmy’s shadow, a sick game you were forced to play with him. But it was also a month of being under the mechanic’s wing, always having him or Daisuke by your side when checking inventories, because almost facing your deaths just days ago wasn’t enough reason to stop your job. Or being in the locked medbay with Anya when both your guards were busy.

“Look, I just wanna make things right,” Jimmy said, his tone too smooth, too practiced. “Curly’s out of commission, and now, as captain, it’s my job to take responsibility for what I’ve done.”

For a second, your stomach twisted at the pause. Would Swansea actually believe him? Could he? You strained to hear the older man’s reply, then there it was.

It started weak, the soft wheezing sounds went through the metal wall. It grew louder, rougher, until it was a full-blown, bitter laugh that rattled the air. Guilt filled your chest—why would you even ever doubt him after all he's done?

"What a fuckin' joke. Know what? If yer that desperate to play captain, wanna tell me how the ol' Tulpar really crashed?"

Silence. Not even a breath from Jimmy. Then, heavy, angry stomps faded down the hall.

For a solid ten minutes, you stayed frozen, your pulse loud in your ears. The air in the utility room felt thick, clinging to your skin. Then the door hissed open.

“That roach’s got some nerve,” Swansea muttered, stepping inside. His face was carved with exhaustion, but his sharp eyes softened when he met yours. He offered a tired smile, and you returned it, grateful.

"You shouldn’t be out here," Swansea grumbled, his eyes scanning the corridor as he steered you back toward the medbay.

"I’m fine." You tried evading him, but given his bouncer-like body, he placed a hand on your shoulder.

"Sure, and I’m the swan princess from that pink doll kid's show."

The Tulpar floated through infinite space, a shell of its former self. It wasn’t one of those massive freighters like the newer ones Pony Express had, but a running old freighter is infinitely better than a broken old freighter. Supplies were low, tensions were high, and the Tulpar's once-familiar corridors felt more like a prison than home.

When the asteroid hit, or so Jimmy claimed, Curly had supposedly saved everyone by making a split-second turn to minimize the impact. It was a story that gave the crew a shred of hope, something to hold on to.

But cracks already started to form in Jimmy’s tale. The damage didn’t match the trajectory of any known asteroid paths. The ship’s logs were corrupted, erasing any evidence of what really happened.

It wasn't farfetched to believe that Jimmy didn't stay put at his quarters when the crash happened.

Swansea has his suspicions. So did you. But neither of you said it out loud. The truth was a dangerous thing aboard the Tulpar now, fragile and very explosive, just waiting for the right moment to destroy whatever was left.

"Kid," Swansea’s voice broke through your thoughts. You hummed, "Don’t go doin’ that thing where you stare off into space like a lost puppy."

You managed a weak smile. "Can’t help it. Space is kinda my thing."

He snorted, but his eye-roll was absent. He didn’t let you go until he was sure you were back in the medbay, under Anya’s watchful eye and the door's lock.

2 Months before the Crash

Jimmy’s compliments had always felt harmless. You were used to his jokes, his easy smiles, and the way he called you "kid". It was comforting, in a way - until recently.

"Nice shirt," he said one day, leaning casually against the inventory shelves as you logged spare parts into the system.

You glanced down at your standard-issue disgustingly yellow t-shirt, streaked with dust and grease from helping Swansea earlier. "Uh, thanks? Didn’t know grease-stained chic was trending."

He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You pull it off, though."

You gave him a half-smile, feeling like the co-pilot has something more to say than he's letting on. His tone felt... heavier. You chalked it up to overthinking and turned back to your work. Jimmy was your friend, someone you’d always trusted.

But somehow, the comments became more frequent, more pointed. A hand on your shoulder lingered too long. Always looking at you when he laughs.

The next time it happened, you were helping the mechanic in the engine room. You crouched next to him, handing over tools as he muttered under his breath about "cheap replacement parts." The rhythmic clank of the wrench echoed in the space while Daisuke watched because the last time he helped replace something, he had to receive 3 stitches from Anya.

"Careful not to scratch the paint off," you teased, smirking.

Swansea snorted, rolling his eyes. "Look who's talkin', Ms. 'I-can-make-any room-look-like-a-fukin' junkyard' with all the shit you leave laying around."

"Ha! Boss' got you there Y/N!" You poked your tongue out at the intern.

Swansea gave you a sideways glance, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You wanna talk about paint? Maybe start by remembering where you put all yer inventory sheets before I have to staple ‘em to yer forehead."

You laughed, wiping your hands on your coveralls, when Jimmy walked in. His gaze lingered too long as he leaned against the doorway.

"Got the inventory finished?" he asked, his voice casual.

"Mostly," you said. "Swansea needed a hand, so I figured I’d multitask."

Jimmy’s eyes narrowed briefly, just a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place. His smile returned, too quick to feel natural. "You’re a real team player, kid."

Swansea grunted in agreement, not looking up. "She’s handy, I’ll give her that. Saved me a headache with these damn filters."

"Hey! I'm here, to--"

"Tell me what happened to yer forehead with just a screwdriver, boy." That seemed to silence Daisuke up.

Jimmy’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe, though he quickly masked it with a chuckle. "Better not let her show you up, old man."

"Not a chance," Swansea shot back, oblivious to the tension.

But you felt it. The way Jimmy’s smile didn’t match his eyes, the way his presence filled the room like static. Something about it was off. You wanted to brush it aside, but the feeling lingered.

Later, in the lounge, Curly tossed you a cup of coffee. "Heard you’ve been pulling double duty with the inventory and the utility. You gunning for my job or what?"

You smirked, shaking your head. "Dream bigger, Curly. I’m aiming for Swansea’s."

Curly laughed, but his attention shifted behind you for a moment. You glanced over your shoulder to see Jimmy standing in the doorway again, watching. His posture was casual, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the counter.

When you turned back, Curly raised an eyebrow. "Jimmy’s been hovering a lot lately. You notice that?"

You shrugged, trying to sound casual. "He’s probably just bored."

But deep down, you weren’t so sure. You sipped your coffee, forcing a laugh. "One more compliment from him? I’m charging him rent."

Curly chuckled, but his smile faded slightly as he glanced at Jimmy again. "You should tell him that. See what he says."

You smiled weakly, staring into your coffee as the unease settled in your chest.

One Month Before the Crash

Jimmy’s words echoed in your ears, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he said, his voice trembling, his breath uneven. "But I can’t stop thinking about you."

You remembered the way his hands shook, how his eyes flitted between you and the walls, never meeting yours. He looked like he wanted to convince himself as much as you. But it wasn’t the shaking or his words that lingered in your mind, it was the suffocating fear, the way the air in the room thickened, pressing down on your chest until you couldn’t breathe.

You fought back, kicked, punched, scratched, used everything in your disposal, but it wasn't enough.

In that moment, the world felt unrecognizable. The Jimmy you looked up to, trusted, and even laughed with, was gone. Or maybe he had never been real.

And you felt something within you... break.

You didn’t cry. Not then. The betrayal was too sharp, cutting through your chest like shards of glass. You couldn’t feel anything but the raw, jagged edges of shock and pain. It was never-ending, it was unforgiving.

Later, when it was over and the room was silent again, you sat on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the dull metal wall. The memories replayed in your head, over and over, a loop you couldn’t escape.

"Why didn’t I stop him?"

"Why didn’t I fight harder?"

"Why didn’t I say something?"

The questions bit you, each one sinking its sharp fangs deeper into your guilt, into your body, mind, and soul.

Jimmy’s voice broke through the haze of your thoughts. You remembered how he sat across from you, his voice low and soft, as though he were the one wounded.

"I didn’t mean for it to go like this," he’d said, his tone almost pleading. "You don’t have to hate me, you know? I care about you. I just… I just couldn’t hold it in anymore."

Each word sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. The confusion was unbearable. Was he sorry? Or was this another lie? Another betrayal? It didn’t matter. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him or yourself anymore.

And from that night on, everything you loved about your life on the ship, the crew, the stars outside your window, even your own reflection, felt like it died.

You went through the days like a ghost. Your laughter was gone, replaced by silence. Meals went untouched. The inventory, your pride and responsibility, piled up unchecked.

The crew noticed. How Swansea’s gruff teasing didn’t make you laugh anymore. How Daisuke’s bad jokes only entered your ear and exited the other. And every time Jimmy walked into the room, your body froze, your skin crawling as though his gaze alone could trap you again.

Anya, however, never pried. She saw through the silence, the robotic movements, the emptiness in your eyes.

One evening, she's nursing you. You sat on the cot, staring at the floor, your hands limp in your lap. You passed out from hunger earlier and Dasiuke had to carry you to the medbay, sweating and frantically assuring himself more than anyone through panicked mumbles.

She approached quietly, a tray of tea and biscuits in hand. "Y/N," she said softly, placing the tray beside you.

You didn’t respond.

Anya pulled up a chair and sat down across from you, her gaze steady. "You have to eat."

"I’m not hungry," you murmured, your voice flat.

She didn’t push. Instead, she reached out, her hand resting gently on your arm. Her warmth cut through the cold numbness you’d wrapped yourself in.

"You know, it’s okay to feel like this," she said quietly. Her tone wasn’t pitying, just kind. "But you don’t have to do it alone."

You didn’t react. You couldn’t. Her words were like waves breaking against a stone, unable to reach its core.

Anya stayed with you anyway. She talked softly, about nothing in particular, old stories, small jokes, telling you how Daisuke stole Swansea's snacks and having to say I'm sorry for a hundred times as punishment. She didn’t expect you to respond. She was simply there, filling the silence with her presence.

Even when you retreated deeper into yourself, Anya never gave up. She left food by your workstation, tidied your quarters when you weren’t looking, and covered for you when Curly asked too many questions.

One night, as Anya walked you back to your quarters, she stopped just outside your door. Her voice, usually gentle, held a weight you hadn’t heard before.

"Y/N," she began carefully, "I’ve been where you are."

Your steps faltered. The numbness you carried didn’t lift, but her words sent a faint ripple through the sea of numbess. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, your hand tightening on the doorknob.

"I know what Jimmy did to you," she continued softly.

The air in the hallway felt suddenly heavy. Anya hesitated, then added, "It happened to me too. Weeks ago."

The words were like a thunderclap in your mind, sharp and deafening. You turned to her, your eyes wide with disbelief.

"You knew?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, raw and cracking. Anya went through the same thing yet here she is, stronger than you, caring for you. Your stomach churned in guilt. "You—why didn’t you tell anyone? Tell me?"

Anya’s expression didn’t falter, but her shoulders tensed as though she’d been bracing for this. "I told Curly," she admitted, her voice quiet but steady. "But… nothing changed."

Nothing changed.

The words hit like a sledgehammer, shattering the fragile threads of hope you’d been clinging to. Your chest tightened as anger and despair fought for control.

"You told him," you whispered, the words trembling with a pain that reached far deeper than you’d let anyone see.

Anya didn’t look away. She didn’t try to explain or justify it. "I thought it would help," she said, her tone even. "I thought it would stop."

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, sharp and hollow. "And now it’s my turn, right? Cap kept quiet and hoped it wouldn’t happen again?"

"Y/N--"

"Now what, Anya?" You snapped, your voice rising despite the lump in your throat. "What was the point of telling him if it didn’t change anything? He was supposed to be the captain, he was supposed to protect his crew. And no it didn’t stop tha--"

Your words broke off as your breath hitched. The weight of it all, Jimmy’s betrayal, Curly’s silence, Anya’s quiet endurance, crashed down on you like a tidal wave.

Anya reached out, her hand brushing against your arm, but you pulled away.

"I can’t—" you choked out, shaking your head as tears blurred your vision. "Sorry Anya, can I be alone for a moment? Please, don't look for me."

The hallway felt too small, the air too thick. You stumbled back, your legs moving on instinct as you fled toward the lounge, where the empty silence swallowed you whole.

This was where it all unravelled like a predator ripping meats of its prey piece by agonizing piece.

The knife in your trembling hand, the memories replaying in your mind, the feeling of the world collapsing around you, all of it led back to this moment. To the truth you could no longer ignore.

The one person you thought could protect you knows - and he did nothing.

Two Months After the Crash

The cargo bay was dimly lit, the faint hum of the ship's remaining systems filling the silence.

Jimmy had been relentless over the past week, pestering Swansea to let him talk to you about the cargo. Why? Well unlike any other facilities of the freighter that's unlocked by codes visible through the Captain's flashlight, the cargo bay can only be unlocked by a code held by two crewmembers - the captain and inventory officer. Obviously, with Curly laying helpless in the medbay, Jimmy only had one person left to disturb. And the man grabbed the opportunity to talk to you again.

Exhausted, that’s what you were. Tired of Jimmy's persistence, of how he kept shifting from casual then cutting sharper the next. And all these bugging went straight to Swansea. As much as you didn’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction, you knew there was no way around it - you gave in, but not for Jimmy. You did it for the mechanic.

“Are you sure about this?” Swansea asked earlier, his voice low but heavy. The lines on his face deepened as he watched you wrestle with the decision.

You nodded, though your stomach twisted at the thought. “Jimmy’s not going to stop bugging you about it, and you’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll deal with him.”

The mechanic grumbled something under his breath, shaking his head. “I don’t like it. You shouldn’t have to deal with him at all.”

“I know,” you’d said softly. “But he’s not going to stop. And… I’ll have you and Daisuke with me. It’ll be fine.”

Swansea did not looked convinced, but he eventually relented, only after you promised he could stay nearby, just in case.

Now, standing in front of the cargo bay's doors with Jimmy pacing in front of you, you were keenly aware of Swansea’s presence by the door. A silent guard, his watchful eyes never leaving the co-pilot. Daisuke was at your side, arms crossed and radiating quiet protectiveness, like a little brother who didn’t care how big a fight he might have to pick if it meant keeping you safe.

Jimmy, oblivious or indifferent to the tension, took a step forward, his movements quick but not careless. “Y/N, I know you’ve been keeping tabs on the cargo. But it’s been two months. We need to know what’s in there. It could help us—”

“It won’t,” you interrupted, your voice steady but firm. “I’ve told you before, Jimmy. It’s nothing important. We'll just waste our time."

Jimmy’s jaw tightened. “Leave that up to me to decide whether what's in there is important or not."

Swansea cursed under his breath and your lips pressed in a thin line, but the man's gaze didn’t waver.

Daisuke took a step forward. “She’s not wrong. Y/N wouldn’t hide anything if it could help. She knows what she’s doing, Jimmy.”

Jimmy scoffed. “I’m just saying—if there’s even a chance, we should check. We’re running out of options here.”

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “Fine,” you said, exasperated. “You want to see it so badly? Go ahead. Open it. But when you'll find out I’m right, I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Daisuke frowned but didn’t say anything, glancing at you like he wanted to intervene but knew better than to push. Instead, he stepped closer to your side, his quiet presence grounding you.

Jimmy’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as though he’d won some kind of victory. “Thanks, the code?” he muttered, moving toward the cargo bay doors. Swansea was already there, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze locked on Jimmy.

“She said yes,” Jimmy said defensively as he approached, but Swansea didn’t move.

“She shouldn’t have to,” Swansea muttered under his breath, stepping aside only when you gave him a small nod.

"4517" The pad beeped with each number you tell him. The entrance hissed open, like a dragon waking up from its deep slumber.

The cargo bay was dim, the rows of hundreds of boxes towered over all of you. You followed Jimmy inside, Daisuke sticking close to you while Swansea lingered by the door.

The co-pilot walked straight to the nearest box, his movements quick and eager. “Let’s see what’s so ‘unimportant,’” he muttered.

As the box was pried open, the sharp, clinical smell hit instantly.

Mouthwash.

Jimmy froze, staring down at the neatly packed bottles as if they might suddenly transform into something else. Daisuke peered over his shoulder, his eyebrows raising. “Huh. Well, that’s… useful,” he said.

Jimmy’s face burned as he looked back at you. “This is it? You’re telling me this is all we’ve been hauling?”

“I told you. Nothing important. But you couldn’t take my word for it, could you? You know what's funny, Jimmy?" You balled your hands on your sides, "I should be the one not trusting you, after what you've done."

Jimmy stood there, eyes narrowing and jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like he was gearing up to argue. But it was all so painfully obvious, the desperation in his stance. He wanted to paint himself as the victim, again, to make excuses, again, as if he wasn’t already a pathetic excuse for a man.

You glanced at the box, the sight of the neatly labeled bottles almost comical in its absurdity, mocking the co-pilot. Then your eyes landed at him, his confidence snapping under the weight of his proud insistence.

“Satisfied now?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the tension like a knife. Without waiting for an answer, you turned your back. “This is your answer, Jimmy...”

For the first time since the crash, you felt something crack open inside you, not fear, not guilt, but anger. Controlled, righteous anger.

"We don’t survive by hunches or waiting for some fucking miracle," you spat. "We survive because people are actually out here making sure the Tulpar doesn’t fall apart."

Your eyes met Swansea's, then to the ground.

"Everyone pitches in, does what needs to be done, no matter how much of a death trap the job is. But if you’re too busy playing pretend captain while the rest of us are holding it all together, maybe it’s better that you step back and let the people who actually know how to keep this mess running do their thing."

You didn't wait for a response, not even tried to gauge his emotion. You left the cargo bay, going into the only place that gave you comfort, utility room.

Swansea appeared in the doorway. Before he could speak, before you could even gather your thoughts, you found yourself moving toward him. The words caught in your throat, but your legs carried you anyway, and in one swift motion, you collided with him in a tight hug. The kind you hadn’t realized you needed until the warmth of his body pressed against you.

“Thanks for everything," You paused, and before you could stop it, the words slipped out. "...dad."

For a moment, everything went still. The hum of the damaged Tulpar only filling the air, and for one fleeting second, you feared you said too much. That you crossed a line, said something you didn’t have the right to say.

But then, without a word, his arms wrapped around you, solid and sure, holding you like he was never going to let go. The tension in your chest slowly released and a stray tear rolled down your cheek.

“Always, kid.” His voice was low, thick with meaning, and at that moment, it held everything you needed to hear.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik being strong enough to pick Price up when he's in a bad mood and just put him on the bench of his workshop.

Price is in air jail and now at the perfect height for when Nik tugs the zipper of his flight suit down to reveal that fluffy chest, those burly arms, that glorious belly and happy trail that leads to the weapon between his legs.

Honestly I don't think John could work those cargo pants off fast enough, maybe Nik forgoes that entirely and cuts a neat hole right in the crotch and rips to get at his prize.

Price is walking (Maybe a little bow-legged) out of there a hell of a lot happier than when he walked in.

The lads chip in for a nice takeaway for Nik for helping them out (Dealing with Price's shitty mood)

Nik uses his dick as a captain tamer.

cw: anal sex, mild brat taming, a little rough.

John’s temper was nothing new. Nik had experienced it in its various permutations through the years. It was like a hurricane; loud, destructive, and indiscriminate in the damage it caused, taking out friends and foes alike. But it eventually ran out of wind; surviving it was simply a case of moving out of its way until the inevitable conclusion. And, just like a storm, it wasn’t personal, but a natural byproduct of all the pressures and stresses weighing on John’s shoulders. He was only human.

Sometimes, however, the bad mood would fail to wear itself out and John would become more cantankerous as time wore on and his frustration built. If he was particularly tired, stressed, his body wound tight, feeding his brain a continuous flow of cortisol and catecholamines, then his grizzly mood was liable to last for days. A dark cloud hanging over the base and Task Force, suffocating.

It was day three this time and Nik’s patience had worn out. It was time to give the feral bastard what he needed. The lieutenant called it ‘a good seeing to’ and the sergeants, while not quite brave enough to say it to John’s face, said he was always a bit more human after he’d been stuffed with cock. Nik had worked out it was the act of having control stripped out of his hands, his mind emptied of all but pleasure, and his body flooded with endorphins from an orgasm. It stopped the spiral in its tracks. Even if it was only a reprieve to simply clear his head, it was often enough to give him the breathing room he needed to resolve the problem. He would deny it, of course, but John surrendered every time.

Nik finished the maintenance he’d been performing on the Black Hawk’s main rotary engine and washed his hands clean in the workshop sink, careful to remove the grease and grime from his cuticles. It was late. Most of the base had either retired to the barracks, gone home to their local residences, or headed out to the pub, but John was still here, huffing and growling over the laptop on the nearby workbench. “I can’t fuckin’ believe they’re takin’ Simon for another trainin’ seminar, puts him out for three fuckin’ days—“

Nik had invited him in to discuss some intel, citing his need to continue maintenance to stay on schedule as the reason for the location and, ever diligent, John had arrived on time with his laptop in tow, unknowingly sliding right into Nik's trap. Nik turned off the taps and returned briefly to his heli to dip into his duffle bag for the lube before he approached John at the bench. He slid his hands around John’s waist just as he closed his mouth over the soft skin beneath the hinge of his jaw, sucking a mark into soft skin.

“Ah, fuck, Nik��“ John went rigid in Nik’s hands, almost knocking the laptop off the workbench as he span to face him. “You randy bloody bastard, ‘ve got work t’ finish."

Those fierce blue eyes, the stern set of John's face, they would have struck quivering fear into the heart of many a man. But all Nik saw was the stress, the tension, the bone deep exhaustion, all locked up tight behind a safety valve that needed a practiced hand to release it. “Nyet, you are done for the evening.”

“Oh fuckin’ reall—“

He didn’t finish. Nik leaned forward and swept the laptop to the side, before grabbing John’s narrow hips and lifting effortlessly him onto the bench. He shoved his way between John’s knees, not letting him clam up, the expanse of one big hand staying at the base of John’s back to keep him from wriggling away.

John wrestled with him, fists bunching in his flight suit and shoving against his chest, their first kiss more teeth than tongue or lips. But as the heat of Nik's body enveloped him, their crotches pulled flush, chests together, John stopped thrashing in Nik's arms. Nik took it as the first defeat, drawing back to nuzzle John's beard.

"Lemme up, ya muppet."

"Nyet " Nik straightened a little, creating a gap between them even if he remained between John's legs.

"Nik," John growled his warning, but it was a hollow threat.

“You will do as you are told, captain. Good boys get rewards.”

Nik knew the low rumble of his voice, the manhandling, it stirred something primal and receptive in the back of John’s mind. He watched those bright baby blues widen before they dropped to Nik’s hand, following it like a hawk tracking a mouse as Nik grasped the zipper of his flight suit and tugged it down, deliberate in the glacial pace of its progress.

John’s mouth dropped open as curls of black chest hair emerged between parting metal teeth, Nik’s dusky nipples peaking in the cool air, and John’s greedy hands slid across the heat of newly revealed skin, following the firm contours of his tits. Nik leaned forward to kiss John’s neck again, encouraging his touch, and this time his captain relaxed, his legs spreading a little further apart as his hips tilted. He was begging to be fucked. Nik would take John here as planned, and then he would take him to his bed to exhaust him into complete surrender.

Nik tugged his flight suit open to its fullest extent, his cock arching up in readiness where he hadn't bothered with underwear knowing his intentions with John that evening. He popped a few of John's shirt buttons to kiss the furry perk of his pecs, smiling against John's skin as he squirmed, opening his belt and fly with practiced ease. "Oh, fuck, Nik, no, not here..."

"Da, here," Nik replied, listening to John's tone, his body, rather than his words; the way he gasped so desperately and arched into Nik's heat screamed please, please, please. He didn't resist when Nik slid his arms beneath his thighs and grasped his waistband, lifting his arse for a moment to yank his Carhartts and boxers down his thighs.

John hissed as his flushed skin settled back on the cold surface of the workbench, eager for the return of Nik's palms around the upper curve of his cheeks and the dip of his tailbone. John had an exquisite arse; firm, muscular and round. Perfect for bouncing on a cock. Nik kneaded the top of it as he nipped along the edge of John's jaw to his ear lobe, relishing the powerful body writhing enthusiastically in his arms. Who was Nik trying to kid? John was perfect in every way, even with his penchant for sulking.

Nik earned his first needy moan when he let the tip of his cock kiss the tight furl of John's hole, the slightest pressure rubbing his wet slit against the fluttering muscle in an insistent tease. He nuzzled John's beard as he fished the lube out of his pocket and flicked the lid off with his thumb. John's hands pushed beneath the fabric of his flight suit to grip his shoulders, one looping behind Nik's neck to play in the curls at the nape of his neck. John flinched when Nik squeezed the lube onto his balls, the tube clattering on the workbench when it was cast aside. "Bastard..."

Nik smirked, smoothing warm fingers gently down the seam of John's sac to his taint, circling, teasing his rim with little tugs at the opening. When the first finger dipped inside, Nik swallowed John's groan with a kiss, tongue licking into his mouth when it fell open in a shock of pleasure. John didn't need much coaxing, his body opening eagerly around one and then two probing fingers. Nik crooked them up, John's cock flicking as Nik's fingertips rubbed over his prostate. John panted, his head falling back, the filthy noise of Nik's fingers squelching into his hole accented by his soft whimpers. Blunt fingernails dug into Nik's skin as John clung to him, his leaking cock fully hard against the unblemished milky softness of his inner thigh.

"Ah, ah, Nik... Mm, fuck... Ah..."

"Da, solnyshko. Just a little more and I will give you what you need."

Nik could make John come like this, but his balls ached and there was only one place he wanted to empty them; to watch John unspool on his cock was a privilege he deserved. He pulled his fingers out slowly, his thumb tugging down at John's slick, puffy hole as he smeared lube and precum over his crown and down his shaft, tongue between his teeth as he groaned at the sweet anticipation of what awaited. He was so hard, cock throbbing in his grip, balls already tight, and he took a moment to steady himself before sliding his arms beneath John's thighs again, John's booted feet dangling either side of his back, his trousers bunch just shy of his knees.

His fingers pressed into the flesh of John's hips to keep him still as he ground the tip of his cock over the slick skin of John's taint, lower lip between his teeth as John shivered in his grasp, hips tilting again, urging, begging with his body. Nik's tip notched against his hole and Nik held him firm as he thrust inside, John's body gaping wide around the flare of his crown and thick shaft. John quaked in his arms, thighs trembling, his soft, tortured noises nursing a primal delight deep inside Nik's chest.

Nik kept going, sinking into John's body, inch by aching inch, even as it bore down around him in desperation.

"Fuck, Nik, Nik!"

"Da, my love. Surrender to me as you yearn to..."

It wasn't simply the act of sex. Penetration itself was not surrender and John had ridden Nik's cock from above many times, in complete control as Nik ceded, leaning back into the pillows with his eyes closed. But this act, of letting the tension and frustration melt from his body, of giving in to the pleasure of sex with a man who knew how to pluck every string, of finally letting his mind empty and his muscles relax. That was surrender.

Nik pressed deeper, achingly slow, clutching heat struggling with the girth and length. Every time John's channel fluttered, pulsing between relaxing and gripping, Nik seized more ground. John's eyes rolled back as Nik nestled in his guts and finally bottomed out with a satisfied groan, John's stretched hole pressed against the dark curls of his pubic hair. Nik kissed trembling, spit slick lips, rocking gently, staying deep as he hollowed out his place in John's body. "Mm, detka. You are so tight. Relax, breathe..."

"Nik, ah, fuck, Nik. I'so much, hng."

"Ssh, I know, but you are... mm, taking me so well. All you have to do is let go."

Nik didn't give him any choice. He drew out until John's body sucked on his tip, clenching around it in greedy throbs, before he thrust his full length back in. John bit out a soft, startled cry, back arching as his nails bit into Nik's shoulders. Nik leaned into his lover's neck, the downy curls of his chest hair pressing to the warm swells of his firm chest as he clutched his hips tight to pull them into his cock. The next thrust was just as firm, just as demanding, shaking the table on which John sat.

Nik picked up a bruising pace, forcing John's body into submission with each deep thrust, wet skin slapping wetly as the table rattled under the force of Nik's hips pounding against John's arse. John clung to him, unable to find purchase anywhere but Nik's shoulders as he was fucked hard, Nik's palms providing a softer cushion for him to be pressed into, keeping him from being shoved away so that he was made to take every thrust to the hilt at an angle that sent relentless curls of pleasure arcing up the length of his body.

John shook apart so beautifully, his first orgasm was dry, triggered purely by the insistent, relentless drag of Nik's cock over his prostate. Nik felt the first tremors of it and leaned in to coach him through with whispered encouragement, "da, John, such a good boy, let it happen..."

John's body milked him in tight pulses and Nik watched in awe as John's pleasure unspooled through him, his limbs shaking, broad chest heaving in rattling breaths through loud, high-pitched whines, completely overwhelmed at the full body experience of coming on Nik's cock. It was like a molten heat that burned away the last of the tension and left him pliant and open in Nik's arms.

John's hole relaxed, sloppy with lube and wells of precum, the perfect sheath for Nik's cock, still sucking hungrily on Nik's length every time he withdrew before slamming back inside. Nik chased his high, growling into John's neck, nipping at his hammering pulse to taste the sweat on his skin. His climax crept up his spine, a vine of tension pulling him tight, and he nipped John's ear. "Touch yourself, detka."

John grabbed his cock obediently, pumping down its slick length in furious jerks that matched Nik's pace, his moans reaching a crescendo as he was trapped between two pleasure centres. Nik felt John tighten again, another orgasm, and it teased him over into his own. His hips jerked, stuttering against John's arse, as his cock pulsed its first load deep in John's body. John followed him over the brink, the flood of heat inside him making his eyes roll back as his cock painted his hand and shirt in thick ropes of cum as he was filled with it.

Nik's vision greyed, the force of his own pleasure leaving him breathless as his cock twitched in John's channel. He hadn't realised how pent up he'd been, his balls offering a seemingly endless breeding. He panted hot breaths against John's skin, the tip of his nose resting in the bristles of his beard, lips placing soft, fleeting kisses as his body finally finished. When he finally gathered enough coordination to draw out, the filthy noise of his cock withdrawing made him growl with pleasure, his seed welling at John's hole to drip down the curve of his arse to the floor.

When he lowered John's feet, his legs shook, and he lifted him off the table by the hips. "Go to your room. When I get there, I expect to find you naked in bed," Nik said.

John might have argued if he hadn't been completely spaced, his eyes soft in post-orgasmic bliss. Nik helped him right his belt and trousers and then watched him hobble out of the workshop. Once his captain had disappeared from sight, Nik turned his attention to tidying his tools, a little jelly-legged as he strolled about his workshop.

Nik would find John showered and snoozing, naked and warm beneath his blankets, about an hour later. He washed himself, removing the grime and sweat of the workshop, and slipped in beside him to rub his back and shoulders. John roused slowly, content to let Nik ease his aches, legs spreading when those strong fingers slid between them for a second round, his hole buttery soft, eager for Nik's touch. He was impossible to resist.

[itsabouttimex2]

Hahahah! The little healer stall sign says

itty-bitty-healing-comittee!

Here to heal you today!

Little Healer Headcanons

Sun Wukong, MK, and Mei

(That is so damn cute to think about- lil’ Y/N all dressed up like a mage/nurse behind their stall, but only their eyes peek over the rim cause they’re short af)

The Great Sage personally “finances” your little (probably unlicensed and illegal) stand by scaring off any cop or Karen who wanders by to try and cause trouble. He’s your number-one supporter at any given time, always on standby with a snack or hug to cheer you up.

It’s not uncommon for a client to lean over the side of your stall for a better look at what’s inside, just to find Ol’ Sun Wukong lounging on the ground.

When the king isn’t busy scaring people away by “accidentally” getting into their faces and pushing them around with a strength beyond their comprehension, he’s babying you.

Trying to, at least.

You work so very hard at your little repurposed stall, a handmade banner strung across the top, red crosses and flowers painted on the sides. It’s clear to Wukong that all you really want to do is help as many people as you can, however you can…

“But you can’t do that if you don’t take care of yourself,” he’ll remind, using legitimately good advice as an excuse to drag you off for mid-day snuggles.

The Great Sage will gently force you to practice basic self-care, even if it means dragging you back to Flower Fruit Mountain on his cloud for a hot bath and a cozy nap. Expect him to extend your “vacation” afterwards by asking for help with a few of his monkeys.

He is so, so good to you, in the worst way. A part of him knows that it’s wrong to load you with junk food and soda, but when he sees you all worn out and shaky on that wooden stool you have to stand on to see over the stall, his self-control fizzes out and the Great Sage is bolting off to “buy” you a horribly unhealthy combo meal from the nearest fast food place. (He steals it.)

And when you’re all tuckered out from a day of hard work and a belly full of sugar and grease and deep-fried fat…

Sun Wukong scoops you into his arms and starts the journey home, right back to where you belong.

Oh, how this kid loves you. MK is always lounging around the corner of your wooden street stall whenever he gets the chance, kicking back with a copy of some Monkey King sponsored magazine or playing Monkey Mech on his phone- it’s a great chance to just lounge around and genuinely relax.

And sure, there’s some concern from his friends and family about how MK seems to suddenly be prioritizing protecting a blatantly illegal street stall over his job and work as a hero…

“Saving the city can wait! Y/N needs me to find a rare herb so they can make an antidote!”

Yeah, you definitely come very close to first in this hero’s heart. He doesn’t outright abandon the city, nor will he put you miles above his desire to protect it- but you are extremely close to being the most important thing in his world.

Just… a cute itty-bitty “sibling” that MK can’t help but to cherish. At first.

As the seasons go by, though… you start being a strange sort of living coping mechanism. An emotional crutch. As his anguish compounds and stacks higher by the day, MK starts using you as an impromptu and unlicensed therapist, trauma-dumping whenever you aren’t tending to a customer.

Being too young and naive to shut down these conversations, you can do little more than fidget and squirm while you try to soothe the worst of MK’s sorrows.

And he misinterprets these awkward consolations as genuine care on your part, which leads him to repeat the process again and again and again.

As MK slowly builds himself up, he in turn breaks you down- entirely on accident.

If he knew that the constant barrage of fears and worries were grinding you down, MK would absolutely turn the valve and shut himself off. He’d go right back to closing himself off and shutting up about everything that’s torn a hole in his heart.

But he doesn’t. You don’t know how to tell him.

So on and on he goes with these traumas, head in your lap during a slow day, right when you finally crack and start to cry.

Good thing you’ve got a hero on standby to cuddle your tears away.

Each and every day starts with Mei prepping you for a long day at your “job”, and damn if the dragon girl can’t dote.

Special attention is given to your hair, little jeweled pins clipped into place just to give your outfit a bit of (expensive) sparkle- the motorcyclist believes with all her heart that you’ve earned it.

All your clothes are custom-made in whites and greens so that the two of you match, displaying to everyone around the bond she shares with you. Since your hands are so important to the work you do, Mei avoids giving you rings (and loose necklaces, just in case they get caught) and instead settles for thick golden bracelets (with trackers hidden inside) as a “gift”.

She tends to see you as more frail than you really are, so motorcycle rides are uncommon and uncharacteristically slow because Mei doesn’t want to rattle you.

Expect her to loudly and proudly proclaim “This is my little sibling!” whenever she gets the chance- and Mei will actively try to make this heartfelt delusion of hers a reality.

If you’re got a good home life, Mei imposes herself as an “honorary big sister” to justify all the time spent with you, painting herself as the sort of person who genuinely just wants the best for her community by looking out for everyone’s favorite healer.

But the moment she finds something solid against your guardians, this dragon girl blasts it all across social media to justify dragging you away from them- even if puts you in an awful and precarious headspace.

If you’re an orphan or stuck in a very bad home situation, Mei might just get her parents to adopt you- having a hardworking and adorable mage is not only good for the family’s reputation, but offers them a chance to expand their reach by having you lend a hand to influential and powerful individuals in their time of need.

And sometimes it feels almost like you’re being used, but they bring you back home after the work is done and allow you to rest and recuperate in front of their fireplace with a warm blanket (her mother wraps you up extra tight and kisses your forehead) and a cup of tea (her father pushes it into your hands and smoothes out your hair) before they dim the lights and bolt their lavish doors.

Really, you’re just part of the family now.

[moonselune]

Finally I can request something! Only request that comes to mind is an Artificer Tav x Karlach one where said Tav is basically working themselves to the bone to try and make a new upgrade/fix Karlach’s engine and it’s clearly taking a toll on them. Karlach probably finds them while they’re working on it to try and stop their spiraling. Little hurt/comfort angle I guess?

(Idk I’m thinking this is like mid Act 3 and they’ll probably go to Avernus together and work it out eventually but it ain’t like they know that!)

Sorry for the rambling lol. Keep up the good work!

awwwwwww yes and thanks so much!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach x Artificer!reader | Tinkering till I bleed

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You had lost track of time, hunched over your workbench, surrounded by scattered blueprints, half-finished gadgets, and smudges of grease on your skin. The dim light of your makeshift workshop you had managed to set up after wrangling yourself another room at the Inn, flickered, casting long shadows over your cluttered desk as your tools clinked and sparked. You barely registered the hours slipping by as you obsessively tinkered with the intricate design of Karlach’s infernal engine, determined to find some way—any way—to fix it. To help her.

Dammon was resolute, Karlach would have to go back to Avernus or... You couldn't think about that.

Your mind buzzed with calculations, your eyes stung from lack of sleep, and your fingers ached from endless adjustments, but you pushed through it all, refusing to stop. This had to work. Karlach deserved a chance, a life beyond the cursed engine that burned inside her. You knew you could make a difference, if you could just get this upgrade right.

But the toll of your self-imposed mission was starting to show. You hadn’t slept in what felt like days, barely eaten, and each breath felt heavier than the last. You were losing yourself in the work, unable to let go, to stop.

The door to the creaked open, but you didn’t look up. You were too absorbed in your latest attempt, adjusting a tiny cog with trembling hands, muttering calculations under your breath that were borderline hysterical.

“Hey, soldier,” Karlach’s voice filled the room, her deep, warm tone instantly recognizable. You felt a flicker of warmth in your chest at the sound of her, but you didn’t respond, too lost in your spiraling thoughts.

“Still at it, huh?” she continued, her heavy footsteps approaching, but you kept your head down, focusing intently on the work in front of you.

“I’m close,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to her. “I just need to… recalibrate this valve, and it should—”

Before you could finish, Karlach’s strong hand gently covered yours, stilling your frantic movements. You finally looked up, blinking in the dim light, and saw the concern etched across her face. Her fiery eyes, usually so full of warmth and spark, were now laced with worry as she took in your exhausted state.

“Babe…” Karlach’s voice was soft, her usual boisterous energy tempered with quiet care. “You look like you’re about to collapse. You’ve been at this for too long.”

“I can’t stop now,” you protested, shaking your head as you tried to pull your hand free. “I’m so close, Karlach. I can fix it, I can—”

“No,” she said firmly, her grip tightening just enough to keep your hand in place. “What you need is a break. You’ve been working yourself into the ground for me, and I won’t let you do that.”

You met her gaze, seeing the depth of her concern, but all you could feel was the weight of your failure pressing down on you.

“But if I stop, then I’m wasting time,” you whispered, your voice trembling with exhaustion and frustration. “I need to fix this. I need to help you. If I don’t—”

Karlach crouched down beside you, her face softening as she reached out to cup your cheek with her free hand. Her palm was warm, grounding, a reminder of the real, living person behind the project you were obsessing over.

“You’re already helping me,” she said gently. “More than you know. But not like this, not at the cost of your own health. I can’t stand seeing you like this, love.”

Your eyes burned with unshed tears as you swallowed hard, trying to fight the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm you.

“I just want to make it better for you,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “You deserve so much more than this cursed engine inside you.”

Karlach’s expression softened even further, and she leaned in, pressing her forehead against yours, her voice low and filled with affection.

“I know you do,” she murmured, her breath warm against your skin. “But you’re more important to me than any upgrade, any fix. You’ve already given me so much, just by being by my side.”

For a moment, the world seemed to still, the noise of your overworked mind fading as Karlach’s warmth and presence wrapped around you like a protective embrace. Her words sank in, cutting through the haze of exhaustion and self-imposed pressure. She didn’t need you to be perfect, to solve everything. She just needed you.

Your hand trembled in hers, and you finally let out a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping as the weight of your exhaustion caught up with you.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. Karlach smiled softly, her thumb gently brushing your cheek.

“Then I’ll help you,” she promised. “But first, you’re going to rest. That’s an order, soldier.”

A tired laugh bubbled up from your chest despite everything, and you nodded, feeling the fight drain out of you.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll rest.”

Karlach helped you to your feet, guiding you away from your workbench and toward a nearby cot. As soon as you sat down, the exhaustion hit you like a tidal wave, and you felt your body sag with the overwhelming need for sleep. Karlach sat beside you, her hand still holding yours as she brushed her fingers through your hair.

“You’re not alone in this,” she whispered. “We’ll figure it out together, but you’ve got to take care of yourself, too.”

You nodded, too tired to speak, but the warmth in her eyes and the steady beat of her heart against your side was enough to soothe the storm inside you. As your eyes fluttered closed, you felt the weight of your worries begin to lift, just a little, knowing that Karlach was there to keep you grounded. And in that quiet moment, you realized that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

oh gods karlach you deserve everything!! Hope you guys enjoyed this! And a massive thank you to all of you for your ongoing love and support! -Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[princessbrunette]

im interested to see if kitty!reader x maggie would have insane chemistry or would not work well bc they’re kinda similar in ways… but honestly i feel like maggie could work w any reader she’s so hot

˖ ࣪ ᳝ ࣪ 💭 𖥻♡⌇🩰

you scuff at your black shiny mary-janes, rubbing your feet together on the ground as you avoid the gaze of the girl stood infront of you, toned arms crossed over her cut-off band tee.

“are you really gonna do this all day? i actually have been making a very conscious effort to be nice.” maggie tossed the rag she cleaned her hands off on over her shoulder, and although you weren’t looking at her you could tell there was a ghost of an amused yet vaguely annoyed smile on her face.

“i told on you.” you blurt out suddenly, eyes darting up for a second to hers. she raises her eyebrows, now suddenly more interested in the conversation as she leans against the car she’d been previously been working on.

“you… told… on me?” she questions, and you glance up once more — this time eyes lingering a second longer.

“yeah. to jj. said you hadn’t been cuddling me. because you hate me. jj said he’s going to talk to you.” you sass, awfully proud of yourself. she huffs out a laugh and walks back round to the car bonnet, realising how unserious the whole thing was.

“jj? oh i’m terrified.” she leans over the bonnet and you watch her work at the inside of the car, twisting some kind of valve. “you know i don’t hate you, you’re talking out your ass. i can’t cuddle you because my hands are covered in grease. you’re just mad because i had to wake you up early and if there’s one person who loves sleep more than me in this world it’s you.”

when you don’t respond, she reappears from the car front and looks at you, lips tugging upwards. “does that about cover it sweetheart?”

you pout angrily, swinging you legs from where you sat on her workspace. you were needy and maybe you were just feeling extra needy that day and she wasn’t giving in to your demands, too busy doing, well — her job.

“i just want you to like me, magpie.” you cross your arms and her body deflates, squinting and shaking her head.

“i actually don’t like anyone but you. crazy, right?” she leans her hands either side of where you sit, faces close. “known jj since we were kids and you’re still my favourite person. i’d say that’s an achievement.” she lilts in that raspier voice that you can’t resist.

your lips press together as if resisting a smile, and she grins before leaning in and kissing you. “oh and if you’re gonna snitch on me to jj, atleast tell him to bring me a coffee when his scrawny ass gets here. all your attitude is wearing me out.” she pushes off where she leans, back to her usual ways. you consider going back to yours, but maggie made you soft.

˖ ࣪ ᳝ ࣪ 💭 𖥻♡⌇🩰

[neotechniques]

Oil Injected Air Compressor 

Neo Techniques authorized dealer of Atlas Capco oil Injected Air Compressor dealer in Hyderabad An oil injected air compressor is a type of industrial air compressor that uses oil to assist in the cooling and lubrication of the moving parts of the compressor. This type of compressor is often used in a variety of industrial settings

[seat-safety-switch]

Many, many years ago, the Catholic church had a problem: fake Popes. In the time before the internet, any group of rich assholes could get together, grab a random dude off the street, and declare him to be the Pope. Back then, you couldn’t even call (not even landline!) the Vatican to check this maybe-Pope’s credentials, and unless he acted extremely suspiciously, it was hard not to justify giving him whatever he (and his backers) asked for. He’s the Pope! If you don’t do what he says, God will force your daughter to eat your ribs or something like that.

Sure, a lot of these anti-Popes eventually did get busted. Lots of them took advantage of the massive power that was presented to them through fraud, and eventually the patience of the locals plumb ran out. It’s a pretty big deal to have the Pope visit your shitty town, even now, and so eventually the church would find out and send a small army to kill you and your friends. Sometimes they didn’t get there in time, because local warlords decided that the Pope (you) was probably trying to invade their country and decided to grease them first, only to end up doing the real Pope a solid.

Although I’m too lazy to check Wikipedia or even call the local diocese, I’m pretty sure that a decent number of these guys did get away with it, though. Real smooth operators would have known how to deal with certain sticky situations, like meeting people who had met the Pope already and knew he wasn’t 6′3″ and constantly drunk. As long as you didn’t make too much noise, and especially if you were somewhere that didn’t receive a lot of news or couriers, you could comfortably pretend to be a low-key pontiff for as long as you wanted. Your rich buddies would become richer buddies, and you’d get to wear a big hat. Good trade, the kind of relationship that doesn’t exist with employers today.

Why am I bringing this up now, you ask? Well, you might have noticed that I’ve been working at this O’Reilly Auto Parts with you for quite some time. And I have been asking you to log into the register for me, because I keep forgetting my password. I agree that that is suspicious. However, I think if you step in the back, you can meet some folks who will definitely assure you that I am in fact the head manager of this store, and you can help them load this unmarked, plateless van with all the Holley carbs we can sneak past that security camera.

No, no, no. Not the billet valve covers, that’s too flashy. Have you not listened to a word I’ve been saying?

[thegingerwrites]

Wip snippet

suddenly a sith wip

“Is there something I can help you with, General?” asks a Clone mech, Loose Screw.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “Not at all, soldier. I’m just admiring the view.”

Anakin can feel his face flush even buried in the guts of the starfighter. There’s not even much of a view, just his legs sticking out from beneath the ship but this Obi-Wan needs to fluster him.

“If you can pardon my saying so, sir, is there any truth rumor that you aren’t feeling well? I only wonder if its safe for you to be up there like that. I would tell off any of my techs that I caught up there.”

“I feel fine, darling, rest assured. Besides, I have Anakin to catch me if I fall.”

Anakin hits his head on the compressor valve and curses under his breath.

“I’ve never had much interest in mechanics,” Obi-Wan muses. “But I’ve always wondered, is a certain level of mess necessary to getting any work done? The spare parts, the sweat, the grease. I can only speak to what I’ve seen, of course, but your men seem to keep a much tidier workshop than other mechanics I could mention.”

With his confusion and nerves feeding off of each other in a loop, Loose Screw begins talking about standard safety procedures on Republic vessels and how he goes about implementing regulation. Obi-Wan hums and nods along in all the right places but when Anakin finally emerges from beneath the starship—without hitting his head this time and yes, sweaty and greasy and shirtless, because his robes were just going to get caught anyway and surely risking a few burns is safer than being caught in the machinery—by the time he manages all of that, Obi-Wan is watching him.

“Did you finish, dear one?”

Anakin is going to bite through his tongue before they manage to fix Obi-Wan.

“All done, let’s go.”

“Certainly.” Obi-Wan leaps down from the starship with easy grace, landing at Anakin’s side with hardly a sound. “Shall we get you cleaned up? Loose Screw says that <i>this</i>—” The tips of Obi-Wan’s fingers graze the swell of Anakin’s chest, light but enough to make him shiver. “—is a safety hazard, by the way, but he’s hardly going to criticize a master mechanic like you.”

“I appreciate Loose Screw’s diligence in keeping his mouth shut.”

[fleckcmscott]

Something Old, Everything New

Summary: After Arthur has a run in with the past, Y/N provides the shelter she’s always hoped to.

Words: 4,227

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

A/N: @tally-kiza made the request that prompted this story. Cal, I hope it's what you're looking for! 😂 Heartfelt thanks to @sweet-nothings04 for beta-ing, helping with the summary, and her neverending kindness and support. 💜

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The shopping list was broken into three sections, each separated by a thick, felt-tip line. Ingredients for a recipe Y/N was keeping secret. Refills of temazepam and fluoxetine. And supplies for light repairs he was determined to finish before the weekend was out.

Through poverty and an absent landlord, Arthur had become something of a handyman as a teen. He'd figured out how to snake gooey clumps of hair from the shower drain, unstick stuck drawers with a spritz of WD-40, patch the hole in the wall left by his fist. A job done himself was a dollar saved, a buck to spend on cigarettes or butterscotch candies, depending on how his week went.

Tapping each item on the paper, he dodged a pallet of tightly stacked potting soil and ambled down the fourth aisle of Garber's Value Hardware and Housewares, his first stop and a staple that'd served Burnley since 1926. Paint thinner stains dotted the creaky wooden floor, the shop's knob and tube wiring was a decade out of code, and the fumes of last year's grease saturated the air.

The red bins of O-rings, washers, and valve seals were poorly sorted. He sifted through grimy plastic baggies, searching for a standard size set. The kitchen faucet had been leaking for weeks, and the drops grew ever fatter and faster. He decided on a variety pack, then aimed for the door section for hinge lubricant, as vegetable oil no longer quieted the bedroom door's squeaks and squawks.

He was midway through the yellow bottle's directions when an old nickname smacked him in the back of the head.

"Hey, Fleck the Speck!"

The jovial call made Arthur's joints as stuck as an old drawer.     

"Hell, it's been what, twenty years?" Richard continued, dark blue mechanic's overalls swishing as he advanced on Arthur. The guy thrust a friendly hand his way. "You just kinda fell off the face of the earth. How've you been?"

Arthur glared at that hand.

Richard McMahon was an old classmate, from Cowther's Middle School straight through sophomore year at Gotham High. Being held back two years hadn't stopped him from reaching the level of cool to go by Rick, not Dick.

And he was one of the many people Arthur could have gone to his grave without seeing.

Fleck the Speck had caught on amongst Rick's group of rowdies like too much Brylcreem. Dingy hair and ratty, ill-fitting clothes had made Arthur a target to rival a dart board. Rick's hair had been just as greasy, his t-shirt couldn't keep up with his stocky teenage body. But youth hierarchy demanded someone be shit on, and via his natural awkwardness, Arthur attracted all the flies.

But that was then, and this was now, and if Arthur interpreted Rick-not-Dick's tone correctly, he saw him as a regular guy.

"I'm good," Arthur said, returning the shake. The man grabbed him in a sweltering grip. "I- I had a lot going on. With my mother and everything."

"Good, good. You working now?"

"Yes. I'm a comedian."

"No shit! You still doing that laugh?"

That Rick would bring up Arthur's condition wasn't a shock. It'd been a source of endless entertainment for his peers. He took half a step back. "Doing that laugh?"

"Yeah! It was a riot, really threw the teachers off, too. Got any kids?"

Rapid fire questions with teasing cloaked as compliments dizzied Arthur, like he was a returning guest on the Murray show under the lights and the heat. "I'm married."

"Me, too. You remember Shelly Petters?"

Shelly Peters had sat to Arthur's left in US History, a course he'd struggled with like all the rest. Getting dates confused was too easy, and it was far too hard to concentrate while awaiting next month's allotment of government peanut butter and wondering if Penny had left on the oven again.

In her pink miniskirt and flowing, flaxen locks, Shelly had been a beauty fit for the cover of TV Guide.  During the mid-term, he'd frowned at the blue test booklet, the words swimming in front of him. Frustration channeled its way to his knee, bouncing it against the bottom of the desk. Bang. Bang. Bang. The force of his grip snapped his pencil in two. The pointed half fell and rolled across the floor, right into Mr. Galloway's shoes.

As if helping Arthur was the most natural thing in the world, Shelly had offered her spare. He'd done his best not to chew on it and fallen in love.

But his heart was as poorly schooled as his mind. As sweet as that recollection was, it was interlinked with the truth of how rare kindness had been.

He'd untangled his curls, slicked them back with tap water. Tucked his sweater into his trousers, rolled up the cuffs to hide the holes. When he'd caught up to her by her locker, Rick had stuck one heavy foot between them.

"What'd you do to your hair?" The rowdies formed a half circle, a pack of wolves, and the leader addressed his eager audience. "You gonna put on a show for us, Fleck the Speck? How about telling one of them jokes of yours? Knockknockknockknockknock!"

"Richard, stop it," Shelly hissed.

Laughter forced a cough from Arthur, his fingers clawing his trousers in an attempt to get control over his breathing. The tightening of his throat turned tears into a nakedness that choked. He'd fled to the boy's bathroom on the third floor. Locked himself in the last stall. Wiped his snot with cheap toilet paper and sleeves. What a fool he was for trying to raise himself above his station. The station shared by them all.

A blink returned Arthur to the present. The raw quality of his voice couldn't be restrained. "Shelly married you?"

"Right out of high school," Rick said. "Our daughter graduated this year. It was fun, seeing the old gym again. It hasn't changed one iota." His thumb gestured at Arthur's baggy cardigan, a hitchhiking motion. "Looks like you haven't changed much, either."

Nostalgia coated the comment, not meanness. But the same sense of worthlessness engulfed Arthur, joined by a rising fury that this man - this- this asshole - maintained the power to tear him down. To leave him the same boy who'd fled to the bathroom, when he'd tried to be more than allowed.

Crumpling his shopping list, Arthur shoved his first in his pocket before he could shove it in Dick-not-Rick's nose. Blunt nails dug his palms. "I can't believe she'd marry someone like you."

Offense deformed the man's face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't you remember? All you did was make fun of me."

"Hey, everyone had a nickname back then. It was all a joke."

"Yeah, well. Comedy is subjective, Dick, and I never thought it was funny."

"We were kids. Kids do stupid shit." A hint of reticence twitched Dick's mouth. Lifting his chin, he straightened his features into calm. "I'll say hi to Shelly for you. Let her know you're doing all right. She'll be glad to hear it."

Then came the words that hit Arthur like a hammer.

"You really haven't changed at all."

~~~~~

Y/N brushed stray strands from her hair, the usual stragglers after a fresh cut. Wilma, the hairdresser she'd been seeing for three years, had called out sick, so she'd met a new beauty school graduate named Nancy. Though shy about feathering, the girl was eager to blunt cut. Y/N had halted her with a raised hand just as she was about to give her bangs.

Crossing the living room, Y/N paused long enough to turn on the TV, where a rerun of the Honeymoon Game would start at five. Arthur and she had become experts at guessing each other's answers and often ended those nights with more than a kiss. Being newlyweds themselves, it was the perfect watch.

And what a blissful eight months it'd been.

All on her own, she'd made the leap to move to Gotham at an age when most people had a spouse, a house, and two cars in a garage. Self-sufficiency had been her middle name for over a decade. She hadn't planned on getting remarried, instead relishing in finally having her own path.

But fate had introduced her to the kindest, most wonderful man she'd ever met, and the whole world had shifted.

It was a delight to have a helper, a partner. A person she could come home to and who could come home to her, who brightened her day with love and laughter. Who made the smallest domesticities matter, because she could share them. And being married to Arthur was fun.

She'd jotted a shopping list this morning, starting with ingredients for skillet enchiladas, a recipe he'd played at trying to peek. Then he'd perched on the kitchen counter and named all the hardware he needed, counting on his fingers as he went. There was something undeniably alluring about it. A masculine confidence that tickled her insides, a suaveness that came naturally when he let go enough to let it.

Alone, she would have waited at the bottom of the super's list for small fixes. She was good at keeping house, but repairs were outside of her league, Class A when her skill set was Class C. Now, sitting at the dinette table with a cup of tea and the Gotham Times, she couldn't stop picturing Arthur holding a wrench. The flex of his bicep as he twisted it, his broad stance as he bent over the sink.

Heat burned her cheeks, a good dose of fluster. Squeezing her thighs together, she turned the page.

Just as she'd read a statement from Gotham's Office of Management and Budget protesting any attempt to expand aid for the unemployed, the front door unlocked. She pushed the paper aside, tightened the bow of her pencil skirt. "There you are, Mr. Fleck," she said, rising to help with the shopping bags. "Did you find everything?"

A single sack hung from Arthur's twitchy knuckles. Brown paper. Wrinkled. The size of a lunch bag.

Head tilted to one side, she tested its light weight with two lifting motions. "Was Ed's closed?"

"No."

She looked inside. Hardware jumbled at the bottom, along with a distinct lack of orange, plastic bottles. "What about your medication?"

"Don't worry about it."

He shoved his tan jacket on the hook next to hers. Fingers smoothed his hair, turning into claws, a pressure that blanched his temples. Warmth fled her face, replaced by a concerned chill, for it was a move she recognized. A jarring and painful echo of tough times.

Without the usual peck, the usual caress, the usual smile, he walked past her to the living room. Grabbed the remote from the coffee table and flicked off the TV.

One foot forward before she held back. "Arthur, what's wrong?"

No answer, no turn towards her. No indication he'd heard her inquiry. He jerked the chair from his desk and dropped into it. Yanked open the top left drawer and smacked his journal to the surface.

Y/N's breath caught in her breast. When Arthur was upset, a pattern came into play: he wanted space, and she respected him by giving it. A behavior she attributed to his years of isolation and not a small amount of fear. Yes, she'd gotten used to it. But that didn't make it any less irksome, any less hard on her heart. Without the whole story of what'd happened, she found herself at a loss as to how to help. A fog had rolled in and she was a dinghy, drifting through choppy waters with a broken masthead.

She forced herself to browse the cupboards, search for what to piece together for a comforting meal. A can of peas sat on the second shelf. There was half a box of macaroni, but they'd used the last jar of tomato sauce on Monday. In the freezer, one Salisbury steak Swanson stood its ground, next to bags of chicken breasts and sweet corn. It was all about as comforting as cold chowder.

In the doorway by the dinette table, she observed him anew. He hunched over his desk, muttering to himself. He'd shed his cardigan and shirt, his trousers, even his worn white socks. They lay strewn on the other side of the room divider to his right. Out of sight but, judging from his posture, far too firmly in mind.

She approached with quiet, measured steps. Stopped six inches behind him. His every sinew screamed dissent. Ballpoint pen scratched across paper. She pushed herself to her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. Though his forearm covered two-thirds of his journal, enough of the slanted script cried out to her.

"...bad guys alwaze win at life. 35 years here and I got one prize!!!!! What??? How fucking long can peeple like Dick make me feel awful? I don't want anything to hurt me any more. They never think what it's like to be someone like me. This city is too crowded and full of Dicks. If I..."

Testing the waters of what Arthur was willing to receive, she laid her hands on the nape of his neck. It was cement under her palms. Thumbs worked lines up and down on both sides, beneath brown curls that brushed knuckles. After a minute, after he hadn't pushed her away, she said, "You don't have to shut me out."

His scrawling stopped.

Lines became circles as she moved outwards. The pads of her fingers traced his clavicle, massaged the bony knobs of his shoulders. But his muscles grew tauter, and she realized the swirling strokes stung instead of soothed. Reluctance ached her sternum. She swallowed against the worry he hated.

He'd been in worse shape before and he'd come to her. He would come to her again soon.

In the meantime, she'd meet him where he was. Care for him the best way she knew how. "I'll get the groceries and stop by Groves." Her lips brushed the shell of his ear. "And be home before you have a chance to miss me." One final squeeze before she turned to leave.

Quick as a whip, his hand locked around her wrist.

Relief flooded her frame. A welcome, wished for reaction to the man she loved. The man she was devoted to, the man she adored opening up enough to need her. She went to his side, assuming he wanted to embrace her, press his face to her stomach. Let go with her, into her. But his posture remained rigid, a ramrod of resentment. His whole body appeared to be filled with waiting - but for what?

He traced the veins on her forearm, mapped a path to her palm. Her fingers curled around his. Low and rumbling, he pierced the silence. "Say you want me." A rasp equal parts desperation and demand. "Tell me." When his gaze darted to hers, the smoldering in his stare said he wanted to possess her.

She'd let him.

One sideways step to stand before him. Her rear rested on the lip of his desk.

"I want you," she said. She placed his palm on her breast, guided his thumb beneath the placket of her blouse. Popped the buttons with a flick of her fingers. "Put your hands on me."

A harsh inhale as he shot upwards, grabbed her chin with greedy hands, and shoved his mouth to hers. Her bottom lip caught on his teeth. He groaned and lapped the sting away. In one smooth motion, he shoved her skirt to her waist and lifted her onto the desk. The pages of his journal crumpled under her ass.

He grasped her collar, tugged crepe to her elbows. She snaked between their torsos to open the front of her bra. Her breasts spilled onto him and he groaned. Smothered her mouth with a savage intensity.

His clothed erection bumped her vulva, flint striking stone. Aching, her nipples tightened against his chest, his hair tickling, teasing. Thumbs hooked around the lace trim of her panties. He shoved them over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees. When the cotton reached her toes, she kicked them off. They landed on the console stereo, hung indelicately from the corner.

Dragging her ass to the edge of the desk, Arthur pulled himself out of his briefs. She fell backwards onto her elbows, knocked over their framed photograph, taken on a night to remember. It fell to the wooden surface with a slap. He cupped her labia, slipped a pointer between her lips. Long enough to test her readiness, to test her willingness.

The desk lamp's gentle light played across his ribs, his toned abdomen, his thighs. Breath shallow and ragged, she eyed the tip of his cock. Purplish red and shiny with slick. Stare fixed on her center, he took it in his palm. She gulped. Her knees fell further apart as she canted upward, her damp folds brushing his knuckles. He pumped once. Twice.

And then he breached her.

A rough cry flew from her throat. One leg curled about him, her heel at the small of his back, her other foot braced on the seat of his chair.

Bent over her now, he propped himself on one hand. Cupped her neck and sheathed his shaft completely. He crushed her to him for a fierce, firm kiss. The tip of his tongue pressed for entry. But before she could grant it, he moved to nuzzle her temple, her jaw.

Steady and sharp, his thrusts impaled her with the taste of something primal. The hot glide of flesh on flesh. His thighs rattled the pencil drawer. He grunted. Fucked faster, harder. The desk threatened to bang the wall.

His sweaty face fell to the crook of her shoulder and her eyes fell shut. The sensation of him inside her was powerful, overwhelming. A stretch that scorched in every way she wanted, forever and always.

This felt different, though. In the past, she'd invited him to take comfort in her body. To let their coming together be a haven, their union be a defiance against the tragedies life had dealt him. Besides the night she'd confessed she loved him, he hadn't taken her in that way. Arthur doing so now confirmed the strength of their connection. How much he trusted her, how much he honored her, as equally as she trusted and honored him.

Her heart longed to comfort him, too. To heal whatever had happened, to make the present and future brighter than the past. She sealed that vow with a kiss to his cheek.

His pelvis jerked unevenly, stammering between her thighs. She clutched his shoulder, gripped his forearm. A ragged moan tumbled past his lips, onto her skin. Her calves rose to squeeze him tight, tighter. Fingertips digging her hip, he stiffened, his hot essence splashing her walls. Gasps mingled, humid and heated. His abdomen quivered against hers.

Once he'd softened and steadied his breath, he slipped out of her. Arming his forehead, he stumbled to land in the chair.

Slowly, she clambered down, one foot meeting the carpet, then the other. She left her skirt at her waist but peeled off her blouse. Wiped their mess from the desk and tossed it on the pile of his clothes. She smoothed the pages of his journal, shut its leather cover. Smiling, she picked up their picture. Straightened the easel and put it in its place.

When she turned towards Arthur, he appeared to still be in a state, but one not altogether unpleasant. Gaze dazed and out of focus, dark brows lifted and lines of his face relaxed. And was that blush the result of his brazenness or his orgasm?

"Feeling better?" she asked, slinging an arm about him as she sat sideways on his lap.

"Uh huh."

She gave a throaty little laugh. "Good."

Sticky with perspiration, his forehead met her cheek. Her nails ran over his scalp, caught in damp, knotted curls. He heaved a long sigh, which goosepimpled her skin. Quiet blanketed them, tranquil and lovely, sunlight that sliced through the earlier fog.

But clouds did remain, questions she couldn't let go. Who was Dick? And what had he done to her husband, both then and now?

Rumbling disturbed the peace, a loud squeal like a balloon. Chuckling, Arthur splayed his fingers on her stomach. "Sorry about the groceries."

"Don't be." She covered his hand with hers. "I have an idea."

~~~~~

At a nearby diner, in a booth by the kitchen, over a blue-plate special of baked beans and hot dogs, Arthur told Y/N about it. All of it. The bullying, the cruelty of laughter, the taunting he hadn't always understood but a tone as familiar as not fitting anywhere. How reading had been hard and therefore it'd been hard to learn, even when he'd had the will. ("No one else had any problems. I felt stupid all the time.") That the awfulness he'd been destined to encounter every day made it a ten round fight to get off the couch, get washed up, and get to school.

And that he didn't get - would never get - how a guy as mean as Dick McMahon could wind up with the nicest girl in class.

Arthur scraped his spoon across the plate to snag the last bite of beans. "I dunno. I didn't want to be upset. That happened when we were kids."

"It's normal to be upset by assholes," Y/N countered. "What happened wasn't okay. Twenty years doesn't change that."

"But shouldn't it be easier by now? He said I hadn't changed but I have." Arthur wanted to believe that. He had to believe that.

"There're people I don't ever want to see again, no matter how much they've changed. Why do you think I moved to Gotham?"

The corner of his mouth quirked. "You're right, I just-" A slight shake of his head as he broke off. Dick had already stolen enough of today. Arthur wasn't about to allow him the rest. He retrieved a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'll be fine. I just want to enjoy being with you."

"You're always welcome." She caught the waitress's attention with a raised hand and ordered a decaf and slice of Pineapple Dream Pie. "We can get groceries tomorrow. Your refills, too. No, wait. Groves is closed Sundays."

"I have enough until Wednesday. Don't you have an appointment that morn-?"

"Schcuze me, ma'am?"

At the end of their table stood a man, clad in an orange and white Gotham Knights basketball jersey. A fiery K was emblazoned on his cheek. Arthur wondered where the rest of the letters had fled to.

The squire teetered on drunken knees. "Can I have your catchsup?" he asked, gesturing towards the glass bottle at the other end of the booth. Arthur handed it over. The man offered a goofy grin and shuffled away.

When he'd rounded the counter, Y/N smirked. "I hope he ordered a pot of coffee. Anyway, yes, Dr. Shapiro's at ten. Just a routine visit and he'll check my IUD. I got it after I moved, so it should have a few years left in it."

Ready to tease, Arthur wrinkled his nose. "But why? When we met, you said you weren't looking."

"Well, I wanted to be prepared. And it's a good thing, too, because that changed when you came along."

Chuckling, he rubbed the nape of his neck. A very good thing, indeed.

She poured the last of the creamer in her coffee, gave it a slow stir. She put the spoon on the saucer and lifted the beige mug. For a moment, her eyes had a faraway look. Her lashes fluttered it away. "Do you ever feel like you missed out, having only been with me?"

A flinch shot through him. "No. Why would you think that?"

"It's silly, I know. It's just that I was married before. I dated. You didn't have all that. And I'm older than you." The sheepish tuck of hair behind her ear. "I just wonder sometimes, that's all."

The cash register opened and shut. Order Up! bellowed from the kitchen. The shop bell ting ting tinged.

Arthur rested his cigarette in the table ashtray. Slid out of the booth and slid onto the bench seat beside her. "I'm comfortable with you and you care about me. I care about you, too."

A bright blush as she drank. Contentment washed over him, a happiness he hadn't known he could have before being with her. In this diner, in this city, in this life. A life he couldn't have dreamed of in that high school bathroom stall, snotting all over himself and asking why don't I fit, why don't I fit, why don't I fit?

"You know what's changed?" he started, folding her into his side. "I'm not alone anymore. Instead of getting angry, I should've bragged about that."

Beaming, she angled to face him. "You'll have plenty of chances."

She brought the mug to his mouth. Though he disliked milk in his java and one sugar wasn't enough, he stole a quick sip. Then he kissed her, sipping from her lips to wash the bitter away.

~~~~~

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