#all coveralls are: easy access

[frnkiebby]

coverall frnkie for the coverall whores~🎃

[snorky]

I Won't See You Tonight

Hey y’all! I hope you are doing well and blessed, and I hope this angsty Alex Holtz story is enjoyable to read. My sister recommended the idea of Holtzy as a mechanic and I ran with it. The title is from a song by Avenged Sevenfold, which was lingering around in my head for a long while. Something something along the lines of comfort, angst, and a thing or two about needing to take care of someone. Speaking of which, I hope you all enjoy this fic, and remember to take care of yourself!

Pairing: Alexander Holtz x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Angst, Self-deprecation (self-bad talk), Comfort, Alcohol Consumption (of legal age), Mild jealousy (let me know if I need to add anything)

—

—

“Crap, crap, crap!”

Her car slowed down to a halt, spitting and sputtering as she pulled over to the side of the long, empty road. Turning off her engine, she clasped her hands at the top of the steering wheel and rested her forehead against it, irked by the fact that she had work within a few hours.

The hot summer sun didn’t seem to help, quickly turning her, apparently now unreliable, car into a miniature oven. It hadn’t had any previous or any notable issues that would hinder the aging process of the car, but apparently something was off.

Stepping out of the car, she checked her surroundings, and sure enough, not a car in sight. She pulled her phone out from her pocket, sighing in relief that she still had data on her phone, and searched up the phone number for the nearest auto shop.

The dial tone could be heard one moment, and the next was a voice, of what she assumed to be, the voice of the front desk worker for the auto shop.

“Hello, welcome to Dave’s Auto, how can we help you today?”

“Yeah, uhm–” She paced around the side of her car nervously for a brief second before continuing. “My car broke down on the side of Earl road. Do you think that you could send out some help by chance?”

He chuckled at her, but in a lighthearted way. “By chance? Ma’am of course we can help you. One of our guys will be there in about five minutes tops.”

She thanked him and hung up the phone, sliding it back into her pocket. Walking around the car, she tried to analyze and see if there was anything visibly wrong with the car from the outside. 

Unfortunately for her, she couldn’t notice anything significant, and so her next thought was to check under the hood of the car. The engine seemed to look normal, and the oil didn’t have any odd coloration.

Everything seemed to be normal, and so she stood near the front of her car, waiting for one of the mechanics to arrive.

After a few minutes, a blueish tow truck with the auto shop’s logo could be seen driving closer to her, and she gave herself a lopsided smile of relief, and yet irritation from her car breaking down.

The truck parked and came to a stop in front of her car, allowing for easy access to actually move the car onto the platform.

“Hey, this your car?”

The man that stepped out the car was decently tall, wearing gray coveralls as his work uniform, and had wavy brown hair. As he stepped closer to her, she noticed his eyes, which seemed to captivate her the most.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” she laughed nervously.

He turned his attention to her after taking a quick look at her car, and smiled warmly. “You don’t gotta say sorry, miss. It’s my job,”

Hooking the car onto the tow truck, he fiddled with a pen and a notepad for a few moments before motioning for her to follow him.

Pausing, she looked at him nervously for a brief moment, and he read her expression before quickly apologizing. “Sorry, I should’ve asked, do you want a ride back to the auto shop or do you have someone picking you up?”

“Oh.” Her face flushed up in embarrassment for assuming that he was being odd, but was just offering a helping hand. “Yes I need a ride, sorry—” She quickly tried to read the name that was embroidered onto his coveralls. “Holtz?”

He opened the door to the passenger side of the truck, allowing her to get in. “Yeah, that’s my last name,” he smiled. “You can call me Alex though, promise.”

She smiled back at him, “Thank you so much for helping me with my car then, Alex”

His face warmed up a little, enjoying how her voice spoke his name so, perfectly. He got into the truck on his side, and they both drove towards the direction of the auto shop.

The drive remained mostly silent, apart from some small talk and the hum of the radio that was on. The view from her window was essentially just an empty road, which was unfortunately her only route to and from the bar she worked at.

“How’s your day been, miss?” His gaze was focused on the road ahead of him, but his mind ran rampant about her.

It was, most definitely, inappropriate to harbor such a childish crush for someone he just met, but he tried his best to ignore his feelings and keep it professional. After all, he didn’t have any high hopes that he’d see her again after this encounter.

“It’s been, well, regular—” she let out a soft laugh, the situation that she ended up in being not-so-regular. It was a sound that he could get accustomed to easily, wanting to hear it on repeat. “Besides my car breaking down three hours before work.”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, feeling sympathy for her situation. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear about that,” he sighed. “I—we can get it done before that I hope, unless you don’t want to go to work?”

His joke made her laugh slightly, causing a small smile to appear on his own face.

She let out a breath and leaned back in the seat. “Ugh, I wish, Alex. But rent isn’t free unfortunately.”

Nodding his head in agreement, he continued to focus on the road. His fingers tapped along to the song on the radio on his steering wheel from the classic rock station. It had always been a favorite station of his, most likely from the fact that it was the only thing ever playing at his work.

Shortly after a few minutes, the truck, along with her car, arrived at the auto shop. Her broken down car was moved into the garage, while she was escorted into the main office area of the shop.

“So that car, the—Nissan Skyline?” The front desk worker looked up at her to confirm that it was in fact, her vehicle, and not the wrong one.

“Yes, that one.” She gave a half-smile, partly in pride of her car that was a little pricey in the market, but took good care of, and partly because now it seemed a little useless.

He scrawled down the name of the car on his notepad, before turning his attention to her again. “And the name or owner?”

She gave him her name, as well as her insurance information and phone number in case they needed to contact her.

Alex walked through the door that connected the office to the garage, a slightly disappointed look on his face. “Just a dead battery that needs replacing, shouldn’t take more than an hour,”

“That’ll do it,” she sighed. Of course, it was some basic issue that she had looked over and failed to maintain, most likely from the fact that she was extremely busy. “How much do you think it’ll be?”

“Three-hundred.”

“Two-fifty.”

Both Alex and the front desk worker glared at each other before he was shooed off back into the garage, leaving just her and the desk worker in the office.

“Three-hundred, and don’t listen to him, it sounds like a good deal but you’re not getting anything from some one-hundred dollar battery for the Skyline. It’s better to invest in a solid battery.”

She nodded suspiciously, disguising it as a nod of understandment, before handing the cash over to the worker, to which he then printed out a receipt for her to keep for records.

Moving over to the chairs in the waiting area of the office, she slumped down into it, letting out a breath of exhaustion. She pulled out her phone and texted her boss saying that she might be late for work, which was followed up by a quick response of something along the lines of take it easy.

For the next half-hour, she flipped mindlessly through the magazines that were on a small table nearby, and eyed the vending machines that had soft-drinks and beverages that seemed so tempting on a hot summer day.

A few more minutes ticked by, and Alex came through the door that connected the garage and the office area.

“You’re all set, miss.” He beamed proudly, having stuck with his word and kept the work-time lower than an hour. “Follow me,” he waved.

She followed him through the door, entering the garage that smelled like gasoline and car oil. Spotting her car, she walked over to it, talking a quick walk around to inspect his work.

“Yeah, so I just replaced the car engine—I mean, sorry.” He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck as he laughed, his error causing her to have a bewildered expression. “I meant the battery. The car battery. I did not replace your car engine,”

She sighed and wiped her brow in mock relief. “Whew, I would’ve called the manager on you, Alex,”

“Just a slight error, but all jokes aside, you should be all set and ready to go.” Alex spoke with a seemingly saddened tone, his mind accompanied with the knowledge that he might not get to see her again.

Her heart felt similar, eyes more tired, but still vibrant from the short time knowing him. “Thank you so much, I really do mean it,” she smiled. “I’ll see you later.”

She knew that she wasn’t going to see him later most likely, but she wanted to remain hopeful.

He gave her a final smile back, waving to her as she entered her car, and pulled out of the auto shop. Color seemed to slowly fade from his world, turning back into an ordinary life that he lived before.

A few minutes later, she arrived at the bar she worked at, and it was the usual shift of serving patrons their drinks and foods, friendly chats to wring out a tip or two, and anything else really to pass time.

Her own life seemed to be more dull without him, the neon glow of the lights in the bar barely enchanting anymore. Each shot glass seemed to have more lackluster with each passing night, filled up with vodka shots, gin, and what-other-nots that people drank to drown their summer sorrows.

That was, until, a familiar face showed up at her bar, those same gray coveralls and messy brown hair that held a glimmer in her heart.

“Just one uh—”

After he turned his attention to her, tired eyes refocusing, he realized who she was in the dim lighting.

“Oh, hi, miss.”

She softly looked at him, and smiled, which seemed to brighten him up a bit. “Hi, dearie.” Her hand held a towel and wiped the rim of a glass after she had washed it, putting it behind her on the counter. “What drink do you want?”

“Jagermeister, please.”

His voice was quiet, just as strong as she remembered, but this time, it faltered slightly, cracks in the crevices and deep details.

Grabbing a glass, she filled it up with his drink of choice, the dark, earthy color filling up to the brim. She held it in her hands delicately, his eyes following her movements. As she set the glass down in front of him, her gaze met his deep brown eyes, mirroring the liquor.

“Here’s your drink, be responsible,” she whispered.

He read her lips like a poem, understanding each word deeply, the last part like a promise that she didn’t want him to break. “Yes, miss,”

The night grew on, patrons leaving and coming in and out of the bar, and yet he remained there, in his seat, sipping away at his drink, a slight flush appearing on his face from the alcohol.

She looked back at him every so often, catching how his eyes lingered on her a little longer when she talked to other patrons, serving their drinks, accepting tips from guys that seemed to be too flirty for his liking.

Alex was never the jealous type, but perhaps he was when he was under the influence and in the same room as her.

He raised his hand up to try and get her attention, mainly out of wanting to just talk to her. “Hey uh, miss?” His voice slurred slightly, the effects of the drink slowly getting to him. 

Walking over to him, she rested her arms on the counter, lowering down to meet his eyes. “Yes, Alex? How can I help you?”

Her voice seemed to be smooth and sweet like honey, something that he wanted to taste so badly. He was stuck with her, enamored oh so deeply. All he ever wanted now was just her, and no one else.

“Hi.” A dopey smile was plastered on his face, hair tousled and messy.

She smiled at how cute it was that he called her over, just to say something so simple. “Hi, you holding up okay?”

He nodded his head, eyes slightly glossy, but it almost seemed like a mirage under the dim lighting.

And then, she was pulled away from him again, slipping away from his invisible grasp.

She laughed and playfully talked to others as he watched, and the night started to die down, the majority of large crowds leaving. It was just him and her in the bar now it seemed, aside from a few other workers and patrons at tables around the bar.

Wiping a wet rag along the counter, she saw that he was resting his head in his arms, almost dead silent aside from a slight sniffle that could hardly be heard.

“Alex?” She gently placed a hand on his shoulder, careful not to startle him.

His drink was unfinished, glass still half-full with the liquor. Picking up his head slowly, he met her with teary eyes, and her heart sank with sorrow.

Cupping his face gently, she wiped a tear that he shed away carefully. “What’s wrong?”

“I just—” He took a shaky breath inwards, avoiding eye contact with her. “Why does no one treat you right?”

It felt like a sharp pang in her chest, something that she had never spoken openly about, but he read her perfectly. “What do you mean? No one treats me right?”

“You. You’re so perfect ‘n pretty, and yet, all these guys just want to see you stroking their egos just for you to get a small tip that isn’t even fair.” He rested his head in his arms again, hiding his face from her. “It’s not fair.”

She was awestruck by all of this spilling from him, not believing that this is what he truly meant, but she knew, he was all raw and vulnerable before her gaze.

“It’s my job.” Her words came out empty, as if it was something that she wasn’t satisfied with. “I’m used to it, Alex, please don’t worry.”

He looked at her, eyes reddish and puffy, and pulled out his wallet. His hand held a fifty-dollar bill, and a twenty-dollar bill. “Please, take it. That greedy scumbag ripped you off about that car battery, and for the tip for the drink as well.”

She shook her head in denial as she cleaned up his drink, pouring the rest of it down the drain. “Alex, I’ll take the tip for the drink, but not the car, it doesn’t hurt me.” 

“Please, miss?” he pleaded. “It won’t hurt, I just hate seeing you be lied to like that,”

Looking at him again, she walked closer, moving her hand to his shoulder and rubbing it soothingly. “Alright, but the drink is on the house, okay?” She accepted the tip, sliding it into her back pocket as he smiled, still teary eyed. “How’d you get here?”

“A cab,” he responded. “But I don’t know if I can call a cab this late,”

“I’ll drive you home, if you trust me of course,” she offered.

“I trust you, and I really like you, ya’know, you’re so sweet and kind and beautiful. You’re an angel,” he rambled.

“You as well, Alex.” Her hands were occupied with counting the cash at the register, closing everything up before turning her attention back to him. “You’re so pretty.” She took her hand and held his face.

He leaned into her touch gently, eyes shut and relaxed. “I’m sorry you have to see me so—pathetic,” he sighed.

“You aren’t pathetic, promise you,”

It was now just the both of them, alone in the bar. Her boss was always last to leave, and it was only half an hour until closing.

Silence sat between the both of them, comfortable and yet uncomfortable. The air was all stuffy and the scent of alcohol, cheap and expensive, filled the air. 

“I should get going,” he said, getting up from the chair. “Don’t wanna bother you any longer,”

She reached out and grasped his hand softly, hoping to keep him a little longer. “No, Alex, I don’t—”

He shook his hand from her, vulnerability scrawled all over his face. “I want to let you be, I don’t deserve you,”

“Alex, no!” she shouted after him. “I want to make sure you get home safely,”

“I can take care of myself! I’m a grown adult!” he retaliated.

Her heart crumbled when he shouted, but she still tried. “I’ll take care of you, okay? Just one night, Alex.”

He looked back at her, seeing her teary eyes despite her strong face. “I’m sorry, I’ll wait.”

For the next few minutes, she gathered her bag and belongings, and walked out of the bar with him, his arm slung around her shoulders.

He was confused, but slightly sobering up from the cool night air. “Why do you want to take care of me? I’m just some guy you met,”

“Alex, you’re kind and sweet, you didn’t take advantage of my money, and you’re trying your best, alright?”

“But you’re so pretty,” he whispered, looking over at her.

She laughed softly, her smile vibrant and warm. “Alex, what does it take for me to tell you that I like you too,”

“Wait, what?”

Opening the passenger side door, she motioned for him to get in. “Yes, Alex, I like you,”

He smiled, with pure happiness despite being exhausted. “You, like me?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I like you, Alex.” She got in the driver’s side of the car, starting up the engine. “Where is your address? We need to get home,”

“We? Like me and you?” he said dreamily.

“Well I said I was going to take care of you, so sure.”

He told her his address, and then she started driving. Cozying into the seat, he got comfortable and rested his eyes for a bit, which ended up being the entire ride. 

It was a quiet ride, comfortable, and only comfortable silence, with her looking over at him every now and then, smiling softly to herself.

When they both arrived at his house, she gently tapped his shoulder to wake him up, still in his gray coveralls.

He mumbled something, still in the process of waking up.

“Alex, honey.” She shook him a little this time, but not too rough. “Let’s get you inside okay?”

Nodding his head, which was now affected by a headache, he complied, allowing her to help him inside.

She kept her promise, making sure that he ended up in his bed, making sure that he had a bottle of water and some pain medicine at his bedside table, and making sure that he woke up with a note beside him, with her phone number and a sweet message for him.

[hybbart]

wanted to ask if tango has any other outfits since it seems like he only wears 1. petition to get this man more clothes

He has other clothes! It's just that he needs to wear specially insulated clothing most of the year, so finding him new clothes is difficult for the ranchers, and most of his alternate outfits are for specific purposes like PJs, gardening, or snowstorms.

Tango doesn't switch costumes up as much as Jimmy does. He has like 3 or 5 of those coveralls that were probably from his job pre-apocalypse because they're tough, insulated, and easy to pack and clean.

It probably bothers Jimmy so much since he went out of his way to make a whole capsule wardrobe for himself once they could, while Tango stuck with the same thing until Jimmy forced him and the downtowners gave them access to specialty fabrics.

If you look through the pages you'll find he's worn all his alternate outfits i made for him, though, except for the space jacket (it's a fall/spring jacket but I keep forgetting it) but I do agree, he needs more clothes like I have Jimmy. I gave him a white tshirt for the swimming page but I'm trying to think of more.

[burnwater13]

Peli Motto speaking with Din Djarin next to the Naboo-1 Starfighter they are upgrading. Caption reads: Where did you get this? - The Mandalorian. It's brand new. Well, Jawa new. - Peli Motto ; Image from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 5, Return of the Mandalorian. Calendar by DateWorks.

Grogu still hadn’t really forgiven his dad for finding and fixing the N-1 without him. It was a really cool ship and he would have been happy to hand spanners and nippers and turners and things like that to the Mandalorian and Peli Motto as the brought the ship back to flight. It just might have made a critical difference when they discussed design, upgrades, and flight worthiness testing. 

Unfortunately, Grogu was busy working with his padawan at Jedi Sleep Away Camp and couldn’t really break away, even for a vid consult using the com link that R2-D2 kept handy. That was just the way things worked out sometimes. People had conflicting priorities and schedules that didn’t mesh and decisions that had to made, one way or the other. 

When he was finally able to return to Tatooine and pick up sort of where things had left off, it was way too late to implement any of the necessary changes to the N-1. Grogu did his best to not complain to Peli or at his dad, but it wasn’t easy. It seemed pretty clear to him that Din Djarin hadn’t believed in Grogu’s promise to come back as soon as he had Luke set on a better path, otherwise, why buy a one person fighter? Sure, Peli had made it capable of holding another person, but the Mandalorian was still a bounty hunter. He had to put his work product somewhere. 

But come on, how do you rebuild virtually the entire interior of that ship and not include a place for snacks? How do you change it’s operational configuration and not include flight controls in the rear passenger compartment? The Mandalorian never brought anyone in warm. They weren’t ever going to touch the stuff. Just another reminder that no one though Grogu might need them. Meanies.

And of course, the worst thing for anyone on a long trip with their parents was the absolute need to ask ‘are we there yet’ because no one had seen fit to install a privy that was accessible from the back seat. Din Djarin already got annoyed when Grogu wanted to make pit stops for food because ration packs were so… meh. Now he had to think a head and combine the requests, which wasn’t always easy because typically one request caused the other but not immediately. It was just biology and the Mandalorian refused to understand it. 

Now Grogu knew that the Mandalorian and Peli had been limited by what the Jawas could scavenge, he felt less irritated, but not by much. The Jawas had managed to ‘source’ a whole wide variety of performance parts for them to use to make a ship that was already fast, even faster. Those parts were as rare as a Sith’s tears and somehow they could be found on Tatooine. It wasn’t fair.

There was no where to run on board the N-1. There were only a very small number of places to hide things. You couldn’t practice using the Force on anything because everything on that ship had to work 100% of the time so the ship worked at all. You couldn’t accidentally remove the ladder to the bridge, or mistakenly cross wire the lighting and fire suppression systems. Anything like that and you’d be sucking pure vacuum and that was a major problem for most lifeforms.

Then any time he brought those deficiencies up to the Mandalorian, his dad would chuckle and remind Grogu just how fast the ship was and how that had saved them from a lot problems with pirates and Imps and other bad actors. When Din Djarin said stuff like that Grogu would retrieve the silver flight control knob from his coverall pocket and toss it from one hand to the other. His point wasn’t subtle, but it was effective. 

“Okay, kid, when I have a good reason to replace the N-1 with some other ship, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Why would ya ever want to do that? Kid, this thing is faster than fast. Why, you could probably complete the Kessel Run in way under twelve parsecs.” Peli said, grinning, with a gleaming gold tooth replacing the one that got knocked out on Grogu’s return to Tatooine. 

Grogu considered that and then shook his head, waving his hands around at the ship and then back at Peli.

“I don’t get it. What’s he complainin’ about?” Peli turned and asked the Mandalorian.

“He says there’s no place on this ship to store spice even if he wanted to be a spice runner and he doesn’t want to be a spice runner.”

“You got all that from him wavin’ his hands?” Peli seemed shocked. 

“I paraphrased.” Din Djarin replied blandly.

Wow and did he ever! Grogu had tried to explain to Peli that he needed some creature comforts in that ship. He needed some place soft to sleep and someplace warm to relax. He needed a cup holder for broth and a preserver for his favorite snack, flash frozen froglettes. He needed a power supply for his data comp and a bigger screen to watch it on would be nice too. And, the ship still needed a privy!

Grogu stomped away from both of them and went over to chat with the pit droids. They knew exactly what it was like to be taken for granted and then be expected to do all the work at the drop of a credit. Maybe they could help him upgrade the N-1? Grogu wondered if they spoke Jawa. He’d definitely need their help.

[notmybabies]

i love how these department store brands keep marketing long sleeve coveralls made out of plain single color non-breathable fabric as gender neutral Pride outfit options as if most of us aren’t going to be sweating our balls off already in the summer heat and crowds; as if people of all genders aren’t showing off tits and ass; as if none of might want easy access to use the restroom or maybe fuck; as if to be truly gender neutral we must cover up our bodies and whatever curves and flesh we may or may not have

[mechwarrior-rose]

Shelter: Pirate's Sunset

BLACK CANYON GROUND OPERATIONS STATION OBERON VI OBERON CONFEDERATION 26 SEPTEMBER 3049

"Fucking pirates," Shelter swore, wrestling with a myomer bundle as thick as her waist that refused to be seated against its guide rail. Lubricant powder from the bundle smeared the sleeves and torso of her coveralls. The rubber straps of her respirator mask pulled at her hair uncomfortably. She could have done this easily if someone hadn't snatched her clamps for another repair job. All in all, Shelter was having a shitty day.

Not as bad a day as the pilot of the Griffin she was repairing, mind. He'd apparently lost a leg and had burns over most of his body. Despite the fact that he wouldn't be returning to a cockpit any time soon, this repair job was still a priority order. Having only Griffins in their company made it easy for the War Griffins to keep a rotation of two pilots per 'Mech. Shelter's job, and the job of her team of astechs, was to get this 'Mech ready for its other pilot fast enough to make a difference in the ongoing fight.

A month ago, communications had been lost with several Confederation worlds in quick succession. Blackstone, Drask's Den, Placidia, Ferris. Supposedly a coordinated series of strikes by an unknown pirate organization. But then the Kell Hounds had been routed on The Rock, and the 3rd Oberon Guards were completely demolished on Crellacor--Shelter had heard a rumor that Hendrik Grimm III's own son had perished in the fight--and now Oberon VI itself was being invaded. This was no pirate raid. This was a war, and the Confederation had already lost.

But the Confederation is still just an aggrandized pirate band, Shelter seethed inwardly. Two hundred years and it's still banditry and protection rackets. Only now we've got trade agreements with the Lyrans. So maybe these folks really are pirates. Just like us. Shelter often fantasized about revitalizing the War Griffins and breaking free from Grimm's control, returning to the Inner Sphere, operating as a respectable mercenary company once again. Not just a pack of highwaymen working for a bandit king. Now she and her people would be lucky to make it through this mess alive.

There. The bundle finally slipped into place. Shelter closed the housing and tightened its bolts. She pulled her torso out of the Griffin's shoulder. Now that her head wasn't jammed into the 'Mech's interior, she could hear Daisy, her lead astech, calling for her. Why wasn't she using the communicator? Shelter hooked one arm into the open actuator access cavity and leaned out to see Daisy waving frantically from the 'Mech bay floor.

"The enemy is coming," Daisy cried. "They're less than a kilometer out. Shelter, we gotta run!"

Shelter fumbled for her communicator and listened. Soft static punctuated by rapid electronic clicking. Comms were out, or jammed, or some damn thing. She was a passable comms tech, but she couldn't diagnose the problem while dangling from the torso of a 'Mech. When she looked down again, Daisy was gone, and the astechs were dropping their tools and running.

Shelter hated running. But there was nothing left to do. She slung her way over to the catwalk, unclipped her safety harness, and hauled ass for the lift platform. Maybe they could take the transport vehicle to the Dao Sing Plain base, meet up with the 1st Oberon Guards. Hold out as long as they could.

She'd get through this. And if she was lucky, Hendrik Grimm would get his due, and her people would finally be free again.

[frcoveralls]

How FR coveralls can protect your body from fire hazards

Fire hazards can have a considerably deadly impact in any commercial or residential environment if people are not careful. Every year, both personal and business properties get ruined due to fire outbreaks, and thus it is essential to follow best practices when managing such mishaps. 

Just like a building should have easy access to fire extinguishing methods, people operating within the building should wear appropriate flame-resistant clothing to remain protected at all times against fire. Fire damage can cause severe burns and even fatalities if people are not careful. Hence, it is significant that you invest in the right kind of fire protection clothing that can keep you safe amid a fire hazard. 

One of the best options for PPE gear against possible fire outbreaks is the FR coveralls. As the name suggests, FR coveralls or flame-resistant coveralls are meant to cover and protect your whole body so that you do not face problems due to a fire outbreak at any point in time. The FR coveralls are created with a special type of fabric that can quickly cut off the oxygen supply to the fire so that the flames can be extinguished very quickly. This is why these garments can ensure complete protection of the wearer’s body as soon as they experience proximity to fire. Whether you are looking to work in a burning building or close to a boiler, you can rely on these FR coveralls to deliver complete protection from fire.      

The FR coveralls are capable of delivering robust protection against direct fires as well as molten splashes. They are also suitable for being used in different critical work environments and hazardous places. The carefully chosen fabrics used for making these products can ensure optimum comfort even when you wear them for long hours at a stretch. They include several additional features that ensure a better user experience when you use these protective garments. 

[slashers-posts]

It was a late night at the Myers home, though yn was restless in bed.

She couldn't seem to get Micheal off of her mind. She thought about all the scenarios that could be happening if Micheal would have been home right now.

She was staring at the ceiling as her thoughts consumed her.

As she thought more and more about him him she could feel herself getting wetter. As she closed her eyes her hand sneaked into her panties and started rubbing circles on here clit.

It was easy access as she was only wearing wearing one of the shirts she bought Michael and her underwear.

She was so into her thoughts she didn't hear Micheal enter the house and start climbing the stairs.

As Micheal was walking toward their shared bedroom he heard a small moan of his name,

"Micheal"

He slowly creeped to the door of the bedroom and slightly opened the door.

What he saw made his cock twitch in his coveralls.

His yn laying down in his bed legs spread, head thrown back and eyes tightly shut.

He made a move to step in the room but the floorboards creaked and gave him away.

A lust filled yn whipped her head to look at the door.

There Micheal was one foot in the room, hand on the door handle and a noticable tent in his pants.

"Michael! I didn't know you were home!"

Micheal slowly stalked towards the end of the bed. When he got there he grabbed yns legs and spread them wide.

"Micheal what are you do-"

Michael took two of his finger and slid them into yns center, pumping them faster with each stroke.

As he fingered yn he took his cock out of its restraints and started stroking himself.

As yn got more wet Micheal slowly took his fingers out of yn and replaced them with his cock going deep and hard.

"oh Micheal, you feel so good stretching me out."

Michael's face was in her neck with her legs around his waist and her fingers scratching his back.

As they both got closer to their high, Micheal was quickening his pace and letting out more groans.

Michael's groans are what pushed yn over the edge. Michael following soon after.

As they lied there beside each other catching their breath.

Yn laid her head on his chest and looked through the eye holes of his mask and murmured a small,

"thank-you".

[phantom-ellie]

Spirit of Discernment Chapter 2: An angel with a sword made me do it

The thing about being an HVAC technician was that it was easy to get around. Easy to see things people didn't want others to see. Easy to access neglected places, to hide things where no one would find them and take things no one would miss. And for Sam, the best part was the people-watching.

It was easy to keep tabs on people who looked right through Sam. Sure, his angry face may have been a liability, but his utility coveralls were like a mask that didn't cover his face. They made him invisible, unworthy. The unworthier the better, in Sam's eyes, because then he could watch. From a ladder, even. As for what Sam was looking for, it was love.

Love never came to him. He was too old and not baptized enough to attract younger women. He had never served on a mission. He wasn't part of the church, ergo persona non grata for most of the female population. As for men, the gay scene in the area was small and terrified, existing in hidden places. Its members were vulnerable there, and they knew it. They were watchful. Sam had made his mark on the scene, but he knew better than to show his face around again. He had to extend his reach to the wider community. His job put him there, dead center.

Free and reduced prices on his services for the local wards and the stake building was where he got his start. So many repressed saints needed saving. Sam had saved three so far, and it was best to keep away for a while.

That left the community center, the place where all the poor allies of Satan who were destined for the telestial kingdom puttered about, taking adult classes and doing adult activities and ignoring the man in coveralls who kept his eye on them. Sam didn't know what he want until he saw it. He wanted something different every time. He didn't want to get bored.

The community center is where he struck gold one night, although he didn't strike it so much as see it entering a classroom, like a happy beacon of light. A group of middle-aged sad-sacks shuffled in after, dumpy little obstacles meant to block the Good Ship Sam from reaching nirvana. But he only had to wait. There was a schedule.

"Preparing for the GED: What you need to know. Instructor: Stede Bonnet." Stede, it was a name like a flame. How was it pronounced. Like "Steed"? "Steh-deh"? Was Bonnet pronounced like the hat, or in the French way, a pretentious attempt to seem refined? Sam needed to know the nature of this seraph, this bonfire of a man at the front of his classroom, wasting his life with these idiots who couldn't earn a diploma. Sam positioned his ladder so he could pretend to work, eyes fixed on the window and the man inside. If he squinted, he could see Stede's halo. This was the one. He was sure.

Chapter 3

[frnkiebby]

sweaty frank AND coveralls??~🎃

[ursaspecter]

It's time for Dani's redesign! I had a lot of fun doing these. Dani is one of my favorite characters from the show and to this day I wish that there was more of her. As always design notes will be under the cut. Thanks again for all the support for this series! I think the next character I'll redesign is Valerie followed by Dan. I might also do Paulina, Star, Dash, and Kwan before doing any ghost redesigns. We shall see.

Tools used: XP Pen Artist 15.6 Pro, Clip Studio Paint Reblogs > Likes!

So the general vibe I wanted to go for was a sporty athletic skater girl. I think it really fits her personality. All the colors are the same ones I used for Danny except for the reds. I lifted those from my design for Plasmius to show that relation between them.

For her ghost look, I was inspired by Jet Set Radio and athleisure looks from the time. I tried to add a more designer look to it since Vlad would so commission a custom look. No kid of his is going to wear coveralls. I still wanted to give her something comfortable to move around and fight in while still being stylish. Since she doesn't have as many pockets, I gave her a fanny pack to wear across her torso for easy access (and for style). I will admit, her ghost look isn't quite as early 2000's as the rest of the designs I've been doing for the kids, but I think it's okay if it's a little futuristic.

For her human look, I really leaned into the skater girl look with the extremely baggy cargo pants and layered shirts. She's got a bandage on her face probably from falling off her board, and she's even wearing Vans. I think she looks really cute and like she would raise hell which is exactly the characterization of her that exists in my mind.

[ask-spider-man-61610]

The Infiltration: Part Two of Three

In the ten years he had been a vigilante, Peter Parker had become very good at sneaking into places he shouldn't have been.

Air vents were useless. The vast majority of them were far too narrow for anybody to slip through without becoming amorphous, and even when the ducts were large enough it was impossible to move inside one without making enough noise to alert the entire block. The subceiling--the space above the ceiling tiles, but below the actual architectural structure--was a far better bet, but that was similarly cramped--and besides, only some buildings had gaps in the walls to allow for movement like that.

Using a disguise to sneak in was better all around, but it required a lot of skill and care. You couldn't disguise yourself as a scientist unless you were genuinely an expert in the field you were pretending to study. Nor, in this particular case, could you just dress up as any old agent--they had security levels. Executives were out, reporters were only viable if the people you were trying to fool had reason to believe a reporter was going to be there, and the less said about solicitors the better. The key was to attract as little scrutiny as possible, to not raise any questions you'd have trouble answering; because the second someone grew suspicious of you, your cover was all but blown.

Janitors, then, were perfect.

Nobody pays attention to a janitor. It's practically one of the perks of the job. Beneath notice means beneath scrutiny, and people only give custodians the slightest thought when a place needs cleaned. Even then it's just an assertion that a custodian needs to be there. Nobody questions what a janitor is doing in a room, even in the dead of night. Nobody questions why a janitor is wearing gloves, or where they got their ring of keys. There's no better disguise for going somewhere that people generally can't go.

Peter had been pretending to be a janitor in the main headquarters of the Cape Code Authority for several days now. He had listened intently as he'd mopped the floors, mapped out the layout in his head, figured out where the labs were and who had access to what while keeping his head down. He'd owned this coverall for years now, for infiltrations exactly like this, and now with the security cameras disabled he hooked his cart on the handle of his mop and dragged it towards the door the three agents had just left.

The door had locked automatically. Of course it had, all laboratory doors locked automatically around here, and even the custodians needed special permissions to get them unlocked. But as the door had swung closed, Peter had pressed the trigger in his palm under the guise of adjusting his grip on his mop, and now the door's latch was glued down beneath a small splatter of webbing. Pulling on a latex glove, Peter tugged the door open a crack and slipped into the lab.

He adjusted his hat as he glanced around the lab, the hat that had blond curls sewn to the inside to disguise his brown hair, and scratched at his false nose. The hologram table sat in the center of the room, still softly glowing even after its deactivation--an enormous waste of energy, but apparently nobody cared. Ignoring it entirely, Peter headed straight for the computer monitors against the far wall, grabbing a chair without breaking stride and only stopping to climb on top of it and crouch on the seat like a gargoyle on a rooftop.

Like everything Reed Richards ever touched, the computers were encrypted. But Peter had dated Johnny Storm for five months once, and he didn't spend so much time nearby his fellow supergenius without taking some time to figure out how to bypass their usual security. It took him just over five minutes to get through the firewalls, and then he stuck a translucent plastic sticky note to the screen and began to browse.

The sticky note was, of course, a data drive. Peter had learned about these only recently, but he was fast growing to like them; they were easy to conceal on his person and, unlike a USB stick, didn't require a specific size of port. As he opened up the computer's files, the drive pinged off of the computer's software and integrated itself into the system without leaving a trace. Cracking his knuckles, Peter typed a few cursory searches into the file browser and tapped Enter.

Perpetual Holographic Avatar/Nano-Tech Offensive Monsters had been a thorn in his side for over two years now. They didn't move like humans; their range of motion didn't have the limits that their skeletal shape implied; their systems adapted and learned and coordinated in ways that he'd never seen before in artificial intelligence. Even Octavius, permanently on the cutting edge of AI and biorobotics development, wasn't sure what the hell was going on with them. Last year, in the middle of beating the multi-armed megalomaniac's face in, Spider-Man had asked for Otto's thoughts on the Phantoms; the technology, both of them suspected, wasn't exactly beyond Otto's work so much as to the side of it. The systems were hyperspecialized: they had no connection to neural networks of old, and were practically useless for advancing them in the future. They were, in a word, alien.

Peter suspected Chitauri tech. The War of the Worlds had left countless remnants of the Chitauri on Earth; some of them still remained, like the Leviathan rotting in Maine, but far too many of them had seemed to simply vanish. Anyone who gave it more than ten seconds of thought could realize that governments of the world had squirreled the stuff away to study and reverse-engineer. Now, as Peter's eyes darted back and forth across the screen, he skimmed through the blueprints and models that he found in the folder and tried to see if any of it matched the distinctive look of the Chitauri.

Some of it did, he found as he kept searching, but not a huge amount. Reed had done some work with Chitauri tech in the past; traces of its influence were obvious in the composition of the Phantoms' gun barrels, and in the way their hard-light armor projected itself over the skeleton. Kid stuff, nothing that explained the problems he'd had with them. Peter's brow furrowed as he copied the files he found to his data drive and peered over his shoulder at the hologram table behind him.

What had Reed been saying to Flint in here only a few minutes ago? Peter had a spiderlike hypersensitivity to vibration; he could feel footsteps on the other side of the building rumbling through the floor, and the variations in air pressure caused by the fly drifting around the ceiling. But it didn't work like hearing did, nor was it interpreted by the same part of the brain. Though he had felt Reed talking in here, it just felt like a continuous drone of vibration against his skin--he hadn't heard him, and so couldn't interpret the words. And, like an idiot, he hadn't thought to bug the room beforehand.

He pushed his tongue against his upper lip in thought. Had it had something to do with why Flint had registered with the CCA in the first place?

Kicking a foot against the bottom of the desk, Peter rolled his chair over to the hologram table and set to work getting past the security there too. This took even less time than it had with the computer, now that Peter knew how Reed had updated his security measures over the last few years. Within three minutes of typing so fast an observer would have seen his fingers as blurs he was browsing through the most recently accessed files.

The image lifted out of the table and filled the room with its soft light, and Peter frowned at the image of the Phantom he saw. How on earth was this related to Flint's desire to Be A Real Boy? He typed a few commands into the table and watched the Phantom's white shell disappear to reveal the mechanical skeleton beneath. A few notes by Reed appeared to highlight key points, and Peter read through each with steadily rising concern.

Very little of the Sandman's mass was actually Flint Marko. When he had been disintegrated all those years ago, most of his body had become just plain old sand--only his nervous system had become anything different. Over the years, he had gained entire truckloads worth of sand and lost enough to fill beaches, but the gallon or so of milky white silica that had once been his brain and nerve cells had remained, scattered evenly through every shape and sculpture he made himself into. They assimilated granules of a similar composition through static cling, arranging them with an intricate electric charge that neither Flint nor Peter had ever fully understood, and now it looked like Reed wanted to apply that same static charge to the Phantom project.

Looking through the notes, Peter could already see that Reed wasn't putting much effort into following through on his promise. The conjectures and theories put forth in them were ludicrous--ideas that Peter had discarded years ago in his various scrambles to stop one of Marko's rampages. But he read between the lines, read ideas that Reed had intended for his own eyes only, and his blood grew steadily colder in his veins.

It wouldn't take much modification to turn a Phantom into a suitable chassis for Flint's nerve granules, so went Reed's idea. The skeleton already contained organic elements, and they already received commands from a biological source rather than a computer. This flew in the face of Peter's assumptions about the Phantoms.

They were only partially robots. They were like Octobots; their processing units were very much alive.

Peter waved a shaky hand over the table. The hologram deactivated, which wasn't his intent at all, but he was too taken aback to care.

Deep in the bowels of the building, ignored by Peter until now but always scratching at the back of his mind, the vibrations of mechanical footsteps rumbled through the walls and floor. The central hub of manufacturing and deploying Phantoms was located fifty feet under the foundation--a fact he'd known all along, but which he had to investigate now. Now, when he knew that within those robotic skeletons were living and thinking beings. Now, when he knew that the drills whirring and 3D printing that he felt even from here were working tirelessly to imprison and enslave something. Jumping off the chair, he retrieved his data drive from the computer and took barely a minute to wipe all evidence of his presence from the room. Then, readjusting his disguise and checking for the presence of witnesses, he slipped out of the room and finally allowed the door to lock.

The route to the underground hub was a circuitous one. As the operations were almost entirely automated, not even the janitors were given clearance to enter that level; maybe four people had access, and Peter wasn't one of them. No matter. There were more ways to sneak around than just throwing on a coverall and mopping a floor. If Peter's disguise only took him this far and no farther, it was time to drop it. Some places you could only reach as the wall-crawler.

Had the security cameras not mysteriously lost power earlier that afternoon, they would've seen a janitor shedding his hat, kicking off his shoes, and beginning to unbutton his coverall. Without breaking stride, he snatched a small bag from where he'd hidden it in his cart before and pulled on a mask; whatever features, real or fake, a witness might have noticed, they were now hidden by dark red fabric and two gleaming grey bug eyes. In short order the coverall and hat were gone--wrapped up into a web-knapsack that he slung onto his back even as he swapped his shoes out for red spandex boots. Pulling on his gloves right as he reached the elevator, Spider-Man stopped to politely tap the call button beside the sliding metal doors.

With a ding, the elevator doors slid open, and Spider-Man immediately smashed straight through the emergency hatch at the top of the lift.

Elevator shafts were always a bit more complicated than one expected. Even Peter, who could feel the constant motion of the metal boxes through the building and their cables sliding against pullies, always needed a moment to figure out how to squeeze through the systems that controlled its rise and fall. He paused as he examined the mechanism of this particular elevator before he sucked in his stomach and crawled around the box with a few inches to spare. Then, once he was beneath it, he released his grip on the elevator shaft and let himself fall.

He caught himself fifty feet later, his fingertips sticking instantly to the concrete as he touched it. Just across the shaft from him was a set of elevator doors, which he hopped onto and began to pry apart. It was slow going. Like everything in the CCA headquarters, these doors were made with superhumans in mind, and they had a magnetic lock that Spider-Man found himself straining to overpower. He pulled on them for a few seconds, changed his mind, and crawled two feet to the left to begin messing with the wiring that controlled the lock. There was a moment of silence, a low, hollow ding, and the doors slid open.

With one hand still stuck to the wall Spider-Man lowered himself into the unlit chamber, dropping to the floor and landing there in a crouch. What little light had made it down with him reflected off his mask's glaring eyes. For a moment he was still, one hand pressed to the metal beneath him and his attention fully on the vibrations of the environment. Then, mentally sorting through the sea of threats that his spider-sense whispered and squirmed at, he rose to his feet and nonchalantly slapped the lightswitch on the wall behind him. Sparse florescent lights flickered on above him, and he blinked and furrowed his brow as he adjusted.

Now that he was down here the vibrations were sharper, like a the world coming into focus as you come up from underwater. They travelled through the air, through the concrete, and through a metal catwalk that served as a floor, branching into pathways and situated above buzzing, whirring machinery. No wonder it had been so difficult to discern what was going on up above, Spider-Man reflected as he glanced over the guardrail and watched robotic limbs carry a Phantom chassis through a gap in the wall and to another room. He turned his attention ahead of him, where similar chasses were held in racks upon racks that spanned nearly wall to wall across the room, black robotic skeletons awaiting deployment.

But there was a difference between these Phantoms and the ones he so often encountered on the battlefield. Frowning under the mask, Spider-Man stepped forward, leaned over the catwalk's railing, and set a finger against the nearest collection of servos and solid-light projectors. Yes. There it was, the constant, ambient tremor of air in motion; the chasses were hollow like the frame of a bicycle. Whenever he'd fought them, they hadn't displayed any such emptiness.

Right. Mechanical systems supported by biological processing. He took his attention away from the chasses, looking instead at that hole in the wall that one of them had vanished into as he'd come in here. He could feel the Phantom in the next room over being hooked up to--to something, metal vibrating on contact with metal and stabilizing with a little pop. His eyes narrowed. His fingers twitching nervously, his breath held, he began to pace down the catwalk towards the door to that room.

A window on one side greeted him as he stepped through, displaying the Phantom under maintenance. Screens embedded into the window offered diagnostics and schematics, all of which Spider-Man ignored. He turned instead to the far wall, where what looked like a large cabinet was anchored in place and had a hundred or so pipes no wider than test tubes leading into and out of it. A quick ripping of metal, and he tossed a mangled padlock over his shoulder as he threw the cabinet doors open. The interior was poorly organized, and called to mind a prototype rather than anything intended for widespread implementation: a screen with a series of codes flashing across it, a mess of piping and tubing, and in carefully arranged racks hundreds upon hundreds of test tubes, most full of some amorphous fluid.

Spider-Man's brow furrowed as he selected a vial at random. Working carefully, he unscrewed the valve that connected it to the mess of piping and slid it out of the vial's stopper--without it, the test tube's lid sealed airtight again. He held it above eye level and turned to see the light filter through from overhead. The fluid inside surrounded what looked almost like a pipe cleaner, thousands of copper wires branching out from a central silicon rod. As he tilted it one way, an air bubble slid up the glass wall, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw--

--a tendril, as black as the rest of the liquid, squirming in that air pocket in a bid for freedom.

Spider-Man's eyes widened behind the mask. Oh my god.

Dead Leviathans and alien technology hadn't been the only things the Chitauri had brought to Earth. It had taken the terrestrial armies, and the remnants of SHIELD that Spider-Man had fought alongside, far too long to realize that the shape-shifting battlesuits that their enemies had used were themselves a separate species. Earth hadn't been the only planet to face invasion under the Chitauri; centuries ago, those invaders had conquered and enslaved a species called Klyntar. Amorphous, shapeshifting, symbiotic creatures, the Klyntar had the distinction of being able to use every single cell as musculature, digestive system, armoring, and neurons. Nobody was sure how long the Chitauri had been selectively breeding and brainwashing their symbiote slaves into battle armor, and until now Spider-Man had assumed that practice had stopped with the aliens' defeat.

The little vial of Klyntar sample in his hand was far from his first experience with the species. He had, for six months during and after the war, worn a stolen symbiote as a battlesuit of his own, and even after he and Vee had separated he'd been up close and personal with the species many, many times. But he had believed that Vee's defection from the Chitauri had been a fluke; that they had been the only Klyntar to be recovered from the Chitarui alive.

But now Spider-Man stood in the basement of the Cape Code Authority, holding a vial that contained another member of that species, and right next to him were over a hundred identical vials. All at once, the control systems of the Phantoms became obvious to him.

Without hesitation he turned back to the cabinet and began yanking the tubes out of their holders. The brush-like machinery in each vial, he figured as he worked, must have been some kind of brainwashing system; the copper wires made contact with as many of the Klyntar's neurons as possible, with controlled electric shocks frying out whatever thoughts the aliens tried to form and replacing them with--with whatever programming was necessary to get the Phantoms working. As he pulled each tube out, he killed the electrical charge, but for now he didn't release the Klyntar within from their cells. Where would they go down here? Did they even remember what they were? At best they'd die, at worst the CCA would collect them again and make it even harder to get to them again. No, for now he stuck the vials together with webbing, bundling them together in a padded sack of sorts--he could keep them safe until he knew what else to do, but for now--

--for now, he could feel footsteps vibrating through the concrete fifty feet above. Could feel the elevator starting to move, and the frantic tingling in his head suddenly concentrated all its alarm on the man upstairs. He paused, but only for the smallest fraction of a second; then he worked even faster, his hands becoming blurs again. Grab, break, thwip, grab, break, thwip. The bundle of vials and webbing in his arms was becoming untenably large. He kept at it anyway, always careful not to smash the vials, always careful to separate them from their neighbors with a carefully padded layer of webbing. Even as he webbed up the last one, he wove backpack straps onto the sack and pulled them onto his shoulders. Then he turned on his heel and darted out the door, ready to make an escape.

But as the elevator began its slow descent towards him, he paced around the room and realized that there was no escape to be found. No windows or doors, because he was in a basement, and the air ducts were of course far too small to crawl through. If he didn't have the Klyntar vials, he would've been able to crawl past the elevator, but with that bundle on his back there was no room. If he wanted to save these Klyntar, he was trapped down here with them.

Well, decided Spider-Man as his pacing came to a stop directly in front of the elevator. If he was about to be discovered down here, he certainly wasn't going to let whoever was about to discover him get a dramatic moment about it. There would be no voice booming out from behind him as he frantically looked for a hiding place, there would be no cat and mouse as the person looked for him in this increasingly exposed room. He folded his arms and leaned against the guardrail right in front of the elevator, glaring at the doors. Waiting.

When the doors dinged open, Scrier momentarily hesitated, not having expected to see Spider-Man so out in the open. He blinked behind those blank white eyes, far more awkward than a supervillain wanted to be, before he lamely managed, "I thought that was you, Spider-Man."

[burnwater13]

Concept art by Brian Matyas, depicting the meeting of Ahsoka Tano and Grogu on Corvus with the Mandalorian looking on the side. Image from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 5, The Jedi.

What could Grogu say about Ahsoka Tano that he hadn’t already said? Amazing Force worker. Snappy dresser. Fascinating person. Not a Jedi? Well, she had said that herself, but Grogu had his doubts about that. Just because you leave the Jedi doesn't mean the Jedi leaves you. He should know. He was and wasn’t a Jedi. It was complicated.

In his case it was complicated because he’d only been Master Beq’s padawan for a very short period of time. And most of the lessons they learned together were about avoiding the Inquisitors, the Sith, and the Imps. He’d never searched for a kyber crystal on Ilum, let alone built his own lightsaber. His hair wasn’t long enough to make a padawan braid. And he didn’t have a belt to give some style and flair to his coverall. You couldn’t really be a Jedi without going through that right of passage. 

On the other hand, he knew everything there was to know about the Force. He had absorbed every lesson he’d ever managed to sit all the way through. No one was better at meditating than he was. He had practiced and practiced and practiced until he could simply think of what he wanted and then floated silently, smoothy, effortlessly up into the air to collect the cookie container from the highest shelves anyone ever put it on to keep it from him. That was how Jedi did things. They were focused. Resolved. Relentless. 

Maybe that was the problem that Asoka Tano was dealing with now? She hadn’t been relentless. And she’d been distracted. Resolved? Nope. Can’t do that when you’re distracted. He didn’t blame her for that. How could he? You find out that your master, the person who trained you, taught you, shaped and molded your every thought related to the Force, the Jedi, and the galaxy at large, turns out to be some Sith’s apprentice! That’s gotta leave a mark! 

Grogu was amazed that she was even able to recognize another Force worker, let alone wield two light sabers and try to keep his dad from being, you know, his dad. Maybe that was the problem too. 

A Jedi wasn’t supposed to attack first and ask questions later. Just the opposite really. Ahsoka must have thought that Din Djarin was the enemy, but why think that? She had met Mandalorians before. She had to have. Bo-Katan Kryze, who was definitely a Mandalorian, had told them where to find Ahsoka Tano. If they knew each other than Ahsoka couldn’t be suffering from ‘all Mandalorians are bad’ syndrome, like so many other Jedi had suffered and had made Mandalorians suffer. That was a strong point in favor of her judgment being compromised because of that whole Jedi Master/Sith Apprentice thing.

Now, why did any of that matter? Why care that Ahsoka Tano wasn’t quite in the perfect headspace to work with him and his dad? It was a good question and Grogu wasn’t sure that he had a good answer. 

He’d spent a lot of time without anyone in his life who had known anything about the Jedi Temple, the other Jedi masters, the other Jedi knights, the whole process of going from youngling to padawan to knight. He missed a lot of people and wished that he had been able to do more to help prevent the disaster that had befallen them all. It was deep in his past, but the pain was easy to access and that was a big problem.  Meeting someone who had to have felt that same pain so closely, and yet, had been so far away when it all happened, was just a new twist in the story. A twist that Grogu didn’t need, want, or desire and he certainly hadn’t been prepared for any of it. 

Now there they were. In the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, having a perfectly middle of the road discussion about him. Who was he? Why was he with a Mandalorian? Did he know who he looked like? Blah, blah, blah. What he really wanted from this former member of the Jedi was a hug and an apology. In that order. To just be held by someone who had once looked at Master Kenobi, who had taken lessons from Master Yoda, who had cringed when Master Windu raised his voice… that was a set of connections that could never be duplicated by anyone who hadn’t been at the temple at that time. That is what connected him to Ahsoka Tano, whether she realized that or not. 

He wondered what she wanted from him. Did she want a hug? He’d be happy to give her one. Did she want an apology for all the things that had happened to her that no one had recognized other than Grogu, but he hadn’t been listened to or even noticed? He’d be happy to do that as well. Did she just need a friend who remembered the same people she remembered the same way she remembered them? Well, there’s the rub. He didn’t remember much about Anakin Skywalker and the little he did remember wasn’t really all that pleasant and he wasn’t even talking about the whole Sith Apprentice thing. 

Nope. He and Anakin were the same age. But he was a human, more or less, and Grogu was not. The differences between them couldn't have been more startling. One of them just floats around the Jedi temple like dust particle getting blown around by the ventilation system and the other runs everywhere, all the time. One is tall and able to reach the jar of cookies on the top shelf of the kitchen storage room and the other one has to climb it all like a mountain because he’s been forbidden to use the Force to help. One of them broke everyone’s heart and the other couldn’t heal them fast enough to make a difference. 

He supposed that he and Ahsoka Tano would just have to agree to disagree. Neither of them were Jedi, even though they had both been raised by them. Neither of them were masters, but they had taught other people many lessons. One of them thought attachments were problematic because of the one she had for a person who was problematic. The other one, well he had a Mandalorian father now and there was no problem there. Mandalorians revered their duties as parents and protected their younglings no matter what. Grogu wasn’t going to leave his dad anymore than Ahsoka Tano was going to leave the galaxy. That’s just the way things were and Grogu was glad of that. 

He just had to hope that the Force was with him. It was. Of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be?

[apothecarinomicon]

Spring week 4 part 3

After my hectic experience with the marshbloom, I decided to take a day for myself. Greenmoor isn’t anywhere near the ocean, but Meltwater Loch is big enough that I figured a day spent there could be considered a beach day. And after the couple of weeks I’d had, boy did I need a beach day.

But anyone who’s read this far ought to be familiar with my luck by now. There’s a lot to record, but I’ll try to get it down in order.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

It was a beautiful day—clear blue sky, warm air, and (at least when I first arrived) no one around at Meltwater Loch. I spread out a towel on the beach and laid down for a good session of sunbathing. I’ve never been one for tanning, but  simply laying doing nothing while being warmed by the sun and cooled by the breeze felt absolutely decadent.

After a while of simply existing, I became aware of the sound of a bird calling above me. I cracked my eyes open and recognized the large forms of a pair of gull-drakes flying overhead. Gull-drakes are a strange hybrid, both reptilian and avian. Their torsos and wings are feathered, while their heads, tails, and talons are scaled. They do have beaks like gulls, but their tails are prehensile like their alleged draconic ancestors’. I say ‘alleged’ because no one knows how the hybrid gull-drake came into being. The sheer anatomy and scale discrepancy between the average seagull and the average dragon fossil (they were much larger in ancient times than the pocket-sized lizards we have today) seems to rule out any cross-breeding. Additionally, the typical combination of traits displayed by gull-drakes is too awkward and ungainly to be the result of natural selection. And yet, there have been records of the gull-drake’s existence for just about as long as there have been records—the third-oldest surviving written document, in fact, is a bestiary which includes them along dozens of other species, most of which are now extinct.

Nature is a strange thing.

Digressions aside, there was a reason this caught my attention. Gull-drakes are scavengers, and have been known to leave catches uneaten while they go out to hunt for more. It’s just an evolutionary quirk—they prefer to feast only once per day. This means that, as they leave their nests unattended, some other opportunistic creature could come by and steal their catch. 

It’s easy to identify a gull-drake nest, too—they tend to be very large, and are often positioned balanced atop large, pointy rocks. If a gull-drake catches you stealing, though, it’ll chase you and squawk at you and try to peck you until you drop the stolen goods and flee. They’re not too smart, though, so hiding in nearby foliage (say, a patch of large ferns) will fool them easily.

All of this to say, I managed to get myself a shock fish without a rod, all while only getting chased a little ways by a jealous, stupid bird.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

As I returned to my towel, I heard an unusual sound—the put-put-put of a motor. Machinery of that kind is a fairly new invention, and unless you know how to make it, very expensive.

The woman driving the boat certainly looked like she knew how to make a motor. She was dwarven, with russet hair and a long beard, both held in thick braids. She was (as dwarves are) rather short—I'd estimate maybe one-and-a-fifth meters tall, and nearly as wide—with large hands and feet, and limbs thickly corded with muscle. She wore dark green coveralls and had a fairly heavy-duty fishing rod held in one hand so that it rested on her shoulder.

She shut the motor off as she neared and called out to me, asking if I was the village witch. I said that I was, and she told me that she was friends with my crocodilian patient. She thanked me for helping him, and said he would have been a goner without my potion-making skills. I demurred just a bit, saying I wasn't the only healer who helped him that day. She scoffed and dismissed my humility outright, saying that I might as well have been the only one—that without my care the village doctor wouldn't have been able to do anything.

She introduced herself as Janneth Hillhorn, and I told her my name in turn. She asked what I was doing out by Meltwater Loch and I told her I was taking a day off. She let me know that her cottage was just around the other side of the lake, near Glimmerwood Grove and right on the border of Blastfire Bog, and that I should feel free to stop in any time. I thanked her.

At this point, there was a tremor in the water. It couldn't have been an earthquake because the land wasn't shaking, but the water abruptly became much more active. Ocean-like waves crashed into the shore and Janneth held tight onto the sides of her boat, doing her best not to capsize. I would have been quite alarmed in her situation, but Janneth barely seemed preturbed. I asked something along the lines of "what the blight is going on?!" As the water settled, Janneth told me that this was a common occurence on Meltwater Loch, a quirk that—many said—was due to the emotions of its guardian sea-dragon, Bàs Bàta. I found this explanation rather silly, reminiscent of an old wives' tale. I'd never heard of a sea-dragon before, and given that the name ‘Bàs Bàta’ directly translated to "boat death," I figured it was just a local story told to frighten children and dismissed it out of hand.

Astute readers should be growing worried for me right about now.

Janneth offered to give me one of the fish she'd caught as a thanks for helping her friend. I initially refused, but she insisted. She looked through her basket and pulled out a dentist crab. The gel their claws produce is good for the mouth and plenty else besides, so I accepted and thanked her. She thanked me right back and said (perhaps jokingly?) not to run afoul of Bàs Bàta while I was out by the loch. I forced a laugh as she sped away.

Once she was out of sight, I collected some claw gel from the dentist crab and released it back into the water.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

There was another rumbling as I made my way back to the beach, and as it abated I saw something bob up to the surface of the water close to the shore. It presented itself, et cetera et cetera, I waded in to see what it was.

I scooped it out of the water and found myself holding a glass bottle, like the kind that rum or sweet wine would come in, sealed with a cork and containing a rolled-up sheet of paper. Of course, I opened it immediately. I found that the sheet inside wasn’t quite *paper,* but something more slippery—maybe made of seaweed? It did have writing on it, though. As I unfurled it, a few things that looked like pebbles fell out. I barely managed to catch them before they hit the surface of the water. I put them in my pocket for safe keeping.

The writing on the note was as follows, with no spelling changes by me:

Let it be known that I fink this whole exercise is stupid. And pointless. And probly meant as some kind of sick, twisted punishment. No one but little kids believe in terrafolk, so I don’t know why the instructress is making us do this.

Even if anyfing could live above the water, there’s no way its advanced enough to read. How would it get all the minerals it needs wivout processing the water?

But anyway. I guess I ave to fulfill the prompt. 

Me name is Genoveva, I live in the I.S.A.C.S. (that's short for 'Isolated Sovereign Aquatic City-State, but we all just pronounce it like 'Isax") and I’m in the fifth year of me education. I hate me name. I wish I could ave somefing exotic like a John or a Steve or a Sarah, but I’m stuck wiv boring old Genoveva. If you’re somehow able to read this, that must mean you ave schools on the surface, too. Wat ar they like? Ar they as boring up there? We all ave to sit in a circle and listen to the instructress drone on and on and on.

I live wiv me merma and me perpa and me two baby brothers. Do you ave family? I've got loads of cousins too.

On the rubric it says I ave to include a small gift, so I'm putting some fossil fish scales in wiv this letter. I found em on me way to school this morning and there not of use to me, but I figure you probly don't ave fish on land so maybe scales ar valuable up there.

If you're inclined to write back (no pressure), you can just pop your note in the bottle and put it back into the water. It'll find its way to me—there's magic all around, don't you know.

Signed,

Genoveva Galbrait, 5th year

[An accessible version of this letter can be found here.]

The letter obviously has some pretty complex implications. An entire society under the surface of Meltwater Loch, entirely unaware of the world above the surface beyond fairy stories? What must life be like down there? What kind of society must they have? How do they supply food? Get rid of waste?

What resources might be available there that can't be found on the surface?

I decided that somehow I was going to find a way to visit ISACS, and learn everything I could about it. I bet that would impress the University of Arcbridge. I wasn't sure how I would breathe under the water for long enough, but I was determined to find a way.

Take your final guesses now what happened next.

That water-quaking started up again, this time stronger than before. Waves crashed against the beach where I stood, and I felt a great vibration in my chest and in my head. 

And then, it broke the surface of the water.

Giant and blue-green and serpentine, Bàs Bàta rose up before me. A blighting sea-dragon, it stood straight up in the air at least twice as tall as my cottage—and that was just the part of its body I could see. Its head was shaped like the tip of an arrow, with three great spikes sprouting out of the back (the outer two longer than the middle one). It let loose another deep roar, dousing me in spittle. It thrashed about, causing great waves to crash onto the shore, and through my shock I realized its movements might be less characteristic of anger than of pain.

My suspicions were confirmed when it roared again: one of the fangs right near the front of its mouth was missing a chip, and had a great crack running nearly all the way up to the root. That had to hurt. I'd never treated a non-humanoid  before—or, for that matter, a cracked tooth—but I realized even past the moral obligation to help, there was no way I could access the underwater city-state without calming Bàs Bàta down.

I found out later, after I'd scrambled away from the lake and sprinted back to the cottage, after wiping the saliva off of me and getting at least some of it in a bottle for potion use, that the saliva was actually a really useful ingredient in treating shattered teeth. As it turns out, it's a pretty strong painkiller. Unfortunately, I knew I'd need more than just that to make a cure, and with the sheer size of Bàs Bàta, I suspected I'd need to make more than one potion.

That will have to be a longer term project, then, because the events of my relaxation day have worn me out. I've got to get to bed. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

⇦●〇●⇨

[cullxtheherd]

@oorah22​ asked for: a Nick Rye centric piece! 

Happy Merry JiNgLe yaAy?? here it is! I hope u like it ksdfjksjfdf- also, a song:   [🆇] 

Ducking under the ajar side panel to the motor of his plane, Nick blindly wipes grease laden fingers against his coveralls; they’re a worse-for-wear situation and he isn’t fussed about them anyways- he knows Kim will get the stains out if they aren’t ready to hit the bin. Taking a few steps back he tries to wrap his head around the issue he is having with Carmina: he’s flushed the lines, reseated the new carburetor and still she’d been running like a bucket of bolts.

He isn’t entirely sure what she’s up to but he sure can hear one hell of a ruckus coming from the house, even out here in the hangar. Since the Seed brothers had arrived in town things had steadily gotten worse around these parts- his hometown, to the point he’d taken to keeping a gun and small store of ammunition within reach at all times. Gripping the AR-CL he checks the safety before readying the chamber. 

Rounding Kim’s vintage Mustang he takes his time, not seeing any vehicles in the horseshoe curved driveway gives him no cause for hurry. Setting the safety once he has peered through the window of his front door he leans the rifle in the seat of an adirondack chair. Nick grew up in this home, lived in Hope County all of his life and navigating the floorplan silently is one of his favorite, lesser known talents.

“It has to be here somewhere-” Pulling the drawer out under the stove she curses, “Of all the fucking- NICK!” 

Kim is a strong, reliable, sensible woman, but under the stress of pregnancy and rushing, unruly hormones? She is rash and annoyed and easy to anger and hasn’t seen her feet since John-Fucking-Seed-Knows-When and she is certain that Nicholas Rye- her endearing, annoying, everloving, child of a husband has stolen away the baster. 

It’s God-blasted quarter to FIVE and the guests for their tastefully modest holiday party are set to arrive soon and without a properly browned, basted, SEASONED, T U R K E Y her day will, obviously, be absolutely ruined. 

“What’s-a matter darlin’?” Feeling like he knows his wife pretty well he grips the long, bulbous tool she has set out on the pop-out ledge between the kitchen and living room, “You lose something?

“I-” Ready to turn tail and give him hell she is immediately silenced, hands flying up to her lips to calm the swell of profanity she can feel bubbling up and, for the seventh time this afternoon, she wells up, sobbing into her palms.

Without a word to pass between them he relinquishes the turkey baster to the nearby countertop and rushes to embrace his wife, “You need some help or something, honey?”

“Oh, Nick, I-” She barely manages through hearty, walloping sobs.

“Shh-shh, baby it’s okay,” He can feel her trying to speak, chest heaving against his own and he drags a slow, soothing hand against the top of her partially shaven head. “Whatever it is,” He interrupts himself with his lips against the crest of her fuzzy, prickling scalp, “It don’t matter, not a lick.”

A few, brief moments of whimpering silence pass before he feels the need to say something to try and lift her spirits. “If you want I could always give that turkey a talkin’ to- a real what-for,” Although he can tell she is still upset, shoulders lightly shaking under the brace of his arms, “It’ll baste itself when I’m done, I swear it Kimmi!” The way she smacks at his chest has him chuckling, “What-” She laughs too, “No? Come on, now where’s the fun in that!”

Though she grips tightly to him, laughing as she tries to hold him back, he approaches the oven, “Now listen here, you!”

“Nick, no- don’t ope-” Kim laughs and sobs all at once; happy despite appearances.

Opening the oven door he looks the offender right in it’s asshole, “I heard you been upsettin’ my baby!” Almost too late he tacks on, “AND my wife!”

--

Being out in the world after seven years in a bunker is overtly surreal and, still, many months later Nick shelters his eyes from any particularly strong source of light. Foraging for food wasn’t the worst part of the apocalypse so far; Joseph God Damned Seed held tightly to that title still, somehow, after several nuclear bombs and one hell of an assassination attempt.

Notching an arrow from a set Kimi had helped him whittle down yesterday, Nick holds his breath and dispatches a silent prayer. He’d never been a bad shot with a firearm but? Hunting with a bow- depending on that skill (however meager or great) to feed not only yourself but your family, was an entire bucket of wriggling, foul worms he hated toting around. Releasing his taught lungs the arrow follows suit, hitting its target successfully.

Less than an hour later finds him roaring up the drive, a sidecar full of gutted venison jostling the spot-welded metal plating all the way to the hangar. Having developed a functional routine, Nick goes through the motions: hanging, skinning, cutting, and packing his spoils in the cleanest paper they’ve got. 

A sneaking, hushed gurgle of a giggle alerts him but he doesn’t stray from his task, preferring to be assumed as unaware. It doesn’t take long for his daughter, Carmina to stalk around him and he is careful about securing his tools, a sharpened knife safely snoozing on the opposite side of his patchwork butcher's table. 

When she grips on to the back of his legs he responds in a half startled, monstrous roar, “RaaaAAHH!!” And, stooping he bends, scooping her up, “Oh no buckeroo!” Hauling her onto his shoulder is becoming more difficult as she’s nearing nine years old but? He does it anyways, laughing along, “Swamp monster’s got you!”

Amidst their boisterousness he makes out a familiar tone: Kim. “Shh-shh,” His tickling fingers still, free hand poised and pointer drawn against his lips, “Quiet down, kiddo!” On the breath of a strong wind he manages to decipher what she’s yelling, “That’s your Mama callin’!” Although he isn’t mad his tone does harden into a stern reprimand, “You ain’t- you just left the house without saying nothin’ again?!”

“Daddy!” Carmina protests as he swings her down just-enough to be in view. Partially upside down she meets his gaze with a practiced pout, cheeks reddening.

“Nuh-uh, I won’t hear it- don’t give me that look, neither!” He frowns, “We’ve done talked about this, Carmina: you can’t just-” Setting her down on her own two feet, “It’s a dangerous world we are livin’ in young lady and,” Not one to entirely dampen his daughter- or anyone’s spirits he tries to rouse her lovely smile again, “As your Daddy,” Digits wriggle when he unexpectedly hikes her back up and tickles just-enough for a laugh, “It is my duty to make sure you apologize to your Mama, Ma’am.”

By the time he wrangles his squirming, squealing child out the rear door, Kim is on her way to the garage and he calls ahead into the partial darkness of the mostly-settled sun, “You lose something, darlin’?”

Although her eyes are firmly on the dark haired little girl, safe and secure over her father’s shoulder, Kim can not help herself: her nerves are fraught. “Carmina!” She hollers one last time, voice hovering between worried and a-woman-scorned.

“Sorry Mommy-”

“You could have-!” Kim wants nothing more than to elaborate and although they are mostly honest with Carmina about the state of the world, they have refrained from being gruesome or brutal about it. “Don’t do that ever again, do you hear me young lady?!”

“Makes you feel any better,” Nick nearly starts in the middle of a sentence, hurrying to interrupt the tense and uncomfortable situation, “I could always craft up a leash or somethin’-” The look his wife gives him has his lips curling when he sets his daughter down between them, “What? She’d never leave the yard again- it’s what you want!”

Despite the mixture of rage and relief ravaging every facet of her psyche Kim closes the distance between them, Carmina already a shadow haunting their crumbling dining room. “Thank you,” They both know it is more than about this moment. That she is thankful for his way with her and with their daughter; every stupid thing about him, really. “Thank you, Nick.”

“Anything for you baby,” He is smart enough to let the moment lie, a palm stroking softly against the round of her mostly shaven head. Swaying slightly in the cool, spring breeze he bends pressing his lips to the crest of her forehead. “So,” He says, unable to take it anymore, “No to that baby-chain, huh?”

Needing it too she angles her head back, looking him dead in the eye, “Just.” For effect she pauses, blowing stray strands from her vision, “Make sure she has access to fresh water.”

--

“Ok-okay,” Although there is a certain amount of set determination to his tone, Nick Rye falters- a scant pause in the doorway. “Let’s do this,” With a friend at his side he feels confident enough in their newly mustered camaraderie to push forward, through the side door and into the wide expanse of the living room.

“Carmina?” 

Just the sound of her voice is enough to do him in entirely and he stops, just-adjacent of the door to drink her in silence.

“Do you know where my wire cutters are?” She buzzes around, in a tizzy of a search, keeping herself busy- moving and, more importantly, distracted. It’s not that she doesn’t notice the movement out of the corner of her eye, or the painfully familiar phantom behind her, she’s just? Tired. Ready for a new hallucination to be tormented with- she’s been through it all before, more than enough times.

“Kim.”

This particular poltergeist has the audacity to manifest a nice, little, aural ditty for her as well and she turns away, deepening her tried and true remedy. “I know I put them here somewhere,” Although she can clearly see they are not on top of the stacked supply crates, Kim looks anyways, fingers brushing each item to try and root herself back into reality.

Nick takes pause to apologize to his companion with a look. He isn’t a fan of anything he could possibly deem as too-uncomfortable, or soul-bearing, but this? This moment he has ached for- longing and alone; afraid. Giving another apologetic look he manages, “Hold on.” 

“They were just here, where did I put them-” She cuts herself off with a dismissive and frustrated gesture, shoulders sagging in resolution. Staring down at the meagre, inconsequential items she can feel her eyes begin to burn. ‘Not now, not n o w,’ She tells herself, lips silent and clinging strongly to the image she portrays: hardened, brazen woman and an absolute warrior of a mother. Truly a force to be reckoned with.

Though he is generally a man that is embarrassed of any kind of physical displays of affection in public he reaches out, fingers gentle against her side; 

Kim grips him roughly at first, unsure of her suspected delusion- could it be Rush? He’d already given her quite the salacious look over the fireside last night and she’d turned away, offended and? Blushing. 

“You lose something, darlin’?”

Quick on the balls of her feet she turns, eyes searching a worn and weathered face she has prayed relentlessly for; a man she has begged every star in the sky to return safely.

His tongue fits against the basin of his mouth, voice an emotionally charged stutter, “Hey baby.” When she grips onto him he pulls her in as closely as possible, dying for the touch of her warmth.

“Hi,” She barely manages, expression crumbling under the weighty realization and arms cementing around him. Kim tries to repeat herself more certainly but her voice cracks, pronunciation silent.

“Hey, you know,” Not one to linger in his feelings he tries to make light of the situation even though he is very aware that is it not the time, “If you’re busy I can always come back-” With barely a second to breathe she regrips, tugging him in, “No?”

[roswellwrites]

Kinktober Day 8 & 9 Fill - Daddy Kink + Dirty Talk

Pairing: Bo Sinclair/Reader (M/F)

Tags: Slasher x Reader, Bo Sinclair x Reader, Bo Sinclair, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Breeding Kink, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019

Word Count: 1629

The first time you had let the word slip during sex, you had been so embarrassed that you froze on the spot.

Bo’s hips had stuttered to a halt, hands stilling on your thighs as he looked down at you. “What did you just say?”

You brought both hands immediately to your face to cover your eyes, as if that alone could hide you from his scrutiny. You could feel your face growing hotter as you peeked through your fingers to see that he still hadn’t looked away, his eyes intense where they bored into you. “Bo, baby, listen- it’s not- I didn’t-“

He gave a quick nudge of his hips, sudden, delivering a harsh slap to your bare thigh at the same time. “Oh no you don’t, sweetheart. I wanna hear you say it.”

You groaned, body giving another jolt as his hand met your thigh again, the harsh slap ringing out loudly. You bit your lip, dropping your head back against the pillows with your hands still over your eyes. Of course you weren’t going to get out of it that easily. “D-daddy,” you relented, your voice catching in your throat.

“What was that, baby? ‘Fraid you’re gonna have to speak up.” Bo’s grin was shit-eating as he looked down at you now, revealing white teeth and the pink of his tongue as it pressed against his lower lip. 

“Don’t be mean, Bo,” you whined, removing your hands from your eyes and fixing him with a look, your lips turned downwards. “I know you heard me.” 

He bent over you, one hand pressed to the mattress beside your ribs as he leaned his weight on it. Bo’s lips met yours then, teasing, tongue delving into your mouth as he continued to thrust his hips achingly slow against your own. When he pulled away, it was with your bottom lip caught gently between his teeth, and he held it there for a second before letting go with a smirk. “Aww, don’t be like that,” he grinned, rolling his hips against yours again. “How about you open that pretty mouth of yours and tell daddy what you really want, huh?”

You groaned beneath him, moving your legs to wrap around his hips and pull him in closer. “Fuck, Bo, that’s so hot.”

He gave another slow roll of his hips, eyes half lidded. “Don’t worry, baby, daddy’s gonna take real good care of you.”

He started peppering the word into your casual interactions more after that. 

Once after burning your finger while cooking dinner, he had slid his hands around your waist, lips pressed to the side of your neck. “Want daddy to kiss it and make it better, baby?” He purred against your throat, grabbing hold of your wrist and pulling your hand towards his mouth.

“Bo, baby, I can’t do this one handed,” you had laughed, right up until the moment he wrapped his lips around your hurt finger and began to suck.

But today, Bo had come home around noon, closing the gas station early and sweeping through the front door with purpose. He found you in the kitchen, your back to the main entrance as you chopped vegetables for tonight’s stew dutifully. Bo had snuck up behind you -an easy feat with your blaring music- and tucked his chest against your back, flipping up the hem of your summer dress with calloused fingers and running playful fingers along the outside of your thighs.

You had jumped, of course, startling so hard you dropped the knife altogether. You turned to face him, wide eyed, one hand pressed to your chest. “Jesus Bo, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Missed you at the station earlier. Ain’t like you to not drop in for a visit.” He murmured, pressing his lips to the side of your neck and mouthing at the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“Sorry. Just kind of got caught up with things around here, I guess,” you said by explanation. You tilted your head to give him better access to your throat as you picked up your knife again, resuming your earlier work. “What are you doing home so early?”

You could feel his grin against your skin. “What, can’t a guy close up shop a little early on a Friday?“ He began to grind his hardening length against your ass, as if giving you a taste of what was to come, the harsh fabric of his coveralls chafing against your skin uncomfortably. “Truth is, baby girl, I just couldn’t get you off my mind.”

You began to smile, fondness filling your chest at the admission. “Who, me?”

He turned you suddenly so that your lower back rested against the kitchen counter before he dropped to his knees, Bo’s hands finding your thighs and pressing the fabric of your dress upwards. “Been thinkin’ about this all day.”

You hummed, amused as you slid a hand into his dark hair. “Is that right?” You could feel his lips against your inner thigh as he began to mouth at your skin, his blunt teeth scraping at you. You closed your eyes against the sensation, sighing in a pleased way as you moved your hand from his hair to the collar of his mechanic’s uniform to tug him to his feet again. “Get up, Bo. I’m not about to let you fuck me in the kitchen.”

He came back to his feet easily, cooperative, his hands finding the counter on either side of you as he caged you in. “Oh, you got a preference then?” He grinned, pressing his chest to yours as he crowded you back against the kitchen counter. “Would you rather I bend you over the pool table? Maybe take you outside and fuck you in the backseat of my truck?”

You pressed your index finger to your lips, pretending to consider his words. “Hmmm…as great as that sounds, how about in our bed where your brothers aren’t likely to get an eyeful?”

“Suppose I can make that happen.”

The two of you headed upstairs quickly, losing clothes as you went. The sheets were soft under your back and Bo’s body was warm against yours as he pressed in close, his lips finding first your throat and then your collarbone as he worked his way to your breasts. His hands located your wrists where they rested beside your shoulders and he pinned them to the bed with ease as he nipped at the delicate skin of your chest.

You had learned early on that Bo liked the feeling of you under him, liked to tie you down and hold you immobilized as he fucked you.

He entered you slowly, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as if trying to restrain himself from thrusting forward. “God, you’re so tight,” he grunted, inching forward with his hips until his length was enveloped fully inside of you. 

“Bo,” you moaned softly, your fingers reaching up idly to caress the scars at his wrists where he had you pinned still.

“Yeah, baby?” He panted against your skin. He began to move against you then, pistoning his hips at the same time his lips met your breast and he began to suck at your flesh. “Gonna make you cum so hard you forget your own name,” he mouthed against you, tongue darting out playfully from between his lips.

The pace he set was quick, filling you with deep strokes that had you gasping and arching your back under him. He was worked up now, his hot breath fanning across your breasts and collarbone, his bare chest covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Bo, baby, let me touch you,” you panted, open mouthed, tugging gently at your wrists where they were still pinned under the man’s fingers.

Bo removed his hands obligingly, allowing you to run your hands over his neck and chest and hips. You wrapped your arms around him then, digging your fingernails into his shoulder blades and dragging him closer as he continued thrusting, bordering on frantic now.

“Tell me where you want me to cum, baby,” he groaned, his bottom lip caught between his teeth again as he seemed to draw closer to the edge. “You want it on your face? Your stomach? Your tits?” He gave a harsh thrust as his hands found your hips. “Or maybe you just want me to cum inside of you, huh? Is that it? Want daddy to fill you up, baby girl?”

“Inside, inside, please inside,” you gasped, hooking your legs around his waist desperately as he picked up his pace.

“You want daddy to knock you up?” He rasped against your skin, fingertips digging into your hips so hard you found yourself squirming against the pain. “Want daddy to fill you up over and over again until my cum is dripping down those sweet thighs of yours?” 

“Bo,” you pleaded, back arching and your face hot. You felt lightheaded, far away and much too warm, grounded only by his hands and his hips. “Bo, baby, come on.”

“Tell daddy who you belong to.”

“You, you, only you.” Your head was thrown back against the pillows as he pistoned into you, his hands sliding to your thighs as he dragged you impossibly closer.

“Again,” he groaned.

“You!” You cried, body arching wildly beneath him. “You!”

He came with a groan against your throat, hips stuttering as filled you with his seed. He rested there against you for a moment before leaning away, pulling out suddenly and leaving you to whine at the sudden emptiness.

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” he grinned, dropping his fingers to your dripping entrance, fingers scooping up your combined slick before pressing it back inside you. “Daddy’s not done with you just yet.”