#duty belt hanger

[chleem]

Hallow's eve

Oneshot; exes drew x yn

Summary: drew wasn’t the type to get jealous. And tonight, on hallow’s eve, is his first time experiencing this bitter emotion. 

Genre: exes to lovers, smut, angst, fluff 

Warnings: cursing, unprotected sex, etc

⋆.˚ this is entirely fictional, if uncomfortable then don't read

♡⸝⸝ happy halloween!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“You can’t be fucking serious,”

Drew laughs bitterly, his eyes landing on you. 

The light blue corset, leathered mini-skirt, police badge, duty belt, and bunny ears are all too recognizable to him. A seducing touch to the costume of Judy Hopps from Zootopia. It shows off your curves beautifully, everything about it made you look more sensual than usual. 

But the main reason for his bitterness isn’t because of your costume, rather…who you’re matching with. 

His friend Paul. Whose wearing what was supposed to be Drew’s, the Nick Wilde costume. 

Fuck. It’s been a month since the breakup, and you show up with his friend?

“Shit, did you know about this?”

Drew forces his eyes away from you, turning the Keith. His lips are pursed, clenching on his jaw tightly. All the emotions are coming back to him all at once; regret, anger, and confused. “Does it look like I know?” He doesn’t even try to hide the sourness in his voice. 

Keith nervously glances to the side; he knows Drew isn’t over you. Hell, Drew didn’t even try to get over you, and everyone knew it. Dated for a year…how is one suppose to forget about that? “Shit man…”

Drew sighs, turning his gaze back to you. He hasn’t seen you for a whole month…and you looked beautiful. 

And Drew of course knew how much he missed you, shit, everything he did he thought of you. Waking up? Why weren’t you in his bed. Showering? Why weren’t you helping him wash his hair. Eating? Why weren’t you sitting in the seat beside him. 

And seeing you hold Paul’s hand, greeting others with a soft smile; that should be him standing beside you. 

“They’re…probably not even together,” Keith tries to make the situation look better than it is. 

Then, while you’re talking to someone dressed as a mummy, Paul distracts himself by planting kisses along your jaw. “Not together, huh?” Drew snickers at the audacity of Paul, doing that to you. He should know better than to touch what’s his. 

Drew’s whole costume feels annoying now. Obviously, breaking up with you meant having no costume. So, he improvised to dress up as Patrick Bateman, from American Psycho. 

He shrugs the clear raincoat off, hanging it on a random coat hanger that happens to be in a kitchen. He loosens his tie, pouring himself another round of drinks. 

When Drew glances at Keith, he sees a sly smile on his face. What the fuck-

“You’re jealous, man.”

Jealous? To Drew, it was an ugly and immature emotion. Only insecure people feel that way. Drew wasn’t insecure, god no.

No. That just wasn’t who Drew was, to be jealous. 

Besides, what’s there to be jealous of? He knows you too well, you’re definitely just bitter. Because out of all his friends, you hate Paul the most.

His mind was just playing tricks on him. 

But fuck- how much he wanted to punch Paul still, and claim the spot next to you. 

“No,” Drew laughs it off, sounding as if he’s being held at gunpoint. He downs the drink in his hand in one sip, and says more firmly this time, “no.”

Keith raises an eyebrow at him; obviously not believing his friend. “Nah, you jealous. Jealous that Paul gets all that now.”

Ew. That thought disgusts Drew. “Fuck off-“

Someone yells for a game of truth or dare in the living room. Drew’s eyes immediately find themselves on you, even with the huge amount of costumes in here. Paul ushers you to join; reluctantly, you follow him. 

Seems like Drew’s also playing. 

——

Amidst the loud Halloween party, a game of truth or dare begins. Refusing to answer or do the dare, results in a penalty drink. 

Paul’s hand on your thigh makes you want to throw up. You hated this guy; why, out of anyone, did you ask him to be your date?

Your stupid pride got the worst of you, refusing to show up at the party alone, especially with the chance of seeing Drew. You suspected that he must have moved on, so you decided to show how ‘well’ you were doing.

Wrong. Everyone close to you knew how many sleepless nights you’ve had in the last month, depressed and withered away in your room. Really, getting ready tonight was an impossible task too. 

Paul is…disrespectful, awkward, inappropriate, the list goes on. He’s not close with Drew; but still, it bothered you that he was always at hangouts. Once, he made a move on you (a rather rude, pushy one) while you were still with Drew. 

Yep. Now thinking back, you would’ve preferred to come alone instead of with this prick. 

“You good?”

Yeah, if you take your hand off me. “Lovely,” you manage to breathe out, focusing your gaze at the circle that has now formed in the living room. 

Your eyes land on Drew; pulling a random chair and sitting down, manspreading. He never looked finer, in his American Psycho costume. And plus, his hair. The last time you saw him, he had bangs. Not that this new buzzcut looked bad; it gave a whole new demeanor to Drew, one that was more matured. 

Wow. Looking at him, you realize how much you miss him. You wanted to go sit next to him, run your hands through his buzzcut, and just talk to him, hear his deep, calming voice. 

Shit. He makes eye contact with you, and for the first time, you can’t tell what’s on his mind. Is he mad? Regretful? Or does he…even care? You watch as his eyes scan down your body, lingering longer on your legs. Or rather, Paul’s hand there. 

“Alright…who wants to go first?” Some person you don’t know, speaks up, sitting down on the couch. 

The eye contact breaks, with Drew turning his face away, drinking the cup in his hand. 

Huh.

Someone volunteers for a dare, but you don’t show much interest. This is a stupid game anyways. 

During the game, Paul would whisper something dirty in your ear, which honestly, pissed you off more. When he kissed your jaw earlier, that was already crossing the line. But you could feel someone watching you intensively, so you go along with it; smiling, whispering back, responding to his touches. You hoped that someone would call on you, just so you could leave Paul’s side for a while. 

And as if some angel heard you, halfway through the game-

“Drew, truth or dare?”

That caught your attention, but you try not to show it. You make subtle glances in his direction, wondering what he was going to chose. 

“Dare,” his voice is deep, just like how you last remembered it. 

The person asking was his friend, Keith. He hung around so much, that you can easily recognize the mischievous glint in his eyes; he’s gonna say something crazy. 

You’re right; because he says, “7 minutes in heaven. With y/n.”

The people in the circle all murmur and woo, in anticipation. Great. Was there anyone here that didn’t know about the breakup?

You can’t help but smile down at your lap, at how ridiculous this dare is. Surely, Drew wouldn’t say yes, right? You couldn’t tell; his face showed no emotion towards that dare. 

“Say no, alright?” Paul’s disgusting voice forces you to look over at him. 

Did you want to say no? 

You take a good look at Paul’s face; maybe saying no isn’t the worst idea. Being locked somewhere awkward with Drew sounded better than…actually, better than anything. 

Suddenly, you feel a heavy presence standing close to you. And when you look over, it’s Drew. He stands in front of you, and he holds out a hand for you to take.

You look up at his face, hints of eagerness only you could notice. He nods gently towards his hand, telling you to take it. 

“Yo dude, she doesn’t wants to go-“

You take it. Your hand comes in contact with the familiar warmth, the hands that you always found comfort in. You let him pull you out of Paul’s arms, a little too rough, and you stumble a bit. 

You smile awkwardly, holding onto his hand hard to regain your balance. “Hey, I’ll be here waiting for you,” Paul continues to say. 

“Sure,” you force out, adjusting your skirt. Deep down, you’ve never been more glad to be rescued by Drew. 

——

He’s walking at a fast pace, and with his grip on your hand tight, you can tell how urgent he is. His patience slips away with each tug he gives to each door he passes by, occupied by strangers already. 

“Maybe we should just give up-“

The last door is budged opened, and when the two of you glance inside, it’s empty. 

“Great,” you murmur awkwardly, before forcing your hand out of his. You don’t want to do so; but given the current situation between you two, it’ll feel weird if you continue to hold his hand. 

You brush past him into the small bedroom, and sit yourself on the bed. This bunny headband was getting itchy, so you take it off, putting it beside you. 

You watch as Drew locks the door behind him, sliding his suit jacket off. Woah, woah, woah, is he stripping? “Um…what are you doing?”

His blue eyes stare blankly into yours; as he lazily rolls his sleeves up. “the walking, it gets hot.”

Oh. He…yeah, it might get too hot from all the fast walking. Why would he strip? Drew wasn’t that kind of person, what were you thinking? You look down at your lap; embarrassed of your own thoughts. 

Well…this is awkward. The only sound in here was the faint music from downstairs. 

And then Drew sits down on the bed, next to you. The mattress dips under his weight, his scent (he smells real good) hitting you, and just his overall presence. 

That damn buzzcut. What even motivated him to get his entire head shaved? You were curious; and you wanted to know what happened to him in the past month. Was he also miserable like you? Or did he forget about everything-

“Paul, huh?”

He’s leaned forward; so you can’t really tell his expressions. But his voice comes out deep and almost hushed, like he needed to force it out. 

Your heart was beating fast, why were you nervous? It was just Drew; you’ve dated him for a year, known him for more than that. Yet, every action and word he says can still made you flustered. “Well, he has a thing for me.”

Was that the right response? You weren’t sure; Drew answers a few seconds later, “I know,” you watch his back muscles through his see-through button up tense, “just didn’t know you had a thing for him.”

Almost forgot how well he knew you. “People can change,” you shrug, trying to act cool. 

That earns a ‘tsk’ of disapproval from him, and he leans back. He turns towards you; the pretty blue of his eyes staring into yours. “Not you.”

“Could say the same about you,” you bitterly reply, referring to the breakup. It was out of character for him to just dump you, saying he was ‘busy’. A dick move, to be honest. 

Drew rolls his eyes upward; as if thinking of a response. His lips are slightly pursed; and you see the amusement in them. 

“Am I wrong?” You press, and suddenly, the depression from the past month has surfaced into anger. Anger towards Drew. “You have no right to say that-“

“You’re dating Paul,” he emphasizes on the last part, his eyebrows furrowed at you. “Paul, for god’s sake.”

You shake your head, a sour smile on your lips. The anger inside of you begs to be released, and as a way of spreading it out, you stand up. So mad, you can’t even sit still. “So what? Why do you care, we broke up-“

“A month, only for a month!” He raises his voice slightly louder than yours, and he also stands up now. This escalated fast. “And Paul. Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes I am! More than ever, you got a problem with that?” You provoke, the two of you standing in less than a meter from each other. He stares down at you, and even with your angered mind, his proximity still drives you insane. “Let’s not forget that you dumped me-“

“You’re dating Paul?” He asks once again, realizing that you didn’t correct him from earlier. His face shows it all; betrayal and disgust.

 You laugh at him, rather distastefully, “Do you not hear yourself right now? You’re worried about that-“

“You dating him or not?”

He just stays in place, towering over you. That question lingers in the air, his jealousy heavy. He watches you, and you see a mixture of longing and frustration in them. He’s practically begging you with his eyes at this point. 

The devil on your shoulder pushes you to lie, “we’ve been seeing each other.”

He immediately steps away from you, pacing around the room with his hands running through his scalp. He turns back around to you, but stands at a distance now, “y/n, what the fuck-“

“Why are you getting mad at me?” You yell back, your voice cracking. 

“I don’t believe you,” he harshly denies, shaking his head. 

Fights with Drew was never like this; he would apologize quickly and fix the problem. Tonight? You might’ve just pissed him off to the point of no return. 

You tuck your hair behind your ears, before placing them on your hips firmly. “Well, that’s the truth, whether you like it or not-“

“I don’t fucking believe you, y/n,” he denies once again. 

“You saw him around me, what else do you-“

“I don’t believe you,” he repeats, closing the distance between the two of you again. You gulp at his presence towering over you; this time, there’s an edge to his demeanor. Knowing that you lied, it felt dangerous to be standing this close to him. “You’re bluffing, I know it.”

The sharpness in his eyes glints with challenge, searching for the truth in yours. He won’t be easily swayed; he knew you too well. 

You cock your head to the side, the same challenge in your eyes that mirrors back to him. You don’t miss it; the jealously in his. He’s jealous right now! 

No wayyy he’s jealous. Years you’ve known him; never once have you seen him jealous. Drew was that kind of person; unbothered and sure about himself. At first it frustrated you, it seemed like he didn’t care. But you soon learned that it just meant he trusted you, never questioning about your friendships or interactions.

But still, he’s jealous right now! For the very first time! And you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t tease him about it. C’mon, this man was jealous of Paul. How cute. “You’re jealous,” you say, failing to hide the amusement in your tone. “You’re fucking jealous right now-“

“No,” he firmly denies it. 

“Yes, you are. You, Drew Starkey, is jealous-“

“I’m not fucking-“

“Yes! You’re jealous!” You point out, a bit too cheerful at that. You almost forget that you’re suppose to be angry at him, “You’re bitter that it’s not you-“

“Gosh, you’re driving me insane,” he groans, throwing his head back in frustration. “I don’t feel that way-“

“Oh, you totally are,” you say, taking a few steps back and snickering. Gosh, this is fun to make fun of. “Drew Starkey’s jealous for the first time-“

Drew’s lips come in contact with yours, his tongue thrusting into yours urgently. 

Woah.

You didn’t even realize he had closed the gap again; his hands cupping your face to trap you into him. You hit his chest to push him away; but the longer his lips attach to yours, the softer your hits were. 

Alcohol. You taste that on his lips, pretty sure yours too. 

Yet, like a second nature, your body and brain reacts to Drew in a submissive way, kissing him back. You can’t help it; the warmth of his hands on either sides of your face, his soft lips…everything about him. Everything about him is endearing to you. 

In this moment, you realized you could never truly get over Drew. And quite frankly, you don’t want to. 

He pulls away, but his hands still remain on your face. “I’m not jealous,” he murmurs, his lidded-eyes gazing down at your lips then back your eyes. His chest under your touch rises and falls, the beat of his heart fast. 

The urge to fight or tease him disappears; you just want to be in his presence, in his touch, feeling the warmth of him. As if it could solve all your problems.  

“Shut up,” you breathe out, pulling him down by his tie and kissing him. 

Drew immediately kisses you back; never been more glad to be ordered to shut up. His hands move down your body, until they come in contact with the strings at the back of your corset. 

You feel him struggling with undoing it; probably distracted by your lips on his. 

Gosh, was it so hard to undo a couple of strings?

You force him onto the bed, and he immediately readjusts himself to a nice position. You quickly put your hands behind you and untie the strings, while Drew undos his own tie, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“Was that so hard?” You tease him, letting the corset fall off you. Drew’s mouth is slightly opened as his eyes drift lower down to your naked chest; his fixated gaze giving you a confidence boost.

“Mmhm,” he lazily replies; hands pull you into his lap by the waist. His lips attach them to yours again, and your hands work on unbuttoning his shirt. He kisses down your neck, laying love bites on it. 

“Shit…” you moan. Drew’s lips were skilled, and they knew where you liked it. 

His hands knead your breasts, just as you got his last button undone. Your hands roam around his chest, abs, then coming back up to run through his scalp. Huh. It’s gonna take some time to get used to no hair to tug on. 

His lips move down to your chest, and he starts to suck on your nipples. He fully makes out with them; his tongue sloppily tugging and devouring them in. It sends pleasure down to your core; and you start to rub against him, feeling the material of his pants harden. 

“Drew…” you voice out, hands feeling his scalp. It feels, weird and comfortable. 

He pulls away, his chest heavy as he looks up at you with hungry eyes. “Yeah?”

“Lay back,” you order, wiping the saliva that drips down the side of his lips. 

Drew gulps, before nodding. His hands remove themselves from you, hurriedly discards his shirt, and he scoots himself further down the bed. You get the clear look of his boner through his pants; damn. 

Your hands go to undo your duty belt; when they come in contact with metal chains. 

Huh? You look down and see, that it was the handcuffs you got for Judy Hopps’ character. 

The dirtiest idea pops up in your mind, and you look back up at Drew with a smile. His eyes are squinted at you, eyebrows furrowed. The two of you share a look; and then he shakes his head in disapproval. “No. I’m not getting handcuffed.”

This was never tried over the course of your relationship with him, and now that the opportunity presented itself, you had to try. You pout, taking the metal chains in your hands. You dip onto the bed, crawling between his spread legs. “Please, baby. It’ll be fun,” you flirtatiously say, your hand crawling up his thigh. “I’ll make it feel good.”

“You always make me feel good,” he murmurs, his arms tucked behind his head. 

“Pretty please then?” Your hand comes in contact with his boner, and you grip it through his pants. 

He moans under your touch, his mind fighting the battle to not be seduced by you. 

You knew how much Drew liked to touch you, always having his arm around you either lovingly and protectively. He took pride in being the person that gets to touch you whenever he wants and wherever. So of course, he wouldn’t be so happy to be handcuffed. 

You swing the handcuffs, giving him a soft smile. 

After a few seconds, he moans again, this time out of frustration, “fine. Do it.”

You smile ear-to-ear, happy that he agreed. You straddle his waist, as he offers his hands to you. You fasten one around his wrist, the material digging slightly into his skin. “Does it hurt?” You murmur, even though you were already moving onto his other hand. 

“I’m good,” he assures you, and when you glance down, you see that your breasts are directly in front of his face, a distraction provided. You shake your head, a soft smile on your lips as you bring both handcuffed wrists and hook it on the headboard. 

You ignore the kisses he trails on your chest; and tug on his hands to make sure it stays there. “Hey, stop it,” you warn him, before getting off. 

By instinct, he tugs his wrists wanting to keep you atop of him, but the handcuffs stop him. “Ride me, c’mon,” he whines, getting impatient with the restraints of his hands. Look, you haven’t even started and he’s already whining. 

Drew looks very hot in this angle; usually in charge, to be in a position where he physically couldn’t do anything. 

You giggle, undoing the duty belt and shimmying your skirt off. You lean forward between his legs, looking up at him with intrigued eyes. “Have some patience, baby,” the nickname drives him crazy, throwing his head back in frustration. 

His reaction makes you grin. You can see the struggle on his face—wanting to be annoyed but unable to resist the pull of your playful teasing. It’s the kind of tension that makes your heart race, as your hands go and undo his belt. 

The belt comes off, next was the zipper, then his pants. You tug it down to his knees, his dick piercing through his boxers. It’s begging to be sucked by you. 

You pull it down, his dick practically springing out. “Fuck,” you moan, leaning down close to it. 

Drew thrusts his hips, making the tip hit your nose. You look up at him, furrowing your eyebrows. You didn’t like how impatient he is right now, “stay still.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, biting down on his bottom lip. “You look pretty from this angle, though.”

You give him a smug smile, before opening your mouth and taking his tip in. He immediately groans at that, as your mouth moves lower. 

The tug of the handcuffs is heard, as well as Drew saying, “wanna touch you.”

You smirk against his dick, one hand gripping on his thigh, another one going up to his balls. You massage one side; while your mouth skillfully takes Drew in. 

But Drew decides to take a step further, and thrusts his hip upward. That makes you gag; his tip hitting almost the back of your mouth. You immediately pull your mouth out, “stay still,” you say, more firmly this time. “Or I’ll leave, and you’ll stay here handcuffed.”

Another tug of his handcuffs, “didn’t mean to.”

“Be a good boy and stay still, okay?” The lust, tipsiness, combined with Drew’s vulnerable situation serves as a huge boost to your confidence. 

“Yes ma’am,” he murmurs, relaxing his entire body now. You’re in charge now; the handcuffs remind him of that. 

You give him a glare as a warning; you don’t miss the small curl at the corner of his lips. You take him in again, your hand squeezing his balls gently. You start to bop your head up and down, tongue wrapping and sucking his dick. 

“Shit,” you hear him groan, “just like that, babe.”

His soft moans ensure you that you’re doing a great job, as well as the occasional tugs of the handcuffs, his hands dying to touch you. Your head bops faster with each passing second, the pleasure of sucking his cock pooling in your undies too. 

It’s when you feel his cock twitch inside your mouth, you pull away. 

“Babe, what?” He manages to breathe out, he couldn’t believe that you just denied him of an orgasm. 

That nickname sends a bigger impact to your core than it should’ve. You sit up and lean forward, planting a sloppy kiss against his lips. He kisses back immediately, eager and needy. You pull away, “didn’t know you were this whiny.”

He forms a small frown, which makes you giggle, “I’ll let you cum, stop whining,” you kiss along his neck, down his chest, abs, and stopping right before his dick. “You got a condom?”

“You think I planned this?’ He tugs on his handcuffs. Right. He definitely wasn’t planning on fucking his ex-girlfriend. 

You get off the bed, rummaging the nightstands, hoping for condoms to be here. Nope. “Fuck,” you frustratedly groan, pushing your hair to one side. “Now what?” 

That question lingers in the air, the two of you staring at each other. No condom, and two horny adults. There was only one solution. No, two solutions. But who in their right mind would suggest that one-

“Raw,” Drew speaks up. 

“Raw?” You’ve never gone raw before; the risks of it overpowering the pleasure of it. You glance that Drew, seeing how calm he was to suggest that. Then at his dick, which was still erected. 

“Unless you want to go back downstairs.”

Oh god. You didn’t want to; you wanted to have sex with Drew. But you had to be honest; the idea of raw sex was terrifying. 

“Y/n?” His blue eyes meet yours, “sit down first.”

You sit back down beside him, placing your hand on his lower stomach. “Raw?” You’re more asking yourself, yet you look at Drew’s face. 

Drew. Going raw with Drew. Drew. Not some random guy. The Drew that you’ve found yourself get really into. Okay. Maybe if you two didn’t break up a month ago, you would’ve gotten to that point with him anyways, right? 

“You okay?” He asks gently. 

You give him a soft smile, getting yourself between his legs yet again. “Can’t be any different than a condom, right?”

He smirks at your agreement of this, “hope so.”

You lean forward and give him a quick peck on the lips. “Stretch yourself out first,” he reminds, looking down towards your core. You take your underwear off, sitting back and spreading your legs. It gives Drew the clear view of your pussy; and he groans at that. “Need help?”

He tugs on his handcuffs. Pretty sure it’ll bruise his wrists if he continues to move against them. The sly smile on his lips tell you everything; “I got it,” you assure him. 

You line two fingers against yourself; and then put it in. “Shit,” you groan at how wet you are already; thrusting your fingers in slowly.

You can’t help but compare your own fingering to Drew’s; finding his more satisfying to your core. Nevertheless, you stretch yourself out just like Drew says, picking the pace after a few seconds. “Fuck,” you hear him groan; and after a couple of sloppy thrusts, you pull out, finding yourself stretched. 

“Good?” He asks, watching as you straddle yourself on his waist again. 

“Perfect,” you practically purr, leaning forward and kissing him. You feel his smile against your lips; him kissing you back tenderly. 

You pull away and look down; aligning yourself with his dick. Shit. 

You sink down, feeling his cock enter you slowly. You moan loudly at the feeling; no barriers between the two anymore. When you sit down fully, you’re sure his tip hits the back of your core. 

Drew throws his head back in pleasure, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Feels real good,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering to stay open. 

You giggle gently at his reaction; and you raise your hips, ready to start moving. You move up, then slide back down on him. “Shit,” you curse, the sensation unreal. 

Raising your hips again, you start riding him, at an unusual slow pace. Your nails dig into his shoulders, transferring the pain there. “Wanna touch you,” he voices out, tugging on the handcuffs. 

“You touch me all the time,” you hum, continuing to slam yourself up and down him. He groans at that, a knowing smile on his lips. 

“Touch yourself for me, then,” he thrusts his hip upwards, causing you to moan at the friction. 

You do as told; bringing your hands up to your breasts and squeezing them while bouncing. You’ve never felt this much pleasure; the feeling of Drew watching you while you ride him, your hands all over while you imagine it being him. 

The sound of skin slapping, heavy moans, and the tugs of Drew’s cuffs fill the room, as well as the rising temperature in here. This sex experience reminds you just how much you and Drew are compatible for each other; easily kinky and fond together. 

You feel the familiar hotness fill up your core, your movements getting more sloppy. “Close?” He asks, sounding breathless. 

“Yes,” you moan, your hands back around his shoulders. 

Drew leans himself upwards with his upper body, and he gives you a messy kiss. His kiss sends you over the ledge; and you feel the knot coming undone. He pulls away with a smug smile, “came all over my cock.”

“Shut up,” you smile, pulling him back and kissing him again. You liked kissing him more than you should. 

“Hey, can you undo these for me?” He tugs on the handcuffs for the nth time tonight. 

“Should I?” You cock your head playfully to the side. He playfully thrusts upwards towards your core, and you groan at that. “Fuck, Drew.”

“C’mon, undo me,” he begs, his blue eyes staring teasingly into yours. 

Gosh, this man. It’s unfair how attractive he is, from his looks to his actions. Everything, just touches your heart. You pull out of him, the stickiness around your legs don’t feel as gross as they should. But you do miss the warmth of him, feeling bit empty. 

You search around for your duty belt; grabbing it off the floor. It had three little compartments around it, and you rummage around each one. The cheap material makes it hard to open each. 

“Babe, you’re taking forever,” you hear him behind you. 

You ignore his comment; working your way to the last one. Surely the key had to be in the last one, right?

Is it; and you throw the belt back down, turning back to him. “Were you always this impatient?” You ask, unlocking both of his wrists. 

The handcuffs shoot down as soon as you’re done; and he flips you under him in one fast motion. You let out a shriek, not expecting to be pinned in mere seconds. He looks down at you with a small smirk, “my turn.”

“What?” You let out a nervous giggle, his hold on your wrists tightening. 

You let out a loud gasp when he shrinks his length down into your core; pushing it fully in at once. Shit, shit, shit. His lips attach themselves to your neck, leaving love bites, eventually moving down lower. “Drew,” you manage to breathe out despite feeling the weight of him down on you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles against your skin, one hand intertwining with yours. 

“…feels good,” you admit, even though it was unexpected to be pinned down. Having his cock fully in you; felt like heaven. Now, he’s gonna give you your second orgasm of the night; halloween? Must be Christmas. 

“I’know,” he kisses your jaw, his other hand now kneading your breasts. “Besides, haven’t cummed yet.”

Oh. You were consumed with chasing your own orgasm, you didn’t realize that Drew hasn’t had his yet. 

Drew starts to push his body into yours, picking up the pace after each thrust. He hits your exact g-spots, knowing your body all too well. You moan loudly in his ear, mixed in with his. Just like that, your second orgasm slowly forms.

“Shit,” he curses, his hands locking tightly with yours. 

Okay, raw sex definitely felt better than condom ones. Or was it because it’s Drew? Either way, you want to do this more, honestly. Maybe the handcuffs too. 

“Close, Drew,” you breathe out between thrusts. 

“Same, babe,” he kisses your cheek.

The knot comes undone for the second time tonight, and you cum over his dick. At the same time, you feel it twitch inside you; his turn. 

Drew gets ready to pull out, but you hurriedly wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Cum inside me,” you urge him, wanting to feel yourself filled with his orgasm. 

Drew gives you a lazy smile, lips leaning towards yours. And this kiss, was more endearing, his tongue moving in a soft tempo. He cums, and you feel the warmth of him mixing with yours. 

You smile back against his lips; you’ve never had such mind-blowing sex. 

He eventually pulls out of you, reaching for the tissues on the nightstand. You let him clean you up, leaning against the headboard; the two of you staying silent to recover from what just happened. 

And slowly, the realization of what happened, fogs up the both of your minds. Lust is gone, now only left with clarification. Clarification of what’ll be next, between the two of you.

“Drew?” You speak up, as he finishes and cleans himself up quickly, throwing it in the trash after. 

He sits by your legs, his blue eyes looking up and meeting yours. “I miss you.” That confession catches you off guard. You gulp, looking down at your lap. “I’m sorry,” he adds, voice cracking. 

Your heart aches at that; and you feel him move to the spot besides you. He pulls the covers up, covering the both of you. “I’m sorry,” he repeats once again, “I’m, I’m a stupid fuck.”

“You are,” you agree, still looking down and playing with your fingers. 

“I just…we dated for a year. And, I just got scared?” The last part was almost as if he also didn’t believe himself for feeling that way. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know, just…something I feel. But I realized, not being with you was worse,” his hands wrap around yours, and you look up at him. His blue eyes are mixed with regret, sincerity, and…love. Well, at least you interpret it that way. 

“Took a month away from me to realize that?”

“Yes. I think that just shows how idiotic I am. Trust me, the past month was horrible.”

You giggle, “you can’t just dump me whenever you feel like it.”

“First and last time,” he promises.

“What?” You look at him questionably. 

“If you’ll take me back.”

Do you want to take Drew back? Your mind was screaming no, but your heart was telling you to spend forever with him. He really hurt you, and he really is an idiot. But he’s your idiot. And one year of dating has told you that he does make stupid decisions, coming to regret them later. 

Fuck it. You always listened to your heart anyways. “Fine, if you insist,” you playfully say, your hands intertwining with his again. You missed holding onto these hands. Then, your eyes drop to his wrists, seeing the red spots around them. “Drew, those handcuffs-“

Drew’s other hand cups your face, and he sends an attack of his kisses to your cheek. You laugh loudly at that, which just drives him to give you more. “Hey-“ he kisses your lips, the two of you leaning down until your backs hit the mattress. 

“I…”

“Hmm?” You stare into his eyes. He stares at you all smitten, his lips slightly open in awe. 

“I…love you,” he confesses. 

Oh. Oh. The butterflies in your stomach fight to get out, and you let them. You love Drew. Yeah, you love Drew. After everything you’ve been through with him, you deserved to be loved, to be loved by him.  “I love you more,” you emphasize on the last word. 

“Fuck,” he kisses you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer into his arms. “Driving me insane. Insane, y’know that?”

“I’know,” you giggle, the two of you staring lovingly into each other’s eyes. You’ve never felt happier. And when your hands run through his scalp; you’re reminded of his buzzcut. “Hey, why did you shave your hair?”

“It got annoying,” he rubs circles around your waist, “and, well, I missed you.”

“so you shaved your hair?” 

“…yeah,” suddenly he gets shy, burying his face into your neck. You smile at that, feeling like he’s a little baby. 

After a few seconds, he murmurs against your neck. “Hey, y’know what you should dress up as next year?”

“Next year already?” You look down at him, him looking back up at you. 

“Yeah,” he pulls away, “Lola bunny.”

Lola bunny? Wasn’t that the cartoon character? From Loony tunes? You furrow your eyebrows at Drew, “why?”

He gives you a grin, “kinda…my childhood crush.”

“Really?” This is the first time he’s telling you this; and you can’t help but grow amused at that. Lola bunny? Maybe that can explain why he’s so weird sometimes. Cute weird. “Will you be my Bugs then?”

“Of course,” he immediately says, “not Paul, that’s for sure.”

Paul. You’re suddenly reminded of that gross man you asked to come with you; and also of Drew’s jealously. Hey, he’s jealous! That thought is bought up in your mind once again, thanks to Drew himself. What girlfriend would you be if you didn’t tease him about it? “Oh, you were so jealous.”

“Jealous? No,” he denies, even with the small smirk on his lips. 

“So it’s okay if I see Paul-“

“We’re together, now. Like, literally a few seconds ago,” he cuts you off. “Screw Paul. Or any other guy.”

“That’s jealousy,” you smile, pointing at his face. 

He bites on your finger, causing you to shriek and put your finger down. “Just love you a lot.” 

Your heart warms at that; but it doesn’t change your mind about how jealous he was. “Drew, you don’t need to be jealous. I’m yours.”

He chuckles, “I’m not jealous!”

Okay. He might never admit it. His pride, and his overall aura, jealousy just won’t be something he wants to bow down to. 

“Of course,” you rest your chin on his forehead. “Of course.”

“I wasn’t jealous!” He continues to hum. 

“Shhh,” you coo at him, rubbing the skin around his shoulders, which feel firm yet soft. Your eyes are falling heavy, and in Drew’s arms, you knew you could get some comfortable sleep. The first time; for the past month. 

You close your eyes, ready to drift to sleep, when Drew says, “I think we went over 7 minutes.”

“Huh?” You lazily reply, your brain ready to turn off. 

“Nothing.”

That was the end of the conversation; and you drifted off to sleep, knowing that Drew was beside you. The familiar scent of him dozes you off, and you feel safe knowing he’s going to be taking care of you. 

Lola bunny. Maybe you should dress up like her next year, fulfill Drew’s nasty fantasies. Huh. Maybe. 

-------------------------------

word count: 6.6k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: petition for drew to be patrick bateman 🙋‍♀️

happy halloween! what are you dressing up as??? hope you enjoyed this oneshot, kinky and got really sweet in the end. pls ignore any mistakes; i hate proofreading. anyways, happy halloween! ik im already looking forward to christmas ;)

[dbmars]

December – New Orleans, 2015

         Will had thought that his uniform would stand out amid the splendor of the gala, but as he waded through the glitterati, brushing past old money debutantes in shimmery dresses and NFL players in their tuxedos, nobody paid him any mind. There were plenty of off-duty cops here working security, some of whom he knew and nodded to as he passed. Gotta earn some extra cash for the holidays. 

         The ballroom was decorated in white and gold, the walls covered with cascading lengths of Christmas lights softened by gauzy wall hangings. A brass band played jazzy Christmas fare and couples danced on the shining wooden floor, while other guests socialized at cafe tables or small gathering areas with chairs and sofas. The banquet table supported a massive spread, its centerpiece an ice sculpture depicting a stylized ocean wave dyed green, symbolizing Tulane’s mascot. 

         Will scanned the crowd with a policeman’s focus, his eyes trained by many nights on the Quarter or working Mardi Gras. He wasn’t out on patrol much anymore. It’d been at least four years, in fact, but he was surprised how quickly the old instincts returned. 

         He would have thought it difficult to locate one man in a tuxedo in a crowd where everyone was wearing the same black tie, but it wasn’t. Hannibal stood at a cafe table, champagne in hand, surrounded by five or six hangers-on fixated on every word coming out of his mouth. The most besotted of the groupies was Hannibal’s research assistant, Randall Tier, who gazed up at him with shining eyes that caught the holiday lights, the reflections making physical the shining adoration they exuded. The others were potential donors to the neuroscience program and Hannibal had them eating out of his hand as he described their most recent research study.

“Survival requires the selection of appropriate behavior in response to threats. When given the choice between fight, flight, freeze, and fawn, one’s chances are improved by the brain selecting the response with the highest chance of success, and quickly, too. Dysregulated defensive reactions are associated with psychiatric illnesses – PTSD, panic disorders. Threat-induced behaviors are controlled by neuronal circuits in the central amygdala. However, the source of neuronal excitation is unknown, and so our team set out to discover the source.”

         “All right, Doctor Lecter, in English, please!” one of the men in the circle laughed, the others joining in. 

         “If we can isolate the origin for these brain signals that insist there is a lion in the room when there is no lion, we can more effectively treat post-traumatic stress disorder and those who suffer from anxiety and panic attacks,” Hannibal clarified, setting down his empty champagne flute. Randall scurried off to get him another. “And that, my friends, is the essence of the work we do.”

         “I just think that is so important, y’know?” a woman with shoulder pads and a blonde bouffant hairdo said, laying a long-nailed hand on Hannibal’s forearm. “My cousin Arlene, she gets these awful panic attacks every time the lawn company comes to mow the yard at her house, or the pool guy comes by…” 

         “Dr. Lecter.” All eyes turned to Will as he broke into the circle, gazes traveling over his uniform and the gun strapped to his belt. 

         Hannibal’s face shifted, a crack formed in his finely crafted mask of charm, betraying a hint of resentful vexation. It only lasted a moment before smoothing into something mild and blank, as if they were acquaintances only and the light of friendship wouldn’t reach them for a million years, much less the solar flare of passion. “Detective Graham. How unexpected to see you here. Allow me to introduce you – this is Fred Moncus and his wife Terri…” 

Will suffered through the round of introductions, forcing himself to make eye contact, smiling, even. He was familiar with many of the names – part of the job, knowing who the power players were in New Orleans and state at large. He was surprised to see Lydia Antoine out tonight, considering her brother had been arrested three days ago for the attempted murder of a sex worker. Jed Antoine had lost an eye to a stiletto heel in the altercation, which Will felt was deserved, to say the least. Of course, he’d never comment on an active investigation. 

And he needed to be on his best behavior. Hannibal wasn’t happy with him at the moment, and there was no reason to fuck things up further by being a rude little gremlin. Showing up in uniform was bad enough. 

         “So, Officer Graham.” The state senator who addressed him had a drawl that teased out his name, gray-yam. “How do you know our good Dr. Lecter here?” 

         “Detective,” Will corrected coolly.

         “We met during the Adams murder case last year,” Hannibal supplied, quickly enough, Will thought, so that he didn’t get a chance to say anything. 

         “Oh, that whole business was just awful,” Arlene’s cousin said with an emphatic shake of her bouffant and another touch of Hannibal’s arm. “I’m so glad you were able to help catch him.” 

         “Detective Graham solved it. I merely assisted.” 

         “Oh, you’re that guy!” the senator exclaimed. “Hold on, hey!” he shouted to one of the event’s roving photographers. “Can I get a picture with you?” he asked Will.

         “I need to speak with Dr. Lecter,” Will insisted, adopting his cop voice. 

         The senator looked like he wanted to protest, but Hannibal interjected, cutting through the circle. “This way, Detective,” he suggested, indicating a small side hallway where caterers marched in and out of the kitchen with loaded or empty trays. 

         Will kept quiet, pausing only when Hannibal was trapped into shaking someone’s hand or saying a few words, lassoed by politeness. Even as he smiled and danced the dance of social grace, Will’s empathy pulse told him that Hannibal was displeased. Angry, even. Will tried to prepare for the conversation they’d have once they were alone, but he kept getting distracted by the shocking difference in the way Hannibal’s tuxedo fit him compared to the men who hadn’t worn theirs in so long they no longer fit, or who had rented one for the night. Hannibal looked at home in a tux, like James Bond or some shit. Elegant, but with a license to kill. A license Will gave him, anyhow.

Distracting, how his ass looked in the bespoke trousers, the way the cummerbund circled his waist, drawing the fabric tight against his middle, emphasizing the T of his shoulders and the sexy, meaty curves of his pecs that often popped the button on his dress shirts if he moved too much or too quickly. Will had seen that happen in a variety of contexts and it delighted him every time. 

         At last, they disentangled from the glamorous crowd, and passed into the utilitarian hallway, where the sound of clanking plates and cooks and servers yelling at each other replaced the jazz rendition of “O Christmas Tree.” Around a corner was the door to a utility room with a sign that said employees only, along with a staff bathroom and water fountain, and a custodial closet. At the moment, it was deserted. 

         Will paused to radio in, then turned down the volume almost entirely to cut the chatter in the quiet space. Then, he faced the wrath of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. 

         “May I ask why you’ve come?” These six words, so polite and benign, were wrapped in razor wire coming from those princely lips.

         “Merry Christmas to you, too,” Will snarked, a reflex. He knew he was in the wrong, but it still made him defensive. 

         “Left your patrol to wish me a happy holiday, then?” Hannibal cocked his head, eyes maroon murder, voice like ice-brittle velvet. “Surely the force is short-staffed. Some bad math with you, Detective Graham.” 

         “I didn’t like how things ended between us this morning.”

         “Our discussion?”

         “Yeah,” Will said, biting the inside of his cheek. 

         “It wasn’t a discussion. It was you informing me that you’d volunteered for a patrol shift that wasn’t assigned to you and is beneath your rank, despite our previous agreement to attend this event.”

         “And I told you why,” Will returned, trying to keep his voice even. “I don’t like being paraded around in front of rich assholes hoping that they’ll donate to Tulane just because you worked with me to catch a murderer. Much more, ah, exciting, isn’t it, to talk about working a murder case, than, ah… complicated neuroscience? Easier for the yachts-and-botox crowd to understand, anyway.” 

         “But you’d agreed a month ago to attend.”

         “Manelli called in sick, Bernard and O’Toole pulled a double yesterday, and Williams got his ex to let him have his son for the weekend,” Will revealed. “And I… wanted to help.”

         “How convenient.”

         “It was,” Will admitted, rubbing his hand over his face and wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. Hot back here by the kitchen. 

And hot under his uniform. The way Hannibal stood, perfectly still, his cheekbones casting dagger shadows in the unadorned lighting, like he was a hair’s breadth away from violence, was… fucking sexy. It felt like the breathless moment right before a leopard struck, the creature going preternaturally motionless in the tall grass before leaping upon its unsuspecting prey. Will realized he didn’t have the good sense to feel mortal fear. 

“And yet, here you are,” Hannibal said, just above a whisper. “Barging in with your uniform and your gun.”

Despite his instincts of self-preservation, Will took a step closer. His right hand was of two minds – unsnap the holster of his gun and feel the reassuring bulk of deadly metal or touch his lover’s face. Indecision left it hanging at his side. “You,” he said, breath a sultry hiss, “are… so fucking beautiful like this.”

The short silence after his confession could have easily been followed by having his throat slashed, but Will’s luck held out. Hannibal’s lips curled gently at the corners; a prince pleased with a peasant’s pluck. 

Both of them glanced down the hall at the busy kitchen door. Will stepped over to the wall and tried the handle of the custodial closet. Not locked. The space was small of course, lined with shelves of products, but the floor was clear, with a concrete sink built right into the wall for rinsing mops. 

He’d planned to step back out and say something to Hannibal, to coax him inside, but didn’t get the chance. Hannibal took him by the collar of his uniform shirt and his thick black duty rig and pushed him into the small space, closing the door behind them. Will’s first instinct was to resist, but he wrestled it back and let Hannibal manhandle him, pushing him against the back of the door to kiss him, knocking his hat to the ground and pulling his hair. Will groped along the fine fabric of his tuxedo, slipping his hands along the silky cummerbund and relishing the feel of his waist encased within, then helped himself to a handful of ass. 

“That was, ah… our f-first fight,” Will panted as Hannibal tongued along his throat. 

“Won’t be the last,” Hannibal growled in his ear. 

“I’m sorry,” Will breathed, taking Hannibal’s face between his hands to arrest his devouring, at least for the moment. “I came here to say I’m sorry.”

“By all means.”

Will’s mouth curved up in a mischievous smirk. “Actions speak louder than words.”

“Certainly.”

Will switched their positions, quickly enough that Hannibal’s back rattled the door on its hinges. “Don’t move.”

“Who am I to resist arrest?” The coiled pressure of Hannibal’s anger was still woven in his words, beneath layers of gentility and clinical mildness. He reached over and flipped on the light switch, bringing a dim bulb in the ceiling to life.

Will undid his rig and draped the black belt full of danger and authority on a shelf of toilet paper rolls, unclipping his radio from his shoulder. Hannibal yanked him forward by his shirt again for a kiss, capturing his lower lip between his teeth and drawing it out slowly when he was finished with it. “Just how contrite are you?” Hannibal whispered against his swollen mouth.

“Very.” Will slowly knelt, dragging his hands along Hannibal’s body as he went, then pushed up his cummerbund enough to open his trousers. 

Hannibal caught his chin and tilted his head up to meet his gaze, dark eyes glittering in the dirty light thrown by the old bulb. “Beg.”

Will slipped his hand between Hannibal’s legs, testing his outline, thumb making lazy circles over his growing bulge. “Please, Hannibal… I need you to forgive me.”

Now a genuine smile, showing the hint of fang-shaped teeth. Will took that as an invitation to keep going, and slipped the trousers down, revealing a little pair of black silk shorts that hugged Hannibal’s anatomy seamlessly, curving just right over the contours of his thighs. Will made an unconscious sound of delight and leaned in, nuzzling against the silk, running his nose and mouth along the silhouette of Hannibal’s cock, breathing in his heady, intimate scent. He mouthed it through the fabric, teasing the length, delighting in the shift in Hannibal’s breathing and the hand that found its way into his hair. 

“You’re forgiven.”

Will chuckled, nuzzling in again. “I haven’t even started yet.” He tucked Hannibal’s shirttails up under the cummerbund to get them out of his way and breathed on the outline, licking the shaft through the silk.

“Tease,” Hannibal accused, though lovingly, leaning his head back against the closet door behind him. 

The radio on Will’s rig chirped, even at the low setting, and Will sighed, stroking his shaft through the layer of silk with more intent now. As tempting as it was to draw this out, he better get a move on before he was missed. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the undergarment and slid it down as well, greeted by Hannibal’s straining erection and well-groomed body hair. Will took him in hand and slid back his foreskin, flicking his tongue against the exposed tip to gather the pearly drops that already leaked free. He kept his eyes locked on Hannibal’s, a deliberate connection. Will wasn’t fond of eye contact, but he’d learned to cope as a cop, and with Hannibal, it was easy. Always had been.

Hannibal’s breath hitched softly, and Will watched him let himself go, closing his eyes and leaning his head back again, clearly savoring the sensations as Will continued teasing the head of his cock with his tongue. His hips tilted forward as if by instinct, seeking more. As much as Will wanted to flip the script and hear him beg, he was the one in the wrong here. Wrapping his hands around Hannibal’s broad, swim-sculpted ass, Will opened his mouth and drew him inside, relishing the groan of relief that came from that aristocratic mouth. “Shh,” Will said after a few solid sucks. “Someone might hear us.”

“High risk, high reward,” Hannibal breathed as Will went deeper, deploying his finest skills, switching up the pressure and suction, holding the base of his shaft at a pleasure point to work him to euphoria. Hannibal’s fingers tightened in his hair, and Will relaxed his throat, which he was getting better and better at – Dr. Lecter did love a good face fuck. Will squeezed his ass encouragingly and let him go to town. When he sensed the change in muscle tension that signaled the upcoming orgasm, he looked up at Hannibal again, doing his best to convey his contrition through his eyes and the desperate way he groped and caressed up his chest and down the backs of his thighs.

Hannibal’s legs trembled as he climaxed, hand still tangled in Will’s hair, the small space filling with the resonant moan of bliss. Will sputtered a bit on cum, distracted by the way the doctor came undone for him, but cleaned him up with his mouth dutifully after. 

“So, you forgive me?” he asked earnestly, easing Hannibal’s underwear back up gently over his softening cock, giving his ass a lingering caress. 

Hannibal was still panting softly as he looked down at Will with a mixture of exhaustion and adoration. He offered Will a hand, helping him to stand. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, cupping his face to bring him closer for a kiss. 

It ended when Will’s radio chirped again. He answered it in a hurry, checking in as he strapped his rig back on. “I gotta go,” he said, putting on his hat. 

“Of course.” Hannibal carefully adjusted his shirt, buttoned his trousers, and returned the cummerbund to its appropriate position. 

“I get off at midnight,” Will told him, smoothing Hannibal’s hair back into place for him. “Then it’s back to homicide. But, ah… I got someone to cover so… I don’t have to go back until Thursday. If you want…”

Hannibal put a warm hand on his neck, touching his Adam's apple with the pad of his thumb. “Yes, Will.” 

Will smiled and kissed him again. “I’ll go first so it’s not as obvious.”

“Be safe,” Hannibal said by way of goodbye. Will fled the closet and the gala, heading back out to patrol. 

Hello there, intrepid reader of Hannigram! If you would like to read the second part of this story, where Will gets off work and gets a surprise from everybody’s favorite New Orleans serial killer – the Pontchartrain Ripper – it’s only available on my patreon. Sorry for doing the whole paywall thing. I do sort of hate myself, but here’s the thing – I have a podcast called The Feast is Life, and need patron cash to cover expenses such as the software, microphones, and the hosting site for the podcast itself, as well as tickets to fannibal events that we can cover for the show.  If you haven’t checked out the show yet, the free episodes are available everywhere you find fine and wondrous podcasts, and our patreon at patreon.com/thefeastislife. There, you can make fic requests as well as get your hands on the end of this patron fic, as well as a 12k X-Files AU I wrote that will not be appearing on Ao3. AND you get a whole second show called Table Scraps. It’s only 5$ a month. Five dollars and you get EVERYTHING. We have one and only one tier, and that’s it. Okay, two. We have Randall Tier, but he’s currently chilling in a time out for biting people and humping Hannibal’s leg. Anyway, head on over to our patreon and sign up to grab this fic. You can always cancel after a month if you’re not feeling it, and still get the rest of this story. 

[library-ghoulette]

day 5 // dom/sub & lingerie

Prompt list thanks to @kroas-adtam 💜

Pairing: Terzo (Papa Emeritus III) x reader

Rating: Explicit, minors DNI

Words: 1728

Tags: second person POV, female reader, dom/sub dynamics, BDSM, maid kink, lingerie, clothed man and naked woman, boss/employee relationship, demeaning language, punishment, impact play

Summary: Your job as Terzo's personal maid comes with a beautiful uniform and exacting standards.

A/N: Through some kinktober miracle I've managed to finish a fic with Terzo! The poor guy has been trying to escape from my WIPs folder for months now.

Read beneath the cut or on ao3!

You take care as you dress for work. As in so many things, an outfit all depends on a solid foundation. In this case, that foundation is black lace: a plunge bra that emphasizes your cleavage and matching panties, both sparingly adorned with black floral appliques that just barely conceal your nipples and your mound. The transparent back panel leaves your ass on full display, framed by the straps of the matching garter belt that completes the set and holds up your thigh-high stockings. They're old-fashioned, beautifully made, with solid silk panels at the toe, and seams that run up the backs of your legs.

After all, your boss has a taste for the old-fashioned, the classic. He likes to be surrounded by beautiful things, and you, his personal maid, are no exception to that rule.

You slip into a plain black dress and high heels—shining patent leather with crimson soles that match the lipstick you check in the mirror before grabbing your purse—and head out.

There are consequences for tardiness.

At first, you weren't sure about taking the job at the big old church perched on the hill at the edge of town. There were rumors about what went on there, dark whisperings about human sacrifices and Satanic orgies. But when you accepted the position, you were mostly shocked by how normal everything was. Your days were spent lulled by monotony, letting your mind wander as you polished the dark wood of the pews in the chapel or mopped the floors of long hallways lined by stained glass windows.

Just a regular job, at times a bit boring, even if all the crosses were inverted and the haunting sounds of infernal psalms echoed down the corridors and strange sounds emanated from time to time behind closed doors.

Regular, that is, until you were offered the opportunity to apply for a different, more specialized, position. You would only work two days per week, but the salary was double what you were already making. Requirements included attention to detail, discretion, and ability to follow orders. Uniforms would be provided.

The benefits were enticing, although a thrill ran through you when you got to the part of the application that asked for a safeword.

It's amazing how quickly one can adapt to new situations, you think sometimes—how quickly the outre becomes routine.

You arrive at the papal suite precisely on time and unlock the door with the key you were given, under express guidance to only use it on the days you were to report to work and for the purposes of completing your duties. You open the little cupboard by the door, set your purse on a little shelf inside. Then you unzip your dress, slide it down off your shoulders and hips and step out of it, stow it neatly on the hanger provided. Your heels stay on, although you are expected to wipe the soles thoroughly with the cloth that waits on the shelf where you set your bag, and you do so dutifully. Finally, you take the short, white apron down from its hook and slip it over your head, careful not to muss your hair, and loop the ties into a neat, secure bow that rests at the small of your back.

You're not sure if he's here. Sometimes he's out when you come to clean, and you don't see him at all, but you carry out your work and the money appears in your bank account, just the same. Other times he is at home, but working on something in another room, and you barely see him. And sometimes… Well, sometimes you are called upon for the proverbial job description caveat of "other duties as required."

You do not call out or announce your presence. He knows when you are to arrive, and you are expressly forbidden from making a nuisance of yourself. Instead, you walk over to the coffee table in the living room to find your list of assignments for the day, printed in his careful hand on thick linen paper.

It's all simple enough—vacuum the carpets, clean the bathroom and the kitchen, dust all surfaces… and press his shirts. You blanch a bit at the last, knowing how particular he is about his clothing, how many opportunities for error exist in this one task.

You decide to put it off until the last.

You'll get the bathroom out of the way first, pulling on thick, elbow-length rubber gloves that protect your hands from the chemicals. You work more slowly, more methodically than you would in your own home. Sloppiness or inadequacy are punishable offenses, as is carelessly getting cleaner on your uniform and ruining the fine lingerie that your boss has so generously provided for you to wear.

You're on all fours, straining to wipe down the very back of the base of the toilet, when you hear his footsteps on the tile behind you. You start to turn around, to assume a proper pose of receptive attention—kneeling, hands folded in your lap, eyes cast down unless he demands eye contact—but he stops you.

"Keep working."

"Yes, Papa."

As he stands behind you, you become aware of how exposed you are through the transparent material of your panties, how your ass bobs back and forth with the motion of your scrubbing. Your cheeks flame from the shame and arousal that surges through you, and you wonder if he knows that you're getting wet.

He steps closer, but he doesn't touch you. Just inspects you, your work. You can feel his cold gaze rake over your skin.

Cold, like his voice when he says, "Do my shirts next. I'm going out tonight, and I need options."

"Yes, Papa."

"They're in a pile on my bed."

"Yes, Papa."

He pauses, as though considering giving you another order, but all he says before striding back out is, "Very good."

You don't want to do his shirts next. You want to work according to the order you decided for yourself. But you are not getting paid to make decisions. You are getting paid to listen. To obey. To be silent until spoken to. To respond promptly and politely to all questions—"Yes, Papa," "No, Papa."

And right now, you're getting paid to do his shirts.

When you've stowed your cleaning supplies away and washed your hands and made sure that your lipstick is unsmudged, not a hair out of place, you teeter on your heels to his bedroom. Walking into this room always feels charged, the air scented with his cologne, the lighting dim. It is decorated in dark colors, black and deep purple, and you're always aware of the huge bed, and the cabinet tucked against one wall. Of what is inside.

You turn away from the cabinet now, crossing to his closet and pulling down the ironing board that hangs from the door. You set the iron to warm and regard the pile of shirts he's laid out for you. There are so many of them. This is going to take ages.

You've managed to finish three when he comes in to check your progress. He says nothing to you, doesn't even acknowledge your presence, but you watch out of the corner of your eye as he picks up first one shirt and then another.

"This won't do." You set the iron aside and turn to face him, hands folded and eyes down as always, as he strides up to you, brandishing a black button-down. "See these wrinkles you missed?"

There are no wrinkles in the fabric, but you respond as you're supposed to: "Yes, Papa."

He shoves the shirt at you. "Do it again."

"Yes, Papa."

You set aside the shirt you were working on and return to the one he's handed you, trying to press the nonexistent wrinkles from the collar. He comes to stand close behind you, close enough to peer over your shoulder and supervise your work. His proximity feels like electricity against your back, and you find yourself glancing over your shoulder.

"Eyes on your work, schiava."

"Y-yes, Papa."

No sooner than you look away, you feel his hands against your skin, fingers tracing your bra straps. You swallow hard, and try to keep working, even when he cups your ass, even when one hand snakes around, under your apron, between your legs.

He slips his hand down the front of your panties, and if you wondered whether he knew you were wet earlier, there's no doubt that he does now.

You're not supposed to respond. You're supposed to keep quiet, to keep working. But his fingers are clever, and distracting, and your eyes slide shut, and you forget yourself for just a second…

A second that's long enough for the smell of singeing fabric to permeate the air, and for him to shove you away from the ironing board. You lose your balance on your heels and go down hard on one hip, the carpet scraping your skin painfully.

"Stupida troietta!" He bunches the shirt up in his hands and throws it in your face. "Is this the quality of work I pay you for? Huh?"

You can feel tears welling up in your eyes, and you stammer out a quiet, "No, Papa."

"No," he agrees. "It's not. So what am I to do with you?"

It's a rhetorical question. Answering would be a mistake, and besides, he already knows what he wants to do with you. You watch as he goes over to the cabinet and opens the lacquered black door, your heart racing, your veins thrumming with an inextricable mixture of desire and fear, each strengthening the other.

When he turns back to you, he's holding a glossy black riding crop. You're intimately familiar with every grain of the leather, every tiny stitch holding it together. After all, you were the one who polished it to a shine just last week.

He smacks it lightly against his palm, and you can't help but think how good it looks in his hand, how it matches his black hair and the cruelty in his eyes.

"Up," he commands. "Bend over the bed."

And so you stand on shaky legs, and you bend over with your forearms braced against the silky purple comforter, and you say, though your voice shakes, "Y-yes, Papa."

[freetheshit-outofyou]

For the "Well Regulated Militia" Crowd

57th CONGRESS, 1st Session H. R. 11 ,654. The "Dick" Bill by Gen. Charles Dick (Ohio), Chairman of the House Militia Committee, and in the Senate by Gen. Joseph R. Hawley (Connecticut), Chairman of the Senate Military Committee.

IN THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

February 21, 1902.

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled,

That the militia shall consist of every able-bodied male citizen of the respective States, Territories, and the district of Columbia, and every able- bodied male of foreign birth who has declared his intention to become a citizen, who is more than eighteen and less than forty- five years of age, and shall be divided into two classes —

The organized militia, Territory, or District of Columbia, or by such other designations as may be given them by the laws of the respective States or Territories, and the remainder to be known as the Enrolled Militia. Changed from:

SEC. 1625. Every able-bodied male citizen of the respective States, resident therein, who is of the age of eighteen years and under the age of forty-five years, shall be enrolled in the militia.

SEC. 1626. It shall be the duty of every captain or commanding officer of a company to enroll every such citizen residing within the bounds of his company, and all those who may, from time to time, arrive at the age of eighteen years, or who, being at the age of eighteen years and under the age of forty-five years, come to reside within his bounds.

Sac. 1627. Each captain or commanding officer shall, without delay, notify every such citizen of his enrollment by a proper noncommissioned officer of his company, who may prove the notice. And any notice or warning to a citizen enrolled to attend a company, battalion, or regimental muster, which is according 57TH CONGRESS, to the laws of the State in which it is given for that purpose, shall be deemed a legal notice of his enrollment.

1628. Every citizen shall, after notice of his enrollment, be constantly provided with a good musket or firelock, of a sufficient bore for balls of the eighteenth part of a pound, a sufficient bayonet and belt, two spare flints, and a knapsack, a pouch with a box therein to contain not less than twenty-four cartridges, suited to the bore of his musket or firelock, each cartridge to contain a proper quantity of powder and ball; or with a good rifle, knapsack, shot pouch, and powderhorn, twenty balls suited to the bore of his rifle, and a quarter of a pound of powder, and shall appear so armed, accoutered, and provided when called out to exercise or into service, except that when called out on company days to exercise only he may appear without knapsack; and all arms, ammunition, and accouterments so provided and required shall be held exempted from all suits, distresses, executions, or sales for debt or for the payment of taxes. Each commissioned officer shall be armed with a sword or hanger and spontoon. For the "Source" crowd who can't Google.

[fox-buried-in-maple-leaves]

Good Morning, Agent Peregrine!

“Good morning, Agent Peregrine.”

Honoré’s eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. White tile decorated above him, decorated the walls, and the floor. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, long brown hair falling into his eyes, it framed his face. The alarm beside him went off, it grated his ears. He sighed, turning and slamming the top of it to silence it.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he narrowed his eyes. He didn’t remember going to bed without socks. He cradled his head, bending forward some amount. He really was out of it. Honoré sighed, tilting his head back again to stretch his neck.

“Agent Peregrine!”

Honoré turned his attention to the screen that spoke to him, tired as he read the weather displayed on it. “You have an email from K.Kaslana, would you like to read it?” Honoré pinched the bridge of his nose, did he? He stood up, hip cracking as he limped towards the large screen. 

“Dismiss, Judah.”

“It has been marked as High Priority!”

His head was pounding, he reached up, releasing the rest of his hair from the ponytail he’d fallen asleep in. Honoré looked up at the screen again, his vision blurred slightly, but he blinked the exhaustion away. He reached up, sliding his fingers across the screen. His emails opened, the computer immediately flipping to Serpent’s email.

“Would you like me to read this to you, Agent Peregrine?”

“No thank you, Judah.”

“Very well!”

Honoré squinted against the light from the screen, eyes scanning the words written out before him. “Malfunctions in the Elysian Realm? Again..?” Green-brown eyes flicked to the date of the email, it was dated from early this morning. 

He groaned.

The young man turned, running a hand through his hair as he walked back to his bedside. “Shall I inform the sire that you’ll be attending your duties?” Judah’s grating computer generated voice made him want to stab his hairpin into his ears.

But Honoré merely grabbed his pin from the bedside table, twisting his hair, he stuck the pin through, securing it. “Yes, Judah.” The agent continued his path to his closet, throwing open the doors. The same outfits lined the hangers, neatly organized, easily within reach. He grabbed one of the hangers.

Honoré tossed the clothing onto the bed, shutting the doors behind him. “Email sent to K.Kaslana!” He stripped himself of his underwear, changing quickly, efficiently. He was consistent, if anything. Consistent. Honoré grimaced, hand gripping his bedside table as pain shot through his skull. 

“Your vitals are faltering, Agent Peregrine. Should I send for-”

“No! I’m fine, Judah.”

Honoré stood straight, he was entrusted with the task of additional maintenance of the Elysian Realm. A bonus of his close relationship with Klein. His duty. The agent carefully pulled his clothing on, clipping his belt, adjusting his jewelry. 

“The Frozen Shard, please.”

A soft hissing sound filled the room as a compartment in the screen began to roll out. His weapon was imprinted into the casing. Honoré wrapped the whiplike bottom around his arm, gripping onto the shaft of the glowing blue scythe. 

Ice formed over his finger guards and spread along the shaft as he stepped back from the screen. “Good luck, Agent Peregrine!” He never needed luck.

The halls were cold and empty, surprisingly barren of any of the others. But Honoré paid the silence no mind. He was far more focused on the task at hand, he had more than enough to do without the maintenance. 

His heels clicked on the tile floors as he turned down another hallway, it was quiet here too. Almost too quiet. Honoré stopped as he reached the stairs down to where the equipment had been set up. Maybe an important mission had been called? But usually he would be sent.

Honoré shook his head as a throbbing pain spread across the back of his neck upwards. He reached out, gripping the railing as his grip tightened on his scythe. His vision spotted pink, the Honkai radiation in his body pulsated with his pain.

“Ugh..” 

He lowered himself down a step, carefully making his way down the stairs. But with every step he took, the pain in his head grew greater, it felt like his skull was splitting. Honoré took shaky breaths as he finally stepped foot on the landing at the base of the stone staircase.

“Huh?” The guards usually stationed outside of the simulation room were gone. “Ram?” He ignored the pain as he picked up the pace, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Eland?” Honoré received no response and he softly cursed under his breath. That wasn’t good at all.

He pushed open the door to the room. 

The sound of metal cutting through air, he felt the wind knocked out of him.

[gumnut-logic]

Once upon a time, Nutty wrote Virgil/Kayo...

This short is a favourite and is great to fall asleep to :D No warnings, only that it is V/K.

-o-o-o-

It had been a horribly long day.

Virgil rolled his left shoulder, his baldric shifting with the movement, rubbing against the tough fabric of his uniform. Everything ached.

The slog from the hangers to the villa took forever, and had too many stairs, and by the time he made it to the residential levels, he was about to give up, find a corner of the corridor and just crash.

As he finally approached his room, he found his door ajar and soft music wafting through the gap.

Just want to sleep.

He leant against the wall outside his door, forehead to the softly textured drywall, eyes closed. The kitbag he was carrying in his right hand dropped to the floor.

Just a minute.

A minute.

A hand brushed against his cheek, soft skin catching on his stubble.

“Love, come inside.”

His eyes stayed closed, but he leant into her touch.

“C’mon. I’ve run the bath.”

And she was leading him, her hand on his arm, gently drawing him through the door.

He let her.

The door clicked softly closed behind him.

The music was a little louder now, but still wafting through the air. He realised he recognised the tune. It was one of his own recordings. One he had written for her. He smiled despite himself, and reaching down, kissed her softly.

She responded, but pulled away shortly, fiddling with the buckles on his baldric. “Let’s get you out of these.”

The links on his belt clinked as he unfastened the harness, letting it drop to the floor. The baldric caught on his hair as he lifted it over his head, but her hands were there, tugging it gently from his grasp until it too, lay discarded on the floor.

She unstrapped the remote from his wrist and pulled off his glove, quickly followed by its partner. The air in the room caught his sweat-damp hands and cooled them.

The rip of microvelcro and his scuff pads fell discarded at his feet.

He touched a finger to her cheek. “Love you.”

She smiled just a little. “I love you, too, but you smell and you are exhausted.” Her hand cupped his cheek. “Bath and then bed.”

Her green eyes were just beautiful.

A tug of a heavy duty zipper, and she was pulling his uniform off his shoulders. When she yanked on his right side, he couldn’t help but flinch.

“What’s wrong?”

He sighed. “Nothing. Just wrenched it pulling Gordon back into Two.”

Those eyes measured him up before she continued to peel off his uniform.

This would be so much more fun if he had the energy.

His arms clear, she let the material drop to his waist. Removing the helmet seal, she gently pulled off his undershirt, dropping that, too, to the floor, before examining his shoulder thoroughly, inspecting the damage.

He wondered if she used that expression when assessing Thunderbird Shadow.

Her fingers touching his skin made him shiver as the cooler air evaporated perspiration.

He caught her hands. “I’m fine.”

Her lips thinned. “No, you are not.” But she pulled his fingers up and kissed them softly. “Now, drop your drawers, beautiful.”

A stare and a smirk, and he removed his boots and the remainder of his uniform as she disappeared into the bathroom.

Steam floated out the door and he was drawn in to follow her.

She had filled the large bath until almost full, aromatics drifted up from its steaming surface. The lure of the hot water was calling him.

“Get in, love.” And she was divesting herself of her clothing, obviously intending to join him.

The first step in was stimulating. The slow immersion of his aching body was ecstasy.

God.

He closed his eyes, relaxing gently against the curve of the porcelain. The heat worked its way in, releasing tension, unwinding muscle.

“Oh, god.”

It was wonderful.

And for a moment, he just existed, breathing fragrant steam.

Water movement and slim hands were touching him, and he let her shift him as he floated a little. She slipped behind and settled him back against her. Her softness cushioned his body, his head coming to rest back against her shoulder.

He was so much bigger than she and he immediately felt their positions should be reversed and he moved to make it so. But she held him back. “Relax, love, I’ve got you.”

Her hands wrapped around his chest, and he sighed, letting it all go. No question of trust.

She had him.

And she loved him.

-o-o-o-

Time hung for awhile, the only movement the thermals rising from the hot surface of the water, and if she hadn’t moved, he would have drifted off to sleep right there. Quite happily.

But there was a long day to wash from his skin.

Her body moved against him as she reached for the body soap. He resisted almost petulantly, wanting nothing more than to dose off right there and then. But she began to wash him.

If the water was relaxing, then at her touch he came undone.

She lathered soap across his shoulders and torso, clever fingers pushing, kneading, working out the knots that had knotted knots. He groaned as she dug her fingers into his trapezius at the curve of his neck and back down into his shoulder. His whole body began to melt into the water it just felt so good.

Her hands found his sides, his abdomen, soap frothed, floating across the water’s surface as her hands slipped below it.

She shifted her position, moving slowly out from behind him, letting his rest once again against the warm porcelain, and then she was working his thigh, massaging down the length of his leg, first one, then the other.

At any other time, he might have reached up, wrapped his arms around her, and drawn her down into a kiss, a caress, and bedroom activities that had nothing to do with sleep. But the simple gesture of a slight hand on his chest, a gentle kiss on his forehead, and he had permission to just fall, to just be, and to take what she was so lovingly giving him.

Once she decided he was clean, she curled up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his chest.

They didn’t speak.

The gentle lap of water.

Breath.

He drifted.

Her soft voice. “Time for bed.”

“Mmmm.” He didn’t want to move.

But she disturbed the silence, by shifting away and standing up, stepping out of the bath. Water splashed and dripped. “Come, Virgil love, you’ll be safer in bed.”

Her hand took one of his.

And he forced himself out of the bath. He took the towel and dried himself, running it through his hair to soak up the dampness.

As he stumbled almost blindly into the bedroom, he caught a flashback to the days before he and Kayo. Days where he had been equally tired and fallen to bed sometimes still half in his uniform. The time he had woken and found he’d bled all over his pillow because he had forgotten to dress a cut on his forehead.

Those days were gone.

Some days it was Kayo who came home dead on her feet. Others were like today. When they both came back wrecked, they still had each other. They still made sure the other was safe, cared for, loved with every touch.

There were days when this job just simply hurt.

And those days were the days they valued each other more than any other.

Virgil let himself drop to the soft mattress, falling flat on his belly, grabbing the pillow and automatically snuggling himself into it. Kayo followed and touched his back, massaging just gently, until he rolled over, wrapped her in his arms, and drew her down to the bed, curling his body around her.

She came willingly, her hands over his. Twisting for just a moment, she caught him in a kiss before reaching over and turning off the light.

Darkness fell.

“I love you.” Whispered into her ear.

Her hands squeezed his as she whispered back. “Love you back.”

And the world faded as he drifted off to sleep.

Home.

Safe.

Loved.

-o-o-o-

[micheal-jordan]

The Enduring Appeal of Leather Biker Jackets: A Timeless Fashion Staple

Leather biker jackets have long been synonymous with rebellious style and effortless cool. From their origins in motorcycle culture to their prominent place in high fashion, these jackets have cemented their status as a timeless wardrobe essential. Here’s a deep dive into the allure of leather biker jackets, their historical significance, and how to incorporate them into your modern wardrobe.

A Brief History of the Leather Biker Jacket

The leather biker jacket was born out of necessity in the early 20th century. In 1928, Irving Schott, the founder of Schott NYC, designed the first motorcycle jacket for Harley-Davidson, naming it the "Perfecto" after his favorite cigar. This jacket was built for durability and protection, featuring a heavy-duty leather exterior, asymmetrical zipper, and belted waist—design elements that are still present in modern versions.

Throughout the decades, leather biker jackets have transcended their utilitarian roots to become a symbol of rebellion and counterculture. Icons like Marlon Brando in "The Wild One" and James Dean in "Rebel Without a Cause" solidified the jacket’s association with the cool, rebellious spirit of the 1950s. The punk rock movement of the 1970s further cemented its status, with bands like The Ramones making it their uniform of choice.

The Modern Leather Biker Jacket

Today's leather biker jackets retain their classic elements while incorporating contemporary twists. Designers experiment with various colors, cuts, and embellishments, ensuring there’s a style for everyone. Despite these updates, the core features—a sturdy leather build, zippers, and a snug fit—remain integral, preserving the jacket's original spirit.

Styling Your Leather Biker Jacket

Casual Cool

For a laid-back yet stylish look, pair your leather biker jacket with a simple white t-shirt and distressed jeans. Add a pair of combat boots or sneakers to complete the ensemble. This classic combination is perfect for everyday wear and effortlessly exudes a sense of rugged charm.

Smart Casual

Elevate your leather biker jacket for a smart casual look by pairing it with tailored trousers and a crisp button-down shirt. Opt for a jacket in a sleek, fitted style to maintain a polished appearance. Finish the look with loafers or Chelsea boots. This outfit strikes the perfect balance between edgy and sophisticated, making it suitable for a variety of occasions.

Night Out Glam

For a night out, go for a bold and glamorous look by wearing your leather biker jacket over a little black dress or a fitted skirt and top combo. Choose a jacket with metallic accents or unique detailing to add an extra layer of flair. Complete the outfit with high-heeled boots or stilettos and statement jewelry for a look that's sure to turn heads.

Caring for Your Leather Biker Jacket

To ensure your leather biker jacket remains a staple in your wardrobe for years to come, proper care is essential:

Cleaning: Regularly wipe down your jacket with a damp cloth to remove surface dirt. For deeper cleaning, use a leather cleaner specifically designed for the material. Avoid soaking the leather to prevent damage.

Conditioning: Leather can dry out over time, so it's important to condition it periodically with a high-quality leather conditioner. This keeps the material supple and prevents cracking.

Storage: Store your leather biker jacket in a cool, dry place. Use a padded hanger to help maintain its shape and avoid hanging it in direct sunlight to prevent fading.

Ethical and Sustainable Choices

As awareness of environmental and ethical issues grows, many brands now offer leather alternatives made from sustainable materials. Vegan leather jackets, made from polyurethane or innovative materials like pineapple leather (Piñatex) and mushroom leather (Mylo), offer an eco-friendly option without compromising on style or durability.

When purchasing a leather biker jacket, consider supporting brands that prioritize ethical practices and sustainability. Look for companies that use ethically sourced leather, support fair labor practices, and implement environmentally friendly production processes. If you are looking for a cool leather biker jacket for yourself “Lilibet Clothing” would be a great option for you.

Conclusion

The leather biker jacket is more than just a piece of clothing; it's a symbol of timeless style, rebellion, and individuality. Its versatility allows it to be styled in numerous ways, making it a valuable addition to any wardrobe. Whether you’re dressing for a casual day out, a smart casual event, or a glamorous night out, a leather biker jacket can effortlessly elevate your look. Invest in this iconic piece, care for it properly, and enjoy its enduring appeal for years to come.

Author:

Micheal Jordan is an expert in fashion designing having 7+ years of experience in this field.

[takeeachdayonebookatatime]

Why did you elbow me? 195

Achilles Castle part 97

Lemonade and lies Part 40

Nicholas (Nick) Stephen McSwarek undercover part 4

Kate: pov besides studying up for today's meeting I think we should get to know each other better. Nick asks if I like water because he is not a big fan. Says he almost drowned as a toddler. Well I almost drowned in the Hudson River. Me and Castle were working a case with the CIA and my squad car went into the Hudson and my seat belt was jammed. Castle had to shoot at it to free me. He had to do mouth to mouth until I started breathing, I then proceeded to throw up everywhere then I was checked out by the medics just to make sure I didn't have any complications. Nick is an only child and both his parents are still alive. Well my mother was murdered I explain as much as I can up until the airport hanger the rest is for another story. My dad didn't take her death well, he was an alcoholic and is sober now, been for a while.

Officer Nicholas (Nick) Stephen McSwarek: pov i’m so thankful I haven't had any near death experiences on the job. I guess almost drowning in the Hudson can count for you as a near death experience. Kate says it is not my first, I was locked in a freezer with Castle. Well Kate I'm a hard worker, I was in the military before being a cop. Addicted to coffee and chocolate, I could eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day if allowed.

Kate: pov we talk a little bit more about ourselves. I was so obsessed with my mother's case that I almost lost my life, I used to be a control freak. I'm getting better at it. My friends and family worry too much about me.

Ryan: pov Esposito informs me Kate might have to go undercover and he will be in charge until she gets back, I'm looking at surveillance Camera footage from the area where the murder took place. Esposito says something about Lanie finding something during her autopsy.

Officer Nicholas (Nick) Stephen McSwarek: pov I understand they don't want to hear you died in the line of duty. A guy I knew from the gang unit was killed in the line of duty a few years ago. It was so hard going to his funeral, his wife was pregnant at the time and they had a 2 year old at home.

Kate: pov that must have been horrible, my Captain also died in the line of duty. I have never been able to attend another funeral since his I actually have severe PTSD from everything that went on with his funeral. I explain to Nick what went on before the funeral and how he died.

Officer Nicholas (Nick) Stephen McSwarek: pov wow that must be hard with his betrayal and lies about your mother's case no wonder you have PTSD. Now that i'm thinking about it she said PTSD from his funeral. I get it, it's hard going to funerals after losing someone you are very close with. Kate says well dying at one does make you afraid of funerals. I’m so confused, what do you mean?

Kate: pov you've never died at a funeral before. Nick says you say that like you have died at one before? Because I have.

Officer Nicholas (Nick) Stephen McSwarek: pov you've died before when, Kate says my Captain's funeral. I was shot in the chest on my left side. In the ambulance I went into cardiac arrest they had to use the defibrillator on me and bag me. I had severe chest trauma and blood loss. At the hospital my friend Lanie, who is a medical examiner, continued CPR on me until another Dr took over for her. I was rushed into emergency heart surgery. My boyfriend at the time Cardiac surgeon Josh Davidson happened to be on shift. I had a collapsed lung that required a chest tube. The trauma was so severe that they had to do a thoracotomy. It's a massive horizontal incision on your side from your chest to your back. Josh then inserted a breathing tube since I wasn't breathing and my stats were dropping the bullet hit/grazed my left inferior pulmonary vein and left ventricle causing a cardiac tampon my surgeon Dr Kovaks who took over for Josh had to cut some of my pericardium to let the blood out and repair my ventricle, I then went into vfib and they had to use the internal paddles twice, they had to do manual heart massages I then went into cardiac arrest again and flatlined. Dr Kovaks eventually brought me back to life. I had to have a massive transfusion of blood because my blood loss was so severe. I spent a week in the CICU unconscious with a breathing tube breathing for me covered in wires. I don't think people thought I was going to make it, but here I am alive and doing better. I still struggle a little but that is expected after everything I went through. My immune system still isn't great and I have to take heart meds daily for the rest of my life for my arrhythmia. I'm still working on my PTSD. I know my triggers and stay away from them as best as I can.

Kate: pov I'm also allergic to pineapple, waiting for my allergy test results to see if i'm allergic to anything else. Should know in 2 to 3 days. I think the both of us should pack just in case we have to go undercover. How long will it take you to pack, it will take me a while to pack. Since we are using your car, can you pick me up from the loft and then the both of us can go to the meeting? Make sure to throw some food in a cardboard box/ cooler if you have one and grab some ice at the gas station while you fill up the car. At the loft Castle is still home I explain everything to him and Martha quickly.

Martha: pov I'm in charge of putting the food from Katherine's cabinet in a cardboard box and some stuff from the fridge that she can eat. I grab the cooler and put some fruit and a few other things in it. To be continued. ……..

[artinstallersmelbourne]

Picture Hanging Specialists: Handle your Artwork with Professional Care to Avoid Unwanted Incidents!

Working with experienced picture hanging specialists increases your chances of dealing with true experts in the field of art logistics. They possess the knowledge and abilities to make your images appear not only useful but also appealing. Professionals will ensure that the artwork becomes a subtle and pertinent addition to home design; this is not about pick-and-hang types of things.

Professional picture hanging services providers have essential hanging equipment, such as heavy-duty hangers and wall hooks, aside from the requisite abilities. Regardless of how big and hefty the image is, they can hang it properly thanks to their professional equipment. One of the frequent problems is when individuals try to use the tools on their own and are most likely incompetent.

Avoid Twirling or Heavy Lifting of Artwork

Hiring expert picture hangers relieves you of the burden of carrying those hefty solid wooden frames and the need to balance art, hardware, tools, and levellers. The experts have a method for hanging pictures that will get the work of art up and on display in no time at all because of the many years of expertise we have under our belts. Families with young children or dogs will want to spend extra money to hire experts to display the art in their homes. Businesses and public spaces that purchase art must also purchase a reputable picture hanging service.

You're Worried About Your Safety

Professional picture hangers can make sure that your artwork is securely fastened to the walls of your house. Art can cause serious harm to spectators as well as costly works of art that could be ruined as a result of a fall.

Even if artwork improves a place's ambience, if it is not safe, it poses a risk to the business. Nobody wants a painting to fall on them when they're eating supper or waiting somewhere.

Source

[qocsuing]

HIGH SPEED GEAR REFLEX IFAK SYSTEM ROLL AND CARRIER

HIGH SPEED GEAR REFLEX IFAK SYSTEM ROLL AND CARRIER

The ReFlex? IFAK was developed with direct input from active-duty medical personnel. The ReFlex is a two-piece system, med roll and carrier, that is designed to carry organized medical supplies with ambidextrous accessibility. The system, constructed primarily with heavy-duty nylon laminate, allows rapid deployment of medical supplies. This system was designed around the medical supplies included in the U.S. Army-issued IFAK. The ReFlex Carrier and ReFlex Med Roll can be purchased together or separately.To get more news about nano zeolite hemostatic combat gauze, you can visit rusuntacmed.com official website. Developed with direct input from active-duty medical personnel, the ReFlex Hanger IFAK system from High Speed Gear is a two-piece system — med roll and hanger carrier — designed to attach directly to the hook and loop system of a plate carrier to carry organized medical supplies with ambidextrous accessibility. The system, constructed primarily with heavy-duty nylon laminate, allows rapid deployment of medical supplies and was designed around the medical supplies included in the U.S. Army-issued IFAK. The ReFlex Hanger and ReFlex Med Roll can be purchased together or separately. ? Features HANK? (High Abrasion-Resistant Neoprene Kevlar? composite) grab handles for long-term durability ? Can mount vertically or horizontally on belts 1.5 "-2.25", and horizontally on MOLLE ? Intentional organization features put all supplies in easy reach ? Carry handle and shock cord loops allow the roll to be attached to a patient, or hung from an I.V. rack ? Gloves can be accessed via side slots with or without removing the roll from the carrier ? "Mini" MOLLE allows for precise fit on belts as narrow as 1.5" or two-row MOLLE panels ? Features loop panels on med roll and carrier for label patches (Medical Cross Patch included)

[wrxthfulguard]

Headcanon: Don’s room in the hotel

Since the lobby/foyer is where he must first report in for his patrols/shifts, Don’s room in the hotel is on the ground floor, room 01.

Inside, one can see that it’s the typical hotel room... Though a bit bigger than the average hotel room you might see these days, it is clean and tidy due to both Don and Niffty keeping the room that way.

The room’s closet takes one wall, a bit big enough to almost be made into a walk-in closet, this is where Don’s clothes are stored... There’s also a small vault containing holy weapons that are to be used for the yearly cleanses only.

Don’s cabinet and night stand is also neat and tidy, but one should take note of the various small gifts from his allies sitting on them, but not enough to crowd the cabinets entirely.

Don’s night stand has a wireless speaker with a built-in alarm clock and phone charger mount, thus he is able to use his Hellphone to play music while it is charging, this was a gift from Charlie upon joining the hotel’s staff as a ‘hotel room warming’ gift of sorts.

Don’s bathroom has a standard walk in shower, although the rest of the bathroom is best describe as a high-end average fancy hotel-type.

The room has a small space where Don can do his workouts or to meditate, only a set of small barbells occupy one corner of the room for weight training.

... Oddly enough, there is no televisions in the room, this is due to Don’s wariness towards modern tech (and Vox being a cause for said wariness)... An old vintage radio sits on a counter, that was a ‘gift’ from Alastor.

And finally. a coat hanger sits near the door, but it’s only used to hold his duty belt when not in use (Don keeps his gun in his night stand’s cabinet while his knife is stored under his bed’s pillow for safety reasons)

[mixelation]

i wrote more. the joke here is that Tori is behaving completely normally

Kakashi knew he was acting out of character for ANBU Hound, and that this would definitely start weird rumors and lose him some important ANBU cool points. But also all of ANBU had to have seen him trying (and occasionally failing) to wrangle a bunch of genin by now, so he might not have any remaining cool points. 

ANBU Fox was running supplies today, and he righted to abrupt, excited attention when they walked in. 

“ANBU Hound!” he greeted. “You’re back.”

“Don’t want to get rusty,” Kakashi said by way of explanation. What he really wanted to say was, This girl’s personality is so abrasive Hokage-sama decided to pull me off sensei duty because Captain Uchiha threatened to walk rather than work with her. Isn’t that the funniest shit you’ve ever heard?

But obviously all that would lose him whatever remaining cool points he had, if any. Instead, he gestured at Tori and said, “This is my new temp agent.”

ANBU Fox took Tori’s sizes, marking them down in his registry before he went off to find her a uniform. 

“Standard weapons?” he asked, and Tori glanced at Kakashi. 

“Get her a polearm instead of a sword,” Kakashi said.  

As a temp agent, Tori wasn’t meant to move any of her borrowed uniform or weapons out of ANBU HQ except on her mission itself. Kakashi led her next to the locker rooms, to show her where the temp lockers were and see if he could bully anyone into loaning her stuff to clean her mask and armor with. She followed him obediently, uniform held to her chest and collapsible staff hanging from her belt. 

“The mission isn’t on an urgent timeframe, so tomorrow I want to do some team exercises in preparation,” Kakashi explained as he led her through the break room. 

There were only three people in there, but they all perked up at his appearance. An unmasked young man got up and followed them into the locker room. 

“ANBU Butterfly,” the kid introduced himself while Tori fiddled with the lock on one of the temp agent lockers. “I heard a rumor you got called back in. I’m honored to meet you…”

He babbled. Tori hung her uniform and the hangers in the locker and then set her weapons and mask on the middle shelf. Then she took out a brush. 

“Do not boobytrap your locker,” Kakashi said, interrupting whatever ANBU Butterfly was telling him. Another three ANBU agents were now haunting this locker aisle, waiting to speak to him. 

Tori blinked innocently back at him. 

“I heard hazing was a real problem,” she said. 

“You’re not going to get hazed,” Kakashi told her. Someone might try, because it was an ongoing problem, but Kakashi didn’t put up with that type of shit. He’d shut it down. 

Also, even if it was normal for ANBU agents to boobytrap their lockers, most of them didn’t have the power to… seal someone into a tree, or whatever the hell Tori did in her free time. Letting her put seals on her locker seemed like a headache waiting to happen. 

“Okay,” Tori said simply, and the brush disappeared. Kakashi found himself inexplicably relieved she’d obeyed without argument. 

“Aw, let her,” ANBU Tiger cooed. “Having someone fuck up your seals and steal your armor anyway is a right of passage.”

Tori straightened up just slightly. No, Kakashi thought at her, do NOT interpret that as a challenge.

“Does anyone have anything productive to say to me or my agent?” Kakashi asked. The seedy smile vanished from Tiger’s face. 

Kakashi walked Tori through the rest of the tour quickly. There was a lot more to ANBU HQ, but as a temp agent, she just needed to know about the showers and the hallway with their briefing room for tomorrow. Despite the tour being short, a total of seven people attempted to talk to him. 

If only I weren’t so popular, Kakashi thought. Curse my natural charisma and good looks. 

“Maa, does anyone have anything to clean out an old mask for Nightingale?” he asked. “I’ve been gone so long, I no longer have any on hand, you see…”

He, too, had a temp agent locker, currently empty of anything at all. Embarrassing. 

Of the seven people vying for his attention, Kakashi did actually want to catch up with a couple. He turned to converse with an old teammate. This made him miss Tiger telling Tori something, but she nodded and walked off. Then Tiger looked incredibly smug. 

“Oi, what did you tell her?” Kakashi asked, once the person he wanted to talk to excused herself. 

“Oh, the temp?” Tiger said. “I told her ANBU Weasel just got back, and that he always has cleaning supplies.”

Tiger grinned, pleased with himself. Next to him, Butterfly winced. 

“That’s so mean,” Butterfly said with a laugh. “He’s going to eat her alive. He’s always extra mean right after missions.”

Fuck, Kakashi thought, and not for the reasons Tiger at sent her to Itachi. 

xXx

Itachi had made his team run all night, so he could get home in time to shower and take a nap before Sasuke got home. The fact that he hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours had put him in a cranky mood. He’d told off the agent manning the supply desk for three minor uniform violations. 

“Hey,” Tori said, and Itachi looked up from his locker. He’d known the Hokage was planning to put her on a team temporarily, which was the only thing that held him back from telling her off for sneaking into ANBU HQ again. 

Just because they were dating didn’t mean she had a free pass to break protocol this bad. 

“What?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows at him, and he remembered boyfriends were supposed to be sweet. “Can I help you?”

This came out much more terse than he necessarily meant, but Tori was unphased. She’d talked to him after plenty of rough missions before. 

“I want to clean out a mask,” she said. “Do you have anything to do that?”

Itachi had a sanitizing spray and a pile of handkerchiefs he kept to clean out his own mask and armor. He handed the bottle and a handkerchief over to her without further commentary. 

“Thanks,” she said. “Back in a minute.”

She walked off. Itachi, having just cleaned out his own mask, set it in his locker and then went back to unsnapping his outer armor and hanging it. He’d finish wiping it down when Tori came back with his cleaner. Then he started on organizing things from his mission pack. He kept leftover food supplies in a sealable bin at the bottom of his locker, in case of bugs or mice. Then he sorted his weapons and supplies by what needed maintenance or not, and then extra clothes that needed to be laundered or not. 

Kakashi was suddenly in front of him. 

“What?” Itachi asked. Then he remembered he was friends with Kakashi and said, “Can I help you?”

“I may have lost my wayward temp agent,” Kakashi said. He sounded oddly nervous. “Please tell me you did not tell her to sanitize her mask with strange and possible forbidden techniques.”

“You don’t have to babysit every single thing she does,” Itachi replied, annoyed. He didn’t understand where this attitude about Tori had come from. She was a perfectly competent ninja. 

Behind Kakashi, ANBU Tiger was skulking around with a much more interested face than the situation deserved. 

“What?” Itachi asked him. 

“Oh, nothing…” Tiger replied, looking anywhere but at Itachi. Across the aisle, one of Itachi's team members snorted. 

“He didn’t bite her head off, sorry,” she told Tiger. 

Tori came around the corner again, her mask in hand. Kakashi visibly relaxed. 

“Okay,” she said, clearly addressing Itachi and Kakashi simultaneously. “I wiped it down three times, but it still smells like mildew.”

“What did he give you?” Kakashi asked, and Tori held up the spray bottle. “Oh, for things that come out of long-term storage, you need something stronger…”

Kakashi and Tori had what Itachi considered to be a completely normal conversation about mask hygiene. He accepted his own cleaner back from her and started wiping down his armor while they talked across him. 

For some reason, it felt like the entire locker room had eyes on them. ANBU Tiger, despite not having a locker on this aisle, was goggling at them, mouth half-open. Someone was on top of the lockers, peering down at what had to be the most mundane conversation possible. The atmosphere was inexplicably tense for no reason. 

Itachi finished with his armor and shoved the handkerchiefs he and Tori had used into the bag he used for dirty laundry. Kakashi and Tori were arguing over using a bleach solution. Everyone was staring for no reason. 

Itachi sighed and leaned his head back. 

“Everyone not a captain,” he announced, “get out of the locker room.”

All the agents fled immediately, with one obvious exception. 

Tori squinted at him. “Are you banning me too?” she asked. 

Itachi wasn’t even sure. She hadn’t been the one annoying him, but also the command technically applied to her, and Itachi didn’t like going back on his commands. 

“I’m overruling him,” Kakashi said before he could answer, leaning against a locker casually. “You can stay. Maybe if we break into some lockers, we’ll find a better cleaner.”

“You’re technically not a captain anymore,” Itachi replied. “And don’t do that.”

“Overruled,” Kakashi said, and Itachi could hear the teasing smile on his face. 

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to go to over conflicting commands,” Tori said. “The ANBU commander?”

Itachi pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s the Hokage,” he said. 

“I don’t think Hokage-sama will side with you over Kakashi…” Tori said, now also teasing him. 

This was why Hokage-sama wouldn’t just let Itachi command the mission Tori had been tapped for. Oh well. 

“There’s a washer in the small breakroom now,” Itachi said. “It was meant for masks, but it cracks them about a quarter of the time, so no one uses it. You could try that.”

Regular ANBU tended to be protective of their masks, but Itachi couldn’t help but notice Tori was holding a bird mask. He didn’t think she’d mind if she accidentally broke it and had to ask for a new one. It wasn’t like she was afraid of admitting she’d broken something to the Hokage. 

“Oh, interesting,” Kakashi said, rubbing his chin performatively. “Maa, Itachi, would you mind showing her? I want to hunt down my other two agents.”

For almost anyone else, Itachi would abandon them in favor of going home and taking a shower. Tori, and anyone competent enough to be tapped for ANBU, was perfectly capable of finding the small breakroom and using a machine that had printed instructions on it. 

But Tori was his friend and former teammate, and he liked spending time with her. He was willing to go show her in person. 

Also, he supposed as he led her downstairs, probably boyfriends did stuff like this? Should he hold her hand? No, that would be unprofessional… then again, it might help with the complete lack of rumors about his love life?

He ended up taking her hand and holding it for approximately twenty seconds. Then they mutually dropped it. Neither of them really liked that, and there were no witnesses. 

There were two agents chatting in the small breakroom, and they fled the second they saw Itachi. News of his bad moods often preceded him. 

The machine didn’t crack her mask. Tori made a show of inhaling it deeply. 

“Fresh as a daisy,” she proclaimed. Then she smiled at him. “Hey, do you want to grab dinner or something before they ship me off? You can tell me how your mission went.”

“Can you do lunch tomorrow?” he asked. 

“No idea,” Tori replied. “I’m supposed to do… pre-training, or something?”

“Ah,” Itachi said. “Kakashi is unlikely to let you go for lunch, then.”

“What if I ask him reeeeally nicely?”

She joked around a bit, and then Itachi offered to come find her around lunch time in case she did happen to be free. (Although, he did doubt it-- Kakashi wasn’t one to go easy on his teams, unless being a genin sensei had worn him down.) If not, he’d come bring dessert to her apartment after he had dinner with his family. 

“You’ll be too tired to do anything else,” he told her. 

“Ominous,” Tori replied.

oh yeah i wrote this last night

“No,” Shisui said, flatly. “Absolutely not.”

He still maintained his proper at ease pose, feet apart and arms folded behind his back. It was a stark contrast to his rather blatant words. 

“I recognize you have a very… strong interpersonal relationship,” Minato said carefully. “But like all our shinobi, Tori knows how to behave professionally when on missions.”

“With all due respect,” Shisui replied, “if she wasn’t a problem, you could hand her to any other captain.”

Minato’s lips thinned. He had wasted so many years believing Tori was the most personable member of Team 4, and now look what he and Kushina had allowed her to become. Now that he needed to temporarily pull a fuinjutsu master for ANBU, it was becoming clear she’d somehow ended up on the shit list of several key ANBU members. She was as bad as Itachi in terms of reputation, except she had to clout within ANBU to command respect. 

He could just put Kushina on this mission, but her personality was wildly unsuited for ANBU. Tori was theoretically a much better pick. She could be incredibly discreet when she wanted to be. 

Shisui’s dark eyes watched him, waiting for a reply. Unlike any member of Team 4, Shisui was not openly judging him for his decisions, or the fact that he’d just let Tori piss off half of ANBU and done nothing to intervene. 

“Uchiha Itachi recommended you,” Minato said finally. “He believes your skills would complement, and that despite your differences, you would be able to read each other well, despite never having run a mission together.”

He could tell Shisui was fighting hard to not react, like a good ANBU. 

“Perhaps Itachi should captain this mission then,” Shisui said finally. “They have an excellent mission record together.”

“You know I can’t assign them together,” Minato replied. 

In theory, he could, because he could do whatever he wanted as Hokage. But now that they were dating, he didn’t want to throw them together into a high-stakes mission until after they’d had some trainings on workplace romances and run a few easier missions together, if they wanted to explore that. Romantic feelings and missions could be a disaster for both the mission and the relationship. 

(Kushina would be so upset if they broke up.)

Shisui took a deep breath. 

“If you force this,” Shisui said, steely eyed, “I will consider resigning from ANBU.”

Wow, Minato thought. He hadn’t thought they’d disliked each other this much. 

“I will take your opinion into consideration,” Minato said, and then dismissed him. 

Minato distracted himself with some more mission assignments for an hour, but he inevitably came back around to the Tori problem. 

The unfortunate truth of the situation was that he did have to build an ANBU team around her, rather than carefully pull the best agents from a range of different candidates. 

The mission was a rare invitation from the Water Country Daimyo. He wanted a certain political enemy eliminated, but all three of Kiri’s own attempts to assassinate the mark had failed, because the mark had somehow turned his home into a maze of fuinjutsu barriers and traps. So the Daimyo wanted Konoha to infiltrate, kill only the mark and his two partners, and also not leave any evidence a foreign ninja had done this so he didn’t have to explain anything to the Mizukage. 

The fuuinjutsu requirement, along with baseline ANBU requirements, meant literally only Kushina and Tori could reliably do this, and Kushina was horrible at being subtle. 

Could he maybe move the mission out of ANBU and widen his pool of other teammates…? No, it really had to be ANBU. 

What if he just did the mission?

Kakashi walked into the office to find Minato with both hands in his hair, glaring at the current ANBU roster. ANBU Jaguar would be perfect for this, actually, except Tori had brought Jaguar to Book Club the time Bounty Hunter Kakuzu had inexplicably shown up. 

“Have you also been speaking to genin?” Kakashi asked, dropping a folder onto Minato’s desk. 

Minato stared up at him helplessly. That was right; he’d asked for the newest Jounin Sensei to turn in their six month report on their genin teams in a tad early so they could discuss entering them in the Chunin Exams this round. 

Team 7 must have really done a whammy on Kakashi if he was the first to turn his in. 

“ANBU is sort of like speaking to children,” Minato said, and Kakashi dropped into a seat across from him to listen to him whine. 

“Just make Itachi deal with her,” Kakashi said when Minato finished. “Or are you afraid their relationship will turn them into a vortex of toxic behavior likes of which ANBU has never seen?”

“Something like that,” Minato replied. He absently picked up a pen and jotted down a note to himself to tell them they had to do workplace romance training so he never had to deal with this again. 

Then Minato said, “I really thought Shisui was a good fit. They’re not friendly, but they’re civil at Book Club.”

“Ah, it’s because Shisui is intimately aware she’s a manipulative little monster,” Kakashi said. He settled back further in his chair and crossed his legs. “He used to get weird about having to work with Itachi too.”

Minato sighed and tapped his fingers on the desk. He should have a conversation with Tori about being more pleasant. Except if he used that wording both she and, more importantly, Kushina would yell at him about being anti-feminist because… something something women were expected to be kind and gentle where men weren’t. 

He just wanted her to not use her teammates as psych experiments… 

“Hey,” Minato said, eyeing Kakashi up and down. “Do you want a break from your genin?”

Kakashi, currently fiddling with a pen, froze. 

“It’ll only be a couple weeks,” Minato said. “I’ll stick them with someone else and tell them it’s an evaluation for candidacy to the Chunin Exam.”

Kakshi looked less than convinced. 

“I of course enjoy my cute little ninja sibling,” Kakashi said very slowly. “But only in my personal time. When there’s other people to point her at.”

Minato could force the issue and just assign Kakashi to the mission. But he was trying so hard to get people to get along on their own. That was his philosophy as Hokage. 

Of course, sometimes people just didn’t want to get along, and then he had to use other tactics. 

“I’ll get you Jiraiya’s current manuscript,” Minato offered. “And just think: it’ll be really, really funny.”

Kakashi looked more considering. 

xXx

Tori stared down at the mask on the desk. Her eyes rose, meeting MInato’s. They had a certain dewey quality to them that almost made him feel bad.

“Why would you do this to me?” Tori asked, sounding betrayed. 

“Wow,” Kakashi said, putting a hand on a hip. He was a nostalgic sight, in full ANBU uniform again. “Usually people are overjoyed to work with me.”

Tori made a face like she didn’t believe this. 

“It’s just like any other mission,” Minato assured her. “Just with a couple extra rules.”

Tori reached hesitantly for the mask.

“If you make me ANBU Songbird,” she said, turning it over in her hands, “I am going missing-nin.”

“So,” Minato said blandly, “a stricter behavior code is part of your temporary ANBU assignment–”

“Maa, it’s a Nightingale,” Kakashi interrupted, completely undermining Minato lecture on how he should technically give Tori several demerits and send her off to a psych eval for her joke. “Which I believe is a songbird. Suborder Passeri, right?”

Kakashi had definitely looked this up beforehand, specifically for this. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Tori repeated. 

“I was being sensitive,” Minato defended. “You went on for a very long time about your ancestor Nightingale, and it was available.”

Tori stared at him, clearly confused. 

“The statistician?” he tried. 

“Florence Nightingale?” Tori said, sounding mildly scandalized. “She’s not my ancestor!”

Minato could have sworn Deidara had referred to this Nightingale person as “one of Tori’s people” to explain the strange given name. Maybe he hadn’t meant she was part of Tori’s family after all…?

“No one gets to choose their own mask,” Minato said, backtracking. “I try to allow people to turn down temp ANBU assignments, but we really don’t have anyone else with the required skillset.”

Tori scowled down at the mask some more. Minato would at least hear her out, if she decided to give an actual argument for not wanting to run an ANBU mission, but she didn’t offer one up. 

“Maa, I’ll try to fill the rest of the team with people you haven’t personally harassed,” Kakashi said. “Although that’s not a long list…”

Tori held the mask up to her face experimentally, then pulled it away. 

“Do you sterilize these between uses?” she asked. 

“Yes, of course,” Minato said. “But, um, that one’s been in storage for years. I’d clean it again.”

“Don’t worry, my cute little sister,” Kakashi drawled, “I will teach you in the way of mask hygiene.”

Tori shot Minato another pained, betrayed look. 

“He means that as your captain, he’ll brief you on how this works,” Minato said. He almost reassured Tori that Kakashi really was one of their best. But she already knew that. 

Kakashi swung an arm around her shoulder and walked her out, listing tips for cleaning her mask and borrowed armor as he went. 

Minato watched them go with conflicting emotions. Kakashi and Tori… made each other behave worse, in public. It was heartwarming when he looked at them as young people he’d mentored: their mutual interests brought each other out of their shells and they enjoyed each other’s company. It was also kind of a nightmare when he thought of them as soldiers under his command. He trusted both of them to reel it in once the mission started, but Tori’s orientation would almost definitely end with more names on the list of ANBU Tori had personally harassed. 

Ah well. It would be character building for whoever they ended up harassing.

[theogygiaisland]

You know what, fuck it- PACIFIC RIM AU: Batfamily edition

Characters: Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Damian Wayne, Duke Thomas, Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown

Warnings: Teen (13+)

Categories: Action, Found Families, Angst, Fluff

Words: 4,223 words

Read on: AO3

They call them 'The Crazies'. Dick calls them family.

Across any universe- it was always them versus the world.

--

The PPDC calls them the crazies. Dick calls them family.

The jaeger he pilots slaps its hands together in anticipation, neural handshake 100% stabilized and drones deployed.

“This is the Belting Robin.” Cass says in her comm-pod. “Ready to engage.”

Command grunts an acknowledgement.

The Category-4 kaiju crawls out of a Breach and roars.

Across any universes, it was always them versus the world.

–

A Medic insults Jason. He doesn't even flinch.

"And I thought you were good." Damian snides as he wipes the floor with Tim. Jason throws the nearest object, an escrima stick, and gives Damian a concussion.

–

Damian would look at his father, see the radiation poisoning of the mark 1, that leaves him weak. He would use his cane getting to places, adamant and too stubborn to acknowledge his dwindling health, and the advanced wheelchairs Babs had made specifically for him. Bruce would lie. Say he doesn’t feel sick despite the nose bleeds. Say he isn’t getting a migraine as if he didn’t pop a mefenamic acid behind closed doors.

Sometimes it was hard to see the man who was able to push back the kaiju invasion back to the western seaboard. The man who, during the initial attacks that claimed multiple countries unaware and multiple lives in a single week – including his mother, strapped himself into a prototype death machine that wasn’t fully developed to withstand the radiation coming from jaeger cores. He says it was a matter of his duty to protect people.

Damian wonders how much that was a lie too. He knows Bruce still kept his mother’s photo on his nightstand. The photo was old. The teardrops were always new.

“Damian, come here.” Bruce asks him as they walk past the hanger.

He counts one, two, three , four, five jaegers getting maintenance repairs. He spots the melted armor on the Striking Onyx (they should’ve stuck to long range for an Otachi type), the loose bolts of the Belting Robin (the scientists really should develop better shock absorbers for lithe combatants, and more defenses in the Drivesuit), and the gaping hole that was Red Chemo’s left arm (Damian admits he finds no fault, it was better to lose an arm to a Raiju than a head).

The rest were either decommissioned or training jaegers he does not particularly care about– including his father’s Black Menace.

“Who will patrol with all of the jaegers under maintenance?” He asks Father. Under their catwalk, he could see the pilots lounging around in sweats, laughing as one of the older men lands a backflip from the jaeger’s foot and into the proximity of an agitated medic.

“These are still operational– they’ve fought with worse conditions.” Bruce replies, not acknowledging the frustrated arguments and bellowing laughter below. “But the latest findings of the Breach shows that there wouldn’t be anything the Lanterns Corps can’t fend off in the meantime. They’re stationed down south, but our helicopters can get them into a fight within the hour. But this isn’t why I asked you here.”

Bruce turns his gaze to his son and Damian stands, back rigid.

“Damian, I know you’ve gone into the Academy because you felt like I wanted you here. Just know that this is a profession that’s going to take over your life. You’re not going to experience the world the way others do–” ( Too late for that, Damian thinks) “– and I want you to know that, son. My life should not be your life too.”

“I understand the repercussions, Father. I won’t let you down.” Of course he wouldn’t. Damian excelled in everything he touches. He was the youngest graduating cadet in history , and that’s why he was here , in an actual Shatterdome, and not behind the lines doing something trivial like algebra .

Hopeful eyes peer at him. Are you proud of me?

“Don’t let the mission down, son. I’m happy to have you in the team when you’re ready.” Bruce shares with him a small smile and plants a hand on Damian’s shoulder. And in his eyes, Damian knows the truth.

Under them, there was a sound of metal crashing and someone cursing and then running.

“Well, only if the team learns to behave.” Bruce says, leaning over the railing. The commotion stops.

That evening, before Damian closes his eyes, he thinks, no Father, I didn’t go into the academy because you wanted me here– I wanted you. I wanted to be here, like you. For mother.

–

Jason catches Tims eye with the one that isn’t swollen shut and huffs out.

“Fine.” He grits out. “We can try to drift. Hope you die.”

In return, Tim shoots him a bloody smile.

After a brief shouting match with the doctor and a stern lecture from the head honcho Bruce Wayne himself, Jason learns he has a compatible mindlink.

When they’re done, Jason feels hope that Tim doesn’t listen to him and start living.

–

Duke’s first words in operating Striking Onyx was “This is so fucking cool !”

Steph laughs at his face, which usually would cause him to blush scarlet, but their link assures him it’s all about laughing with him.

This feeling will never get old , her mind brushes against his. For that he’s grateful, and he feels her acknowledging it.

And it’s nice. Knowing someone’s got your back and you’ve got theirs. He knows it’s not easy, but Stephanie besides him radiates it.

‘If you fall, I’ll catch you ’ is written in her eyes.

“Now, remember what we practiced, Duke.”

“Let’s go!”

–

Steph thinks she knows Tim inside and out. They were like a pair of socks, old and worn. Built together by neural handshakes and closed Academy doors. He was hers, and she was his. Me and mine.

But the brawler in the jaeger on screen, together with Jason of all people– that man is not Tim. He's brutal. Efficient. Blazing fury like the cannon that leaves a gaping wound on the kaiju's chest, and cold like the knife that impales itself after. No flairs, no twists, no laughter in the deck as the monster clumps down and the kaiju signature blinks out of the technician panel. Only grunting, and snarls, fighting like a monster in a corner.

Of course there wasn’t any of those, she reminds herself. This isn’t their Glitter Chrome.

A snarl rips through the radio feed as another signature pops up on the radar.

“Incoming!”

“This is Command to Red Chemo. You are operating on a 10% power cell charge. Retreat now and we’ll send out Striking Onyx. I repeat, retreat–”

She thinks she knew Tim inside and out.

“This is Red Chemo to Command.” Tim’s voice fills the air. “No, we will not. Just get them extracted. We can hold the kaiju back.”

The jaeger from the feed moves into a fighting stance, because this is Red Chemo, it’s their best tank in the division– their only tank on the Californian line– and the only one between the fallen jaeger on the field and a Category-4 kaiju. And Red Chemo is nothing but a metal bottle of bullheaded danger .

“Command to Red Chemo I repeat, retreat now. This is Command to Red Chemo– retreat now– Jason! Tim! Dammit !” Bruce rips off his headset and looks over to her. “Get Duke and I want Striking Onyx out there NOW! ”

She nods, because what else is there for her to do. In the background, the jaeger grapples a monster and struggles. Hand to hand. Full out brawling with closed fists and thrown bodies.

This was not the Tim she knows.

Their failed neural handshake should've been her first clue.

–

“Bruce, are you sure I can pilot this? Don’t you think I’m not ready?”

Dick was a happy child. His family consisted of Martha, the bearded lady, and Juan the fire breather, and Zitka the elephant and Haley, and Denise and Jose, and a whole rotating cast of aunts and uncles, acts and presentations. His childhood was full of life, and of people. And Dick– Dick felt content being the center of it all.

And then his parents fell.

It was the first attack just off the coast of the Atlantic. They were doing their routine for a bigtop full of people, and Dick was ready to swing in from the other side and into the awaiting grin of his mother’s face until the Knifehead kaiju rips open the tent like a can of sardines, taking his parents with it.

Dick could remember the paralyzing fear watching the monster chomp down on the tent like bubblegum. He remembers his own platform shaking, and then of falling–

And then of Bruce Wayne catching his fall.

And from there it was going through different orphanages, until Bruce came back for him, offers him a chance at the Academy. Offers him a chance to be alive through giving him purpose.

Bruce smiles. “You’re born in the sky chum. And I bet you can lead them out with you.”

Bruce not only gives him a reason to carry on, he gives him a family.

And standing in the Drivesuit on the shoulder of this giant of a mech, with his sister by his side, Dick believes him. Hope blossoms in his center, like his own radioactive core, and it’s one radiation he wishes that would spread.

–

Steph places a hand on Tim's arm.

"Tim, please. Red Chemo's new- not yet fully operational. Your handshake with Jay- he's good, and so are you. But it's untested with the jaeger. Please. This isn't me saying you're not good. This is me saying I need you safe." For me at least.

Before, Tim would've listened. Felt her anxiety. Knew where she was coming from.

Tim now only looks down. "I have to Steph."

–

Wake up, wake up! I won’t let you do this. I WON’T!

Despite everything, Damian hopes by the side of the bed.

–

She would watch the others train, waiting for her turn on the mats. They were supposed to practice coordination on the bars today, but her partner is late. Dick was almost never late, but she could feel the traces of fatigue in his bones even after their link. He could use the rest some more– training be damned.

“Cain.” Damian greets her in his full cadet uniform. She smiles at him brightly. “I need you to teach me more about aerial maneuvers.”

“Hi.” Cass tilts her head. “Why do you want to learn about it?”

“Your mark 7 jaeger–”

“The Belting Robin.”

“– the Belting Robin– it’s one of the first prototype jaegers. When I graduate from training exercises with Atlas, I want to operate on one just like it. It’s light and it’s well equipped for fast offense that we need to push kaiju and take over the Western Seaboard. But it’s biggest caveat is that it’s sleek design gives way to defense and thus needs a lighter fighter who could out class even a Slattern’s tentacles and so wouldn’t take a hit–”

She hooks her foot on his ankle and pulls . Damian scowls at her from the floor.

“Less theoretical and more practical now.” She grins at him, nodding to the uneven bars on the overhang. “Rule number 1. Be born to fly.”

His scowl lessens marginally and Cass was pretty sure that’s his way of smiling.

–

Jason didn’t want another co-pilot, thank you very much. After his last one– Roy– he couldn’t see clearly above the seething anger in him whenever someone even mentions replacing his partner.

But of course Bruce fucking Wayne does not care.

“So you’re the replacement.” Jason says, watching this willow of a man with stick arms and vines for muscles pass him in the corridor. They haven’t met officially, but Jason is known to be resourceful around a computer.

“You’re replacing mine too.” Tim– and that’s his name– says, blue piercing eyes looking him up and down which makes Jason feel vulnerable.

“Ah yes, only on your fourth mission and suddenly you couldn’t protect your partner enough to not have her knocked out? What a good teamplayer you are.” Jason asks, fists ready at his sides. “Yeah I read your file kid, little baby can’t do a little solo piloting without suddenly developing PTSD?”

Tim looks on, impassive, but Jason had sick glee watching him clench and unclench his fingers.

“Look, you don’t have to like me to drift with me. We get into a jaeger, we fight monsters, we go home. You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

“Oh you think that’s what it takes to be a pilot for you?”

They both know it wasn’t just it. Drifting is all about trust– trust your partner can keep up and keep you alive. That’s why it’s so important, why some siblings just won’t fit together, why some partners just can’t drift . Piloting a jaeger is something vulnerable and important. It’s a bond stronger than friendships, it’s camaraderie, of brotherhood, of love.

And God does Jason miss it and miss Roy . He feels that grief of never being able to come back and be on field with him, takes it, and replaces it with the only way he knows how: with overflowing anger.

He will never be the same , the doctors said.

At least I’m not drooling into a cup , Roy joked.

He can never be Roy , his mind screams.

“I don’t want to fight you Jason. We don’t even know if we’re drift compatible.”

“Probably not because I’m not drifting with you.”

The fact that Tim keeps steady eye contact despite the venom in Jason’s tone makes his insides hot. Jason fumes.

“You are drifting with me. We’re both our last chance to go back on field.”

“No I’m not. Besides, I think ghost drifting wouldn’t be impossible if a snotty nosed brat like you can handle it, then I can too.”

“As if you can be any better. Tell me, is Roy’s arm still unresponsive?”

He punches Tim before he can think about it and feels bones crack under his knuckles. As he draws his fist back, he sees blood flowing down the kid’s face.

“Pretty boy can dish but can’t take huh?” Jason taunts.

Tim scoffs. “Pretty boy ain’t done yet.” And headbutts Jason in the eye .

Jason rolls over in shock more than in pain. Tim jumps to his feet and knees him in the stomach. Jason retaliates by catching a second kick and twisting the ankle and making Tim fall. Tim ‘s other foot catches him by the chin and–

“ENOUGH! ”

Medics surround them, yelling, frustrated, angry.

–

"You learned that from Steph." Cass notes, as she releases Duke.

"She's quite the fast brawler. I felt her- in my head. That kick spin was what she used when she got cornered when she was young."

Cass smiles, all teeth and pink gums. "Good. You'll need to learn fast."

-

“I heard you’re taking lessons on aerial maneuvers from Cass.” Dick tells him one day as he sun bathes on the roof in one of those rare sunny day.

“I am.” Damian replies.

“Are you hoping to replace me as partners with Cass?”

“No– I– Why’d you think so?”

Dick laughs, not seeing the offense in the statement. A lot of pilots would punch you in the face for even thinking about poaching their co-pilot. Instead, he lounges back parallel to him, eyes covered by an arm slung over his face.

“It’s happened before– look at Steph and Tim.”

“Whatever happened to Drake and Brown was…unfortunate, but I don’t see a point in your asking.”

“I’m just saying. I wouldn’t mind.” Dick says.

“Why?”

“Well, for one, it means Cass makes it out alive.”

“Don’t say that–”

“It’s a possibility, Dames, and it’d be an honor to have you take my place.” Dick says, staring at him intently that Damian has to look away.

“Okay.”

“But don’t you worry lil’D, I’ll be here for a long time so don’t get your hopes up just yet.”

–

Wayne’s elites were whispered about in the hallways for their efficiency and their ruthlessness on this side of the country. They were the battalion that were first to the scene, with the highest success rates in missions and lowest casualties of jaegers. As the latest recruit, he was half excited for the chance to operate his own jaeger and half terrified with everything else.

He doesn’t understand how Cass has managed to squirrel alcohol in his room, nor how everyone just knew where to converge tonight, but at this point he doesn’t seem to care.

“Why are you all here?” Duke asks.

“Well, we’ve managed to get ourselves kicked out of almost every bar in San Francisco.” Tim says.

“I checked. Still banned.” Cass replies.

Duke puts a pin on that since that was a whole can of worms he did not want to tackle right now.

“I mean in the jaeger corps. They brought me in because they found me scavenging a carcass.” Duke says to no one in particular, legs draped somewhere over the tangle of bodies on the floor. He didn’t particularly keep track of it– despite knowing it’s on something too firm to be a pillow and too soft to be the floor. No one particularly cared enough to voice it out. In his head, he remembers the blue that tainted his fingers, searching for scraps to get by. “I had nowhere to go.”

“By carcass, you mean kaiju or…”

“Kaiju, God Dick what else would I scavenge?”

Dick just shrugs and grins.

“Mine was either fuckin’ jail time for being a street urchin or this– though I don’t think they knew I was a particular flavor of crazy until it was too late. I raise to one cleanup duty.”

“Don’t worry Jay, you make our neural handshake spicy .” Tim says, downing his gin shot. “Besides, I think everyone here’s a little bit fucked in the head to operate the way we do. I got here because I was apparently too manipulative for the military.”

“We can't all be high and mighty either, could we? Sense of duty my ass , I’m just here because dear old dad wanted me to direct my rage before I cut a bitch or start a gang war or something.” Steph nods over the cards in her hand.

“Are you okay?” Duke asks her.

“I’m just dandy, ranger.” She smiles brightly at him. Duke doesn’t know if the glint in her eye is because she’s laughing at her joke or at him. “And make that cleanup duty in the Drivesuit Jay, and you’re on. Call.”

Jason curses under his breath but nods and Tim deals out two more cards on Duke’s lap. One thing Duke learns is that there is no concept of personal space when it comes to these guys. Or for Poker.

“I didn’t want to share a bed in the orphanage after the initial strike. It was too crowded as it is, and then suddenly BAM! More orphans. Yay.” Dick says and Duke chokes on a laugh. “Apparently I had too short of a fuse and smiled too much.”

“Smiled too much?”

“I’d smile then throat punch someone. My bunkmate was an asshole.”

“Okay?”

“Even the Alaskan division is kinda weird with us, you know.” Tim continues, passing his shot glass to Jason who takes it without breaking eye contact with his hand. “I heard the Kents were adamant we kept to the South-Western Seaboard–”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re all just scared cause we got individual thought and shit and big bad Wayne can’t even keep us in line– whatever. I raise one full laundry day.”

“Fucking fine! I fold.”

Steph groans. Jason cackles. Tim looks on, bored with a glint in his eye and Duke could feel his lips twitch up.

“What is this?” Damian asks from across the room, sipping his drink and looking like he doesn’t particularly know if he likes it or not. “Why can’t you pass me the shot, Drake.”

“Kaiju milk.” Cass says, sipping her own bottle. “And you’re still underaged.”

“I’m eighteen. I didn’t know kaiju has milk.”

Duke plucks the shot glass from Jason’s hand– it was his turn already– and downs a shot. Dick wiggles from his spot on the ground and shifts the tangle of limbs.

Dick smiles. “Well apparently you’re not old enough to know what’s kaiju milk either.”

Cass looks over at Damian as he rolls his eyes and sends a wink. “It’s not really kaiju milk. You get it when you sneak up to the little Otachi types and you–”

“Okay! That’s enough discussion for today.” Steph says, jumping up and throwing half of the limbs off of her legs. Duke was pretty sure his left foot was on Steph’s thigh by how he falls sideways into Jason. “Duke, let’s ready up for patrol. Robins, relieve us after 5am, yeah? And Reds, just...behave.”

“It’s kaiju essence .” Duke stage whispers to Damian as the kid chokes on his drink and Steph throws him a half hearted glare. The rest of them– they just laugh and shoot him a grin.

He might feel a little out of place in this weird hodge podge of a battalion, but at least Duke knows he belongs.

–

“Negative Belting Robin, abort mission now. I repeat, abort mission now .” One part of the screen has Dick’s vitals flying everywhere.

On the other, Cass’ vitals are silent.

Babs types furiously on her desk. “Warhead is locked and ready to fire sir– proximity damage is inevitable– We can still retrieve the– Sir! Sir! On your orders!”

“Negative– Do not Ghost Drift, I repeat, DO NOT GHOST DRIFT DICK! ”

“Command I’m– Bruce. I’m sorry.”

An explosion rocks somewhere where Cherry Hill used to stand. Miles away, it rocks another person onto their knees.

“ Medic! Now!” Babs says but she looks on with dawning horror on her face.

–

Belting Robin passes them on their way back with a salute.

“So that was patrol, any questions?”

“Yeah, so why aren’t there kaiju during this time of night? Aren’t they like nocturnal?”

“No, they don’t really have a sleeping schedule that we know of. They just appear in the Breach and we couldn’t really get a chance to study them. As for the numbers… well we’re not too far off for another wave, all we’re doing now is just cleaning off the remaining ones from last month.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Steph says, stretching and making Duke and their jaeger stretch as well. Duke doesn’t know if the satisfaction was his own or Steph’s amplified one, but it did felt good. “Count your blessings Ranger, at least there’s haven’t been a Breach yet. If you want, we can even cut our patrol short and get us some chili dogs from the caf.”

“Uhm…”

“I’m joking. I’m really joking. Hey command, if you’re hearing this, I’m joking.”

A snort fills their earpieces. Duke was happy and tired that he might take the offer on after patrol–

Then the earth shakes. A Category-4 kaiju climbs out of the Breach.

“ Striking Onyx , pull back. You’re too inexperienced for a Cat-4. I repeat, Striking Onyx pull back .”

“Striking Onyx copies Command.” Duke says, eyes not straying away from the monster.

–

“Jason and Tim fought in the hallways. I think they’re benched.” Damian tells Dick. “So Striking Onyx is out for patrol now.”

Dick eyes the duo, who was lounging at the foot of Red Chemo , heads bent together in hushed  whispers.

“You think they’re going to be a great team?”

Dick smiles as Tim catches him looking and doesn’t even have to tell Jason before the older man whips his head back and to their audience. With only one neural uplink between the two of them, it’s frightening how in sync they already were.

He’s been with Jason for years, training, learning, growing; and with what Steph has told him about Tim, Dick has a feeling they’re at least on the path to being a pair. Where Jason overflows, Tim catches. Where Tim lacks, Jason compensates. It’s, simply, basic math.

“I know so.” Dick tells Damian as Red Chemo walks nearer to them. “Hey guys, what’cha think about having a movie night? Cass has alcohol and we’ve yet to conquer Duke’s room.”

–

His arm bruns but Jason grits through it because Tim is a punch and a skip away from losing consciousness.

To be fair he’s got the longer end of the stick here– at least he still has his arm . The kaiju roars and Red Chemo snarls back, the pilots working in sync to punch back as hard as they took it. Red Chemo is a fucking tank built to last and goddammit they will .

“Shoulder blasters!” Tim yells and Jason grips the mouth of the kaiju open enough for the warheads to hit–

“Rest in fucking pieces!” Jason yells, adrenaline coursing through his veins. “You okay there Replacement?”

“We did it.” Tim whispers and promptly faints.

Jason was sure he was able to yell out for a medic one more time before his own vitals go crazy with the shut down.

We did it.

–

Tim remembers Glitter Chrome – he used to call her Glitz. He remembers it when he looks at Steph and smiles.

“Stop smiling and be somber.” She tells him. “You know, situations like these are why they call us crazies.”

“I know.”

The steady beeping fills the room, partly comfort in having retrieved both pilots from the wreckage of Belting Robin and partly dread for their future. They haven’t woken up .

The medic can’t give hope that they will. But Tim goddamn will hold on to it.

Steph sighs and leans back, letting her head drop over the backrest of her seat. “I remember when you were the one I had to visit in this room.”

“I know.”

“And I– I couldn’t feel you then.” Like I can’t feel you now , his mind supplies. “It was bad. But I’m glad you’re alive.”

“I know.”

“Do you think they’re going to push through?”

Tim smiles a little bit wider at her. Because he knows . He’s been there before. And that gives him hope, for Dick and Cass who’s yet to wake from their comas. For their own future. For their next jaegers .

They were siblings now by kaiju blood and their own tears, and the Wayne brotherhood were made of tougher things.

And in their team, their family, when hope is not given, they will take it by force .

[steelcarbuncle]

╔Onerous╗

Onerous: (of a task, duty, or responsibility) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome.

Mood Music

Darkness. All of the world was darkness.

The sensors told her it was light out, many life forms registered in the target area ahead. Threat minimal.

"Commence field test of the central cannon." A voice commanded from behind, he wore the full armor that affected his voice unlike the others.

"Locating targets," Her mechanized system voice responded to the commander. The sensors flared to life again, taking in the people gathering to observe the mechanized unit.

No. No stop! Please!

"Targets locked on," the voice coming from her system continued. Changing designation of life forms to threat.

They can't fight back! Please!

"Charging central aetheric beam," uncaring of her wishes, the system voice droned on. Channeling of aether battery commence. Temperature raising within acceptable parameters. Charge at 76%. 88%. 97%.

Get away...Run!

The whole world was darkness and pain. Searing, burning pain.

"Firing." Internal overload. Further use will damage battery beyond repair. Downtime required. Commence cooling systems. Scanners indicate there are no remaining targets. Proceed with downtime.

-----------

The screams that echoed within the hanger as Sasari awoke had to have been her own. She frantically pulled at her arms to remove the melting metal she remembered. Finding the metal gone and only the scars remained, she clasped her fingers in her sweat drenched nightshirt and tried to get a handle on herself. She tentatively reached across her connections to the souls of her sister and her other attachment but found the former was too far for her to provide comfort and the latter snuggled safely within the arms of a lover.

She quashed any more effort to reach out for comfort and instead pulled the multicolored blanket from her pile of pillows and pressed it against her face. Thankfully the mammets, used to this, gave her the professional courtesy of ignoring their maker's plight as she choked quiet sobs into the hodpodge fabric.

Once spent, she rose to get ready for the day. She straightened her work clothing and pulled on her tool belt before spending a few moments running her fingers over the scars at her wrists. It hasn't been that long since the bindings had been lost.

Freedom was proving to be onerous.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Secrets ~ 7

Warnings: noncon sexual acts later in series; fingering.

This is dark!Bucky and dark!Steve and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Notes:

Will King Steve ever show up?! Haha, we’re getting there, I promise.

I love you all, I thank you for your patience and feedback as always! Please don’t shy away in the comments, reblogs, etc.

After your midnight run-in with Barnes, you hid under your covers but didn’t sleep much. The morning rose behind the curtains as you groaned and mulled over another day of royal hell. You dragged yourself out of bed on your own that day. You dressed after grumbling over the selection of pastels and print then waited for your keeper.

You could probably march right out of the palace and not be noticed, you thought. Last night, he hadn’t even heard you enter the pool room. You cringed at the recollection and pushed your legs together as you felt a tickle between them. You stood sharply and teetered on your feet. 

You marched to the door and pulled it open, intent on sneaking out in your bare feet without the annoying and unsteady click of heels. If your mother could outrun Astrania for two decades, you could probably put up a good chase.

You were stopped by the figure awaiting you on the other side. Barnes was just as surprised as you as his hand was still outstretched as if to turn the handle. He blinked and his lips curved in amusement as he looked you over. You scowled, caught before you could run, and crossed your arms.

“You’ve forgotten your shoes,” he looked down.

You huffed and turned back. You stomped to the closet and wrenched it open. You blindly pulled out a pair of white heels. He followed you and kept you from closing the closet. He bent and reached past you to reveal a pair of nude pumps.

“The white… doesn’t go,” he switched the ivory for the beige. “Are you so impatient to start the day?”

You were silent as you sat on the edge of the bed and held back a whine as you shoved your already tortured feet into the shoes. You stood and flitted past him for the door.

“Eager for it be over with,” you swept through the door.

His chuckle stoked your chagrin as he caught up to you. He walked beside you as you retraced the usual path to the dining hall where he would sit and chide you for holding your fork wrong.

“Oh yeah? And how did you sleep?” He smoothed the lapels of his jacket, “Or maybe you were kept awake… by some wandering thoughts?”

You stopped short and turned on your heel to face him. He calmly met you as he came to a smooth halt and he smirked at you. His dark hair was combed neatly but still appeared soft and his thick beard was, as ever, trimmed and clean. He watched you with an unsettling confidence. His eyes ventured further down and you smacked his shoulder.

“And what happens if I tell your king what you did last night? What you tried to do?” You challenged.

He shrugged and fixed the top of your dress as the frill that ran along the neckline folded oddly.

“You think he would be bothered?” His hand slipped down your chest and you shoved him away. He caught your hand and held it firmly. “First, you do not strike a noble.” He remanded, “Like it or not, I have my own title, your highness. Second, I have done nothing more than the duty I’ve been handed. The king wants me to present him with a fit wife and your vow includes a lot more than dining room etiquette.”

“I assure you, I have more than enough experience to guide me in those matters,” you struggled with him as you twisted in his grasp. “Let go of me, Barnes.”

“My lord,” he corrected as his grip tightened, “That is how you must address me.” He released you at last. “Not Barnes, definitely not James.” He sniffed. We have only a few more days and I have little confidence that you will retain much of our work, so if anything, you might appease the king in other avenues.”

“And you would what? Show me how to f--”

“Language!” He cut you off as he grabbed your arm and spun you suddenly. He tapped your ass harshly. “You push too far, your highness.”

“You,” you tried to elbow him but he kept your arm in place as he tugged you down the staircase. “You push too far… my lord.” You descended if only to keep from falling on your face. 

“Because I must,” he sneered and for a moment, you were proud of how you had irritated him. “Because you insist on making it so… difficult.” The pause revealed his urge to swear himself. You wanted to laugh but his hold on you had you more inclined to slap him.

“Get off,” you wiggled free as you got to the bottom of the stairs, “Lord Barnes,” you spat with spite, “You want me to be proper, you want me to act as a queen would, then you should treat me like one and listen to me.”

His blue eyes gleamed as he watched you. You shook your head and waved him off as you strode ahead of him. He followed with even steps. You refused to look back at him or slow your pace. Just a few more days, but for what end? For what would be a man just as bad, if not worse.

“You’re not queen yet,” he admonished from behind, “But… not so far as you were.”

👑

Another ridiculous dance lesson, this time without Priscilla tapping your calves with her stick, and you were ready to kick your heels off. Barnes, however, had other ideas. He ushered you from the grand hall and back up the stairs. You knew where he was taking you before you even turned the first corner. The hall of mirrors was your personal nightmare. Your flaws reflected back at you from every angle.

You stopped before the door and, with his arm still hooked in yours, you drew him back.

“Not another fitting,” you pleaded as you untangled yourself from him, “I can’t--”

“You better get used to it, your highness. All of this isn’t for nothing. This will be your life. Fittings, dancing, events… your wedding is a footnote to the list of expectations.” He pushed open the left door. “For every season, you will need a new wardrobe, and as time goes, you might need second fittings.”

“Jesus,” you sighed.

“Your highness,” he reproached curtly. “You must learn to withhold your gripes. Whenever you feel you must bemoan your unhappiness, you might instead smile and count to ten. It works well for my nephew and he is much younger than you.”

“I…” you grimaced, “How dare you--” You searched for words but all you could think was “asshole”, so instead you clamped your lips shut and stormed through the doors.

“There,” he entered behind you, “Much better but you must remember to smile.”

He poked your cheek as he came up beside you and you shook him away. You squinted as you looked to the middle of the airy hall. The mirrors reflected the lights in your peripherals as you took in the scene. A bench had been dragged out and a folding screen was only six feet away, erected beside another rack of clothing. The garments, however, were scant and made your lip curl.

“What is this?” You snarled.

“Well, we have your wardrobe sorted, your attire for your engagement, and of course, the wedding dress,” he passed you and turned as he walked along the bench, “We only need to worry about the wedding night.”

“Oh, no,” you laughed dryly, “No, no, no. I don’t think--”

“Do you think? Ever?” He scoffed. “Now, I will give you a choice. Humour your stubbornness for this one instant. You can choose whichever piece you want and try it on or I can choose and put it on you myself.” He unbuttoned his jacket and pushed it back as he put a hand on his belt, “So?”

You stared at him. Your eyes strayed to the rack of laces, satins, and silks. Your gaze was drawn back as his fingers twitched and you nodded. Slowly, you crossed the hall and swept by the end of the bench. He turned and sat, you glanced over your shoulder from the corner of your eye as you approached the hangers.

You flicked through the selection and found none of it preferable. Whatever you picked would offer little coverage and you expected, little defense to the king’s whims. You tapped your toe and grabbed a hanger without looking. You felt the heat of Barnes’ gaze as you moved behind the screen.

You paused and closed your eyes. You took a breath. Your nerves swirled amid the anger boiling in your chest. You sighed and lifted your lashes. You held up the lingerie and turned it in disgust. Something blue…

The pale blue lace was stretched between slender boning along the structured bodice. You set the set down on the small stool and stepped out of your heels. You rubbed the soles of your feet as you delayed. You wanted to moan as your thumb grazed the tender arch.

“Do you require assistance, your highness?” Barnes taunted from the other side.

“I could just check the sizing and--”

“Would rather the second option?” He called back. “I do like the pink one.” You let out a disgusted ‘ugh’ and strained to unzip your dress. “Two minutes,” he warned.

You slipped out of the pink, frilly dress and shivered as you stripped off your underwear. The panties, made of delicate lace, barely covered your ass as you stepped into them. Your cheeks peeked out the bottom as the top tickled low on your pelvis. The bodice met the upper hem of the bottoms and the cups barely covered your tits, finely embroidered flowers just big enough to conceal your nipples beneath the lace.

“I can’t--” you stood and looked down at yourself, “I can’t-- Barnes, it fits but I can’t…” You were suddenly very self-conscious. You didn’t want him to see you, or anyone else for that matter. “Can I just--”

“Well,” he startled you as he came up and peeked around the screen. You tried to cover yourself but it was of little use, “It does fit.”

“Hey,” you turned away from him and grabbed your dress.

“Mmm,” he purred, “Very nice.”

His hand closed around your arm and he drew you back. He wrestled the dress from your hand and tossed it over your shoulder. He dragged you away from the screen and turned you ahead of him. He placed his hands on your shoulders as he walked you to one of the many mirrored walls.

“Look,” he ordered, “Look at yourself.”

You blinked and raised your eyes. You made yourself focus and bit down as you faced your reflection. Your flesh was on fire as you took in the revealing lace and your exposed skin. You gulped and your gaze met Barnes’ in the mirror. His tongue glided over his bottom lip as his hands slid down your sides.

“You’ve convinced me. The blue is… nice,” he slithered as he gripped your hips. He pressed against you and rocked his hips. His arousal was obvious through his trousers. 

“What-- Hey,” you grabbed his wrists, “That’s enough.”

“His majesty doesn’t like a woman who acts shy,” his hot breath grazed your scalp.

“I don’t care what he likes. You either,” you wrenched his hands away and spun to face him. “I tried it on. We’re done.”

You shoved him but as your hands met his shoulders, he caught your wrists. His eyes were dark and dangerous as they clung to you and he marched you backwards. You stumbled, afraid you would trip, and were steadied only as your back met the cold glass of the mirror. He pushed your hands against the wall on either side of your head and leaned in. His nose met yours as he loomed over you.

“Now, don’t go making a mess,” he raised your hands up above you and held them together. 

His right hand fell to stroke your cheek as he stared you down. He played with the strap of the bodice and slid his fingers beneath as he tugged it past your shoulder. You trembled as your hands throbbed from his tight grip and you squirmed against the mirror.

“Barnes,” you warned as boldly as you could but your voice wavered tellingly. “Get off!”

“You don’t want to ruin this,” his fingers danced over your breast and along your stomach. “Not yet.”

“Let go,” you begged as he fumbled with the lace along your pelvis. 

He turned his hand and pressed two fingers down your vee. He pushed along the crotch of your panties as he forced his foot between yours. He hummed as he crushed the lace against your cunt and both felt the slickness seeping through it.

“Your highness,” he rubbed your clit and you hissed in surprise. “What did I say about making a mess?”

You could only squeak as he swirled his fingers. You turned your head away from him and closed your eyes. Your thighs closed around his hand but did not deter him. He kept his hand snug against you as he curled his fingers and teased you through the lace.

He released your hand and grabbed your chin. He turned your head as his large hand framed your face. His hot breath washed over you.

“Open your eyes,” he demanded and you whimpered. He repeated himself, his tone so deep, so dark, that you obeyed without thinking. You bit your lip as his fingers kept on. “Don’t hold back. You can’t. Not with him.” He rested his forehead against yours. “You have to let the king hear you.”

“B--” your words fizzled to a moan.

“Like that.” He goaded, “Or the king will do worse. If you do not show your pleasure, he won’t care for it.” Barnes fingers sped up and you writhed between him and the wall. “He’ll use you like he has so many, or you can make him want you, like he has never before.” Your mewls grew louder as he played with your bud. “Just like that,” he growled, “Listen to you.”

You spasmed as your climax rose at once. You braced the glass as your body tensed around his hand and you quaked through the ripples of ecstasy. You gasped and gulped for air as your nerves bounced off each other and your blood pulsed hotly in your veins. 

Barnes stilled his fingers and his other hand slid down to your throat. He tutted as he stood straight and kept you against the mirrored wall. He dragged his fingertips up the lacy panties and hooked them beneath the top. 

“We’ll have to choose another,” he tore the panties down your thighs and dropped his hand from your neck. 

He rolled the lace to your feet and tugged until you stepped out of them. You leaned against the glass senselessly as he stood and folded the panties. He felt the wet fabric before tucking them into his chest pocket and buttoning his jacket. He cleared his throat and winked at you.

“Try the pink one,” he said before he strode back to the bench, “The king likes pink.”

You pushed away from the glass and covered your vee with your hands, dazed but humiliated. Only two more days. Could you make it through?

[freetheshit-outofyou]

For the “Well Regulated Militia” Crowd

57th CONGRESS, 1st Session H. R. 11 ,654. The “Dick” Bill by Gen. Charles Dick (Ohio), Chairman of the House Militia Committee, and in the Senate by Gen. Joseph R. Hawley (Connecticut), Chairman of the Senate Military Committee.

IN THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

February 21, 1902.

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled,

That the militia shall consist of every able-bodied male citizen of the respective States, Territories, and the district of Columbia, and every able- bodied male of foreign birth who has declared his intention to become a citizen, who is more than eighteen and less than forty- five years of age, and shall be divided into two classes —

The organized militia, Territory, or District of Columbia, or by such other designations as may be given them by the laws of the respective States or Territories, and the remainder to be known as the Enrolled Militia. Changed from:

SEC. 1625. Every able-bodied male citizen of the respective States, resident therein, who is of the age of eighteen years and under the age of forty-five years, shall be enrolled in the militia.

SEC. 1626. It shall be the duty of every captain or commanding officer of a company to enroll every such citizen residing within the bounds of his company, and all those who may, from time to time, arrive at the age of eighteen years, or who, being at the age of eighteen years and under the age of forty-five years, come to reside within his bounds.

Sac. 1627. Each captain or commanding officer shall, without delay, notify every such citizen of his enrollment by a proper noncommissioned officer of his company, who may prove the notice. And any notice or warning to a citizen enrolled to attend a company, battalion, or regimental muster, which is according 57TH CONGRESS, to the laws of the State in which it is given for that purpose, shall be deemed a legal notice of his enrollment.

1628. Every citizen shall, after notice of his enrollment, be constantly provided with a good musket or firelock, of a sufficient bore for balls of the eighteenth part of a pound, a sufficient bayonet and belt, two spare flints, and a knapsack, a pouch with a box therein to contain not less than twenty-four cartridges, suited to the bore of his musket or firelock, each cartridge to contain a proper quantity of powder and ball; or with a good rifle, knapsack, shot pouch, and powderhorn, twenty balls suited to the bore of his rifle, and a quarter of a pound of powder, and shall appear so armed, accoutered, and provided when called out to exercise or into service, except that when called out on company days to exercise only he may appear without knapsack; and all arms, ammunition, and accouterments so provided and required shall be held exempted from all suits, distresses, executions, or sales for debt or for the payment of taxes. Each commissioned officer shall be armed with a sword or hanger and spontoon. Source

As to the Second Amendment and the statement Shall not be infringed; The Second Amendment has to do with a well-armed Militia. The Framers wanted to make that point because it was different times back then. The Interpretation among the Supreme Court was that it was then a right for an individual to possess a gun or guns for self-protection. A forgone conclusion among gun owners. Yes. It is however upon those Courts to decide what our rights are as far as Castle Law or marching around the block with a long gun just to show you have big balls. We do indeed have a right to carry a side arm with a permit. We don't have a right to shoot someone if they are using their First Amendment right to protest. I digress. When reading the Amendments to the Constitution one should not skip the 12th Amendment. I'm guessing that one isn't as important as keeping one's firearms with you Trumpers. The Republican Party claims to be the party of Law Enforcement and the Party that sticks to the Constitution. Oh. Read the 14th Amendment while you're at it. Now that I've made my point here. Have a nice day.

What you just said was one of the most insanely idiotic things I’ve ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul

Nice straw-man… there are no conservatives shooting protesters exercising their 1A right unless maybe those protesters have gone well beyond the point of protest and become violent and threatening of other's safety… and there has been plenty of that from the left over the last 7 years. Too, you ignore lefties who have shot people who exercised their 1A right to free speech and said thingys the left does not agree with… and that is no straw-man, Homey

As for your comment re: what times we are living in…

… we are in exactly the same times our founding father were in before and during the writing of 2A, you just do not know it; hopped up on arrogant virtue as you are

Furthermore, I have read the entirety of our Constitution, as well as the rest of our founding documents, letters and notes between some of the founding fathers, and,

I am fairly well versed in many areas of US law, such as for instance our CFR (Code of Federal Regulation), I have read the width and breadth of EOs signed off on by both President Donald J Trump and 'resident Biden

It is very clear you do not understand our Constitution, the entire uniqueness and advantages of it over what the rest of the world lives under, nor the times people lived in back then, or the times we live in now

Too, bother me again with your soy-poison and I will Block you

*I do not approach the Ask tab, but if I did, it would not be on anon

Angie/Maddie🦇❥🇺🇸

*To my followers, it is I starting up… again. These commie a-holes will soon gang up on my blog, flagging it to get it Terminated… again We are planning a mailing list. It will be on a server these mongrels cannot touch. I will pass along the web address shortly