#hot tapping contractors

[peachesofteal]

Soap x Cypher's masterlist 18+ mdni / dark and twisty themes / dubcon / explicit, spanking Soap/female reader Sergeant MacTavish teaches you a lesson about honesty

"Cypher."

"Yeah?" You barely look up, too focused on the raw data that's filtering across your screen.

"Laswell asked for you." You don't hear it at first, the request. You're too lost in the lines and lines of code, numbers, letters, symbols all working together, where is it, where- "Cypher!" your coworker barks, and you jump.

"Shit. Sorry... what?"

"Laswell. Upstairs. Briefing room. Now?" Your lips quirk, head hanging. Yeah, guess you deserved that.

"Did she say for what?"

"No. And it's not my place to ask." They jerk their head, and you lockdown your console. Fine.

Station Chief Laswell scares you. She's probably one of the smartest people you've ever met, quick with analysis, observation, she can read a situation from top to bottom in less than three seconds. She knows everyone, and everything.

And, she handles the 141.

You don't have frequent interaction with her. You report to her, ultimately, but it's hard to understand where she falls on the org chart. It's hard to understand where you fall on the org chart, if you're being honest, since you're not military, just a civilian contractor. All of the authoritative titling and chain of command makes your head spin a little bit, and you've pretty much decided to ignore it all. Keep your head down, do your job, mind your ps and qs. Your yes sirs and no sirs.

You tap your knuckles against the briefing room door.

"Come in." It's a man's voice, a deep, smooth voice with a British accent, and it makes you pause, confused. I thought Laswell was up here?

You push the door open, hesitantly, and what you find makes your stomach nearly crawl up into your mouth.

The 141 are in here. You glance around hastily before finding Laswell, eyes a little wider than you’re comfortable with. They’re all seated at the table, looking at you, and when you peek at Sergeant MacTavish, he cocks his head so subtly, you might have missed it. Fuck. Shit. Why is he looking at you like that? You think you might pass out. Why do you feel like this around him?

"Gentleman. This is the civilian specialist I told you about." She gestures to you, giving them your government name before continuing, and they all nod. "This is Captain Price, Lieutenant Riley, Sergeant Garrick, and Sergeant MacTavish." She points to each, making the introductions to which you nod, and smile, trying as hard as you can to make eye contact so they don't think you're rude. When she gets to MacTavish, your stomach heats, and on instinct, your eyes drop to the floor before glancing back up to find him focused on you, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.

"You're Cypher." Lieutenant Riley comments, and you nod, surprised. How does he know you?

"That's uh... my nickname. Sir."

“Cypher is our resident analytics expert, and we believe she’s located your targets.” Laswell continues, tapping a key on her laptop that wakes up the black screen of the giant TV. You do a double take when you see your work up there, your lists of compiled data, cross matched and sorted. “I was hoping you could walk them through some of this.” Oh. Oh no. Talk to them?

“Uh okay.” Your fingers find each other, instinctually, trying to pick and tear at your skin as your heart rate speeds up. “This is-“ you glance at the screen, and then back at their expectant faces. Sergeant MacTavish is watching you, predatory gleam in his eyes, and you gulp. Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here. “This is a highlight of hot zones in two different target cities. It’s pulled from local agencies’ databases, everything from license plate readers to residency records, IP hits and census information. After cross matching with all possible identities for your targets, family members, associated persons, patterns of behavior, I confidently believe I've identified and located your subjects, and they reside in these areas.”

"You know who they are?" The Captain asks, surprised, and you nod.

“How confident are ye?” Sergeant MacTavish asks, and you blink.

“Uh, like ninety percent” He looks… displeased. “Sir.” You tack on at the end, hoping to see some sort of approval for it, and when it doesn’t come, the ache inside you widens.

“I like those odds. Heard you were good, but this is something' else. Our intelligence has been working on ID'ing these guys for months with no luck.” Sergeant Garrick raises an eyebrow, exchanging a look with his Captain, and you brighten a little bit. Okay, that’s good. Right? You did good?

“Not sure ninety percent is good enough.” Sergeant MacTavish answers, and Laswell nods like she agrees. You wilt. Welp. And now your boss agrees. “Can ye show me the raw data?”

“I- sure, it’s…” you snap your mouth shut abruptly when he stands, and motions for you to follow him out the door.

“Let’s go then.”

You don’t make it back down to your console. Instead, he pushes you inside a maintenance closet, hand firm on your shoulder, guiding you down to your knees in the back, behind a shelf.

“Sergeant I don’t understand, I-“

“Ye tryin’ to send us out on a wild goose chase?”

“What?” You stare up at him, jaw slack. He’s terrifying, lit by damp, yellow light, arms crossed in front of his chest. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something that makes your thighs press together instinctively and at the same time, your heart starts palpitating. “Sir, I don’t-“ his hand darts forward, pinching your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, squishing them just a bit with a menacing smile.

"Are ye tryin' to send us on a wild goose chase? Yes or no, specialist."

"Nossir." It mushes together in your mouth, vowels trapped between your cheeks, and he nods.

"I didnae think ye were." He releases you, only to step closer, and you gulp when his hands find the waistband of your pants. "Take these to yer knees. Now."

"My... my pants?"

"Aye." When you don't move, he sighs. "Ye dinnae want me to have to ask a second time, do ye?" And no, you don't. Because you're sure whatever is coming will be far worse if you test his patience.

It's humiliating, dropping the pants to your knees, and the mortification gets even worse when his finger slips under the hem of your very boring, generic brand black cotton thong, pulling it with a yank so it jerks you forward and you almost trip.

"Sergeant... Sir, I'm sorry, I-"

"Why are ye sorry? Stay put." He turns away for a second, locating an old, fold up chair that he sets up where he was standing, settling into it with his knees spread. "Now, come."

"I'm sorry, I don't know why... why this is happening, I don't understand." You try to explain your confusion, but it all comes out as nonsense, and he nods, sympathetically, like he's sad for you, in a mocking, cruel way.

He taps his thigh.

"Hips here." He instructs, moving you like a doll when you start to bend down, pressing your belly against one leg, your breasts and collarbone against the other, ass in the air. "Bleedin' Christ. Ye sure are a sight." He squeezes you, fingers rough in the swell of your cheeks, before smoothing over the skin of your hip, pressing a firm palm to the small of your back. "Do ye know why we're doin' this?"

"No." You whisper, eyes closed. You don't know why you're doing any of this, why he's doing it. You don't know why he picked you, why he keeps you in his sights, why he has you bent over his knee. You don't know why you felt floaty and fucked up after the first time, why you dreamt about it, why you felt like you needed it. This is wrong. Isn't it? He swats your ass, barely a tap, and you flinch. "Sir. Sorry. Sir."

"Ye said you were ninety percent."

"I did."

"But I know, ye're better than ninety percent, aren't ye, my wee genius?" Your lungs are burning with the breath you're holding, and you let it out in a burst.

"Yes." You whisper to the floor.

"Why did ye lie?" The question is followed by a swing of air, and then a palm is stinging across your skin, pin prickles of pain making you whimper. "Count."

"One-e." You gasp. He doesn't pull his punches. He strikes fast. True. Twice in a row, the intensity making you choke on a whine. "Two, three. I didn't."

"Ye did." He rubs the point of impact, cooing at your ass like it needs comfort, before asking again. "Why did ye lie?"

"I wasn't, I-" Smack. This one comes in the exact same spot, a cruel choice, and you bite down on your lip, eyes scrunching shut. "Four."

"Why did ye lie?" You don't answer right away, and he swings, palm swatting down onto your other cheek, skin rippling beneath the hit. It steals your breath, and he prompts you again, with the same question, and you fail to answer, his response coming swiftly against you, smacking raw against burning skin. It's starting to shift now, the pain blurring the lines between uncomfortable and unbearable, while also taking on a different characteristic all together, one that has blood rushing beneath your skin, clit rubbing against the front of your pulled tight thong uncomfortably, not enough contact or pressure to do anything, but enough to drive you insane. You blink, trying to keep yourself together, trying to prevent floating away into space somewhere.

"Sir!" You pant, and he laughs, shadow of a hand swinging through the air, landing against you with a resounding crack.

"Tell me. Why did ye lie?"

"I-" You scramble for an answer. Why did you lie? Why didn't you just say the truth, the facts. What you knew, without a doubt. Why did you lie? "I was scared."

"Of what?"

"Of... of the room. Of making a mistake."

"But ye didnae make a mistake. Ye found a needle in a haystack." You nod. He's right, you did. "So the next time I ask ye how confident ye are, ye say one hundred. Ye tell everyone in that room, that ye did something other people can't, and ye own it."

"Y-yes sir." You whisper, and he runs a palm over the screaming skin of your ass.

"Good girl." He murmurs, your lower lip trembling. "Ye did good for me. So good."

"Thank you." You sniffle, and he shifts your body, lowering you to your knees in front of the chair, pants bunched under your bones like a little cushion.

"Sir?" You ask, confused as he pats your cheek, bending to press a long, hot kiss to your mouth, fingertips stroking across your pussy, overtop your underwear, before pulling back with a devilish smirk.

“Open.” He instructs, and your eyes widen. “Not goin’ tell ye again, sweet Cy. Open. Now.” You do, lips parting, mouth cranking wide, and he removes his fingers, hand drifting to his pants. Oh, fuck.

If your mouth wasn’t already hanging open, it would have dropped to the floor when he pulled his cock free. It’s long, long enough that it’s intimidating, and thick, probably as wide as your wrist, flushed red at the tip. There’s a bead of pre come dripping from the head, cozy crop of brown curls at the base.

“S-s-sir.” You squeak, and he smiles, cupping the back of your head as he taps your lips with it. "It won't- I can't, it's too-"

"I'll teach ye." He grunts, feeding you his cock slowly, tears falling down over your cheeks when he presses it into the back of your throat, as much as you can go, not even to the root yet. "That's it. Jus' like that, easy." He uses your mouth, your face, hand firm on the back of your head, stroking in and out between your lips until they go numb, faster and faster until you believe you might pass out, cock head jamming down past your tongue, blocking your airway with each thrust. You think you might black out. You could be blacked out right now, and not even know. You're not positive you're still in your body, the body with a sore, stinging ass, wet pussy, and occupied mouth, your Sergeant using you as he sees fit, determined to possess you like some sort of demon. You gag on him, throat seizing, and he pushes through it, bound and determined, your name a ragged whisper whistling through his teeth. "Fuck, swallow it. Dinnae lose a drop." He grits, and then plunges all the way, flooding you with sticky, sour salted earth that pours down your throat, hot come dripping down into your stomach.

You sit there, on your knees, after, stunned, unmoving. He shifts around you, pulling your pants up, fixing your hair, wiping your face. He's speaking to you too, murmuring soft words in your ear, lips touching your cheek, your temple, something about how good you are, how sweet, how he's not going to let anything happen to you, how you don't have to worry, because he's here now- and you slip into it like you're falling into your bed, closing your eyes and drifting away, melting into his side when he gathers you up, cradles you against his chest.

"C'mon sweet Cy. Let's get ye to bed."

[lw77]

Diet Pepsi 💈 (LSxMV)

Chapter 1. - Angel

Max wants more than just a sub.

Who knew helping his dad at the shop would become his own personal brand of torture. He knew his dad had regulars, but he thought they’d be – old men regulars not whatever these chippendale escapees were. 

Apparently they’re contractors, who look like every middle-aged woman’s fantasy. Including Logan’s. 

And like clock-work, the group of men enter, a few heading to the drinks and some to his mom’s home-made subs. He hears Danny’s loud laugh, followed by Charles snickering as they tease their other colleague, George, Logan’s mind helpfully supplies, as he shows them something on his phone.

Logan wonders where the other one is, Max, all ruddy cheeks, bright blue eyes and big arms, who’s sadly amiss as he looks towards the floor. 

It’s embarrassing really, how at twenty-one Logan is like a school boy with a crush. If he ever confessed all the things he’s thought, fantasised about or, God, he inwardly groans, dreamt since seeing that man, it would have his Priest drowning him in holy water. 

A tap at the counter knocks Logan out of his thoughts, as he sees Danny in front of him ready to cash out. Like he knew what was going through Logan’s head, Danny’s smile stretched wider, “What’s wrong Logie boy, you disappointed it's just us today?” 

Logan squeaks as he’s caught out, face aflame, “No idea what you’re talking about, um– will that be all?” gesturing to the stack of subs and drinks Danny’s placed on the counter. 

“I think you doooo Logie boy.” Danny croons winking, as Logan speeds up his scanning before Danny can say anything else. It doesn’t stop the man from resting his forearms on the counter and wiggling his eyebrows.

“You’re awful, I’m telling my mom not to make any more of her salami subs.” Logan whines, trying to threaten Danny’s favourite sub away in hopes of ending his teasing. 

Danny smiles cheekily in response, “Your mother loves me, she would never do that” as he taps his credit card on the reader. 

Putting the items in plastic bags, “Maybe I’ll just throw them all away then.” Logan says petulantly. Taking the bags from Logan, “Oh come on Logie boy, that would just be wasteful. Now don’t you worry, he’ll be back next week!” Danny shouts with one last wink as he heads out. 

It’s loud enough that Charles and George, who were still hanging by the front, look up and laugh as if they know exactly who Danny is referring to. It makes Logan let out an embarrassed “Danny” as he hears the group’s laughter continue out the store. 

_______________________

Logan is snug in their usual booth, waiting for Alex and Oscar to return with their first round. They’re celebrating Alex’s new job tonight.

“Alright, two pitchers of beer for us and a Sommersby cooler for the princess!” Oscar announces loudly as he sets down their drinks. Logan snatches the cooler and pulls it closer.

“Oh, come on, Logie bear. You know we’re just teasing you,” Alex says, only making Logan scowl more.

“Seriously, what’s gotten into you this week? Did your mom accidentally sew up your fuck-me jeans again or something?” Oscar asks, furrowing his brows in genuine curiousity.

Logan groans and sinks further into his seat. “No, worse.”

“Did she try to set you up with one of her awkward co-op students again?” Alex asks.

Sitting up, Logan protests, “Okay, that was one time! Checo was sweet—he just had really sweaty hands.” Realizing how pitiful that sounds once he says it, he rests his head against the booth's cushion.

Alex and Oscar sit in silence, giving him space to finally share what’s bothering him.

“You know those hot regulars my dad has? The Chippendale escapee contractors? Danny Ricc—you know him, Alex.” Leaning in, Logan hisses, “Well, they definitely know I’m into their friend or colleague, whatever he is.”

“Yeah well, Logan, you’re not exactly subtle. It’s pretty obvious you’ve got a crush on that guy,” Oscar replies, in an all too annoyingly factual tone, Logan decides.

“And your pupils get huge dude when you like someone. There’s no hiding your attraction buddy,” Alex adds, raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh my god, how am I going to face him now that I know his friends know? Meaning, he knows too. So mortifying,” Logan says, fully aware he’s whining when they’re supposed to be celebrating Alex. “Sorry, I’ll snap out of it… or I’ll move out of town.” He says the last part a little too seriously for his friends.

“Anyway, that’s my week. Now—Alex, come on, tell us about the job! The floor is yours.” Logan gestures with a flourish.

Alex and Oscar share a look. “I got hired to consult as an architect.”

Logan perks up and excitedly congratulates Alex, asking where. “At Danny Ric’s company—your favorite!”

“Oh my god, you’re going to be a part of the Chippendale escapees?” Logan squeals, both hands slammed on the table as he leans over in excitement.

Oscar, observing the scene then asks, “Time for a cheers then?”

“To Alex joining the Chippendale escapees!” they cheer, clinking their beers and can together.

“Oh my god, you’re going to work with Max. Alex, you love me, right? You’ll tell me if he ever talks about me, or if he says I’m cute?” Logan continues, getting even more embarrassing. Oblivious to the widening eyes of Alex and Oscar as they glance behind him.

“…Oh my god, he came in muscle tee a few weeks ago and I just wanted to bite his biceps because they looked so big and they are so big—”

“Ow! What the hell, Oscar? We use our words now.” Logan admonishes, bending in his seat to rub where he got kicked. But he freezes as he hears a familiar laugh. Looking up, he sees Danny standing by their table, amused, and oh god, Max, arms crossed and wearing an equally amused expression.

Now looking no better than his best friends, Logan’s eyes are wide, his face is scarlet, and his mouth hangs open in shock as he realizes they must have heard everything—or at least enough. Maybe he can learn to love Checo’s moist, moist, hands because Mexico is definitely far enough.

“Hey, boys, didn’t mean to interrupt your evening. Just came over to congratulate our dear little Alex on joining the company! Our youngest yet!” Danny sings, wiping a tear for dramatic effect.

Meanwhile, Logan, snapping out of his deer-in-headlights look, is now studiously examining the table varnish, hoping the two men forget his earlier soliloquy over the other's (big) arms.

Good-naturedly, Alex invites Danny and Max to join them in the booth, leaving Logan pressed arm to leg against Max, his best friend completely uncaring of Logan’s gay panic.

Logan starts drinking from his can, hoping to avoid any conversation. But before long, Danny, Alex, and Oscar finish the two pitchers and decide they need to get the next round. Logan’s eyes widen as he mentally pleads, *Don’t leave me alone.* But both Oscar and Alex blissfully ignore him.

Staring at his drink as if it's the most interesting thing, Logan catches a glimpse of Max turning his way.

“Heard you missed me at the store.”

Logan looks at him, feeling his cheeks flush. As Alex pointed out earlier, his attraction to Max is probably written all over his face.

“I—um, no, just wondering where you all were,” he stutters, wetting his lips. “Not just you.” He leans back against the wall as Max essentially cages him in the booth, one arm resting on the back and the other bent on the table. Max’s body warmth and sandalwood cologne envelop Logan, blanketing his senses. Max’s gaze drops to Logan’s lips, a small smirk playing on his face, "Really?" he prompts, "Ye-yeah" Logan breathes out, Max's eyes flick up to Logan's at his answer and his lips break into a smile as he replies simply “Okay, if you say so.”  And, all too soon, he leans back, creating some space as the sounds of the bar filter in again, grounding Logan, feeling like he must be in heaven with Max so close.

Clearing his throat as Danny and the others join the table, Logan sits up, gratefully accepting a new can from Oscar, who gives him a knowing look while subtly elbowing Alex. Now both friends are watching him with knowing smiles, taking in his flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

Logan glares back but falters when he feels a big hand settle just above his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. He realises he’s being asked a question. “Oh—I'm sorry, what?” he asks, confused, snapping his gaze to Max. 

It’s Danny, looking past Max with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He repeats his earlier question, fully aware of why Logan is distracted. “I asked if you’re excited to see your best friend every day now. Since your mom’s subs are legendary. And essential to a good work day”

Logan’s disbelief drips from his tone as he asks, “Even if all we have is the veggie one, Danny?” He raises his eyebrows for added effect.

Danny crosses his hand over his heart dramatically. “Even the veggie one, Logie boy! Although some of us come for the service too.” He finishes with a sidelong glance at Max.

Max, whose relaxed against the booth with his body still angled toward Logan and a comfortable hand resting on Logan’s thigh from when he squeezed it earlier to get his attention. At Danny’s insinuation, Max looks down at Logan, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gives Logan’s thigh another gentle squeeze, this time higher up, and shrugs.

The warmth from Max's touch sends a flutter through Logan's stomach, mingling with a simmering feeling in his chest that he can’t quite identify.

Thankfully, Logan is saved from responding as Oscar pulls Danny’s attention away, asking what project they’ll be starting on.

In the most teasing tone he can muster despite his fluster, he whispers, “So, service?” Looking up at Max from beneath his eyelashes.

Max leans in closer, his voice low. “You’re not the only one who's been looking, Angel.”

Logan’s face heats up further. The nickname doesn’t help his battle against arousal or the realisation that he was not subtle at all.

He blinks as he responds with a soft “uh-huh,” nodding his head, his mind feeling like cotton from their proximity and Max’s admission of mutual attraction.

Max’s gaze drifts to Logan’s lips just as Logan nervously bites his bottom lip. He’s on the verge of saying something—or maybe hoping for something more—when a cough interrupts them, making both of them look up at a smirking Danny.

“While the image of you two is a relief, we have to head back. Poker night! We just had to stop to congratulate you, Alex, on joining us.”

Logan, embarrassed by Danny’s comment, groans into his hands, while Alex thanks Danny brightly. Glancing at Danny, as he waits for Max, he leans into Logan’s ear, whispering, “See you tomorrow, Angel,” and with one last squeeze to Logan's thigh he’s out of the booth and heading for the door behind Danny. Leaving Logan bright red, his arousal flashing like a stop sign, and his two best friends laughing at his expression.  

Unhelpfully, Alex says, “Guess this means you don’t have to skip town anymore.” To which Oscar shouts, “Hear! Hear!” Logan can’t help but giggle, his embarrassment fading as he nods in agreement.

Chapter 2 - Hunter?

Chapter 3 - Sunburn

Author's note: So I listened to Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae and I just kept seeing buff/fit Max (white t-shirt, gold cross in blue jeans) and Logan vm baby boy/angel and big blown out eyes and parted lips when Max comes into his dad's store with his co-workers/friends. (i was going for a lil age diff but mostly size difference)

also i was gonna make it hotter but its like jesus had a hand on my shoulder as i got to it. maybe next chapter

[that-sarcastic-writer]

Twisted Love

Billy Russo X Latina!Mercenary!Reader

Summary: based on this moodboard murder date with Billy made by the love of my life @fluffyprettykitty thank you for the inspo

Warnings: explicit sexual content, minors yall better dnfi, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, fingering, blood kink, choking, hair pulling, degradation, he calls her a whore and she likes it, allusion to gunplay & knife play, Billy and reader get turned on by questionable acts, def dark themes, dark!Billy, dead bodies, actual murder, many acts of violence, and Billy canonically likes it rough and painful, they're both just unhinged

Reader is referred to as she/her, speaks Spanish here and there and is described to have long hair. If this is not you, that is okay. This is solely based on the moodboard. I use no further specifications so you can enjoy it regardless :)

WC: 4k

A/N: I'm sorry in advance for the person that I am, I blame selene for encouraging this. You have been warned, you read under your own responsibility. I missed Billy and his murderous questionable kinks, so here we are. (If you actually enjoy this you I guarantee we will see each other in hell)

"Billy." You groaned quietly, the voice in your earpiece shutting up at the sharpness of your voice. 

"Yes darlin'?" 

"I can't focus on shooting your target if you keep saying how you're going to fuck me stupid tonight. Or how you've been really wanting to fuck me with your gun." You said the last part through your teeth as you did your best to remain professional and stay focused. You were a mercenary, sure, but you were a professional one. 

"If you keep talkin' back, I will do so much more than that. You like knives, don't you?" You could hear the smug smirk he probably had on his face through his voice, even through your earpiece.

You couldn't help but groan, your skin growing burning hot under all of your gear, and it was getting hard to control your breathing the longer he kept spitting filthy words at you. 

"This is your op, Billy. So we can either have phone sex or I can shoot your target. Can't do both." You rolled your eyes, adjusting your grip on your handgun as you tried to ignore the heat between your legs. You heard him chuckle. 

"You're gettin' paid either way darlin'," he reminded you. "But if you get a headshot, I'll give you your bonus." 

You actually laughed at this, a smirk of your own falling on your lips, "You know I never miss. Don't gotta double tap if I shoot 'em in the head." 

This was like a little game of yours. Any time Billy called you— for anything other than a good fuck— it was for a target mission off the books. Legally, he was just a private contractor. Private security was his main gig. But off the books, he was still getting paid to take out targets for his old military superiors. When someone pushed at his buttons too much, he called you. Because you were like a ghost, in and out, no one even knew you were ever there. And he thought your post-op adrenaline made for killer sex. You getting paid was just a courtesy on his end. You had honestly stopped caring about the money a long time ago. But he paid you your part anyway. So it was a win-win situation for everyone involved. 

"Mhmm,  I love it when you talk dirty." He sighed a long breath and you smiled to yourself, holding your gun close to your chest as you quietly walked through the dark, otherwise empty house. You could hear movement and indistinct voices on the other side of the wall

"I hear voices in the next room. Two targets so far. Standby for confirmation." Billy laughed at how official you sounded. You truly never did get rid of that military part of you. 

You peeked your head through the crack on the door of a large study. You chewed on your bottom lip as you tried to identify the targets. One was the man Billy had hired you to kill, a Marine Colonel that had gotten too greedy and was making threats. That didn't exactly sit well with Billy or anyone else involved. The other man, though, you weren't sure, but he also seemed to be military. 

"I'm looking at your target. But I'm not sure who the other one is. Looks military, though. What do you want me to do?" You whispered the question to Billy. He stayed silent for a few seconds. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, growing inpatient at his silence. But he spoke before you could yell at him. 

He groaned first, clearly something hadn't gone according to plan. "Just take both of them out. I don't need witnesses." 

"Whatever you say, pretty boy." You took in a deep breath, your heart starting to race as the adrenaline started to pump in your blood. 

"Remember, I want you in and out, don't worry about nobody else. That's what I'm here for, baby." 

"You're such a romantic, mi cielo." You bit your lip, you heard him chuckle in response. 

You waited another second, long enough for them to be close enough for you to take them out both at the same time before the other could draw their gun. Stealth was your specialty anyway. You were thankful the large doors didn't creak when you opened them further. Both men were facing away from you. Good. You took a step inside the study, and with a grin, you pulled the trigger. 

One. 

Two. 

Both men dropped to the ground with a thud. You sighed out the breath you had been holding and you slowly approached the two bodies. And you smiled at your work. 

Headshots. 

"I'm done here. Getting out now." You said to Billy. You heard him give you a quick hum of confirmation. 

You nodded to yourself, picking up your shell casings before you hurried out of the study. You went around through long halls for what seemed to be an eternity, until you came to the hall that led to the foyer of the house. 

Almost there. 

"Don't you fucking move." A voice rasped beside you. You saw out of the corner of your eye the barrel of a handgun. Well so much for Billy taking care of everything. 

You closed your eyes, slowly raising your hands to show your handgun. You turned your head enough to look at the man. More military. Great. This was going to be shit show. 

"Who the fuck are you? Why are you here?" The man screamed at you, his gun still on your face. You said nothing, you simply stared at him. He couldn't really see your face, not through your balaclava. Only your eyes were visible. "Give me that fucking gun and get on the ground. Now!" 

You stared at him, not moving a muscle. The only man you would ever get on your knees for was Billy. This one could shoot you for all you cared. 

"I said get on your knees or I'll shoot!' 

"Shoot me then." You said dryly, hands still in the air. 

Just get a bit closer, you thought. 

The man seethed at your response and stepped closer. Your lips irked up. You turned your body, your free hand gripping his gun and diverting it away from your head. The man squeezed the trigger. You grunted loudly, your ears ringing, but you didn't care. You wrestled with the man, landing a punch on his face that made his nose gush with blood. He stumbled backward but didn't fall. If anything, that made him more angry, and he lunged at you. He reached for the braid that stuck from under your balaclava and he pulled, really fucking hard. You grunted out in pain when he tugged your hair to drag you close enough for him to grab you. You fought against him, but you could only do so much against a man twice your size. His fist hit your jaw with enough force to make you dizzy for a second. And he took that opportunity to grab your vest and threw you over a nearby coffee table. Your body slammed so hard against it you ended up on the floor, with it in pieces. 

You weren't a religious person, but goddamn, you were seeing God right about now. You groaned in pain as you tried to push through. You tried to sit up as fast as you could, but the man was already towering over you, and a large boot forced you down by your chest. You forced down the cry of pain you wanted to let out, only breathing out sharply instead. You couldn't find your gun, and you had one, pointed right at your face now. 

"Fucking bitch." The man spat, leaning down to tear your balaclava from your face. You grunted, your face twisted into a scowl as he pulled it off. He scoffed. He was about to say something into his walkie when a voice you were all too familiar with caught his attention. 

"Hey." Billy stood a few feet away, having heard the gunshot and ran in. He didn't even flinch when he pulled the trigger. The man dropped dead a second later. 

You blew out a breath of relief, and you laughed, running a hand over your face. Well shit. You were hoping you wouldn't get any blood on yourself tonight. 

Billy was beside you in a split second, a large hand pulling you up to your feet. His eyes were big with a mixture of panic and anger, and he scanned your body for injuries. His hand landed on your lip, split and bleeding. His jaw ticked but you shook your head at him. 

"You okay?" He asked with a heavy breath. You nodded at him, your own hands touching his face. Blood stained his neck and part of his face. But you had a feeling it wasn't his. "Si?" 

You nodded again, "Si." 

Billy plastered a hard kiss on your lips, his hand holding the back of your head. You hummed against his lips, gripping his own vest. He pulled back after a few seconds, and his eyes landed on the dead man lying next to him. His neck twitched, and his jaw tightened as he pulled the trigger two more times. The man was already dead, Billy had shot him in the head the first time. But he needed to get that out of his system. 

"That was by far the hottest thing you've ever done for me." You breathed out, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You kissed him this time. Much harder. He groaned into your mouth, the side of his handgun brushing your hip as he gripped them with both hands. 

"Did you do what I asked?" He muttered against your lips. 

"Headshots. As always." You smirked against his lips, your skin growing hot just as the ache between your legs grew. 

"Mhmm, that's a good girl." He pressed another kiss to your lips. "Come. Gotta get outta here." 

You nodded, looking on the ground for a second for your handgun. Your eyes skimmed around for a bit before you smiled and you happily picked it up from the ground. When you looked up, Billy was looking at you with an irked eyebrow. 

"Que? It's my favorite gun. I wasn't gonna leave it here. It's got my fingerprints all over it." You shrugged, casually walking past Billy towards the kitchen. You came through that backdoor. It'd probably be easier to leave that way as well. 

Billy watched you with a raised eyebrow. It did always turn him on to see you in your tactical gear. He laughed to himself and followed you. He stayed close behind you, within hand reach at all times. He was so close that he actually bumped into your back when you stopped abruptly. You turned around, and one of your hands came to grip his vest while the other held up your handgun. He frowned, about to question you when you forcefully moved him to the side an inch or two. 

"Agh shit!" He grunted out, a bullet still catching the plate on his back with enough force to make him stumble. 

You kept your grip on his vest as you pulled the trigger twice and he heard a loud thud a second later. When he turned his head he saw a guard on his back, writhing in pain as blood gushed from his chest. Shit, he must have missed the guy when he was clearing the outside of the house. 

He draped a hand over his shoulder where the bullet hit, eyes never leaving you as you quietly walked over to the guard, gun held up. The man began to stammer, coughing up blood as he tried to crawl away. You blinked, head tilted and jaw tight as you pulled the trigger two more times. The man stopped moving with that second bullet. Your face twisted with disdain when you felt blood splatter on your face. Again. 

"Agh, puta sangre de mierda." This fucking blood. 

You harshly wiped your hand over your face, probably making a bigger mess than there already was. You flinched, your gun held up and stopped at Billy's chest. He had a wide smirk on his face, his hands raised, but he was just mocking you. 

"You wanna point that gun somewhere else, pretty girl?" He taunted with a smirk. You gritted your teeth and clenched your jaw. 

"Estás fucking sordo?" Are you fucking deaf? Billy couldn't speak Spanish. But he had learned to pick up on your angry Spanish over time. His smirk only grew wider when you holstered your gun and slammed your flat hands against his chest, attempting to shove him, but he didn't move much. "Did you not hear the motherfucker coming? Are you okay? Did the bullet go through the plate?" 

He found your angry concern amusing, endearing even. But the mocking smirk on his face only made your blood boil more. 

"Aw, my pretty mercenary is worried about me?" He taunted you more, and the fire in your eyes made him completely forget about the throbbing on his shoulder blade. Though he felt a different kind of throb when he felt your flat palm collide with his cheek. 

His eyes widened for a second as he processed the heat spreading through his cheek. He breathed a laugh, but it wasn't a humorous one. Not in the slightest. He ran his tongue over his lips, he could taste the smallest bit of blood. He counted in his head. Six guards altogether, three Marines inside. There were five dead bodies outside. Four inside. Good. 

He didn't say a word as he reached out to you, he grabbed the back of your braid and crashed his lips against yours with so much force it gave you whiplash. You didn't protest though, you welcomed it, actually. You gripped his vest tightly as he slipped his tongue inside your mouth. He hummed with satisfaction as you clung to his vest. He gripped your hair tightly as he made you back into the kitchen island behind you. 

You gasped into his mouth when you felt him hoist you up on the counter. 

"The fuck are you doing?" You pulled back enough to speak, not that you were arguing with him, you had been wanting him ever since you got here. He flashed you a sadistic grin as he gripped your vest and pulled you to the edge so that he was standing between your open legs. 

"Gonna fuck you stupid. That's what." He replied in a heartbeat as his fingers unbuckled the clasps of your vest. He tossed it aside and his eyes instantly landed on the blood splatters staining your jaw and neck. 

"Right here?" You gave him a wide eyed look, lips slightly parted as he ridded himself of his own vest, leaving him a plain black long-sleeve compression shirt. 

"Right here. You did everythin' I asked, and more. And you know I'm a man of my word." Your long-sleeve black shirt was gone next and his lips immediately attached to your jaw. "You don't gotta play innocent with me darlin'. Bet if I touch you you’ll be soaking wet." 

Fuck, you wished he didn’t know you so well. You were real fucking good at pretending with the whole world. But you couldn't pretend with him. And you couldn't deny that you had been wanting him to fuck you senseless the second you saw his face that day. And that tactical uniform of his, fuck it didn't help your cause in the slightest. 

"You know I always want you, doesn't matter when or where." You answered through a ragged breath, your eyelashes fluttered as he ran his tongue over the skin of your neck, and at the same time, he shoved his hand into your cargo pants, right past your panties.

"Yeah, you want me? You want me right now? Covered in blood and everythin'?" He pulled back enough to watch your face as his finger brushed over your cunt. And he was pleased by how right he was. You were so wet. Your mouth fell open as he slipped a finger into you with ease. "You are such a fuckin' whore. You've been this wet this whole time, haven't you? You just killed three men for me, and you're wet?"

God, you should feel disgusted with yourself, with him, but you felt nothing of the sort. If anything, it aroused you more. You ground your hips against his hand, desperate for more as your shaky hands fumbled with the belt of your cargo pants. You tugged until you ultimately got them off one leg once you managed to kick off one of your combat boots. Billy only watched with amusement as you struggled. But he otherwise didn't help you. He liked watching you struggle.  

"Goddamn you're so needy. Such a needy whore." He mocked you with a laugh, but he rewarded you with another finger nonetheless. 

"Yes, yes I'm a whore." You whined, holding yourself upright by gripping his shirt. "I'm your whore. Fuck— Please, I did good." 

Billy nodded at this, the pathetic pleads coming from your mouth making his cock strain against his cargos even more. How such a fierce and vicious mercenary like yourself could give in so easily to him he had no idea, but he sure wasn't complaining. Not in the slightest. 

"Yeah. Yeah, you did. I'm gonna give you exactly what you deserve, don't worry." He spoke through a groan, he rutted his palm against your clit, brushing against it as he curled his fingers against that one spot that made your thighs shudder. 

You bunched his shirt around your fist as your mouth fell open in a silent moan, your hips involuntarily grinding against his hand. Billy watched with amusement as you desperately rocked yourself back and forth on the counter while he undid his pants with his free hand. 

His fingers left you abruptly, leaving your chasing and jaw slacked. You whined, your mouth opening to curse at him but he was gripping your braid with one hand as he brushed his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick. 

"Yell at me again and I will fuck you with my gun until you cry." He spat, his jaw twitching as he forcefully slammed into you with a snap of his hips. 

You actually cried out this time, your toes curling and your nails dug into his chest. He pulled you to the edge of the counter until your legs hung loosely over his hips. He wound up his hand around your hair, pulling your head back as he rutted himself against you. He held your neck on full display as he dipped his head and ran his tongue over where blood stained your skin. 

"Fuck baby— you always feel so good. But goddamn, you fuckin' taste like heaven." He breathed against your skin, dragging his tongue from your pulse point to your jaw. 

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tangling around the chocolate locks to the root. And you pulled, and you pulled so hard he actually grunted in pain. 

"Dios Billy." You moaned, your lips against his ear, and he slammed into you so hard then he made you slide back on the counter. 

"Not God, baby. But I can be." He breathed out a laugh, his face pressed against your cheek as he wrapped his long fingers around your throat. "Trust me, darlin', when I'm done with you, not even God is gonna make you get outta bed tomorrow." 

You choked out a cry as he brought you closer against him— if that was even possible— and threw one of your legs over his shoulder. His cock hit so deep it actually made you roll your eyes back this time. 

"O-oh shit— shit Billy. I'm gonna come. Please, I wanna come." You spoke in between pants, what you could manage to say with his hand on your throat. You were holding on to him for dear fucking life, both arms thrown over his shoulder as if he was the only thing keeping you from slipping off the countertop. 

"You wanna come? My pretty mercenary wants to come? You earned it, didn't you?" He pulled back enough to watch your face, and he released the grip on your throat so you could respond. 

"Yes! Coño I earned it, please." You sounded so desperate but you didn't care, if there was one man in this world you could let yourself be vulnerable for it was Billy. 

"Mhmm, of course you did." He slipped his hand between your bodies and his thumb rubbed harsh circles on your clit and he drilled into you, pretty much holding you in one place with a tight grip on your ass. "Yeah, like that? Yeah just like that, come for me. You're good at following orders, so come." 

You were seeing white the second his thumb was on your clit and your fingers tugged at the roots of his hair as you came with a silent cry. You eyes were screwed shut and your mouth was hanging wide open as you gripped him tight enough to make his cock twitch. He breathed out a sigh of satisfaction and his lips curled up as he felt your wetness coat his cock. He looked down, and the sight of his cock slick with your come almost made him lose it. 

With a grunt he held you to his chest with a tight grip on the back of your neck and his fingers dug into your ass, holding you still for him as he fucked you. 

"Yeah, you take it just like that. Fuck— fuck that's a good girl." He moaned out the words, his head falling back ever so slightly. Enough for you to press your lips to his neck. But what made him completely lose it was your tongue, on his neck, similarly licking up the dry blood on his skin. "Ooh fuck me." 

His fingers dug deep into your scalp, enough for you to feel a slight burn, but you didn't fucking care. You dragged your lips up to his jaw as he fell still and you breathed out a laugh of satisfaction when you felt him spill himself inside you. He dragged his hips lazily, once, twice more before he just stood still. His fingers were deep rooted in your hair and his eyes were closed. You closed your own eyes as you pressed your forehead against his chest with a lazy smile on your face. 

Billy was silent, his fingers loosening on your hair until only his fingers were lazily dragging his fingers through the now loose strands. You kept your face on his chest, simply listening to his rapid heartbeat that matched your own. It slowly went steady, back to its normal rhythm. Only then Billy pulled back enough to look at your face. His dark eyes watched your face with something much softer and his fingers brushed over your bruised lip. 

"'M fine Billy. You've done worse." You sighed softly at him, your hand coming up to hold his wrist. He furrowed his eyebrows at you. 

"That's me, though. I've never hit you— without your permission anyway. But I've never bruised your face. It ain't the same." He frowned, and you couldn't help but grin at his protectiveness. 

"I said I'm fine, mi cielo." You squeezed his wrist and shot up your eyebrows at him with a suggestive smile on your face. "Does this place have a master bathroom?" 

Billy thought for a second, he had been here once at least before. He figured a house this big probably did have a large bathroom. 

"Probably, why?" 

"Wanna wash this blood off me?" 

Billy's scowl was quickly replaced by a wide smirk of his own and he could feel his cock twitch the slightest bit as your suggestive tone. 

"For this pussy? Baby, I'd kiss the fuckin' ground you walk on." 

Billy was a fucked up man that had met his fucked up match. And he'd be damned if he ever denied you anything.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

The Artist and the Builder [a Joel x reader fic]

Read on Ao3

Sequel: All The Fear and the Fire of the End of the World

Fandom: The Last of Us

Ship: Joel Miller x you/artist!reader who is his age and has arthritis and allergies.

Tags/warnings: Bit of pining, Joel is sweet and settling in, reader has joint pain and allergies, kissing, pretty tame foreplay, a little fumbling, teasing, insertion of objects into vagina that probably shouldn't be there but it's the apocalypse there ain't no dildos, vaginal orgasm, Joel is Too Big and also has Bad Knees, piv sex, cuddling, artist stuff listen I don't know how to do this anymore.

Summary: Gruff contractor Joel Miller has been in Jackson for a while and up until now, you thought he didn't like you because you're an artist and who the hell needs art in the post-apocaypse? But you are wrong.

Words: 7,139

A/N: Listen I know absolutely nothing about being an artist, sorry about that. I also don't have allergies or arthritis (although I suspect I am going down that road but let's cross that bridge when we get there). I just want Joel to be soft with someone his age whose body is falling apart. Many many thanks to @pazizz and @rambling-in-purple who helped me with this one. It started as one thing but ended something else. I really appreciate the help along the way <3

My masterlist

The ache protrudes harshly into your dreams and tears you away from sleep way before it’s time to get up. It grows stronger as you come to, and you carefully try to open your hands. Each joint is like a rusty hinge that creaks and whines when moved, and you sigh deeply as you hide your hands in opposite armpits in an attempt to warm them up. Your mother had arthritis and would tell you in a bland voice that you’d probably get it, too. She had it, her mother had it, and so on. But that seemed so far away, you had your whole life ahead of you, and you had just settled down and started to live after your crazy twenties when the outbreak happened, and survival became your only goal. Despite it all, you managed to live for twenty more years, and then got slapped with the family curse.

Closing your hands around a mug of hot tea, you walk around the living-room of your small house and inspect your various half-finished projects: paper made of plants, clay paint, painted mugs. The whole house smells like a compost, so you open a window to let in a cool breeze. You immediately feel it in your aching hands but do your best to ignore it.

Sitting down at your drawing table, you pick up the charcoal and sketch a couple of lines to the profile you’re working on. It doesn’t feel right, however, so you put down the charcoal again. Restless, you sip some tea, your foot tapping against the floor.

Eventually, you have to go to the infirmary, where Robert, Jackson’s doctor, already is treating his first patient of the day.

You like Robert, like being of use, but being a nurse isn’t what you wanted. You trained to be one, yes, and worked as one for years because it felt like a good, honest profession, and your parents insisted. At nearly 30, however, you quit, and went back to school to pursue your true calling: art. You had almost finished your education when the world went to shit, and your passion no longer counted for anything. For the past twenty years, you’ve thrown yourself after art supplies like other people after food, but even paper is becoming harder to come by. Hence your experiments using plants.

“Your hands bothering you?” Robert asks around lunch, and you nod silently. You haven’t said anything, but he notices.

“Take the rest of the day off.”

“I’m good.”

“Just go, okay? I can’t give you anything for the pain, but I can give you the day off.”

You accept gratefully, and as you change into your normal clothes, you decide to go check at the latest construction site if there’s any sawdust to be had.

You hear the promising sound of a saw working its way through wood as you get closer to the latest house being erected, and when you reach it, Joel Miller looks up from the sawhorse and straightens his back. You think you see a grimace flash across his face, but then he carefully rearranges his features into the usual scowl.

Joel’s been in Jackson for a while now. You don’t really know much about him, except for what you’ve heard from others: that he walked across the country from Boston with the girl in search of his brother, and when the place where he was supposed to drop off the girl was destroyed, they both came back here. He seems to have settled well, and he’s handy, so he’s a welcome addition. He doesn’t really seem to understand your needs, though: when you first asked him if he could save some sawdust for your papermaking, he scoffed when he learned that you needed the paper for art. You bit back on an acid remark. Art wasn’t valued very highly in this world, but it’s what made you happy, and you didn’t care what someone like Joel fucking Miller thought.

“Hi,” you say, stopping in front of the sawhorse. “You got something for me?”

He wipes his forehead on his sleeve and nods towards the wall of the house he’s building. There are three buckets by it, and you see that two of them are filled with yellow sawdust, the third one with nettle leaves. Puzzled, you look over at him. You can’t really figure him out.

“What’s this?”

“Ellie said you were looking for nettles in the vegetable patches,” he mutters. “Passed by a bunch of them on patrol yesterday.”

You chew on your lower lip as you process the unexpected kindness.

“Thank you,” you eventually say. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” Joel picks up the saw again and goes back to working on shortening the board propped on the sawhorse. The woodsy scent of sawdust fills your nostrils, and you catch a whiff of sweat from Joel, despite the cool weather.

The buckets are proving difficult to pick up. Your fingers refuse to curl around the handles, and even if the weight is more than manageable, your hands are just not having it today. You swallow hard, embarrassed by your frailty, when Joel steps up behind you.

“I’ll take those.”

Big hands close around the handles of the sawdust buckets. You pick up the nettle bucket and start to walk towards your house. Joel walks alongside you, silent and avoiding looking at you just as you are stubbornly staring in any direction but his.

“I have arthritis,” you finally tell him, naming your disease with disgust dripping from your tongue. “My hands don’t work so well some days.”

“That’s rough,” he offers. “I used to have a neighbor who had that. Sorry.”

You finally venture a glance at him. His features offer nothing of what’s going on behind those dark brown eyes.

You arrive at your house, and Joel carries in the buckets for you. You see from how his nostrils flare that he wasn’t prepared for the earthy smell of your home.

“Just put them down there,” you ask him, gesturing to him. Joel does that and is left standing in the doorway to your living-room. He looks around at your various half-finished projects, the pictures on the walls, all your attempts at creating art with whatever materials you've been able to get your aching hands on.

You pretend to busy yourself with washing your hands, but you're really watching him. You've seen this before: people who don't care about art seeing art in a whole new way for the first time. They're always slammed in the face with it, and it's a very delicate moment that shouldn't be disturbed. So you busy yourself at the sink, rinse out your cup despite it being close to clean already, warm up your hands some more with water, open the cupboards and rearrange things. Joel disappears into the living-room, his heavy, unfamiliar boots causing the floorboards to complain about every step he takes. You hear him walk around slowly, and your curiosity gets the better of you. Quietly, you walk over to the doorway to sneak a peek at him.

He's standing by your desk, holding up a paper with a half-finished sketch. To your horror, the picture is of him, the one that you just can't get right because you can't figure him out, can't combine his threatening glower with the warm smile he reserves for his close ones.

You almost dash across the floor and snatch the paper from his hands before throwing it down on the desk, picture down.

"That's not finished, I mean, it's not... you weren't supposed to see it."

"It's good," Joel states simply. You glance at him as you mindlessly rearrange the sketches on your desk.

"Thanks."

His stare is piercing and hard to meet, so you cast down your eyes to a sketch of Ellie right in front of you. Joel follows your gaze and sees it.

"Can I see that?"

You bite your lower lip, pick up the sketch and hand it to him. You're happier with this one: Ellie's face is open, honest. She talks, questions, comments. You've barely heard ten words in all from Joel, and he's been around for months.

"You really captured her," he admires you. "Did she pose for this?"

"No," you shake your head, "but I've worked together with her occasionally. It's easier to draw someone when you know how they move and talk and such."

He hums in agreement as he studies the picture.

"Is that why you haven't finished my picture?" he eventually asks, catching you off guard. "Because you haven't spent time with me?"

"Probably," you shrug, and hold up your hand for him to relinquish the picture back to you. He does, and the line between his brows seems to melt away when he asks you if you'd want to finish his portrait.

"I can come by tonight after work."

You meet his soft gaze and nod.

"Yeah, okay."

///

You're in the middle of dipping your paper molds into a tub of pulp and putting them to dry when there's a knock on the door. You call out a "come in" as you wash your hands under water as hot as you can manage. Not good at staying passive, you've strained your hands all day continuing with your experiments.

Joel steps in, eyeing the room immediately before settling his nut-brown gaze on you.

"How are your hands?" he wants to know. You shrug.

"The same."

You reach for your jacket, and Joel grunts questioningly. You raise a brow at him.

"Are we going out?"

"I need fresh air."

"It does smell in here." A grin flashes by his face, almost shocking you. Was that a joke?

"Sorry," he immediately apologizes, taking your silence for chagrin. You smile wryly.

"Don't worry. It really is smelly, I just don't notice anymore."

You leave your house together and start walking slowly down the street. The evening is cold in a refreshing way, and you hide your gloved hands in your pockets, both to keep them warm and to keep them occupied. Keeping your eyes trained on some invisible spot in the distance, you try to figure out something to say. It doesn't feel like you and Joel have a lot in common, and all those old icebreakers of "where are you from" and "do you have a family" can be sensitive in this world. You opt for something you do know about him.

"Did you build houses before?"

He takes a second to answer, but finally tells you that he was indeed a contractor.

"Always good to know how to build things," you comment. Joel hums in agreement before clearing his throat.

"And you? You usually work in the infirmary."

"I was a nurse, but I didn't like it much," you tell him. "I went back to school to study art, but the breakout happened before I finished. And nobody needs art to survive. So I work as a nurse."

Joel doesn't say anything, but nods to a passer-by.

"Do you like being a contractor?" you ask. Once again, he takes a little time before presenting his answer.

"I do."

"Good, honest work, huh?"

"Something like that. And..." He hesitates, gaze flickering when you turn your head to look at him.

"It's nice to build something instead of destroying it," he finally mutters. You nod slowly.

"Yes. Yes, it is."

Without hurry, you walk around Jackson three times while talking. Joel is a man of few words, but the words he does utter are well chosen and sometimes heavy with information. He talks about his former construction work but doesn't utter one word about his personal life, possible family, likely loss. His voice is warm when he talks about Ellie, the teenager he delivered across the country, only to find that the people who were supposed to take care of her were already dead and buried. There is a momentary crack in his facade when he talks about his failed mission to bring Ellie to Salt Lake City, but he quickly gathers himself, and states that that's how both ended up in Jackson. He seems happy enough with those turns of events.

You tell him about your art education, about how you ever since you were a young child have seemed to notice how light falls on objects, faces, your surroundings, and the deep-seated urge to draw the light, paint it, trace is with a brush in futile attempts to replicate the magic. The light changes everything, how the world is viewed, and you're constantly trying to capture those moments when the light renders a common kitchen utensil magical, just because the first rays of morning sunshine catch the curves and angles of it. You're not sure he understands, but he does listen.

Eventually, you stop outside your house, facing each other. Darkness has fallen and you didn't leave the porch light on, so you struggle to see his face in what little light there is to be had from the moon, and the glow from the windows of the neighboring houses.

"It was nice talking to you," you say sincerely.

"You too."

You hide your hands in the opposite armpits in an attempt to keep them warm. The cold is getting to them, even with gloves.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

Joel blinks.

"You're not going to draw me?"

"It's too dark."

"Ah." You hear from his tone that he just realized that you've been talking about light this whole time. His head shifts on top of that long, strong neck, his face turns a little to the side and you catch the profile of his aquiline nose against the faint light coming from the neighbor's house.

And you know you have to try to draw him like this, half cloaked in darkness, the bridge of his nose sharp against soft light, maybe from a fire, the shadows painting dark valleys on his face with his frown, the glint of grey in his beard, a lock of hair curling by his ear.

"Maybe not," you correct yourself and step past his towards your porch. "Come on in."

You load up the fireplace, your hands only trembling slightly from the weight of the wood. Joel kneels next to you by the fireplace and takes the matches from you. A protest rests on the tip of your tongue, but the brief touch of his warm, callused hand makes you swallow it. You stand up and watch him light the fire, breathe life into the kindling, and carefully place smaller twigs on the first, small flames before rocking back to watch the fire grow. You move your weight from one foot to the other, tuck your hands into your pockets. Joel glances up at your fidgeting.

"Your hands hurtin'?"

"It's the cold," you shrug. "But it's fine, it's not that bad."

You take a step back, towards the kitchen.

"Want a cup of tea?"

"Sure. Thanks."

When you return with two mugs of steaming tea, the fire is crackling merrily. Joel rises, joints popping, and accepts one mug from you with one hand, the other suddenly taking a gentle hold of your wrist. You twitch, the tea spills over a little, but you don't pull back your hand. Slowly, Joel covers it with his big, broad palm, so much warmer than yours, and you almost instantly feel the heat spread into your aching joints.

When you search his averted gaze, he releases your hand, and clears his throat.

"Thanks for the tea," he murmurs, and you nod quickly.

"You're welcome."

You busy yourself with emptying the run-down armchair from various knick-knacks and tools, and indicate the seat for him. Carefully, as if afraid to break it, Joel sits down. You pull up the desk chair and take a piece of charcoal and a paper, propping it on your lap with a sheet of cardboard under.

"You're not going to continue with the half-finished picture?" Joel asks, sipping his tea.

"No," you shake your head. "It's not how I want to draw you."

"Waste of paper."

"I'll use it to make more. It's okay."

He grunts, and you hide your smile without knowing why you're even smiling in the first place.

"Turn your head a little towards the fireplace," you instruct, and Joel squares his shoulders, as if he's unhappy about being told what to do. However, he does as he's asked, and follows the rest of your directions easily. When you're happy with his angles, you put coal to paper, and start to sketch.

For a long time, the only sound heard is that of the fire, and the soft scratch of the coal against the coarse paper. Your sharp eyes note every hair, pore, and line on Joel's face, but you're finding it hard to transfer them to paper. After a long day, your hands are hurting bad, and the pain keeps shifting your focus away from the task at hand. Finally, you sigh deeply and turn the paper upside down.

"I'm done."

"It's finished?" Joel asks, shifting like he's sitting back and leaning forward at the same time. One brow is quirked inquisitively, while his tight jawline lets you know that he doesn't really want to see the result - but he's curious.

"No," you specify as you get up, "it's not finished. I have to start over, but it's getting late."

Your fingers can barely let go of the coal when you set it down together with the paper. You hide your knuckle in the palm of your other hand and rub it discreetly.

"You won't show me?" Joel rises from the armchair and comes up to you, putting away the cup of tea. Standing right in front of you he seems almost impossibly broad.

"Your hands hurtin'?" he asks in a low voice that vibrates along your spine. You swallow quickly.

"Just need to warm them up, it's okay, I'm used to it."

Your breath gets caught in your throat when he takes both your hands and presses them to his chest. You feel his heart beat quickly against your palm and realize that some of his body heat actually comes from him being just as nervous as you are.

Feebly, you try to pull back your hands.

"I'm getting coal on your shirt..."

"Don't care."

You bite into your lower lip, speechless as if you were fourteen and standing in front of your crush, instead of a middle-aged woman talking to...

Who is Joel to you, anyway?

"Why are you doing this?" you ask hoarsely. Joel frowns, his hands slowly letting go of yours. You keep your palms on his chest for a second longer before letting go. Bereft of the warmth, your joints feel even worse.

He doesn't seem to have an answer to give you, but his lips move like he's trying to say something to break the silence. When nothing comes out, you get impatient.

"Joel?" you prompt.

"No one's ever looked at me like you look at me," he lets out, his dark gaze locking in on you. "It's like you're staring right through my clothes. It makes me nervous. I haven't been nervous in... a very long time."

"Nervous how?" you hear yourself ask, even if your armpits have grown damp, and your heart is beating so hard he surely must hear it.

"Nervous in that way." You hear exactly what he means, all the possibilities and threats and risks summarized in that. There's something so awkwardly boyish in it that you find yourself smiling. His frown deepens when he sees it, but his lips soften.

"Joel," you ask, softly touching your aching hand to his, "do you want to kiss me?"

He immediately grabs your wrist and touches his lips to yours in a kiss that doesn't really know what it's supposed to do but wants to do it anyway. He forgot to draw breath, and instead of inhaling against your skin, he pulls back quickly when he has to breathe.

"Fuck," he mutters, "that was a shitty kiss. I'm sorry."

Your cheeks flush violently when you pull at his hand.

"You can try again?"

The offer makes him smile, finally, and he displays that dimple that you found absolutely impossible to put to paper. His closes his hand around the back of your neck, and his lips press onto yours, and he remembers how it's done, and kisses you until you're not sure your legs will carry you anymore.

///

The picture of Joel becomes secondary to your meetings. Joel, you realize very soon, courts you, like some southern Gone With the Wind-type of gentleman. He brings you whatever materials he can find when he goes on patrol - you're excused from that task due to your horse allergy - and quietly offers you his thick gloves when you're out walking together, and your hands hurt. He continues to not talk much, but you start to recognize the little things: acts of service, the way he looks out for you, how his eyes light up when he sees you. His kisses when you part.

There is only kissing. He hasn't touched you in any other way, and you haven't taken initiative to anything further. There is only a rather chaste, yet warm, kiss when he leaves your house, where you usually meet up. He drinks tea and watches you draw, or paint when you're not asking him to pose for you. You know exactly how you want to capture him but so far, your hands haven't been skilled enough, and for every hour you spend with Joel, you lay another piece of the puzzle that is Joel, and you become unsure of how to draw him.

One evening, a couple of months after that first kiss, you're enjoying the warm fire in your living-room when there is a knock on the door. Joel stands on your porch, eyes scanning you quickly as soon as you open the door.

"You weren't at the movies," he says, referring to the event that nearly everyone in Jackson went to tonight. You hear the question in the statement: Are you okay?

"It's cold," you shrug. "Not my thing. Wanna come in?"

He enters your house, and you take his coat and hang it by the door.

"How are the hands?" he asks. You rub your palms together.

"Not bad today, actually. How's your knees?"

He grins a little, knowing that you saw him carry furniture up porch steps earlier.

"Creaky, but they still carry me."

"Tea?"

"I don't want to disturb, if you wanted to be alone."

You lead the way into the living-room, and move some things away from one armchair, pulling it closer to the fireplace, next to the one you were sitting in.

"You're not disturbing, do sit down. I could work some more on your portrait."

Busying yourself with picking at pieces of charcoal, you don't pay him any attention until his footsteps bring him right behind you. One warm hand touches your waist gently, startling you into turning around to meet his sheepish face.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay." His warm body is so close to yours, and his smell of wood, sweat, and snow invades your nose. You inhale deeply, pretending to sigh just to get the opportunity to soak in this intoxicating, masculine smell of his.

"I got something for you." Joel holds up something wrapped in cloth, and it takes you a few moments to gather yourself.

"For me?" Carefully, you take the little package from him. "Whatever for?"

He shrugs. “Thought you might need it. It’s probably your birthday at some point, or Christmas, or whatever.”

You never were good at receiving gifts, and it's even harder now. When was the last time you even got one?

He shifts his weight; a show of nerves that doesn't match up with his calm, deep voice. You decide to put him out of his misery and unfold the cloth.

It's four paintbrushes, hand carved with thick, curved handles, and tidily shaped heads.

"Oh. Joel, these are... these are gorgeous."

You hear him exhale, like he had been holding his breath.

"You think they're any good?"

"I'm sure they are, the hairs look amazing. Where did you get these?"

"I made them."

Now you tear your eyes from the brushes. "You made them?"

"Carved them, they should be comfortable to hold, I asked the doc what's suitable for someone with arthritis... The hairs are horsehair, bound together with sheep hairs."

He has really listened to you talking about all the art supplies you miss, and your ideas of making your own.

"The hairs are washed, so hopefully they won't give you allergies," he adds quickly.

"Joel... thank you. I don't know what to say."

He chuckles a little. "Try them first. What I know about making paintbrushes can fit onto the head of a nail. You may wanna return them."

"Unlikely."

You lean forward, the brushes still in your hands between the two of you, and touch your lips to Joel's. His hands rise to gently cup your elbows as he accepts your kiss. Only when your lips grow more insistent, does his hold tighten as well, and all you can think of is him holding your tits in the same manner.

Your hands, still holding the brushes, come to his chest, and you start undoing the buttons of his flannel. Joel's lips leave yours, and when he looks at you with eyes steeped in hot molten lava, you know that it didn't come easily.

"What are you doin'?"

"What does it look like?" you smile a little shakily. Is this the beginning of a refusal? Have you misunderstood his interest in you altogether?

"I don't want you to do it just because I gave you somethin'."

"It's not because you gave me something, it's because you never took anything away."

He cups your cheek now, strokes his big thumb over your lips.

"You're beautiful. I haven't done this in a long time, and never with anyone as beautiful."

"How old do you think I am?" you laugh, amused and touched at the same time. His ever-present frown changes slightly, turning quizzical.

"I don't need to hear that I'm beautiful," you specify, hands still on his chest. "I don't care about that."

"Then what do you wanna hear?" His voice is impossibly low. Your pussy clenches, grows moist and hot.

"I want to hear you want me."

"Oh, darlin'..." he sighs, closing his eyes momentarily. "I want you like crazy. I have wanted you for a long time, but I wanted for you to decide when you'd have me."

You didn't know how much you had longed for someone who saw you as a sexual being, a woman with desires and a will of her own.

"Joel," you whisper, and he swallows the rest of your words when he crashes his lips to yours. The brushes fall from your hand when you throw your arms around his neck to bring him closer, and Joel's big arms go around your waist. He hums into your mouth when your entire front is pressed against him; a satisfied hum, like he's happy to have you here. You answer with a hum of your own and feel his lips curve in a smile.

Slowly, his hands begin to know your body, sliding over curves and dips, fingers dipping into flesh, palms caressing over your clothes. Your approach is more direct: you pull at his flannel, wanting it off him.

"There's no hurry," he admonishes you between kisses. "Unless you got somewhere you need t'be?"

You exhale in something in between a scoff and a chuckle.

"In your pants?"

"Bedroom, then?"

"It's warmer in here, where the fire is."

"Hold on."

He releases you, seemingly unwillingly, and disappears into your small bedroom, re-emerging momentarily later with your bedding. You move the armchairs away to allow for him to put everything down in front of the fireplace. Groaning, he lays down on the makeshift bed, taking your hand and pulling you down next to him. You giggle a little as you plop down, immediately receiving more kisses.

"This better?" he wants to know. Your skin knots over when his hand finds its way underneath your shirt.

"Much better."

He rolls half on top of you, hand finding your breast for a light squeeze as his knee pushes between your thighs to separate them. His cock is stiff against your hip, and you move against it, smiling into the kiss when he grunts and grabs your breast harder. You put your hand on his, pressing it down, feeling his hand disappear into your soft flesh almost painfully. Your moan gears him up, and he starts to pull your shirt upwards. Squirming out of it, you reach for his belt, huffing in annoyance when Joel sits up to take his own shirt off. You sit up as well for a better reach, and your forehead connects with his chin just as he dives back to you.

"Ouch!"

"Fuck!"

You smile sheepishly at each other, both of you more startled than hurt, and Joel gently pushes you back down.

"Maybe we should take it slow?"

"I need you, I'm done waiting."

"I know, sweetheart, but I don't want you to break my jaw."

You scoff, but his kisses make you docile. Your clothes come off, along with his, and when you're both finally naked, skin against skin, you discover that you're happy with going slow as well. In the light of the fire, you trace your hand along his strong muscles and soft flesh, kiss his scars from past struggles, and the newer bruises from recent altercations with logs or whatever he has attempted to lift on his own. You close your fingers around the girth of his cock - Jesus, 20-year-old you would've giggled like a maniac at the sight of it - and enjoy the sounds of surrender that you can conjure out of him.

"God, your hands feel good on me," he hisses as you slowly, while trying to remember how to do this, stroke him with both hands. You smile, suddenly struck with nerves, when you pass your thumb softly over the glistening head of his thick cock. The precum catches the flickering light from the fire, and you get lost in how light and shadow play over Joel's skin; the dark dip of his navel, the hills of his soft pecs and stomach illuminated, his cock rising proudly from a thicket of dark hairs towards the light, the fuzz of his thighs. The embossed skin of a scar reflecting the warm light. The way his skin rises in goosebumps at your touch...

"Darlin'?"

You blink, and meet his wry, amused smirk.

"You with me?"

"Yeah, sorry. I just... was looking at the light."

"How you'd paint it?" Joel seems to catch on immediately, having listened to you rambling on about The Light several evenings. Yod nod and run one finger along the length of his cock before continuing up his happy trail, swerving around his navel.

"There's so much to see on the human body, if one just knows how to look."

"Lemme try that."

Joel pulls you down and rolls you onto your back, propping himself up on one arm next to you. You blush a little as he inspects you, his hand following the dancing shadows on your chest and stomach.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "I can see it alright."

"Yeah?"

"M-hmm. Hold on."

He rolls to the other side, looking in the dusky room for something. When he returns to your side, he's holding one of the brushes he made. With a feathery touch, he touches the brush to your ribcage, right underneath one breast.

"Here's light," he mumbles, carefully tracing the brush along a rib. "Right next to the shadow of your breast."

You exhale in a soft moan as his knuckles brush up against your breast, knotting the nipple. Joel's tongue slips out to lick his lower lip before he goes on tracing the lines that only he can see on your skin.

"What are you painting, Picasso?" you ask hoarsely.

"Hush," Joel tells you curtly yet not unkindly. You smile and close your eyes, shifting a little so that you can drape your arm around his shoulder. His hot breath is on your breast, his whiskers tickle you before something warm and wet disturbing your nipple tells you he's licked it. A shiver runs through you, and you push your chest out, asking him wordlessly to do it again.

He latches on and suckles steadily, but your shout of surprised pleasure has barely died down before he releases you and continues down your stomach with the brush.

"Joel," you whine, blinking up at him, but the focus in his eyes is so intense that you don't say anything more. Instead, you watch him figure out the fundamentals of visual art: how the light changes everything, how to handle the brush, how to angle the hand. His brush may not have any paint on it, but he paints your pleasure with sounds from you: gasps, hums, a hiss when he passes over a ticklish spot. With the brush trailing through the thicket of your pubes, your legs fall open and your lower lip catches between your teeth. Your pelvis rises to meet the soft hairs, and you moan when Joel dips the brush through your slick folds. He moves the brush to your nipple, circles it to wetten it with your arousal, then ducks down to suck it into his mouth. Your back arches, your inner thighs are wet, your heartbeats echo in your pussy, and you need him to understand just how desperately you need him.

"Fuck me," you keen, "Joel, I need you to fuck me."

He hesitates, coming up to slot his mouth over yours and steal your breath away. You rub yourself against him, find his cock and tease it, make him moan just as needily as you.

"I take it you ain't a pregnancy risk?" You hear from his tight voice how close he is to snapping. Fuck, but that's hot.

"STDs are our only concern," you try to joke, but it's not funny. Before coming to Jackson, you spent years in a quarantine zone as a nurse, and the common sexually transmitted infections ran rampant. Without proper testing equipment, it was hard to tell the scale of it.

"I should be clean," he tells you, and you're too far gone to doubt him.

"Me too."

He kisses you again as he rolls on top of you, his width and weight blocking out everything else as he plunges his tongue into your mouth. Your hips rise to meet him when he leads his cock against your entrance, and you almost bite him when he starts to push into you. Your nails press into his shoulders, the fit is impossible, and Joel stops.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You okay?"

"It's big, it's been a while."

He growls and pulls out, cupping your cheek when you whine.

"Don't wanna hurt you."

"Just get me wet, Joel."

"You're plenty wet already."

"And you're hung like a goddamn moose, so get me wetter," you snap, and Joel chuckles.

"Relax, darlin'."

"I'm trying."

He kisses you again, hand between your legs, two fingers slipping through your folds and drawing out the slick to a slow circle around your clit. Sparks run up your spine and you bury your fingers in his thick, greying hair.

"You always try to cram it in before finding a girl's clit?" you mutter, but your smile shines through. Joel slips a finger inside you.

"I told you, it's been a while." He trails kisses down your neck and moves his finger inside you, seeking the right, spongy spot. You mewl and writhe, needing more but not getting it. One finger is not enough. An idea forms in your head.

"Take the brush," you ask him breathlessly. Joel stills, finger slipping out as he studies your face. You roll your eyes.

"It's not a commentary on your skills. Get over yourself."

"You were the one who were in such a such a hurry a minute ago," he teases before looking around for the brush. Finding it, he brings it to your tits, but you shake your head.

"No, use it on me."

His brow rises quizzically. You push his hand down.

"Fuck me with it, Joel."

You expect an objection, or at the very least surprise, but all you get is a strangled sound and a searing kiss. The handle, so smoothly polished, is thick and curved in a way that bears resemblance to a dildo - not that you've used one in twenty years, but the thought is there now and you have to try this out.

The handle slides in easily, filling you better than his finger but without the intensity of his cock.

"Fuck," you keen, directing your hand down to rub your clit as Joel slowly pulls out the handle before pushing it back in. "There, fuck, Joel, that's good..."

He's breathing audibly now but you don't look at him anymore, you close your eyes and let him help you find all those buttons and spots that you had almost forgotten that you had anymore. When your toes start to curl, and you moan "Faster, Joel, faster!" he complies, rough whiskers scratching the sensitive skin of your tits as he fucks you with the paintbrush that he carved with his own split-knuckle hands to spare you your aching ones.

You barely know what an orgasm feels like anymore, but there's no mistaking this one. The rise and the tightening of muscles, the holding of breath before releasing it in a choked moan, the loosening of limbs, the pounding heat of your pussy.

"Jesus, but that's beautiful," Joel sighs, gently sliding out the brush and putting it to the side before kissing your flushed forehead. "Darlin', you're killin' me."

You chuckle huskily and pass your hands over your face.

"I think it takes a lot more to kill you, Joel Miller."

"I wouldn't bet on it."

The bedding underneath you may keep the draft of the floor at bay, but offers no suspension, so when he edges into you a second time and bottoms out, it's like being split in two between a rock and a hard place. But you can take him, and you cling to his broad shoulders with breaths coming out as hissing.

"Relax," he murmurs, petting your hair as if you were a skittish animal while slowly moving in you. "Sweetheart, you can take it, you're doing it already, you're doing it so well, it feels so good..."

You keen as he spears you again, slowly but steadily, his muscles trembling from the effort of keeping himself from crushing you. Your legs wrap around his thighs, arms around his shoulders and you pull him down, you want to be crushed, you need him like this, steady like a train and sharp like a razor, his breathless kisses on your neck, the groans that may come from pleasure or discomfort from being on the floor, you have no idea, but you need him just like this.

"Come, Joel, come," you gasp into his ear, the good one, and he endures, unwavering in his effort as he digs into you, deep, thorough, devastating.

His climax is a relief and a sadness. You don't want it to end, but you also couldn't bear one more second of it.

Joel slumps to the side, gathering you into his arms as he draws a deep, shaky breath. In the faint light of the embers that are left in the fireplace, you trace the scar on his right cheek and watch his eyelids press shut more firmly before he turns his head to kiss your fingers.

The temperature in the room seems to drop as the heat dies down, and you carefully untangle yourself from Joel's firm hold to put another log on the embers. When it flares up, you return to Joel's side, now finding him watching you.

"You okay?" he asks when you pull a blanket over both of you. Making yourself comfortable, you nod with a little smile and a kiss to his lips.

"Perfect."

"That thing with the brush was... interesting."

You blush. "I don't know what happened."

"Glad it did."

"Joel, I... haven't had sex like that... at all... in decades," you blurt out. "And this was... perfect."

He hums, glances down, and to you it's glaringly obvious that he is conflicted. Your heart sinks just as he speaks up.

"It really was perfect."

"But?" You can't help yourself: there's a slight edge to your tone. Joel leans his head back a little to take a good look at you, the usual disapproving frown back on his face.

"But there was someone," he starts, "for years. And we never had this. Time and place wasn't right."

You exhale in relief. History and baggage are easy to deal with, rejection is not.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs with a little sound, forehead smoothed out.

"Was she... Ellie's mom?" you dare. Joel shakes his head, and his hand slowly passes over your back, fingers strumming the bump of your spine.

"I didn't know Ellie until a few months ago. This was... someone else. A partner. She took Ellie on, really. I was against it. And she... didn't make it."

You don't want to say that you're sorry again, but don't know what else to say, either. So you kiss him, because you want to, because you think he needs it, because there are no words. Your hand is splayed open on his cheek, his lips and mouth are dry and so are yours, but the kiss is sweet and gentle, and the things you can't find words for are carefully passed on to him. He exhales in a soft sigh onto your cheek, then tilts his chin up to kiss your forehead before burrowing his nose against your hair. It's clear to you that he wants to sleep, but you're buzzing with unexpected energy. Carefully, you slide away from his arms, smiling at his frown, and get up to tip-toe to the desk, where you pick up paper and coal. A faint blush colors your cheekbones when you feel his cum seep out of you, and you hurry back to the makeshift bed, sitting down by Joel's feet.

"C'mere," he barks, but you shake your head.

"Just stay still."

He complies with that frown of his, and you settle down, putting the piece of coal to the paper.

You know how you want to draw him now.

[psuedochakra]

Hot for Teacher - 1

1986, Miramar, CA

As far as naval air stations went, Maverick only had good things to say about Miramar. And the only good thing was that Commander Metcalf didn't bounce Mav as soon as he did something stupid. Oh, wait. No. He wasn't a commander anymore. Fancy pants admiral over there.

When your favorite admiral asks you to fill in as an instructor, you accept. Especially when Maverick’s other option was a questionably long deployment in the Mediterranean. Normally, Maverick wouldn’t mind. But he had just finished up [redacted] months doing [redacted] . Maverick deserved a break. Teaching at TOPGUN had to be easier than [redacted] .

Mav even came to base on the weekend. Only because Viper had asked because Mav needed to meet the other instructors. He waltzed his way to the offices. Maverick would even have an office. He’d have to dig out some photos to put up. 

“Pete Mitchell,” a voice called as he walked toward the offices, “You’re still kicking?”

“Charlie Blackwood,” Maverick smiled. “You’re still slumming it with us naval aviators?”

Charlie laughed. She had a lovely laugh. Sparkling, warm. She also belonged to the list of powerful men's daughters that Mav kept track of in his head. He definitely didn’t need another family mad at him. Between the Blackwoods and the Benjamins, the Blackwoods would be the worst option. At least what happened with Penny Benjamin was a misunderstanding. Admiral Benjamin wasn't very understanding of it, but Penny smoothed it over. Somehow. 

“Where’s Viper?” Maverick asked.

“At home. It’s Sunday,” Charlie replied with a shrug. “Here’s your office.”

The little sign by the door labeled it as Jester’s office. The office was pretty big considering there were two desks shoved in there. The windows overlooked the tarmac.

“I thought I was filling in for Jester,” Mav tapped the sign as they entered the room.

“You are. Talk to Viper if you want your name on there,” Charlie shrugged. “I’m down the hall by Viper’s office.”

“I’m intimately familiar with Viper’s office,” Mav joked.

Charlie laughed again.

“You get Jester’s office to yourself, since he’s out,” Charlie carried on. “I’ve been handling theoreticals and the boring physics parts. You and Hammer will do the practicality and exciting application parts.”

Maverick groaned, “Hammer like Chester Cain?”

Charlie nodded, frowning slightly.

“I hate that guy.”

“He’s not a fan of you,” she informed him. “Especially since you get an actual office and he has to use a section of the classroom.”

“What did he poison Jester for his office?” Mav rolled his eyes.

“Maverick!” Charlie scolded with a giggle.

He knew better. Jester had an unexpected surgery (appendix) and was out for the foreseeable future. At least for this TOPGUN class. They were two weeks into the course. Maverick could suck it up for three weeks and work with Cain.

“Charlie, what’s Cain doing here anyway?” Maverick asked her. “He’s been singing praises of the Air Force’s UAVs for years. Teaching literal humans doesn’t seem like his bag.”

Charlie frowned. She started chewing her lip, a nervous habit. Blackwoods ran deep in DC. Cain could be here to curry favor with her for something. It could just be a run of the mill assignment for Cain too. Or, the secret third option, Cain could have requested it. Not unheard of since TOPGUN was a pretty cushy position. Fly and teach all day.

“Between you and me?” Charlie raised an eyebrow.

“Of course,” Maverick nodded.

She closed the office door and stood closer to Maverick.

“Word back home is that some defense contractor wants to sell more remote controlled toys,” Charlie said quietly, “Air Force is interested, but the Navy won’t buy so long as Viper and this program are effective.”

“Huh,” Mav clicked his tongue, “Think he’s here to snoop?”

“Best case. He did request it.”

“Worst case?”

Charlie shrugged. “Why do you think you’re here?”

“Because Jester had his appendix taken out?”

“Use your brain, Maverick,” Charlie tapped his skull gently. “Out of everyone Viper could have recalled?”

“Charlie, you’re better at this game than I am,” he told her.

Charlie sniffed at him and gave him a look.

“Ensure success,” Charlie explained, “And look good doing it. For you and Viper. The Navy's Maverick wrangler wrangles him again. You prove you can sit still for at least three weeks.”

“See, you’re so much better at this,” Mav praised. “Now, be honest. Do I have to meet up with Cain now? Or can you just catch me up?”

Charlie laughed, “No, sorry. I’m just the liaison today. He’s in his classroom office. I’ll grab your housing keys and meet you over there.”

“Great. Lucky me.”

At least Cain was equally unhappy about their situation as Maverick. He wasn’t outright hostile, at least. They commiserated about having to be there together on a Sunday. They lamented about Viper bailing on them. Cain glossed over the pilots and their backseaters. Charlie hadn’t joined them yet, so Cain complained about her teaching style. All substance; too complex. Everything she said belonged in a textbook. Nobody could possibly apply her theories, but a computer sure could.

Maverick nodded absentmindedly as he flipped through personnel files and lesson plans. Jester left him a bunch of things from TOPGUNs past in their office. Mav could cobble together something from Jester’s old plans and notes from this class.

“They’re all Tomcat duos?” Mav asked.

“Hmm?” Cain looked at him.

“The students.”

“Oh, yeah. All in F-14s.”

“What are we chasing them in?”

“Skyhawks.”

Maverick whistled, “Haven’t flown one of those in a long time. I’ve been in F-5s lately.”

“We can probably find you one,” Charlie announced as she approached the two men.

“What are they like?” Mav continued.

“The pilots? Cocky fucks,” Cain shrugged.

Charlie looked at the personnel folders over Mav’s shoulder. 

“These two,” she pointed, “Chatterboxes. This one just had a kid. He came from the birth here. Little distracted, but his RIO keeps him focused. Oh, he's a sweetheart. Tests really well. His pilot does too. Both physics degrees, I think. These two, top of the class in points.”

“For now,” Cain interjected.

Charlie clicked her tongue quietly in Mav's ear. She handed Maverick his housing keys. The trio went over possible lessons. How to best integrate the boring physics with the exciting physics. After a few hours, Maverick excused himself. He still had to check out his house and unpack. He scooped up his paperwork and left.

The on-base housing wasn’t terrible. Especially compared to a shitty little bunk he had to share with someone else. Mav’s place had two bedrooms, one and a half baths, an attached garage, and was completely furnished. All shitty navy issue furnishings, but he didn’t care. He tossed his duffel into a bedroom, left the paperwork on the dining table, and picked up the phone.

“Bradshaw residence,” the other line greeted him.

“Hey, honey! I’m home,” Mav said cheerfully.

The phone exploded in his ear. Mav held it away and winced. He could clearly hear the loud and frantic chatter from one of his favorite Bradshaws with the phone a few inches away still.

“PETER MAVERICK MITCHELL, THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT YOU’RE STATESIDE?! CAROLE! MAV’S STATESIDE!!”

There was a click of a second phone being picked up.

“Petey!?” she exclaimed.

“Hey Carole,” Pete grinned. “Putting that bedroom phone to good use, huh? And you said it was a stupid idea.”

“I said it was stupid when you wanted us to put a phone in our room so you and Goosey could talk until he fell asleep,” Carole snorted. “It’s perfectly practical for this.”

“Where’re you at now, Mav?” Goose chuckled.

“Miramar,” Mav answered. “Viper called me for this TOPGUN class. Jester’s out. You remember Jester?”

“Yeah, yeah. No fun. S’why he didn’t like us, honey.”

“XO on that carrier, right?” Carole asked them.

“Yeah.”

“Mhmm.”

“How long you stateside for, Petey?” Carole kept on.

“Three weeks at least. I’ve got loads of leave I can take, and Viper will probably grant it,” Mav said.

“I’ve got vacation time too. We can fly out closer to graduation,” Goose hummed. “Bradley doesn’t start college until September.”

“How’s he?”

“Oh, you know,” Carole giggled, “Embarrassed by everything we say and do.”

“Teenagers, Mav, fucking teenagers,” Goose lamented.

“He’s goin’ to UT Austin. Go Longhorns!” Carole cheered. “Got a hefty baseball scholarship and everything.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Mav smiled.

They chatted until Maverick’s stomach rumbled. Carole scolded him for not eating. Reluctantly, the Bradshaws hung up. Left, finally, to his own devices, Mav ordered pizza and went back over the pilots’ personnel files again.

There were four sets of aviators and RIOs. They were all young . Late 20s, but that still felt so young. Their official Navy photos looked even younger. Maverick wondered if the photos were from flight school. Their records were pretty good, of course. TOPGUN was for the best of the best. 

Chipper and Sundown out of NAS Key West; VF-101 Grim Reapers. They were part of a replacement squadron. It sounded like those two were the permanent fixture, training other, newer aviators before they moved on.

Hollywood and Wolfman out of NAS Oceana; VF-41 Black Aces. Mav had heard of a Prowler crashing on the deck of their carrier a few years ago. They lost three F-14s and three crew. Other than that, they were terribly efficient.

Cougar and Merlin also out of NAS Oceana; VF-143 Pukin’ Dogs. A lot of reconnaissance. If Maverick’s memory served him correctly, VF-143 were the first to do combat reconnaissance in F-14s.

Iceman and Slider out of NAS Jacksonville; VF-102 Diamondbacks. Maverick frowned as he skimmed. They had just gotten back from [redacted] a few months ago. A lot of the information was blacked out. He made a mental note to ask the aviator and RIO after the first class.

Class started at 0800 with Charlie’s lectures. After, Jester would give the practical applications of her fancy physics talk. Cain took over that for the first day. Next, the first set of hops before lunch. They’d run simulations after lunch, maybe have a test, and finally the last set of hops in the afternoon.

All the students flew, in some combination. Four in the morning; four in the afternoon. Jester had been shot down once by Iceman and Slider. Cain had been at least once by everyone. That lended credibility to Maverick's developing “here to sabotage TOPGUN” theory.

“We’ve been going up separately,” Cain explained as he put on his flight suit. “Jester wanted us to start going up together in week four.”

“Fine by me,” Maverick nodded.

“I’ve got Cougar, Merlin, Sundown, and Chipper for day. You can take the other four for afternoon.”

The two superior officers had their own locker room. Brand new too. Viper had made a lot of updates to Miramar since Maverick's last stay. The fancy commander-and-higher locker room was by the offices. Which Maverick thought was hilarious because Cain still had to go all the way back to the classrooms if he forgot something at his desk. Because he didn’t have an office on that side of the building. Maverick, per Viper’s orders, avoided the classrooms that Monday. He was a surprise for the afternoon hops victims. Participants. Same thing. 

While everyone played with computers, Maverick went up in a Skyhawk. It wasn’t quite as lithe as he liked, but it would do. Eventually, his two sets of duos were in the air with him. He waited while they searched for him. Comms were on between all three planes (and the base).

“I didn’t even see Hammer go up,” someone said.

“I swear he was still running sims with Blackwood when we left the room,” another one added.

“Maybe they found an extra instructor? Or maybe Jester recovered sooner,” the first person again.

“You think it’s Viper?” the second person laughed.

“No way. Guy hasn’t flown since Korea,” first person.

A third voice chimed in, “Can you two shut up and focus.”

“Eyes peeled,” the fourth and final voice.

Maverick grinned under his mask. 

“Sorry Ice,” the first two voices said together.

He could see the two Tomcats searching for him. Maverick had never flown a Tomcat; he’d have to ask Viper if he could get up in one. He wasn’t sure how well it would maneuver against the Skyhawk. He knew from the spec sheets that the younger aviators would have him on speed. 

“Slider?” It was the fourth voice again. Iceman, Mav deduced.

“Nothing,” Slider, Mav assumed, answered. The source of the mysterious third voice.

“Maybe Hammer hasn’t launched yet?” Hollywood or Wolfman suggested.

“He couldn’t have if he was still in the classroom,” the other one added.

Mav got bored. He clicked his comms on and soared past them.

“Fight’s on, gentlemen,” he announced.

There was a chorus of “who the fuck was that” over the radio. Maverick chuckled to himself. The aviators, for safety purposes, couldn’t switch to a private channel. Their CO, Maverick in this case (how weird was it he was someone’s CO), had to be able to hear them in case of emergencies. So Maverick got to listen as Iceman and Slider immediately took control.

Iceman took point; Hollywood on his wing. Slider and Wolfman may as well have been speaking a different, backseater language. Mav guessed it was for his location. They’d say a position; their pilots would immediately fall in. 

“Wood, got a shot?” Iceman asked.

“Almost, almost, almost,” came Hollywood’s response.

The Skyhawk didn’t have the speed of the Tomcat. It more than made up for it with handling. Mav tipped his nose until the momentum forced the plane up vertically. He braked, he had to, and flew past Hollywood and Wolfman. 

“What the fuck!?”

“What happened?!”

“Ice?”

“Hmmph.”

Mav leveled out and got tone.

“That’s tone, gentlemen,” he said.

Hollywood and Wolfman swore as they broke off.

“Then there were two,” Mav tried a joke.

No response over the radio. Mav scanned the skies, but he couldn’t find the second Tomcat. He must have lost them after his cobra maneuver. With all this newfound silence, Maverick wondered how the two aviators were communicating. Their records showed they had been together since flight school. They both attended Annapolis; same graduation year. More deduction, but Mav guessed they knew each other back then too. Spend enough time with anyone, and you could convey a lot without sound.

He saw their shadow by pure chance. Mav probably couldn’t pull off the same stunt twice. Especially not in a plane that wasn’t designed for it. Iceman was good, but Maverick had been flying at least as long as that kid had been alive. Which was to say “but Maverick was better.”

He pulled right but didn’t brake. The Skyhawk curved around and down; the Tomcat followed after a beat. A very brief and unnoticable pause, but a pause nonetheless.

“Ice?”

“Fuck.”

Flying a Skyhawk was like riding a bike apparently.

Maverick was giddy as he announced, “Tone, gentlemen!”

Maverick had a terrible idea. Terribly hilarious. Iceman’s file had been nothing but commendation after praise after praise. Nary a punishment, penalty, nor penance to be found.

“Iceman. Kazansky, right?” Mav put on his best senior officer voice, “I want to see you in Jester’s office after this.”

“Yessir,” there was no hesitation in the younger man’s response.

Mav took his time landing. He contemplated buzzing the tower, but thought better on his first day. Favor for Viper and all that. Maverick figured it would take the younger pilot some time to work up the nerve to actually report to his office immediately. So he showered, blissfully alone, and changed. 

Kazansky was still in his flight suit. He stood outside of Jester's/Maverick's office door. He'd probably been there minutes after he landed. Maverick pursed his lips but didn't say anything. He unlocked the door and gestured for Iceman to enter. Mav sat at the empty desk; Kazanksy stood there. Awaiting further instructions.

He was hot; it was unfair to have such a hot student. Kazansky looked like a catalog model. Sharp features, blue eyes, soft lips. His hair was plastered down from sweat and his helmet. The sleeves of his flight suit were pushed up, showing off his thick, tanned arms. Maverick felt his mouth go a bit dry, and he tried not to stare too much. 

“You could have showered,” Mav said with a grin.

“You said you wanted to see me, sir,” Kazansky replied.

“I did, didn’t I?”

No response.

“Commander Pete Mitchell, callsign Maverick,” Maverick extended his hand, “I’m filling in for Jester, as you’ve probably guessed.”

Kazansky looked… Confused for a second. Mav guessed he was used to saluting, but the lieutenant shook his hand and introduced himself.

“Have a seat,” Mav pointed to Jester’s desk chair, “I wanna ask you about some things in your file.”

“My file?” Iceman raised an eyebrow. He moved the desk chair and sat.

“Yeah, it’s all blacked out because of Charlie’s clearance I’m guessing.”

“By all means, sir. I’m an open book.”

They chatted. Eventually, Kazansky appeared to relax. Mav tried not to let his gaze linger too long on him. He really did try, but… Well, Mav always had a problem with self control.

Iceman and Slider had also been in the Mediterranean (Mav was unofficially there, but he didn’t say anything about that) aboard the America . They had been on patrol when they were fired upon by Libyan surface-to-air missiles. And again not even a month after that while escorting other jets for another mission. No casualties; impeccable flying. Their CO recommended them for the next TOPGUN class; they flew in a few days before it started.

“Damn, so you really haven’t had a breather,” Mav whistled.

Kazansky shrugged, “Part of the job, sir.”

“I guess.”

Mav couldn’t think of a reason to keep him there. He was about to dismiss the lieutenant when Kazansky started asking him about his own service record. Maverick’s reputation apparently preceded him. Time flew by. Before long, Maverick finally noticed the sun setting over the hangars.

“Shit, kid. It’s getting late,” Mav remarked.

Kazansky flushed, “Sorry, sir.”

“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind. You probably want to shower.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Here,” Maverick scribbled his address and number down, “Whenever you wanna pick this back up. I’m here until graduation.”

Kazansky took the scrap paper and thanked him. He hesitated before saluting and leaving. Maverick hated to see him leave but enjoyed watching him go. Christ, he was depraved. Kazansky was a student. His student. His well toned student with a small waist. Deep eyes… Birthmark in the perfect spot to kiss… Perfect lips… Wonder what sounds he could pull from those lips…

Okay, yeah.

Maverick was definitely in trouble.

No.

He’d be fine. Mav was a professional. He could keep his hands (and everything else) to himself.

Iceman

Iceman was definitely in trouble. 

The new instructor looked like he stepped right off a movie set. Gorgeous smile, gorgeous eyes, gorgeous everything. The way his eyes crinkled when Maverick laughed? Gorgeous. His slightly crooked nose? Gorgeous.

He’d heard of Maverick, but he hadn’t had a face for the name. He was a legend, of course; a thorn in the brass’ side. Ice had a million more questions for the commander. 

Slider was waiting for him in the locker room. Everyone else was long gone. The RIO continued waiting until his pilot was ready to talk. Ice shucked his flight suit. He desperately kept his thoughts off Maverick as he stood under the water. Slider leaned against the wall, waiting and watching. He wasn’t necessarily watching Ice shower. His gaze drifted past Ice, to the wall behind him.

“You didn't have to wait,” he tried telling his friend.

“I'm your ride, Ice,” Slider replied.

“Oh. Yeah, right.”

“Who even was that? It wasn't Cain. Cougar and them said Hammer was in the classroom.”

“New commander,” Ice willed his tone to be light. 

“Jester's replacement?” Slider asked.

Ice nodded.

“What’d he want?”

Iceman shrugged, “Chat, I guess.”

“About what?” Slider raised an eyebrow.

“Prairie Fire and Canyon.”

“Weird.”

“It was alright,” Ice said, “Maverick’s alright.”

“Like Maverick Mitchell?” Slider let out a low whistle. “He’s our new instructor?”

“Guess so.”

Index Next Chapter

[generic-sonic-fan]

Team Dark Week: Together/Journey

Summary: Rouge recalls some memories of her unlikely journey to becoming the leader of Team Dark. For @teamdarkweek.

2125 words, no content warnings

---

“Hey, Rouge!” Amy waved from the sidewalk.

Rouge landed next to her. “Hey, hun. Sorry not sorry for being late.”

“I figured you would be, so I didn’t worry.” Amy smiled. “How’ve you been?”

“Busy. Now come on, let’s get our pampering on.” She gestured to the nail salon.

“Straight to the point! You’re a girl on a mission as always.”

They entered the salon and were brought over to the pedicure chairs. After removing her shoes, Amy jumped into the cushioned chair and stuck her feet into the pool of hot water below. Rouge followed suite. She activated the massage function and slumped back into her chair. The last mission had been particularly. . . eventful. The massage was doing wonders for her aching wings. 

Amy spared no time describing her latest conquest- a massive haul from her favorite consignment store. Rouge was content to sit back and soak it in, occasionally opening her eyes and glancing whenever Amy had a picture to show of the outfits she’d put together already.

“What about you, huh?” Amy asked. Before Rouge could reply, though, she continued. “How are Shadow and Omega doing?”

Rouge pouted. “How am I supposed to know?”

“Uh, I don’t know, they’re your friends?” Amy shrugged.

Fair point. “They’re off doing their own things.”

Amy twiddled her thumbs.

“You really associate them with me that much?” Rouge asked.

“Well gee, I didn’t think it was that bad of an insult!” Amy replied.

“That’s not what I meant.” She took a breath. “Just that, it only felt like yesterday. . .”

—

“I’m an independent contractor. IN-DE-PEND-ENT!”

“If you’re going to accept my offer, that is going to change.”

Rouge bared her fangs, then turned herself away from the bars of her cell, giving a “hmph!” for good measure.

“GUN agents do not work alone. We can’t risk losing communication with an agent on a vital mission.”

“Vital mission? What ‘vital mission’ are you going to send a jewel thief on, hmm?”

“Might I remind you where you are right now?” The officer paused, presumably making some grandiose gesture at the cell around her. “If you don’t accept our offer, you’re going to be serving jail time.”

“Not for long.” Rouge mumbled. 

“In maximum security, if you keep that up.”

Rouge covered her mouth. “Oops. Silly me.”

“So make your choice. You can stay in here. . . or you can work with us.”

“Alone.”

“You will be assigned a team.”

“No, I won’t. Not if you want my expertise. You sound very desperate if you’re begging for a known thief to join your cause.”

“Indeed, command is desperate, to consider a thief who’s actually been caught.”

Rouge hissed. “Then why don’t you go find a better one?”

The officer paused. “I-”

“Because there is no better one. Do you know why? Because I work alone. I don’t let anybody slow me down. So go ahead and let me rot in jail, if you’d like, but if you want me on your side you’re going to give me what I’m asking for.”

She looked over her shoulder to see the officer looking down. Her grin faded, however, when he tapped a button hidden under his shirt. It was then that she noticed the tiny wire sneaking up to his ear. A voice spoke from his earpiece, but even with her ears swiveled towards it she couldn’t make much out of it.

The officer looked up again. “Fine. We won’t pair you up with anyone, if you agree to be implanted with a chip that will track your location.”

“An implant seems like a lot of work. Why don’t I just have it, I don’t know, sewn into my clothes right here?” Rouge turned around and tapped her chestplate. 

“That isn’t secure-”

“Do you think I’m going to strip on the job?”

The officer stammered a bit, before shaking his head. 

“That would be very unprofessional. Now come on, get me out of here. And get me talking to who’s really going to be in charge of this mission.”

The officer grabbed the keys from his belt and unlocked the door. 

—

For calling himself a genius, Rouge had easily talked her way into becoming essential for Dr. Robotnik's little mission. The “Eggman” wasn’t all he was cracked up to be, pun intended.

But the small black-and-red hedgehog that followed him, Project SHADOW. . . now that was much more of a challenge. It was the sort of challenge that sucked her in, like trying to crack a bank vault or figuring out how to bypass GUN security systems. No person had ever caught her attention like this before. 

She needed to know more. She wanted to pick his brain about all the things she was seeing in his files. That was a stupid idea, of course. She couldn’t afford to get chummy, not when he was her mission. 

—

“Where is Shadow?” Rouge asked as Sonic stepped into the observation room of the ARK.

Instead of a quip, she saw Sonic stiffen. He shook his head. 

A sort of breathless gasp passed over not just her, but the entire room. Tails, Amy, Knuckles, even Eggman, to some extent. They wandered over to different windows of the observatory. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a star shooting down towards the surface of the planet. She froze. 

(If she didn’t look, it wasn’t real.)

Sonic tapped her on the shoulder. She exhaled, tried to paint a normal expression on her face, and turned to him. 

In his hand was one of those golden rings Shadow wore around his wrists and ankles. 

—

The golden band, an inhibitor ring, as she knew it to be now, sat on a shelf amongst her most prized jewels. 

—

Her heart stopped when she saw Shadow in that pod. Even when bullets started flying, she couldn’t get her limbs to work. 

“Shadow!” She cried as he tackled her out of the way. 

“Stay here.” He replied.

She looked over to see the source of the gunfire- some sort of fancy new Badnik model. Shadow lept around the room to avoid its fire. 

“MUST ERADICATE ALL EGGMAN ROBOTS!”

Now that didn’t make any sense. Eggman’s newest and best robot wouldn’t have a destructive streak like this. And the fact that it was currently attacking Shadow, the person that was in the pod, and not her, the intruder trying to steal that person in the pod, meant that-

Shadow charged. The robot put away its miniguns and pulled out a wicked pair of claws. Rouge jumped and flew between them. 

“Hey, hold up!” She screamed as she put a palm on each of their chests.

To her surprise, both parties actually listened.

—

They exited the basement of Eggman’s base. Shadow, now amnesiac. And E-123 Omega, a robot now out for revenge. 

As they exited out into the blue skies and palm trees, both stayed in the doorway. 

Rouge turned back, but any demand for them to hurry up dried on her lips when she saw Shadow’s face.

He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Blinked again. Stared up into the great big sky above them, as if it might swallow him whole. His quills shivered as the warm breeze blew past him. 

The robot shook too, the metal plating clanging against itself drawing her attention away from Shadow. Behind the glass of his optics, his apertures expanded and shrunk three or four times before settling on a size. There was another noise, besides the wind, something whirring within him. Some sort of cooling fan, maybe.

Rouge was sure that Shadow’s metaphorical cooling fans were going off as well. 

An Ultimate Lifeform and an Ultimate Robot. Both looking like they were about to short-circuit after a ray of sunshine hit them. 

Something in Rouge’s chest clenched, making it difficult to breathe. She pushed it down. “You two ready?”

—

“Thank you for retrieving the Ultimate Lifeform.” The commander said to her. 

Rouge wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Shadow, who was bristling under the attention of four technicians that were poking and prodding at him.

“All in a day’s work.” She replied. 

“And the capture of Robotnik tech is very impressive. Now that you’ve got it following your orders, order it to accompany the technicians back to the clean room so that it can undergo-”

“I DO NOT FOLLOW HER ORDERS!” Omega snapped. “I FOLLOW NO ONE’S ORDERS!”

“We know, we know,” she made a calming gesture to Omega, not that it’d do much, as she’d learned recently. “He doesn’t work that way. I’d suggest-”

Three GUN soldiers brought their rifles to their shoulders and pointed them at Omega. 

“You didn’t inform us that this one retained its autonomy!” The commander said pointedly. 

“Hey, HEY! Put those down!” Rouge ran in front of Omega. “He’s not gonna hurt you as long as you’re not an Eggman robot! Right?”

“IF THEY WISH TO APPREHEND ME TO OBSTRUCT MY MISSION, I INVITE THEM TO TRY.”

“You heard the robot! Put down your weapons.”

“Agent Rouge, we cannot allow it to simply roam free with its programming still intact.”

“Then I’ll get Sonic’s little squirt to evaluate him! Now put those away before he takes it as a challenge.”

The commander gave a gesture to the soldiers, and they lowered the rifles from their shoulders, only barely.

“Okay, good. Now let’s sort this out-” Rouge said.

“Rouge.”

Rouge whipped around to see Shadow being dragged led off by figures in white.

“Let him go!” she flew after him.

She grabbed his wrist and stopped the senior technician from going any further. 

“Agent Rouge! Explain your behavior at once.” The commander shouted.

“I won’t let you take him away!” She shouted back. “I won’t let you take either of them. They saved my life. They saved everyone from Metal Overlord! I’m not gonna let you dissect either of them- you owe them that much!”

“Both present a danger to everyone in this room if not evaluated.” The commander hissed. “Are you willing to put your reputation on the line for them?”

“Yes!”

The answer shocked her even coming out of her own mouth. She let go of Shadow’s arm and turned to find the commander with his hand on his chin. 

There was nothing left to do but double down. “We’re a team. Team. . .”

All GUN units needed a unit name. ‘Team Rouge’ would probably get an objection from the other two. ‘Team Jewel’ was too cliche. She looked between the two, then down to herself.

“Team Dark.” She said. “We’re Team Dark. We’ll get evaluated together, thank you very much. You’re welcome for our help in saving the world.”

The commander lowered his hand. “Very well. I’ll consider it. Guards.”

As the soldiers swept around them, she now found herself shoulder to shoulder with the hedgehog and the robot. 

She was never doing this again. She wasn’t liking being on this end of the equation, the one with no negotiating power, especially not on the behalf of two unstable superweapons who could decide at any point that she wasn’t worth their time. If she continued like this, she was going to end up dead or in someone’s prison cell or-

“Thank you,” Shadow whispered to her. 

She looked at him. He met her gaze. She glanced back to Omega. He met her gaze, too. 

Any regrets she had were gone as they were escorted down the hall. 

—

“Uhhh, Rouge? Rouge?” Amy waved her hand in front of Rouge’s eyes. 

“Hmm?”

“You, uh, kinda stopped talking.” Amy explained. “You were saying?”

Rouge took a moment to blink the rest of the memories away and remember where she’d left off. “Oh, nothing. Just how it only felt like yesterday since I stuck my neck out for those two idiots.”

“That’s a little mean of you to call them that.”

“And now we’re friends. So much so that it’s the first thing people like you think of when they see me, apparently.”

“Oh.” Amy relaxed.

“It means we’ve got work to do! We’ve got reputations to maintain, you know.”

“A reputation for what? Being broody loners?”

“That’s more Shadow’s speed. And besides, I doubt he has this problem.”

“Knuckles asked him how you were doing yesterday.”

“Well, Shadow’s always the more sentimental of the team. Omega certainly wouldn’t tolerate it.”

“. . . Tails didn’t even have to ask Omega about you guys before he started talking about what you were up to the last time you left him for repairs.”

“Really?”

Amy nodded. 

“Well,” Rouge looked down at her lap, “then I suppose everyone knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That we’re better off together.” 

Amy’s eyes lit up. “Awwwwww! See? Aren’t friends the best?”

Rouge rolled her eyes and whispered to herself, “despite everything.”

[munsonownsmyass]

Billy Russo x reader

Summary: Inheriting your grandmother's house, you quickly realize you need some help fixing it up. So you call a local contractor, Billy Russo.

Warnings: pining. Sooo much pining. Fluff, mentions of Billy's not so happy past, kissing, fingering, unprotected sex.

Author's note: I made for my dear @e-dubbc11 after this little thot exchange. Ericca, I know my original plan was to make it for your birthday, so I'm sorry I'm late. But here it is. I hope you love it ❤️

Oh, and I was a little self-indulgent with the best friend... ops 🤣🙈

Looking up at the old house where you’ve spent every summer as a kid, you smile to yourself. The years had been hard on the woodwork and ever since your grandmother moved to the nursery home, everything had been left untouched. Bushes growing wild, the grass so tall you could easily hide in it. But still, it felt like it always had. It felt like home and now it was yours.

The front door binds a little as you try to push it open, the smell of stale air instantly hitting you like a brick wall. Yeah, you should probably open the windows, get some fresh air in. Walking around, you notice how every surface is covered in dust, cobwebs hanging in almost every corner. This was gonna take a lot of work and you couldn’t wait to get started.

The first few days are spent cleaning. You’ve noticed a lot of damages to the house you can’t fix yourself, so you had already contacted a contractor in town, and you needed the place to look less abandoned before he would get here. The whole town may know all about your granny being away for years, but still… You couldn’t bring yourself to let strangers into a house that looked like a mess.

Monday morning, as you sit with your morning coffee on the porch, two cars pull up in front of the house. Russo Home Repairs, supposedly the best in town. He sounded nice on the phone, which was a plus, but honestly you were just happy for the help.

Walking towards the cars, you almost trip over your feet when the driver gets out. You had expected an older man, not this. A tall and very handsome dark-haired man with a smile that could make a Colgate commercial jealous. As he comes closer, you see his dark eyes match the hair.

“You must be y/n? I’m Billy Russo.” He says, politely extending his hand for you to take. You take it, hoping he doesn’t notice how flustered you already are. He probably already knows the effect he has on women, but you’re quite embarrassed at how easily he makes your heart flutter.

Behind him, two men exits the second car. Like Mr. Russo, they are so handsome you almost think your life have changed into a Danielle Steel novel. When they introduce themselves as Quinn McKenna and Matt Murdock, you make a mental note to call your friend as soon as you get back inside. She needs to hear about this.

You manage to pull yourself together long enough to show the men around the property, discussing what needs to be done. Luckily, they are well-versed in both the interior and exterior, so they’re willing to help with the house as well as the grounds. Maybe two or three months of work. Already finding it hard to focus now, you don’t even know how you’ll manage a few months. This was gonna be hard.

The buzzing of your phone pulls you out of your trance. And thank God for that, because you realize you’ve been staring at Mr. Russo for a good 10 minutes. But how can you not, when he makes tearing down a ceiling look so good? Tapping the green icon, you exhale sharply, not even trying to hide your frustration.

“It’s that bad?”

“It is. Instead of doing something useful, I’ve been staring at him for 10 minutes.” You whisper, pushing away from your little chair in the corner, walking into the next room. On the other end Lily just laughs.

“He can’t be that hot.”

“He is. They all are.” You sigh, sitting down in a corner, strategically placed so you can still watch the three gorgeous men making quick work of demolishing the living room. It should be illegal having this sinful sight before you. Tool belts hung low on their hips, making their pants slide down slightly. Their t-shirts sliding up as they raise their arms, revealing a bit of skin. Really, really good-looking skin. Looking with no shame, you follow the little happy trail down to where it disappears under the waistband. Almost whining, you turn away from them. “I need to find another contractor.”

“And not even give me a chance to see their hotness for myself? No way.” She states, the sound of fingers tapping away on her keyboard. “When you asked me to help you with the house, all I had to look forward to was mildew. So you’re not firing the hunks before I get a chance to see them.”

And as promised, you didn’t. Lily arrives a few days later and not even a minute after exiting her car, she stares at the house, mouth open wide as she slowly removes her sunglasses. You already know what caught her eye, as you glance at the porch where the men are taking a break.

“Holy shit.” Lily gasps, staring at them like you’ve done the last few weeks. “They are freaking hot!”

“Told you.” You smirk, as you gesture for her to follow you up to the house. Leaning in closer, Lily whispers under her breath. “How you’ve manged not to get water damage in your basement is beyond me, cause mine’s already flooded.” Lily moan desperately.

Unable to hold back, you burst out laughing, attracting the attention of the men. Billy’s dark eyes find yours and instantly you feel warm. Damn, a man should not hold this much power over you.

The next few days are spend trying to work. The keyword was trying. You and Lily often found yourself staring at the men instead of doing any actual work. Lily kept whispering lewd comments in your ear, causing you both to giggle like schoolgirls. The men often looked at you with knowing smiles on their faces. There was no way they didn’t know, but no one said anything.

Shared lunch became a steady ritual, most days spent together in the shadow under the big tree. Lily and Matt often sat beside each other, him with a giant smile and Lily blushing a bright pink. They were quite sweet, dancing around each other. It was only a matter of time, you thought, before you’d stumble in on them going at it in the guestroom.

You, on the other hand, only had eyes for Billy. You had tried to write if of as a simple crush, but by each passing day you felt yourself growing fonder of him. He had told you about his past, growing up in a group home and later joining the marines. But it was a hard life, so he had retired, moved to this quiet little town in Connecticut and started his company with his friends. He had been through so much, but still had a positive outlook on life. It only made you like him more.

You all fall into this casual rhythm. They’re no longer just men working here. They always seem to linger, never really eager to go home. They are all single, an information you got thanks to Lily, so some days they stayed for dinner since they didn’t have any places to go after work.

As you sit in the backyard, eating another slice of pizza that’s already turned cold, you look at Billy. The last rays of sunshine falls on his face, accentuating his beautiful features. He really is very beautiful. He doesn’t notice you looking at him, at least you don’t hope so, his eyes fixed on Quinn and Matt as they gang up on Lily, throwing her in the pool. When he laughs, he scrunches his nose ever so slightly.

You allow your eyes to wander down. There’s no harm in looking, right? His upper body is bare after his dip in the pool, small beads of water still clinging to his soft skin. You can’t help but notice the scars on his body, wondering how he got them.

“Finding anything interesting?”

You look up to find him looking at you with a soft smile. To your horror, you realize you’ve been leaning in closer, so you pull away. With a light chuckle, he turns to you, his beautiful dark eyes even darker in fading sunlight. “It’s alright. You can ask.”

“How did you get that big one?” you ask, gently tracing your finger over the scars on his right shoulder. A soft sigh from Billy makes you realize what you’re doing, so you remove your fingers quickly.

“It’s not a very pretty story.” He looks down at the scar, tracing it with his thumb. There’s a sadness in his eyes, that makes you wanna reach out, to hug him, but you’re afraid you’ll overstep.

“Yeah, I can imagine war stories aren’t pretty.” You try, leaning in a little closer. He looks at you for a moment before he clears his throat.

“I was 10. At the group home, there was this…” he pauses, huffing out a cold laugh. “Good Samaritan. A guy who was supposed to take care of us. He took a liking to me, and he tried to…”

The expression on Billy’s face tells it all. You reach out and place your hand on his. He looks up at you, his eyes filled with the ghosts of his past. Ha takes your hand in his, his thumb drawing soothing circles on the back of your had. You wonder if it’s more for his benefit than your own. You don’t say a word, silently waiting for Billy to continue.

“I managed to defend myself, but he broke my arm. Tore the rotator cuff in three places.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“It’s okay. My life didn’t turn out that bad. I mean, I ended up here.” He says with a playful smile that makes your heart flutter. “But it did destroy my chances of becoming a professional baseball player.”

“Oh, was that your big dream?”

“Absolutely. I could have been the next Joe DiMaggio.” He says confidently, puffing out his chest slightly. He looks adorable and you can’t help but giggle.

“I have no idea who that is.” You shrug apologetically, biting your bottom lip. Billy feigns being hurt, causing you to chuckle. He then excitedly tells you all about DiMaggio and as the sun sets in the horizon, minutes turn into hours as you slowly fall deeper in love with Billy.

It was one of the hottest summers in years, which turned out to be a blessing. Sure, you were warm, but so were the guys, which meant several days with them shirtless. Today was one of those days. During your break from painting the kitchen, you and Lily found yourself doing your new favourite thing: watching the men work. Their muscles playing under their sun kissed skin, the beads of sweat dripping down their toned chests.

Lily sighs beside you, her eyes fixed on Matt as he sands down a piece of wood. Occasionally he wipes off the sawdust, his hands sliding over his perfect abs.

“Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to be that piece of wood.” She whines as she stuffs another piece of candy into her mouth. You just grin, nudging her shoulder.

“Why don’t you just go talk to him?”

“Huh, says the woman who’s practically drooling over the boss boy and haven’t made a move either.” Lily shoots back. You look over at Billy, just as he takes off his shirt, wiping away the sweat from his forehead. His chest is glistening in the midday sun, muscles flexed as he carries another piece of wood over to Matt and Quinn.

You don’t even hear Lily talking to you, lost in the sight before you. As Billy reaches for a pencil, the movement makes you look at his hips and how those pants hang dangerously low, showing of his v-line. What you wouldn’t give to run your tongue over-

“Okay, that’s it. I’m gonna go distract Quinn and Matt, while you talk to Billy.”

“What? What would I even talk to him about?”

“I don’t know, but you better think quickly.” Lily blurts out, before smiling wide. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Mr. Russo can help you.” she says with a raised voice, making Billy look up at the mentioning of his name. As you silently plan Lily’s murder, she just walks towards Matt with a giggle.

“What can I do for you, miss y/l/n?” Billy asks with a smile, as he walks closer, wiping his hands in the little cloth hanging from his toolbelt. Barely managing to tear your eyes away from his midsection, you look into his dark eyes, nervously fidgeting with your fingers.

“Uhm, was thinking that we could… uhm… fix the gazebo as well? Now that you’re here anyways.” You mumble, afraid you’re barely making sense. Relax, woman. He’s just a man. A very sexy, sweet man with a voice like velvet and eyes you could drown in.

Billy smiles softly, pointing towards where Lily is standing with Matt. “We already talked about this. Matt will fix it.”

You’re embarrassed and quite sure you’re as red as a tomato, judging by the grin on Billy’s face. Mumbling an apology, you avert his gaze, mortified. Never one to be a good liar, Lily should never have left you unsupervised.

To your surprise, Billy closes the distance between the two of you, his index finger hooking under your chin, carefully lifting your gaze to his. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

As you take in his words, you forget how to breathe, focused on how close he is too you. You can feel the heat radiating of his body, drawing you in. How easy it would be to just lean in, just a few inches.

The sound of Billy’s phone pulls you back to reality. You pull away as he reaches for the phone. Flustered, you turn towards the house, tripping over your feet in your eagerness to get into the house, into safety. At this point you don’t think it’s even possible to get redder, still you feel the heat in your cheeks, when you hear Billy chuckling softly behind you. Shit, he saw. Dammit.

Once inside, you make your way into the kitchen. “Fucking stupid. Finally getting a chance and I embarrass myself.” Burying your face in your hands, you groan in defeat. “I can never look him in the eyes again.”

“I hope you will, cause I’d hate if I never got to see those beautiful eyes of yours again.”

Turning around, you find Billy leaning against the doorframe, smiling softly, his dark eyes fixed on you. He pushes of the frame, slowly making his way over to you. Stopping a few inches from you, he puts his hands on the counter on either side of you on the counter, caging you in.

“Ever since that first day, I’ve been waiting for a chance to get you alone.” He purrs, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. “Maybe I should have done something sooner.”

He leans in, eyes searching yours for permission. When your lips finally meet, it takes your breath away. For a moment, all that exists is his lips against yours. His soft, perfect lips. Your entire body is on fire, his touch sending shivers down your spine. Breaking away for air, your breathing is already strained, never felt like this before.

He leans in to kiss you again, the feeling of his lips like gasoline to the fire. Unable to hold back, your hand moves up his muscular body, ending entangled in his hair. Pulling him closer, your claim his lips in another greedy kiss. Moving his hands down, he hoists you up by your thighs, lifting you up onto the counter.

Billy’s strong hands move up your thighs, pushing your dress out of the way. Leaning in, he kisses down the column of your neck, pulling sweet whimpers from you. Greedy hands roam over your body, pulling your dress down. Kissing his way down to your breast, he takes your nipple into his mouth.

“Fuck.” You moan out, throwing your head back in ecstasy. You can feel Billy smirking against your skin, sucking your nipple harder. His free hand finds your core, already soaking wet for him. Pushing one finger into your wet heat, you whimper out his name, begging for more.

“Billy, please, just… Please…” you plea desperately. Billy claims your lips in a greedy kiss, pushing another finger into you. It takes no time for you to come around his skilled fingers, burying your head in the crook of his neck to stifle your moan.

“Shh, don’t want the others to hear us.” He whispers with a grin, pulling his fingers from your cunt only to lick your slick off his long digits.

Trembling with anticipation, your fingers make quick work of his belt and zipper, pulling his pants down just enough to free his aching cock. Captivated, you watch as he fists himself, pumping his cock a few times. The muscles of his abdomen tighten with each pass of his fist, making you clench around nothing.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock grazes your slick lips, sending small bolts of pleasure through your body. Billy leans forward, his breath ghosting against your earlobe, “I've been dreaming about this.”

He kisses your neck softly, pulling soft whimpers from you. Pushing forward, his cock parts your lips with ease. He buries himself in one thrust, deep enough to make you shiver. You look into his beautiful lustblown eyes, dark like obsidian. You kiss him with unknown hunger, weeks of want poured into it. And then he starts moving, slow deep thrusts. Billy whimpers, his breath hitched, overwhelmed by the feeling of you.

Thrusting into you at a steady pace, he makes you whimper, pulling the most sinful noises from you with each drag of his delicious cock. You’re lost in the feeling of him, lost in the pleasure. Barely able to think, you can barely form a sentence.

A few more drags of his cock is all it takes, before you clamp down on him, screaming out his name as you come undone. It’s not before Billy follows, emptying himself in you, filling you up with his cum. You fall against him, both of you panting heavily.

As you both come down from your high, Billy holds you close, not wanting to let go as he plants soft kisses on your lips and neck. You stay like that for a few minutes, just savouring each other.

"Fuck. Not you guys too"

You turn to find Quinn in the doorway, his expression priceless. Clearly frustrated, he walks to the fridge and finds a beer, twisting off the cap. You try your best to cover up, the situation so weird you can't do nothing but laugh.

"It's bad enough I had to look at the lovesick puppies out there, playing tonsil tennis. And now this?!" He points at the two of you, taking a sip of his beer. "What about me?"

You and Billy can't help but chuckle as he does his best to pull away without exposing you. When you're descent he helps you down from the counter. You walk over and pat Quinn lovingly on the cheek, giggling softly.

"Don't worry. I have a friend that would love you."

"I fucking hope so." Quinn says, as he walks out of the kitchen, sipping his beer. Billy turn to you, laughing as he cups your cheeks. Placing another soft kiss on your lips, he looks into your eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Never been better." You say with a smile, already looking forward to the rest of the summer.

Thank you so much for reading. Feedback and reblogs are much appreciated ❤️

TFC: @mindidjarin @phoebe-danvers @saintmurd0ck @itwasthereaminuteago @idrinkcoffeeandobsess @mattmurdocksscars @pedrito-friskito @lunaserenade @a-bang-for-your-bucky

Tagging: @lucy-sky @writerwoed

[autisticempathydaemon]

Redacted-tober 2023 Day Ten

Prompt: Gavin & Shopping

Pairing: Gavin/Freelancer; background DAMN polycule

cw: suggestive language

Summary: A pre-Halloween shopping trip for the polycule apartment.

Available on AO3 here!

<- Previous Day | Next Day ->

“So we’ve got all the healthy proteins, starches, and vegetables that Damien insisted we get, the soda, chips, hot pockets we’ll eat when we’re all too burnt out to cook, those paletas Huxley likes that we’re almost out of, and those little Mio drink pouches that Caelum loves. Are we missing anything?” Freelancer asks, tapping away at the grocery list on their phone.

“The time and energy we wasted by getting this ourselves and not getting it Instacarted,” Gavin says drolly, lazily twisting a dark curl around gold-ringed fingers.

“It was a mistake ever letting you learn of Instacart,” they say, playfully pushing the cart at him and threatening the safety of his ankles. “You know Dames doesn’t trust the drivers. He says they don’t know the difference between an onion and a shallot.”

“Neither do we; we had to google it.” Gavin drapes himself across their shoulders and presses a smirking kiss against their neck which makes them shake them off with their giggling.

“Yes, but he’s not paying us to shop, and we’re ‘not a struggling minimum wage contractor who’s been screwed by the system to not get any corporate benefits, fair compensation, or chance of unionization.’ He’d have no qualms about yelling at us if we mess up.” Freelancer reaches back to ruffle his glossy, carefully coiffed mess of bedhead and blinks at him. “What?”

“There’s something incredibly sexy about you mimicking Damien. Talk nerdy to me, Deviant.” Gavin grins lasciviously, playfully with a comical waggle of the brow, and his voyeur laughs with a snort, pushing away his face.

“Hurry up and help me pick out Halloween candy so we can both get home to the real thing, Gav. He won’t talk to us at all if we let the ice cream melt.”

[ronearoundblindly]

The Stark Legacy (6)

Memorial, part of Book 1: Reality (see previous or series)

Summary: The anniversary of Pepper's accident puts pressure on Tony to return to real life.

Warnings: grief, bad coping, Tony thinks he knows best but doesn't. Rated Teen/Mature, so 15+ only, please!

CHAPTER SIX—May 2036

Tony adjusted his suit as he stepped out of the limousine. He made no acknowledgment of the press and flashing lights; this was not that kind of occasion. He shook hands with the mayor, the governor, and the landscape architect. Natasha, Bruce, Wanda, and Bucky followed, all filing behind a nervous intern leading them to the platform set up on the grounds for the ceremony. Maria Hill was already behind the podium onstage. She began as everyone took their places.

“Good afternoon. Thank you all for coming today as we officially open the Memorial Garden on this, the eleventh anniversary of the tragic explosion on this very spot. We are here to honor the lives of the sixty-eight men and women who perished, and to celebrate the beauty of the natural world that continues on for those left behind after this devastating accident—,” Maria read from her papers, head lowered.

Tony met Happy Hogan’s eye from the security chief’s position off-stage. Happy gave the slightest nod, gently tapping at his royal blue pocket square: Pepper’s color. Tony faced front again, sniffed, and pushed up his sunglasses. He shifted his stance and returned both hands to his pockets, touching his thumb to the ring he still wore on his finger. The sky was not quite the right blue, and it was too hot, Tony noted.

“—And now Tony Stark will say a few words,” Maria said, gliding out of his way to approach the podium.

Tony looked at the microphone like it was a cobra. He had only planned a sentence or two, neither of which he could recall now, but in true fashion, he stepped forward and cleared his throat. “First, I’d like to thank all of the gardeners and landscapers, the contractors and builders who put together this…beautiful space. I’d particularly like to mention the architect, Daniel Toshirushi, whose uncle also died in the facility’s explosion—“ He forgot he wasn’t supposed to explicitly associate the accident with the Avengers. “—he worked tirelessly to never ask me a single question about the layout or details.” There was a small, rolling chuckle within the crowd. That should mull over his misstep.

The wind blew in the smell of flowers, making Tony pause in recognition of one in particular. What little idea he had of what he should say was blown away. “Except I did tell him to put daisies in because that’s what Pepper told me to do. Those are her favorite…” He heard his mistake. “Were her favorite,” he corrected. “It’s what she would have wanted.” He could feel Wanda’s stare boring holes in the back of his head. “Pepper also used to tell me not to wing my speeches.” Another smaller laugh. Tony looked down at his hands on the podium, his wedding band perfectly polished, golden like his late wife’s hair. “I should have listened.”

There was a stalled moment where Tony looked back out at the audience. His eyes found Steve Rogers and Sharon easily enough in the front. Steve gave the same small nod as Happy, and Sharon gave a press-lipped smile of encouragement. They were holding hands.

Tony took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “When we lose someone, as we all have and we all will, we are left with pieces of their lives, things they loved. Those little reminders are often painful as the…smell of daisies is to me, but they are beautiful. So thank you to everyone for this wonderful…tribute.” Tony pinched his nose, sniffing, and adjusting his sunglasses again. “We are deeply moved by the good work of all those involved with this project.”

He could not move away from the microphone fast enough, descending from the platform stage as Maria Hill scrambled to move the proceedings on to the unveiling of the memorial plaques. She began reading the names of the deceased. For those with military service records, Captain Barnes was charged with firing a blank. Maria paused between those last twelve names. Bucky propped the muzzle of his weapon against the rim of the vibranium shield, allowing a short, clear ring to accompany each shot.

Tony settled for standing beside Happy.

“Short and sweet, sir,” his old friend said softly. 

It made Tony more agitated than he expected. Normally, any praise of such a botched address was a standard jab from Happy. Today lacked Tony’s comfortable sarcasm, and also lacked someone else. “Where is she?” 

“Sir?”

“Sam. Where’s the kid?”

“I thought Clint talked to you.” Happy grew a noticeable shade paler. “Think it was supposed to be good news for…another time, but Sam’s gonna study at Harvard. Apparently,” he trailed hesitantly, “boarding school was not her first choice.”

Tony barely heard him. He looked around, scanning for Wanda. He dreaded the conversation coming. “Are we done here? Cause I’m gonna—” He gestured to leave.

Happy seemed a little shocked. “There’s a walk-through photo op—“

“Photoshop me in,” Tony said. “Have Yates pull the car around.” He was lucky the crowd was too busy applauding the tribute to catch him slipping away. His chest was getting tighter, his breathing hard to control.

He slid into the car, a false sense of safety dying when Wanda slid in right behind him.

“Don’t start,” he demanded, loosening his tie.

“What was that?” Wanda shrieked, spreading her arms between seats to corner Tony inside the vast space of the limo. ”Tony?!”

“Seriously, not today.” He tried to look out the window.

“Tony, tell me you know the difference,” Wanda pleaded. “When did you discuss flowers with Pepper?”

“Over coffee one morning,” he replied, attempting to sound as casual as possible.

“What morning? What year?”

“I don’t know. The one where we drank coffee!”

“How old was Sam? Was it before she was born or after?”

“I don’t remember, okay? Please back off.” Tony put up a hand to encourage her to sit down on their ride home.

Wanda sat back and crossed her arms. For nearly a decade, she had put Tony under her power’s influence to imagine his best times with Pepper. She thought it would help him heal. It was cathartic at first: she heard sobs from his room as the illusions wore off, but he always emerged focused and balanced. It kept him working instead of ruminating for weeks on end. There had been months when the team was so entrenched in a fight and its aftermath that he wouldn’t ask, but recently it had gotten especially bad. The tense he used to speak about her, rare as that was, was present tense. Wanda thought that he might not be remembering anymore but making up new experiences with his dead wife. The line had been crossed for her.

“That’s it, Tony,” Wanda declared. “I won’t do this anymore.”

Tony felt the bottom of his stomach fall out. “You can’t do that.”

“You don’t remember what’s real anymore. She’s not here. Pepper is dead and the dreams I give you can’t change that. This has gone on long enough.”

“I know what’s real,” Tony insisted, “and I know she’s gone.”

Wanda changed her tone to soothe him. “I don’t believe this is helping anymore, and I’m not sure the dreams ever did.”

Tony snorted. “Because sleeping at night isn’t helpful? Feeling like there is still someone in this world to save, that’s definitely not a motivator. Ya know, Vision would want to be remembered.”

“You are not keeping me on your side,” Wanda pushed through gritted teeth.

Tony sat back and stared out the window, wishing he had just worn his nano suit. He wanted nothing more than to fly away from this mess. “I’ll move on when you move on.”

He thought through conversations with Pepper. Truthfully he could not remember which had become a recounting of a real event or what was his mind’s creation in to fill the time until Scarlett Witch’s spell. Pepper had once told Tony that he couldn’t tie his shoes without him. Now, Tony knew she was absolutely right.

“Friday, call Barton.” The impulse passed as quickly as it came. What would I even say? “End call.”

All those years ago, when the words first fell out of his mouth, it was Pepper: I’m trying to protect the one thing I can’t live without. She was clear blue eyes, strawberry blond hair, and Tony Stark’s one thing. When Pepper was pregnant with Samantha, he would stare at her face, watching her reaction to kicks and pains and food. When Pepper gave birth, he watched her face as she met her baby for the first time. He watched Pepper play with Sam, he watched Pepper read to Sam, and he watched Pepper become elated at seeing another little plus sign on a pee stick. It was always Pepper. He never said it aloud, but it was always him and Pepper. The rest wasn’t his one thing.

Him surviving without her was never planned; he still wasn’t sure it was possible. Tony was a barely-living, vague approximation of a human being on a good day, a cocktail of sarcasm and snacks running low like the end of a party.  Tony surviving with Pepper’s child was essentially the worst case scenario, a horrible joke. A boy he could treat like himself, like Howard had treated him, making adjustments as necessary for hygiene and humor development. A girl was all Pepper’s area of expertise. He had no plan for that.

Young Tony Stark had been sent to boarding school by Sam’s age, but before that, life with his father had been about staying out of the way and life with his mother about distracting her from her husband’s philandering and drinking. That wasn’t the life Tony wanted for his kids—kid, just the one, he always had to remind himself. With the Bartons Sam had far more than Tony could provide, more than he had been provided, and in a sick way, that made Tony jealous.

But he couldn’t really complain, he reasoned, because Harvard wasn’t shabby at all. Tony watched the world go by, content in the notion that he had made the right call for Sam. She was much better off if he stayed away.

[Ch 7: Lecture]

A/N: Personally, I feel like stuff gets exciting really quickly from here, so I'll probably post the next few chapters fairly fast! This one is my baby...

[Main Masterlist]

[riflewounds]

Whumptober, day 26 | No One Left Behind ("Why did you save me?")

He'd been left alone here. No food or water for a second day in a row and the pain gnawing at his legs and twisting his gut only grew with each passing hour. The ground was cold, too, but he was thankful he wasn't forced to keep sitting on that god-awful chair.

He barely slept at night. Shallow and short stays in the warm darkness, only about two hours at a time. He woke up - repeatedly - at boots passing by the door. 

Rabid hounds of war, doing what their masters wanted of them, to rip and tear and torture.

Soft thumps down the hall. Muffled screams. Gunshots. Durant perked up, as much as his broken body would allow.

Many boots racing down the hall, hushed words speaking of an intruder, some lanky man with a gun.

Wait, is it--

"Left side, left side," came a muffled yell from the hall.

Durant counted two shots right after. Followed by a nice little burst from the two men close by the door. Three more shots. From further away. At least one hit because there was a piercing scream just outside the door. Followed by more panicked words he couldn't quite make out through the haze of pain.

Another shot, quick retaliation of several three-round bursts, and two more single shots from a different gun.

A rifle clattered to the ground. Faint gurgles just in the hallway.

Deathly silence. No barks of gunfire, just the buzzing in his head and some disgusting sinking feeling.

Could it be his boss? Maybe, but this didn't sound like him Precise, yes, maybe a little too much for the man himself. Did he hire someone? To soften up those contractor fuckers, so he can then sweep in and claim all the glory? 

He would've laughed if not for the piercing pain in his ribs. Fuchs had the resources, he had people, it wouldn't be unlike him to hire some extra help for the job.

He could afford the extra bodies.

And he could afford to find a different loyal gun, puppy.

Different gunman to fill his place. Take over his role of the loyal bodyguard willing to sacrifice limb and life. 

Even if the guy was a dick.

Durant couldn't hear a single sound aside from his quick ragged breaths. He'd grown a little accustomed to the pain, but his legs felt full of red-hot knives slicing away at his flesh. 

He stilled once he heard those footsteps in the hallway. Light, so vastly different from the steel-toed boots that ran through the hall only minutes ago. No, these were loafers, a light blend of leather and vulcanized rubber. Tap, tap, tap, the sound was closing in, until the door handle moved and Durant stilled completely.

Either it's Fuchs, or someone else. 

He blinked as the door swung open. Silver glint of a Beretta. Muzzle trained right at him, before it wavered and pointed towards the ground as the man's hands fell. 

"Durant?" 

He... came back for him...

"H-Hey," he rasped, breaking into a little cough at the sudden motion. Too deep of an exhale. His ribs still ached, stabbing pain clawing at his lung with every cough.

Broken ribs had nothing on two shattered femurs...

Fuchs slipped his gun away for the moment, taking long, hasty strides towards his gunman. "We don't have much time before the rest of those jack-booted fucks come down here."

Durant estimated they had ten minutes at most. Realistically, it's less. A lot less.

More like five minutes. 

Fuchs kneeled beside him, took a pair of wire cutters to the zip ties binding the gunman's wrists. "Let's get out of here."

Two snips, and the pressure at his wrist was gone. Durant flexed his hands, splayed his palm, curled his fingers into a tight fist before he loosened them. But just as quickly as the pressure was relieved, Fuchs was already hooking his arm around the gunman, about to lift him up.

"No no no, wait, wa--"

Then the bones in his leg shifted and he screamed loud enough to wake the dead. That piercing, blood-curdling wail--

"Shut up!" 

--he screamed until his lungs seized with lack of air.

"For fuck's sake just shut up!" 

Followed by desperate lungfuls of that precious, precious air, cut shallow by his broken battered ribs, fingers curling against the floor and nails scratching away at whatever was under his hands.

Please god make it stop, make it stop, make it stop--

"Oh shit--" 

Darkness blotted out his sight, drowned out every sound, his body was sagging into that painless warm void, but he was plucked out of those deep dark waters only moments later. Sweaty. Back against the bumpy ground, his entire body ached and throbbed and his guts were twisting into tight knots under the strain.

"Fuchs..."

Moist eyes, dry throat. He could only croak as he twisted on the ground. 

His boss fell quiet, just looking at his gunman, unsure what to do next. Barely touching him, just lightly resting two fingers on Durant's shoulder.

"I took a couple guys with me, they're waiting outside." Fuchs spoke, considerably more gentle than only minutes ago, "I need you to stay quiet."

Quiet, huh? Durant wasn't sure it was even possible. "Then gimme drugs. Or knock me out. Please."

Desperate words, quiet urgency. This would go a lot smoother if he wasn't screaming with every little movement. Even now, even when he was lying completely still, Durant was only hairs away from screaming his lungs out. Words didn't come to him as easily as they usually did either, they came mangled and incoherent through the haze of pain. "My legs are fucked. Broken. Fuckers broke my legs."

"Yeah, I figured."

Then he could've-- he could've stopped sooner!

"And since you can't stand up, I'm gonna have to drag you."

Fine, fucking fine, "Just get on with it," Durant grumbled. Impatient, frustrated, anxious. Conflicting feelings mixing into some horrible painful mess. "You gonna give me something, or we goin' raw?" 

"Raw."

God-- he swallowed. Every little bit of motion of his legs plunged him into throes of agony so intense he could no longer keep conscious.

Fuchs produced a single tie, he folded it in half twice, and brought it down to the gunman's chin. "Here, bite this."

And he did. Fuchs positioned it between Durant's teeth, and he bit down on it. It'd help, even if just a little. 

"Alright."

White and orange hues of pain. It felt as if legs were being torn apart, pulled off his body like he was some insect. 

Paralyzed. Eyes blown wide open, he was stiff as a board and his body tried to screech, yet breath halted in his throat, it wouldn't budge, nerves overloaded with this unspeakable agony. 

He couldn't take it. Couldn't do it. As if rigor mortis had set in while he was still alive.

Durant could hear a word, quiet and mangled in the haze, a single "Finally" as the gunman slipped under.

[formidablecompanynews]

Understanding the Risk of Chlorine Dioxide Disinfectant to Residential Plumbing Systems - Notice Important Internet https://www.merchant-business.com/understanding-the-risk-of-chlorine-dioxide-disinfectant-to-residential-plumbing-systems/?feed_id=182152&_unique_id=66d047dd4c914 #GLOBAL - BLOGGER BLOGGER Late last year, the Plastics Pipe Institute (PPI) called attention to an important topic with the release of Technical Note 67: Chlorine Dioxide and Plastic Hot- and Cold-Water Plumbing Distribution Pipes. In this note, the PPI analyzes published research on the effect of chlorine dioxide on various piping materials and provides information every plumbing contractor should know.Why Chlorine Dioxide Is Becoming More ImportantChlorine and chloramines are the most popular disinfectants used by US municipalities to keep drinking water safe. However, in recent years questions have been raised about the disinfectant byproducts (DBPs) that form when bacteria in drinking water interact with chlorine and chloramines in water disinfection. The US EPA, CDC, and independent researchers have published information related to potential health risks associated with these byproducts, leading some municipalities to explore alternative disinfectants.Chlorine dioxide is an EPA-approved water disinfectant that is believed to produce fewer harmful byproducts than chlorine and also has other benefits. It maintains its disinfecting power longer in water distribution systems than chlorine, and studies have shown it to be effective at killing viruses, including SARS-COV-2. The city of Hamilton, Ohio credits chlorine dioxide with helping them win international competitions for the “best tasting tap water.”Some municipalities have already transitioned to chlorine dioxide as a water disinfectant and others are considering the disinfectant as they plan new treatment facilities or modernizations. Additionally, chlorine dioxide is effective at removing biofilm and can be used in on-site treatment for biofilm mitigation, increasing the number of plumbing systems that could be exposed to the disinfectant.Impact of Disinfectants on Residential Plumbing SystemsThis is a noteworthy development for the plumbing industry because disinfectants in drinking water can interact with some residential plumbing materials in ways that increase the risk of failure and reduce service life. The most infamous example is polybutylene piping. This material became popular in the 1970s and 1980s, but then had to be taken off the market due to a large number of chlorine-related failures and the massive class action lawsuit that resulted from those failures.That’s an extreme example, but certainly not the only one. PEX and copper are both subject to degradation and corrosion from chlorine. In Technical Note 53: Guide to Chlorine Resistance of PEX Pipes and Tubing for Potable Water Applications, the PPI identified multiple conditions that can accelerate chlorine degradation in PEX pipes, some of which are within a contractor’s control and some of which are not. In addition, chloramines have been linked to the development of pinhole leaks in copper pipes.So, when a new disinfectant begins to gain momentum in the market, industry associations like the PPI provide a valuable service by analyzing the available published research to better understand the potential impact of the disinfectant on residential plumbing systems.Key Statements from PPI TN-67The PPI found that multiple research teams had performed various types of laboratory testing to evaluate the effects of chlorine dioxide on copper, steel, PEX, PE-RT, and PP-R piping. According to TN-67, “an analysis of the published results indicates that chlorine dioxide has the potential to reduce the service life of most plumbing distribution materials to below normal expected lifetimes.”The only material TN-67 cites as an exception is CPVC: “Evaluation by PPI member firms indicates that chlorine dioxide is not known to be aggressive to CPVC at elevated temperatures of 200°F (93°C) and below.

”TN-67 recommends contacting each piping system supplier for guidance related to the use of their pipe and fitting material(s) in circumstances where chlorine dioxide has been selected as the disinfection chemical. Multiple PEX manufacturers have updated their guidelines to explicitly advise against the use of their products “as part of any potable-water distribution system in buildings where chlorine dioxide is used for secondary disinfection…”The business team behind FlowGuard Gold Plumbing Systems concurs with the PPI statement that chlorine dioxide is not aggressive to CPVC at temperatures of 200° F or below. In fact, FlowGuard Gold CPVC and Corzan CPVC are the only plumbing systems marketed today as 100% immune to chlorine degradation—including chloramines and chlorine dioxide—caused by drinking water in domestic plumbing systems.Real-World ImplicationsWhile PPI TN-67 notes that use of chlorine dioxide as a secondary disinfectant does not reflect the majority of current water disinfection practices, piping failures have already been attributed to the disinfectant in at least one municipal water system. After switching to chlorine dioxide for secondary water treatment, the city of Hamilton, Ohio, experienced high rates of failure in its high-density polyethylene (HDPE) water mains.“We’ve got about 21 miles of HDPE piping in our system now, and it is catastrophically failing about 60 years ahead of when it should have,” the city’s Executive Director of Infrastructure, Jim Logan, told the local Journal News. “This, back about 20 years ago, was the future of water mains, and unfortunately, the chemicals we use attack the pipe and then cause it to fail.”Note that these failures occurred in cold water HDPE systems and the temperatures found in hot-water lines can accelerate the degradation reaction in hot-water piping that is vulnerable to chlorine-induced oxidative degradation like PEX, PE-RT, PPR, and PP-RCT.This city’s experience reinforces both the risks to some materials from incompatible chemicals like chlorine dioxide as well as the difficulty predicting future water conditions at the time materials are selected and installed. Municipalities can and do change their treatment practices for a variety of reasons and there is no way to ensure that pipes installed today won’t at some point be exposed to water treated with chlorine dioxide.Water Compatibility and Plumbing Material SelectionWater compatibility issues generally don’t get enough attention in plumbing material selection, so TN-67 is both timely and important. For contractors that want to prevent the possibility of premature failure due to incompatibility with the material they have selected and the disinfectants being used by the local municipality, CPVC provides a safe choice.FlowGuard Gold Plumbing Systems are immune to degradation and corrosion from chlorine, chloramines, and chlorine dioxide in drinking water. For more information on FlowGuard Gold Plumbing Systems, visit FlowGuardGold.com.Jonathan Simon is the North American residential plumbing manager for Lubrizol Advanced Materials Inc., the parent company for FlowGuard Gold Pipe and Fittings.“Questions have been raised about the disinfectant byproducts (DBPs) that form when bacteria in drinking water interact with chlorine and chloramines in water disinfection…”Source Link: https://www.contractormag.com/piping/article/55136323/understanding-the-risk-of-chlorine-dioxide-disinfectant-to-residential-plumbing-systems http://109.70.148.72/~merchant29/6network/wp-content/uploads/2024/08/GNfHvy-XwAAEneY.jpg Late last year, the Plastics Pipe Institute (PPI) called attention to an important topic with the release of Technical Note 67: Chlorine Dioxide and Plastic Hot- and Cold-Water Plumbing Distribution Pipes. In this note, the PPI analyzes published research on the effect of chlorine dioxide on various piping materials and provides information every plumbing contractor should know. Why … Read More

[tronenwkwo]

Benefits of Hiring a Local Roofer in Carlsbad

Introduction

When it comes to roofing services, hiring a local roofer in Carlsbad can provide numerous benefits. From prompt response times to personalized service, local roofers have the expertise and knowledge to handle any roofing project efficiently. Whether you need roof repairs, installation, or maintenance, choosing a local roofer ensures that you receive top-notch service from professionals who understand the unique needs of the top-rated roof company near me Carlsbad community.

Prompt Response and Timely Service

One of the key benefits of hiring a local roofer in Carlsbad is their ability to provide prompt responses and timely service. Local roofers are familiar with the area and can quickly reach your location for inspections, repairs, or installations. They understand the urgency of roofing issues and strive to resolve them as soon as possible. This means that you won't have to wait for days or even weeks to get your roofing problems fixed.

Extensive Knowledge of Carlsbad Roofing Regulations

Local roofers in Carlsbad have extensive knowledge of the local building codes and regulations related to roofing. They stay updated with any changes in these regulations and ensure that all their work complies with the required standards. By hiring a local roofer, you can have peace of mind knowing that your roofing project will be completed in accordance with all relevant rules and regulations.

Familiarity with Local Climate Conditions

Carlsbad's climate brings its own set of challenges for roofs. With hot summers and occasional heavy rainfall, it's essential to choose a roofer who understands how these weather conditions can impact your roof's performance. Local roofers have experience working with different types of roofs in Carlsbad's climate. They know which materials are best suited for the area and can recommend solutions that will withstand the elements over time.

Personalized Service Tailored to Your Needs

When you hire a local roofer in Carlsbad, you can expect personalized service tailored to your specific needs. Local roofers take the time to understand your requirements and provide customized solutions that align with your budget and preferences. They will work closely with you throughout the entire process, from initial consultation to project completion, ensuring that all your concerns are addressed and that you are satisfied with the outcome.

Strong Reputation within the Community

Local roofers build their reputation within the community by providing high-quality work and excellent customer service. They rely on word-of-mouth recommendations and positive reviews from satisfied customers to grow their business. By hiring a local roofer, you can tap into this strong reputation and benefit from the trust and expertise they have gained over the years.

Cost-Effective Solutions

Contrary to popular belief, hiring a local roofer in Carlsbad can be cost-effective in the long run. While it may seem tempting to go for cheaper options from out-of-town contractors, they may not provide the same level of quality or accountability as local roofers. Local roofers have established relationships with suppliers and can often source materials at lower prices. Additionally, their knowledge of local roofing requirements helps them identify cost-effective solutions without compromising on quality.

Support for Local Businesses

By hiring a local roofer, y

[iremodel4u]

Tips To Consider Before Going For A Bathroom Redesign In USA

When the walls of your bathroom are in disrepair, and the space feels uninspiring, redesigning is a transformative idea. It not only gives your bathroom a fresh, appealing look but also makes you feel like rejuvenating your home. Before you embark on this journey, it's important to consider the essential tips. Homeowners across the USA have found these tips essential and valuable, ensuring a trouble-free future. Here are the essential tips to consider before going for a bathroom redesign in USA.

Size of the bathroom

In many cases, we have seen that the small-sized bathroom requires no remodeling. By any chance, if you have a small bathroom with rotten walls, then the best thing is to apply wall cement and paint. Applying wall cement and paint is a smarter idea and is the best method to rejuvenate your bathroom. Many contractors of bathroom remodel services in USA apply wall cement and paint in the bathrooms.

Upgrade to smarter basins

Smarter basins are the ones that have sensors and operate automatically. You do not have to turn on the tap to wash your hands. Keep your hands before the sensor and water will come out. Many times, we have observed that the mini basins are unable to drain the gunk and mini particles. So, upgrading your bathroom with a larger smart basin is a fair idea, as it can easily drain gunk.

Better western commode

The bathroom renovation services in Alabama or Saraland upgrade your bathroom with a better western commode. Many western commodes cannot flush out feces so easily, which later on leaves the stink and the unhygienic smell behind. The reason is that the commode is older and needs a replacement. So, upgrade to a better commode that can flush out feces with a single push.

Replace the geyser

During winter, hot water is a must, and to bath with hot water you will surely need a geyser. By any chance, if your geyser is old, make sure you replace it with a newer one. The older ones take a lot of time to heat the water. On the other hand, the newer geysers heat the water so easily, giving you hot water. The contractors who perform bathroom redesign in USA replace the geyser as well.

Change the tiles

It might be the case that your bathroom tiles are older and have become slippery. In this situation, all you need is to change the tiles and come with the ones that never slip. It is a smarter idea and is preferred by every homeowner. The contractors avail various tile designs for the bathrooms and ensure no cracks in the later period.

Final Words

If you are going for a bathroom redesign in USA, you need to consider the aforementioned tips. Consider these tips, and later on, you are going to give a new redesign to your bathroom. The contractors will be able to meet up your needs. Redesigning your bathroom is like rejuvenating your home in a better way.

[yourmikecounsilplumbing]

How to Flush your Water Heater

Of all the chores that homeowners need to do, flushing the water heater is one that many people overlook. Do you know how to drain and flush your water heater? It's not very hard, but it does need to be done annually to prevent mineral buildup and help your water heater last longer. Note: some people recommend doing this every six months in areas with hard water, and if you live in the San Jose area, that probably applies to you. Here are some easy steps if you’re ready to give it a shot. - First, turn off the cold water supply to your water heater. The valve for this is typically near the top of the hot water heater. - Turn off the power to the hot water heater. The way you’ll do this varies based on the type of water heater you have. If it’s electric, you’ll need to turn the power off at the circuit box. If you have a gas water heater, turn the thermostat on the tank to off and close the gas valve to the tank. - Connect a garden hose to the water heater’s drain valve. The valve is a water spigot on the bottom of the water heater. Attach a hose and direct it outside or into a bucket. If you direct it outside, make sure it’s directed far enough away from your foundation. - Turn on your hot water taps. If you don’t want to turn them all on, open one on the main floor, or on a higher floor than your water tank. Turning them on all will help your water tank drain more quickly, though. - Open the drain valve on the water heater. Keep it open until all of the water has run out of the tank. Depending on the size of your tank, this can take between 20 and 60 minutes. Never force the valve open or closed because this can damage it. While the tank is draining, look at the water that’s coming out so that you can get an idea of how much sediment was in the tank. - Turn the cold water valve back on. This is the “flush hot water heater” part of the process. Rinse the tank by allowing cold water to run through the tank and out of the hose until the water is clear. - Clean out the drain valve. You can open and close it a few times to get rid of the sediment, used compressed air to push the remaining sediment back into the tank, or use a shop vac to suck it out. - Close the valve and refill the tank. Turn on the cold water valve and refill the tank with water. When it’s full, your hot water taps should start flowing. If the water flowing from them seems discolored, don’t worry- it’s just a little bit of additional sediment working its way out. Let them run until the water is clear and then turn them off. - Turn the heater back on. Either turn back on the power or the gas. Check to make sure your drain valve isn’t leaking, and you’re good to go! You can certainly flush the hot water heater yourself, but if you’d rather not, you can call on the professional plumbing contractors at Mike Counsil Plumbing and Rooter to provide stellar plumbing service with a smile. Since 1994, we’ve served San Jose, California, and the South Bay Area, building a reputation on excellent service and a 100 percent satisfaction rate. Our family-owned and -operated company is committed to exceeding our clients’ expectations, and our staff is kept up to date on all the latest advances in the industry. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, we’re available to take care of plumbing issues that can’t wait. Call 408.705.4820 or contact us through our website to learn more. Read the full article

[tigerop]

[ PIN ]:     sender pins the receiver to the ground and straddles them while training together. - from decker <3

THINGS DONE WHILE SPARRING && FIGHTING / accepting.

Sparring wasn't just an exercise in the physical, it was an exercise in the mental. It was an exercise in restraint. So many of these jacked-up, monsters of contractors could and had killed with ease. Some had more baggage than an airport luggage claim and had such hair trigger reactions to things as simple as touch. Sparring was just another way to train that. It didn't fix anything, but it helped make sure you didn't accidentally injure (or worse) your own allies. 

Where everything in his body itched and pricked to push onward, to exceed what was appropriate for a fun bout of what was essentially play fighting, he willed his own muscles to relax against the mat. He hadn't yet formally tapped out but neither of the men seemed to be making any more moves of aggression and so it was likely the round was finished. 

His chest heaved still as he began the process of coming down, sweat tickled his skin as some of it slipped down from his neck to soak into the collar hem of his tank top. His mask was uncomfortable at this point, too moist and hot against his skin but there were too many onlookers still in the training facility for him to comfortably want to take it off. 

❝ Might look into work as a chair since I seem to be so comfortable. ❞ his arms still pinned, he could really do nothing more but audibly complain that Decker still straddle him. There were ways to get out of this pin-—easily, too. But they all required broken bones or pain levels that went beyond what Horangi felt should be spared towards someone just looking to tussle for fun. 

❝ You're real fucking heavy, you know that? ❞