#Flat Flex Wire Belt

[alex-wire-mesh]

Flat Flex Wire Mesh Belt

Flat Flex Wire Mesh Belt is also named flat flex conveyor belt. The belt is designed for conveying a wide range of products. This wire mesh belt is customizable options for specific requirements.

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2. Applications: (1) Food processing for hygienic material handling. (2) Heat treatment processes in industrial ovens. (3) Packaging lines for smooth product transition. (4) Automotive manufacturing for assembly lines. (5) Chemical processing for corrosive environments. (6) Electronics industry for delicate component handling. (7) Textile industry for seamless material flow. (8) Pharmaceutical production for hygiene compliance. (9) Agricultural processing for bulk material handling. (10) Mining operations for efficient ore transportation.

3. Performance Benefits: (1) Minimized downtime for increased productivity. (2) Consistent and reliable material conveying. (3) Low friction design for energy efficiency. (4) Easy to clean, ensuring hygienic standards. (5) Reduces product waste with smooth transitions. (6) Resistant to adverse environmental conditions. (7) Customizable for specific operational needs. (8) Improved worker safety with reliable operation. (9) Long-lasting performance for a solid ROI. (10) Adaptable to various speed and load requirements.

4. Customization Options: (1) Custom belt lengths for diverse Conveyor Systems. (2) Specialized mesh configurations for unique materials. (3) Color-coding for easy visual identification. (4) Variable wire thickness for enhanced strength. (5) Optional coatings for additional corrosion resistance. (6) Attachment options for specialized handling. (7) Integration of tracking systems for precision. (8) Perforations for liquid drainage applications. (9) Adjustable belt tension for optimal performance. (10) Collaboration with engineers for tailored solutions.

The product Flat Flex Wire Mesh Belt appeared first on Alex Wire Mesh.

[perpetualfox]

I wanna chomp into his arm and tell him to flex !! Fill my whole mouth with him and make him have to pinch my nose to get me off. Take a bite off the extra meat packed onto his inner thigh before eating that mf out. Chomp chomp chomp

Bite Me - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x GN!Reader [NSFW]

Warnings: Biting, blood play, pain play, rough handling.

Wordcount:

All I can say for myself is this:

→You kneel before him, taking your place at his feet like it’s the easiest thing in the world—an act of submission devoid of shame; one he beholds in silent wonder from his perch at the edge of the bed. He looms above you, still mostly clothed, his back ramrod straight—a soldier even in moments of respite. The thick treads of his boots sink into the plush carpet, his laces still pulled tight through dented metal eyelets; thick cord knotted so tight it creaks against the dark leather. His belt lays across his lap—flayed open in seconds by eager fingers—the heavy buckle lost beneath the sharp curve of his hipbone. When you had asked, he’d pealed back his cargos, but they’d made it no closer to the floor than his knees, the thick material bunched up beneath them—a show of vulnerability, but on his own terms.

→You’d taken it for the gift it was.

→Stretching forward, you crane your neck to nuzzle against the pale expanse of his inner thigh. His gloves creak as his fists ball into the sheets, and a little thrill goes through you—to be given so much for so little…from Ghost it was as near a dazzling smile or an earnest admission of love as you had ever come. It was intoxicating. You turn your head, lips grazing a hot stripe along his flesh. He twitches beneath you as you mouth along the knotted ridge of an old scar. You know them well, the stories Simon wears on his skin—the kiss of a knife from Mexico, the crater carved out by a bulled he’d caught in Verdansk, the evenly spaced tears of Russian razor-wire—each more terrible than the last, each beheld with a reverence with which he is woefully unfamiliar. Something in his guts squirms with a feeling he cannot name each time you turn it on him—not quite shame, though it takes a similar shape. It’s a battle not to squirm with it.

→Your lips ghost across a smooth patch of flesh, and you pause. The unmarred skin is cool under the heat of your mouth. Your teeth scrape against the flat, untextured skin. Ghost does not move. Your eyes flick up to meet his, eyebrows raised, questioning. In the darkness, you can’t make out the soft brown of his irises; there is nothing but the fathomless black of his pupils, swallowing everything. He stares down at you from behind that expressionless mask. There is no trace of Simon in that stare, only Ghost, his eyes flat and dead. But he understands you all the same, and he nods, the barest tilt of his head; a movement you would have missed if you hadn’t been looking for it. A smile splits your lips as you stamp a final, open-mouthed kiss against his thigh before you crack open your jaw, and sink your teeth in.

→You go slow, allowing him to feel the press of each individual tooth; the slow transition from a bearable pressure to a deep ache as each curve and point burrows deeper into his pale flesh. The hard muscle tenses and jumps beneath you as you bear down on him. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp hiss clamped tight between his teeth. You feel the skin pucker as you bite down, the pressure moulding his flesh around your teeth. It welcomes the strange new shapes as best it can, until, at last, it can take no more, and it tears. Fat droplets of blood well up and pool in the indentations you’ve made—the copper tang of it salty and warm on your tongue.

→You try to pull back, to offer reprieve from the pain that has him gritting his teeth and shuddering beneath you, but a heavy gloved hand thumps down against the back of your neck. He guides you—almost pushing you back down, urging your teeth deeper into the meat of his thigh. There is nowhere else to go, so you let yourself go limp, allowing your head to loll to the side, tucking neatly into the ‘v’ of his hip.

→The swell of his cock bumps up against your cheekbone, warm, and thick—even through a layer of black cotton—and harder than it had any right to be. Shifting your weight, you lean into him, pressing the soft meat of your cheek into the heat of him. A cooing sound chirps to life at the back of your throat, and you smile around his thigh, revelling in the knowledge that this was your doing—revelling in the smell of him, thick and heavy; in the weight of him against your cheek; in the little grunts that catch between his teeth.

→You lock your jaw, and his hold only tightens, the grip pads of his gloves scraping rough against your flesh as his fingers dig into the side of your throat. His thumb brushes against your cheek, coming to rest just beneath the corner of your jaw, pressing up hard enough you’re sure to have a bruise in the morning. He’s trembling beneath you now, almost rocking up into your mouth, even as your bicuspids threaten to do their job and widen the holes you’ve already made in him.

→“Fuck, Lovie,” His voice, little more than a gruff whisper, barely pricks at your ears, “…could cum like this.”

→A shudder rattles through you, your jaw flexing against his thigh, your teeth scraping against wounded and oversensitive flesh, drawing a strangled groan from his throat. Fluid drips warm and wet down over your chin and throat—saliva or blood—you don’t care. Your world narrows to a single point, big enough only for Ghost: the heat of his slick flesh in your mouth and the desperate throb of his cock against your cheekbone.

→Could he really?

→The thought barely registers in your mind before you’re clenching down hard enough to feel something click in your jaw. Ghost makes a wounded sound, his body jerking beneath you as a warm wetness begins to spread against your cheek.

→The hand at the back of your neck goes slack, and you pull yourself back, dizzy and shuddering. Ghost’s chest heaves, his limbs gone boneless and jittery as the aftershocks have their way with him. As he slowly drifts back to himself, his fingers trail absently through the slick mess you’ve made of his thigh. Blood and saliva dribble down to stain the sheets between his legs. When at last he feels present in his body again, he reaches out swipes a droplet of blood from your chin with a broad thumb, “Messy fuckin’ thing you are, hey?”

→You nod dumbly, the tang of his blood still sitting thick on your tongue. He pats your cheek, heavy and slow. Your head lolls against his large palm, your eyes going half lidded, fluttering with each rough stroke of his fingers. “‘S all your fault, Lovie, innit?”

→You nod and quick as a viper, he takes you by the back of the neck and presses your face down against the cum-damp fabric of his boxers, “And this too.” It isn’t a question this time, but you nod anyway. You can feel his spend already beginning to cool as his hips kick up against the softness of your cheek. “That’s right. So be fuckin’ useful and clean it up for me.”

[afreakingdork]

Weak Spot - Chapter 37

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Romance, Meet Cute, Villain Donatello, Cussing, Crushes, Xenophobia, Fear, Intimidation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Love, AFAB Reader, Vaginal Sex, Sex Rough, Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Teasing, Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Marathon Sex, Somnophilia, Intercrural Sex, Bondage, Feral Behavior, Feral Donatello (TMNT), Mating Cycles/In Heat, Public Sex

Synopsis:  A love story of villainous proportions! Though it hadn’t come easily, as these things rarely do, you found yourself in a whirlwind romance with a handsome and mysterious mutant. His idiosyncrasies had been easy to ignore as attraction grew into something more. However, will love endure when the unknowns about him end up being far darker than you ever considered?

Fem!Reader References/Warnings Below Cut

Did I get double inspired by @buthowboutno 's Going Down, Down (In an Earlier Round) a second time? Uh yeah, obviously. It changed my brain chemistry. The best.

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

Last warning for the 🍋 under the cut. Minors DNI!

Fem!Reader References/Warnings: clits, cunts, and pussy!

Writhing, the large purple tenting around your hips bobbed slightly. Muscles flexing uselessly in your legs, warm arms towing rippled muscles brushed the backs of your thighs. Hungry fingertips ate up the expanse of your stomach and gripped randomly to knead flesh. Wired, you felt confused signals shoot from your brain and translate oddities like tingles in your tongue. Parting your lips to give the pink dart some air, a moan poured out instead.

With a palm pressed to your lower abdomen, it accentuated the mounting twist. Rarely denied, your depths were probed before a flat lick slid the length of your sex. Passing your clit with a swab of wet heat, a finger slid into you at one angle before rotating around to beckon you further. Release imminent, you squirmed to catch even a little more of him. He let you struggle, but removed his digit the same amount you tried to grind on it. Frustrated you wrung out a whine as his tongue trekked back, teasing your clit in a similar down stroke. Finger coaxing the pleasure buttons within you, you gasped as your oncoming orgasm began to suck the digit dry. With nothing to give, it moved easily against the tightness and gave a shallow pump.

“Donnie!”

The name echoed in your ears and maybe off your lips as he retracted the finger to bury his snout back into you. Switching places, he thumbed the nerves above your clit with random presses that let the length of his digit brush the actual nub. Pulling the proverbial belt tighter, you were all the closer to cinching when his tongue found your innards again. All at once he sped up and cumming came into glorious sight. Ready to embrace it fully, you went limp under his hold and right as the peak crested, he retracted once again.

“Fuck!” You hissed, propping yourself up your elbows. “Donatello!”

You felt a nip to your inner thigh before the sheet pulled back to reveal your boyfriend, face glistening with your soak. “Yes?”

“H-how much long-?” Your muscles spasmed and for a moment you thought you might cum from overstimulation. Falling back to encourage it, the pulses petered out with no relief. “Please!”

He hummed with fake interest as his dry hand traced over your hip.

“How long has it been?”

“Time.”

With an effort, you got back onto your arms to initiate a swivel. There you groped for your phone to wake it up. Bleary, it blinked and read off the time, date, and some neglected messages. “10:47am.”

“46 minutes.”

Your head snapped to him. “That’s too long! You can’t put it off anymore!”

“True, my meeting is in about two hours. I have a few last minute notes to prepare.”

Souring at his deflection, the deep ache from having been staved off reached your shoulders. Trying not to hunch, you put on your most persuasive cuteness and sent your partner batted lashes. “Can I cum then?”

Donnie made a great show of thinking it over. “I don’t think you’ve earned it. Do you?”

“I think if you edge me one more time, I’m going to hold you down and fuck your face regardless of what you want.”

“Bold imagery.” He licked his lips.

“Stop talking and put that tongue to actual use?” You purred.

Pursing his lips, he seemed to return to his pondering. Senses aflame, you moved to fully sit up and to make good on your threat when you felt both his fingers probing your entrance. You got a single syllable out before he flattened you by simply shoving them in. Crying out as the edges of the canopy closed in like a white veil, his tongue returned to your folds with vigor.

Active, but meticulous, he again found the spool. Making sure every thread laid flat, he worked in tandem for yet another agonizing build up. It brought tears to your eyes as this time he let you freely rock your hips into him without retracting in time. Friction tantalizing, the fourth mounting fried what was left of your conscious thought. Left in its place was raw skin that sparked with each caress. Seemingly all hands and tongue, you were filled over and over while wet darts pricked your lower body. Belonging to him, you rocked against his chin and felt him smile against your cunt. Now very much wishing you’d bowled him over, he fucked the thought away with a targeted swirl to your clit.

Circling the drain along with it, he pushed his fingers so deep that his palm brushed your outer labia. With a finger to the metaphorical pulse, he metered your orgasm so it scaled instead of crashed. Tears streaked fluid into your ears as you submerged in opposition to the agonizing peak you crested yet again. Almost trained, your nerves frayed at the thought of another denial while your consciousness teetered precariously from the altitude. With a perfect quirk of his fingers, you hit the summit and screamed as the canopy of white seemingly enveloped you.

Tinnitus sang a chorus as your body levied like a seesaw. Your lower half raised as if chasing a single second more of pleasure while your head pressed so far into the bed it strained your neck. Euphoria poured your sight back in like nectar and with it came a collapse. Body going limp in a way that made a mockery of the last time, you felt the gentle ministration of Donnie coaxing you down while also licking you clean. Shuddering, his finger slowly inched out of you as your clenches loosened. Once free, he affectionately nuzzled and lapped up the rest of your slick before resting a damped cheek on your inner thigh.

Your lips parted and what came out was similar to a breathy laugh.

Hearing a suck and pop which must have been him licking his fingers clean, he appeared by your side. 

Stupid with climax, your head lolled to look at him with what felt like rapture.

“Well.” He started, coming in close to kiss your cheek.

Your scent wafted off of him and felt further intoxicating.

“I hope that makes up for me having to work today.”

You could only nod and wished you could curl up against him.

His lips brushed your forehead. “Enjoy yourself, you’ll have me again in a few hours.”

Honeyed gaze tracked him as he checked your silent form over and covered you back up. With a parting squeeze to your hand, he moved to his computer and you let your lids lower. There you didn’t commit to sleep, but lightly dozed off the lengths your body had gone through. Waking was as gentle as the rhythmic tack of a keyboard. Still riding happy chemicals, you let your fingers run along the sheets. Crisp and smooth, they glided easily until reasoning came to you.

A little numb but clearly damp, you grumbled to get up. You heard the typing pause as Donnie honed in on your existence. You played up a peaceful sigh before finally getting up. Padding over to the restroom for clean up, you came out refreshed and passed him with a peck as you grabbed a snack.

“Do you want me to step out for your call?” You popped a chip in your mouth.

“No, my mic is tuned.” He moved something across the screen to compare. “No loud interruptions. You're otherwise fine.”

“That too, but I was asking about the content on your end for my ears.” You moved to lean on the arm of the couch behind him.

“Investor conversation. Legitimate.”

“Fun.”

“I had most of the report compiled, but one lab assistant left out critical data.”

“What college credit gets ya.” You feigned a scoff.

“They’re paid.” He brushed off your insinuation. “Higher than average.”

You quieted in your crunching.

“Retention ensures quality. Competitive rates guarantee a reliable pool. Minus one who will be having an early review.” With a harsh click, he returned to typing.

“ I would be terrified of that.”

“I don’t typically handle them but…” He trailed off and in a slight turn of his head you could see his wicked smile.

“All that torment’s been bottled up.” You pushed off to approach and gave him a quick hug.

He caught your arm to keep you from retreating. “Elaborate.”

“The edging.” You let him nuzzle your cheek before he released you.

He frowned. “Was your orgasm unsatisfactory?”  

“No, but you went from diet evil to what seems like cold turkey lately and I’m sensing a build up.”

He pondered the thought with a hum and you left him to think on it. Plopping down on the couch, you lazily browsed videos until an update caught your eye. Flicking that on, you lounged through the last of your three-day weekend. After the initial scare from Leo’s parting words, there had been a few weeks of high alert. It had involved an escort that you hadn’t minded one bit. Your coworkers were especially nosey about your boyfriend and even sang his praises when you weren’t looking. It was a strange highlight in an otherwise agonizing time. Once cleared for your commute, you still rushed home only to find not a single trace of the brothers about. Donnie had fussed about surveillance being circumvented, but after a sweep and some new sensors, the blank readouts were considered true. With no reason to extend, it fully cleared you to freely move about the city, but you weren’t as sure as Donnie or S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.

While you immensely enjoyed that they never tethered you, the license left you on edge. Though you knew exactly why that was, you were doing your best to delude yourself. Unable to shake yourself of the lie, it haunted you in all aspects. It had started that same night where your boys had been more all consumed by the perceived threat. Left to stew and sober up, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. eventually came around with a glass of water while Donnie was absorbed in reconnaissance. In the split second exchange, you could tell exactly what the droid thought. He’d chalked your little inconsistency up to inebriation and that had only made it worse in the long run.

It wasn’t Leo himself that plagued you; it was his lips. If Leo really was intent on contacting you again then he was undoubtedly the type to tout his supposed connection with you. He, along with everyone else on the planet, would probably assume you had mentioned this to your boyfriend. Instead, you hadn’t brought yourself to. As you once predicted, it was less about the lie and more about the reveal; too much time had passed. That mixed with the fear of Leo being the one to do it before you were ready created an agonizing amount of imagined reveals. It caused dread that had driven you to linger by Don’s side in hopes of him deterring the other turtle. 

Alternatively, he hadn’t questioned your presence and seemed to think it was for companionship which he accepted graciously. 

It made everything worse.

You needed to tell him; you just had to do it the right way.

Having been stuck on the how of that for the last week meant it compounded the sore of the lie. You ignored the puss and with it came a radiating pain as it tried to assert itself. It had you here when some of your friends had gone up to a cabin for the weekend. Dampened, you scrolled other feeds and forgot about the video you’d put on. Having muted the group chat, you scrolled elsewhere until an interesting bit of news came up. It involved something you had foretold and you looked up to examine the person you had shared it with.

Still at his seat, he was reviewing whatever he had written with flicks of his fingers.

A second of his time wouldn’t hurt. “Hey, Don?”

“Hm?” With a horizontal movement he highlighted a line to keep his place.

That was a clear green light even if the shade was, in reality, his usual purple.

You slid off the couch and padded over to him. “Do you remember what I was telling you about that new AI?”

His profile came into view and with it a wrinkled snout. “Yes.”

“They didn’t admit it failed, but they have covertly employed a second version.”

He gave a chuckle and looked as you offered your phone.

Bending at the waist, you leaned into him and scrolled to a specific section. “Look at how formal they are; like just say it didn’t work!”

Donnie’s hand cupped yours to steady the device as he read the passage.

Teetering on the afternoon precipice, you admired Donnie’s headset. There was something oddly satisfying about the way the headphones sat over his tympanum. His mouthpiece was flicked upright on one side and you unconsciously went to scratch an itch over the same ear.

Finishing, Donnie’s gaze moved to address you.

“It’s funny. You haven’t taught me exactly, but I feel like I understand through a sort of osmosis.” Trailing the hand back from around the lobe, you traced down the side of your neck.

His ongoing silence pulled your gaze. Trained on the hand that was now falling towards your collar, you curled your fingers there. The dart of his pupils said he was looking further and the tip of his head insinuated where. Angled toward him, your baggy lounge shirt pooled off of you. It meant your collar hung loose and with it came a peek at your naked body beneath. Digits curling around the ridge of fabric, you gave an experimental tug there to offer him further insight. Lids falling, his digits passed where he still held your device to a crawl up your arm. Hooking at the elbow, he coaxed you further down and openly ogled like a peeping tom at a window.

Minding his headset, you came in close enough to kiss his cheek. With full access, you heard his lips part while he took you in. “Donnie…”

He hummed a response before tearing his eyes away to look at you.

All too close, your heart leaped and you steadied yourself on his shoulder to kiss him.

Returning it with stoked flames, he released your arm to skim the fabric of your shirt. Slipping under it with ease, his fingers spread over the sensitive skin on your side.

You broke your lip lock to scold him with your eyes. “Don’t.”

He gave a curious flick in his gaze that had a malevolent innocence to it.

“Not only have we had all weekend, but you have a call.” Pushing against his clavicle you righted yourself. “You’ve edged me enough. We can pick up when you’re done.”

“That again.” He chuffed.

“What?”

His brow came down and it dropped the curtain to reveal honest confusion. “‘Edged?’”

You gave him an incredulous look. “Uh, yeah. You know what that is, right?”

He took stock in your expression. “I meant that I would not consider it that.”

You doubled down. “Now, come on…”

“Hey.” From where he still had your ribs, he pulled you to him. His chair squeaked as you just barely skirted head butting him. “Enhancement. You may incorrectly label my ‘evil suppression,’  but you have both verbally and physically insinuated the intensity of your orgasm.”

You pursed your lips. “Okay, yeah, but getting there is the issue.” You wrapped an arm around yourself to catch his hand and remove it. “It’s edging.”

 Donnie made a little irritated noise, but let you go.

“It won’t be long.” You responded, playing his grumpiness off.

Donnie turned to the computer with a similar hitch still creasing his brow. Taking it as a frustrated dismissal, you moved to return to the couch. Making it only a few steps away he caught your hand in a flurry of movement as if you’d run and never return.

“Huh?”

“Cockwarming.”

 The three syllables shot straight to your core where muscles flexed. “Wha-?!”

“No supposed edging. I’ll make you cum as much as you want.”

“Donnie!”

“The chair will easily support our combined weight.”

“That wasn’t-!”

“I-” He choked on the sound and put all remaining effort into begging with his gaze.

Another southern pulse marked how he wasn’t demanding; he was just shy of asking.

He yearned to be close to you.

It’s not that you found his neediness more attractive, but there was something enticingly foreign about him being desperate. So much of him had softened from the heat and in a way you missed the dominating spirit. It was still there; it came up often, but this deep ache was something he had trouble contending with. For you, it was such an abundant confirmation that threatened to bowl over that little inferiority complex of yours. He was somehow still falling for you with seemingly no ground in sight.

You wondered if you should be worried.

A different concern reared its distracting head.

It was that damned pain of the lie you still held. You couldn’t imagine him rejecting you if you told him, but that wound sat, barely hidden away. “No…”

“Y/N?”

“This call’s important.” From where he was holding your hand, you stepped to him and took that appendage up to cradle his face. “So important that you’ve already made up for being guilty about taking it.”

“I’ve considered that.”

“Then you can wait-” You checked his computer’s clock. “Like an hour tops? You said you didn’t know how long the call would take.”

“It won’t interfere.”

“Don!”

“If you don’t want to then say so.”

You stalled.

“As I’ve understood, your arguments are geared towards me and I have dismantled each. If you need further clarification: I want you on my cock.”

It didn’t have its usual authority, but the otherness hit you with the same intensity.

He took your silence in the exact wrong way. “I see.” He released your hand and there wasn’t a trace of disappointment on him as he nodded once as if to settle the manner. “Consider that a final gambit. I won’t pester you any longer.”

You made a fist where your fingers felt lonely. “If this is part of some new voyeur thing…”

He guarded any excitement as you appeared lenient. “A thought, but not wholly the decision.”

You rapidly tapped your foot to sound your nerves.

“Y/N.”

You came up to look at him through a blink of lashes.

“Don’t feel pressured. If you don’t want to, I have no issue-”

“I do!” You lost the will and jumped him.

He caught you and, with a push on the wheels of his chair, swept you into his lap.

“I’m worried.”

Hands roaming over you, he wrangled the tip of your chin so he could study your expression.

“Are we getting too attached?”

His head tilted.

“To… each other?” You weren’t even sure what you were saying.

It was another excuse instead of the truth. 

This had been what you wanted.

Your distraction worked. 

Your partner stalled as he openly considered it.

While he thought, you traced a hand up to the wrist holding you and he shifted his grip to take your appendage.

Instead of threading digits, you flattened out your palm to his.

Though part of his brain power was still diverted, the movement struck him and he pressed, spreading his fingers.

Moving by an unseen force, you both exerted a force which equaled a net neutral.

As if the energy transferred elsewhere, you both looked from the joining into each other’s eyes.

There the attraction was further drawn.

“We’ll discuss it.”

“Later.” You agreed and threw your arms around his neck.

Crushing you to him, his lips sealed over yours and moved with purpose. Stupefied, you responded and his hands wove under your shirt again. Giving a single chuckle that was swallowed right up, he roved around to your back and coaxed you to arch. Spine curving by his whim, he left one hand to keep you that way while the other moved to your legs. Side saddle in his lap, his fingers massaged inward to the crease. Letting one slide off the chair, he dipped to your core and you could tell he was gearing up for something.

One touch and he broke from your lips with a sharp inhale. “You’re-”

“Soaked.” You nodded and tried to kiss him again.

He turned his head to eye you. “From what?”

“You. Duh.” Your lips flattened without humor.

“I prepared to work you up.”

“Well, you don’t need to.” You moved to catch his lips again.

He evaded.

You huffed loudly. “Donatello!”

“What was it?”

“You need me and now you don’t, why?!” You drew out a whine with the word and tossed your head back.

“Oh, I do. I also need to know why you’ve thrown off my calculation.”

“Sex calculation.” You scoffed. 

“You're currently eating up newly opened time.”

“Ugh!” You flicked his forehead. “The way you said cockwarming started it.”

He gave an interested noise and his gaze said he was logging that like it was incredible data.

“You should know…” You shrank under his scrutiny. “I like being needed.”

“Being mine.”

You pulsed and with your proximity you could tell he took in the obvious scent.

“That’s why. I missed the cue.” He mumbled the revelation more to himself before tapping your back to alert you he was ready. 

“I should say no.” You turned your head, but came close.

He pressed patient kisses along your jaw.

“You turned me down twice.”

“My apologies.” His breath tickled your throat as he seared his lips there with a dart of his tongue.

Catching his shoulders, you hoisted yourself up to finally straddle him.

His mouth chased you the whole way.

Settling against him, you kept your lips away and pressed them at the bulb of his shoulder.

He nuzzled a regret against your cheek.

“How can you be so impulsive and staunch at the same time?”

He chirped a curious note as you turned to evaluate him.

His gaze flicked to your lips, but he held himself back.

“The cockwarming was spur of the moment?”

“Yes.”

“But you planned how it would happen.”

“The moment you agreed.”

“And you-?” You laughed.

His eyes lit up for a moment, but he squashed the flame.

You softened and moved to caress the line of his jaw. “They say the best kept plans go awry.”

“You are a testament to that.”

“You always say a bad thing-”

“It’s very good.” He clarified before catching your lips.

What seemed like a simple press held a reverence that melted you. With little struggle, he rolled up your top and you broke away only long enough for it to be removed. You then lingered for a few more kisses before exiting his lap to remove your bottoms. You beat him as he neglected to get his pants all the way off to instead meet your nude form. He then ushered you back into his lap before pausing his rush to take you in. With one hand at your hip and the other around one of your shoulders, he openly scanned you as if it was for the first time. You gave a honeyed smile and, by the time he reached it, his gaze was swimming from the look alone.

“Do you remember…?” You began.

A glint in his gaze said he recalled many things.

You rose up and leaned into him, simultaneously. “How I tried to be modest?”

“A waste of time.” He gave a light chuff and mourned losing his view. Not for long, he was quick to realize that you had put your mating mark, front and center, on display for him instead.

“It’s hard to feel embarrassed…” You were careful as you hooked a finger under his headphone to lift the pad from his tympanum.

He pressed a kiss to his bite.

“...when your partner looks at you like you do.” You warmed the skin there with a sultry breath.

“I need you to feel something.”

Caught off guard by the turn of his statement, you pulled back curiously.

He held out a hand for you and you placed yours in it. He then brought it straight down between your bodies and to his slit. Fingers moving, you felt his soak and his slick string between your digits.

“Don…” You shot your gaze to his, enamored.

“I need to be inside you.”

The rush had you biting your lip and you shifted in preparation. His eyes rolled back as he dropped and only then could you see the smoothing out of a tension you hadn’t picked up on. It brought you into his space where you peppered him with kisses as he adjusted your hips with one hand and his cock with the other. Squaring up, he slid his glans across you in three distinct swipes before lowering you in a steady drop until he was fully sheathed.

Adjusting to him with a heady mewl, you felt his legs tense before he kicked off. Confused and pulled flush to him, he rolled right back up to the computer before his hands left you. There he immediately started typing something and you pulled away to impart your skepticism. He kissed your cheek and reached up to flick his headset into the active position.

You bobbed with understanding. Trying to turn to see exactly how long you had until the call, he used his other hand to cradle the back of your head and impede you. Mild animosity wrinkled your features as he pulled you to him. Frowning into his shoulder, you considered biting him when he rolled his hips upward. The arc pressed his cock into you at a delicious angle and you sighed at the relief.

“As many times as you want.” He reminded you along with another rotation.

“One. Now.” You stunted out as he sped up.

He nodded, hooking his chin over your shoulder to do something on his PC.

Hands trapped between your bodies, you held onto the fabric of his shirt and were almost thankful you’d forgotten to yank it off him. Trying to meet his strides, he purposefully threw off his rhythm each time. Moaning your displeasure, one hand left you to manipulate the screen while the other anchored your hips. Adjusting them just so, he found a perfect angle that sent you on a collision course with your orgasm. Releasing a spindly cry at how fast, he stilled for a moment and you thought you might sob. He then resumed right as a reflexive clench milked him and the timing hurtled you over the edge. With a vice grip, you cried out his name as you came.

Buzzing and with an odd tension shuddering in the back of your thighs, you relaxed in time to hear a rhythmic tone through his headset. Feeling a tap through Donnie’s arm, his lips parted as he gave a greeting. “Matsushita.” 

A voice responded, but you ignored it in favor of nuzzling into the crook of your boyfriend’s neck. They went on to talk, but you were distracted by the way his wraps felt against your nose. Testing the fabric as clarity came back to you, you brushed your lips against it. It had the faintest tacky quality that caught the soft pair so you trailed down to his shoulder. Finding your favorite texture in his green skin, you lined up kisses more for your sake than his.

The effect was still clear as his cock twitched inside of you.

Smiling against his clavicle, you ran your tongue along the bone while tapping out two distinct times against his plastron.

“Of course.” Donnie’s tone said he was not talking to you, but his hips nudged yours.

You rocked hard against him to send your point home.

He continued through his sentence with poise though a tridactyl hand clamped onto your hip bone.

Nosing back like a typewriter, you let his bare thrust shake you as you stared down at his shoulder. Dragging a hand up where your breath was in time with the beat of his cock, your lips turned down as you traced over where you had once bitten him. You only knew where it was from experience as his skin wasn’t marred in the slightest.

“-and as you can see-”

You really couldn’t.

Frustrated, another bite didn’t seem worth it and you weren’t sure what else would leave a mark. Settling a cheek against it, you could feel Donnie was curious about the downturn in your mood. You nuzzled up against his throat and the hand at your hip slid up to wrap around you in a comfortable sling. Settling like that, he slowed his ministrations and gave a slight squeeze. Bumping your forehead into his jaw to translate your thanks, you heard his tone shift.

“How long?”

Lifting up, you watched Donnie curiously.

He met your eyes with a mischievous glance.

You signed to ask what that was about.

“I see. Will we need to restart the call?”

Squinting at his lack of reply, he tried to curtail a smile and turned away.

“I can hold.”

There was a snap as Donnie flicked the mouthpiece into its muted position. He then swooped forward and wrapped you with both arms.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just… envious.”

“Of?” He pulled back only enough so he could see your expression.

“You know…” Mimicking your earlier journey to scratch over your ear, this time you’d let your arm trace down to your mating mark. “Kinda uneven right?”

There was a renewed twitch inside of you before Donnie’s teeth gnashed. With an angry curl of his finger, he pushed the mic down and spoke in a voice that utterly contrasted his expression. “Still here.”

You muffled your laugh with your hand.

He rose an irritated brow at you.

Letting it filter out, you gave a little shrug.

“Okay. Take as long as you need.” As soon as the last word left him, the mic was gone and you were enveloped. Surrounded by your boyfriend, you blinked into his shoulder as a hand came over the top of your head. Feeling a little too secure, he then began to fuck up into you with an intensity that made the chair roll. With a flat slap of his feet to the ground, he forced it to stabilize and words died in your throat even though your jaw hung open. Tasting cotton from where your tongue had rolled out, stars flickered in your vision as the sensitivity in your body ticked by on delay. Force reached you late and pleasure centers kicked into overdrive to keep up with the demand. Skin aflame, the pounding stopped just as soon as it started.

“Matsushita?”

The only thing keeping you together was Donnie still holding you tightly to his chest.

“Yes, I can hear you now.”

Thrum echoing in your ears, you faintly traced it as your pulse before you pushed against the hand on your head.

“Your tech team is efficient.”

Donnie refused to let up and it meant you could only turn your cheek. Ever behind, the friction against your thighs only then began to smoke. It forced you to squirm against the aggravated muscles until finally Donnie loosened his grip. Keeping your face away out of spite now, you examined what you could do, seated. From the time he’d ripped the arms off, he’d since attached new ones. You were boxed in, straddling him on your knees, but you found the metal piping didn’t connect to the back. That meant there was space there, but first you’d need to gather more room.

“As you can see the last quarter we employed a summer initiative-”

With your boyfriend offering very little, you twisted to squirm by rocking side to side. It moved his dick strangely within you and you stopped more out of the confusing sensation than anything else. His arms gave some and within your loosened bindings you shoved out with your elbows. The straight jacket fell away and you pushed, two hands, against his pectoral scutes to frown at him. What you found on his face was thinly veiled control.

“Successful.”

Signing to him that you had to move, he withdrew and you pushed off your knees. Pain radiated from having been stationary so long and you winced as you tried to unfurl them. Stuck on his cock, it meant you tipped precariously to one side as his chair tried to roll out the other way with the momentum. Another stiffening of his bulky legs halted the action as you leaned that direction in its stead to free your final folded leg.

“Go on.”

Sitting again on your ass felt incredible as you threaded your legs against either side of the back of the chair. Slumping against Donnie for the effort, he rubbed your back for a soothing ‘good job’ that held no tease. Resting, it meant you had time to feel the weight of the position you were in. It wasn’t like you’d never stopped during sex in this way and there was a minor thrill of him being otherwise occupied, but connection took the majority of your thoughts.

The comforting presence was just enough for you to forget the second call to action and that intense fuck stunt he’d just pulled. Feeling the warm portion of coupling, you turned a slump into a cuddle. His head brushed yours as he took note of the change. With his arms wrapping loosely around the lower part of your frame, contentedness filled you as much as he did. Snug as the proverbial bug, your eyes drifted with only a minor stave.

“I can share my screen.”

You were moving.

Pushed from another light doze, you lifted your head to find Donnie had scooted over to the computer. Typing started up and he now had to lean forward some to comfortably use his keyboard. No longer able to let gravity do your resting work, you took offense as he’d interrupted your cozy set-up. Hoping to translate this to your partner, you leaned back enough to see him, but were caught. Mixing in his expression were honed lines in his gaze and mouth. This was the Donnie that ran enterprises. Enthralled by his work and lulled by your attendance to it, he presented what must have been an incredible case. 

Though the position no longer held the same comfort, that warmth had yet to leave. It lingered like a blanket and the whole of the scene gave the muscles in your pussy a pulse. Donnie continued on, uninterrupted, but there was a twitch to his frame that said he noticed. Pressing your chest to his, a quick examination found you were hyper aware of his body. Calm gave way to higher senses as you could feel the evenness of his breath through his plastron and nudging against his throat found the beat of his heart.

Under any other circumstances you could have given back into your sleepy state. By all accounts, you had no need to disrupt the peace and your body willed you not to. Your mind, however, had taken a few indignities and what was presented in the calm was an opportunity. Rarely one to pass those up, you squirmed a little in anticipation.

“We can adjust for that.” Donnie nodded.

From what you could feel, he hadn’t noticed. Snuggling into his shoulder blade, you used the move to stretch out your toes. A few covert flicks found you couldn’t touch the floor. It wasn’t ideal for what you had hoped for in the way of leverage. The reflexive squeezes hadn’t been effective so you needed something more. Combining your history, you found an applicable ammo and loaded it up.

Tensing the muscles in your ass, you shifted a minute amount of weight to the side as if you were getting comfortable. Moving with you, Donnie’s thigh tensed as he held the chair. Sliding the other way, found him mirroring and you grinned as you rolled back. Thinking you’d settle, Donnie’s legs relaxed and right at that moment you made for small, tight circles with your hips.

“Y-yes, those are accurate projections.”

Drunk on the stutter you sped up until the chair squeaked from the unsanctioned use. One of Donnie’s hands clamped down onto your hip as the other typed on evenly. Cheek pressed to his throat, you felt the erratic nature of his heartbeat. It leapt in time with his cock which seemed furious it couldn’t get in a movement edgewise. Creaking became a metronome and Donnie’s voice lost will as his lips refused to close around the little pants breaking free.

You were considering stopping cold as he had done when proximity caused you to hear something.

“Are you alright, Donatello? It sounds like you're running.”

“Yes!” His voice was so chipper you could hear the grinding of the wood. “I had forgotten some tea brewing and thought I could salvage it.”

The man on the line gave a hearty laugh.

Releasing his keys, Donnie locked onto your waist in a pathetic attempt to stop you.

A mistake, the move only slotted him deeper.

He gasped, sharp and loud.

“Steeped too long?” This Matsushita person was especially loud when he thought he knew something. 

“Yes.” Donnie bucked up and bit his lip at the friction. “I’ll have to dump it out.”

You signed and asked him if that was a promise.

He flicked his mic up long enough to crush you in a swift kiss.

Putting it back into position, he held the stem, ready. “By the way Matsushita, how was your daughter’s recital?”

The man’s deep voice hit an excited new height the moment Donnie muted himself. Catching his arms in time as he grabbed you, you both participated in a lift and drop. Moans leaked from the drag against your inner walls and he committed to the bounce. Digging your nails into the top of his chair, you found enough leverage to meet his strides. Desperation pounded you together and the slap of skin competed with the chair’s protest right up until the moment it gave out. In a dual cry, gravity found itself party to a ménage a trois. 

Falling like on an amusement park ride, your body tipped away and you expected a painful catch from the table. It didn’t come as Donnie made the save instead. Your momentum took effect and, with a shove, the chair rolled out from the desk. Upper bodies split apart by the third party, he tried to reel you in, but his own refusal to stop caused a further drift. Feeling a similar reluctance, you rolled your hips downward to be his equal and opposite. Gravity reared its head against the neglect and forced you to latch onto either armrest as if it were a safety rail. Having thrown all instruction manuals out of the window, you utilized it for even a shred more leverage in fucking the wits out of your partner.

From where he was pawing at your thighs, Donnie’s hand shakily went to his headset. There, he managed to flick the mic down long enough to grunt out, “Your wife. S-still crafting?”

Without a care for the answer, Donnie shot upright and the headset fell to pool around his neck. Your lower back slammed onto his keyboard and, for a moment as you settled, you glimpsed screens flash as you pressed a random assortment of buttons.

Outright snarling, Donnie pulled the mic right up to his lips. “Get your IT on it then!!”

In a dismissive toss, he threw the headphones across the room as he spread you for him. Sinking in all the more, the table joined the session as he fucked you straight into it. Openly screaming out as the new angle had him plowing all the right places, you scrambled to get a grip, but each palming slid off where light perspiration had cropped up. Needing you in one place, Donnie caught your flailing elbows and tucked them into his chest before getting a renewed hold on your hips.

With your orgasm approaching, you felt the stretch as his knot bulged and your body made the usual accommodation. Not enough, he buried it in until the strain bled into his eyes. Arms otherwise trapped, it gave you enough room for your hands to take his face. Pulling him down, he forced his forehead to yours in a knock that stung. With more important matters, you swiftly forgot the pain to part your lips for a breathy, “Fill me up.”

He outright whined and you knew his protest well.

You hadn’t cum yet. 

Shaking your head, it ticked in time with each stroke. “P-please!”

He tried to translate his own refusal in the same way as you, but you tightened your grip on his jaw. Caught, he pleaded with submerged pupils.

“I-I’m sorry…” You tried your best to look crestfallen even though you clamped down on him at the thought of what you’re prepared to say. 

He gave a confused chirp.

“I-I t-thought-”

 You hadn’t thought it was possible for you to cum from talk alone. 

He was always showing you new sides to yourself. 

“-you w-wanted me to m-make you a daddy?”

In two vicious pumps he came and what sounded like an explosion went off. Burning from an echo deep in your eardrums, your own orgasm swept up in the flash bang. Your back hit the wall as Donnie’s semen swelled. Heat boiled your insides as you clung to him, faintly registering kissing and how his tongue was doing its best to similarly fill that hole. It paled in comparison as you rutted down on his knot and an overstimulated squeak erupted from him. Extra spurts strung out his ejaculation and you broke from his lips to cry about the pressure. Donnie shushed you with little pecks until you were swept up in another kiss.

The fury abated as you shifted to languidly drink each other in. Calm returning, your legs twitched and you sensed he was holding you up somewhere around your thighs. Dully confused as to where that meant the table went, you wrung Donnie’s neck to pull him closer. He complied and amidst a make-out you heard a faint repetition.

“-onatello?”

It was static.

“-re you there?”

It came from down the hall.

“Donatello!”

Donnie broke the kiss and his expression said it couldn’t be helped. Euphoria had your senses and you smiled at him dumbly. He couldn’t help but give you one last kiss before finally he moved to take care of the interloper. Pulling you close, you snuggled into him remembering how good it felt not too long ago. He took a few steps and you registered the movement not for what it was, but as an action that allowed you to glimpse the chair. Memories of being lifted out of it surfaced and it made sense that it rolled all the way over to the partition between the living and bedrooms. What didn’t was when Donnie suddenly squatted down. Breaking the seal of his knot, cum leaked and coaxed a shudder from both of you.

“Matsushita?” Donnie sounded distraught.

He usually did when his cum was wasted.

“Good, we’re back.” Relief gave way in Donnie’s voice. 

That change was fast.

Cradling you, he adjusted your load to rise up before he leaned against the couch. “It’s a shame we experienced so many technical difficulties. The majority of the report was relayed, but do you need to reschedule?”

You could hear Matsushita respond. The man sounded irate, but for whatever reason, you could tell it wasn’t with Donnie.

“Mhm…” Your boyfriend hummed, knowing that too.

Matsushita continued to rant which gave you time to look around. Above you, Donnie smiled where he had his headphones back on. You blinked at them slowly before moving to look over your shoulder. In what looked to be a moment away from smoldering ash were the remains of Donnie’s desk. Its wood surface had been split right down the middle as if it had been used in a martial arts’ demonstration.  Splintered wood covered the floor along with letter keys from a smashed keyboard. Wires trailed up to where only one monitor stood upright, but impact cracks said it too had fallen victim.

Shoulders dropping, you turned a horrified gawk to Donnie.

“Don’t be too hard on your IT department. Technology is a fickle mistress.” He pet your cheek with a growing smile. “I’ll email you the report. Until next time.” Shoving the headset behind him onto the couch, Donnie caught your lips and your complaints evaporated under his ardor.

NEXT

Beta round up thank-yous to @tmntxthingsand @thepinkpanther83

[spades4cards]

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

The fact that I was evicted finally sank in after staring at the notice for ten minutes straight in shock. I slammed my door open and shut before angrily yanking my laptop and searching for apartments. Fucking Sky Suites, I was going to sue them and kill whoever the fuck evicted me- okay, maybe not either of those but I was going to commit one small felony. Maybe I'll poison my boss' plants. Actually, scratch that too; I'll figure out what felony I'll commit after searching for a flat.

After hours of scavaging and filling out tenant forms, I signed into my bank account. A harsh gulp ran through me and frayed my nerves. The clicks drove faster to the transfer button, the sound of the mouse heightening my anxiety until it turned into a high and torturous mountain I had to climb to reach my goal. Eventually, I clicked the transfer button, and the mountain I climbed, I also fell off of. My stomach dropped at the thought of me having to check the price of every small thing at the grocery store, and if things really go to shit, being evicted from my new apartment. Speaking of which, how was I supposed to afford my new apartment with my money on the brink? What if I had to stay at a friend's? What if-

As soon as my breaths became shallow, I stopped my thoughts. I wasn't going to have a panic attack. Not now, not like this. If I was going to get through this, I was going to do it in a calm, cool, and collected manner.

Gather yourself, y/n. You got this.

I took some deep breaths, letting them sink in and engulf me in a blanket of reassurance before carrying on. The day was shitty, considering I had to take breathers every five minutes to stop myself from crying, but I didn't shed a tear, so I counted today as a win. After getting done with the grueling task of laundry, I checked the time.

8:00p.m

Shit, shit, shit. Fuck me. I had to go grocery shopping. I thought I would have some time, but the universe really wanted to shit on me today. I grabbed my keys and jacket before leaving the house, tuning out all of my thoughts so I could focus on getting to the local Safeway on time. Even the one telling me I was forgetting something.

Did my paranoia make me check the price of every small thing? Yes. Did the food stamps in my bag make me look cheap? Yes. But when the cashier on the speaker warned that the store was closing in fifteen minutes, I couldn't find the means to care. When I was a cashier, I hated customers who would come too late even after the store closed, and I would hate to be that person, even if I wasn't in their spot anymore. I frantically grabbed the last of my items and sped-walk to the checkout.

"Just this?" The cashier with purple hair said as I placed a small number of items on the conveyor belt; it's better to be safe than sorry just in case I didn't have the money after the wire transfer.

I read the name tag: Isabella. What a pretty name.

"Yes, that's all," I responded, a little out of breath from running around the store.

"Cash or card?"

"Cash please," I said as my hands scavaged my jacket pockets for my wallet.

Fuck. No wonder I had a nagging feeling I was forgetting something. I left my wallet at home during my time crunch. The cashier gave me a curious look as I gave up looking in my pockets.

"I'm sorry, I forgot my wallet at ho-"

"I'll pay," a dark, masculine, and distinguishable voice rumbled behind me.

I turned around before I could process who the voice belonged to. There he was; sharp, chiseled jawline that could cut paper, taut muscles that flexed under his white button-down shirt instead of his usual sharp suit, tanned, olive skin, and honey pool, whiskey eyes that pierced through you. Christian.

"Oh, no. It's fine," I responded, hot embarrassment creeping up my neck.

Even if I needed the money more than anything, I wouldn't let my boss be the first to help me during my financial crisis. No matter how tempting it was.

"I insist," the veins of his forearm bulged as he gave the cashier his black Amex, which had no right to be as hot as it was.

I could've stopped him, but the idea of blocking his path sent goosebumps rippling through me as if warning me not to.

"Thank you," I said sheepishly.

Who would've thought my bitch boss would pay for my groceries? I was one of those girls who took first impressions very seriously, and his bitchy first impression did not mix with him paying for my groceries. I was astonished and stared at him, but I quickly caught myself as another warning that the store was closing blasted through the speakers. Blood rose to my cheeks, and I quickly grabbed my bags before rushing off. God, I really need to work on my staring problem before it gets me in trouble.

The fortnight unceremoniously came, and all the apartments I had searched for turned me down. This has to be some karma from my past life, or the universe just has a shittier sense of humor than me. Fuck, what was I supposed to do now? I had looked for every apartment in the area except... The Mirage. Realization curled within me, suffocating my resolve until it exploded into a million pieces. The Mirage was Christian's building, but it can't be that bad, right? I mean, he did buy me groceries, and I wouldn't have to drive since I would be living in the same establishment I worked at...

Fuck it. I applied for a flat at The Mirage. If I get turned down or regret it, so be it. A girl's gotta do what she's gotta do. I closed my laptop and flopped into bed, internally praying they would accept me before I had to live at a friend's.

𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧

The incident at the supermarket replayed in my mind nonstop. Y/n wasn't the type to go grocery shopping and only buy around five items. It would barely last her a week. Was she getting groceries for someone else? Was it a guy she was getting groceries for? Is the guy her boyfriend? She was buying the groceries as if she was scarce on money? Was she scarce on money? Did she need financial support?

A ding from my phone dragged me out of my thoughts. I picked it up and read it, pleased to see y/n had applied to The Mirage. I had a personal notification when she would, and I spent half of the week wondering just when she would apply for a spot at The Mirage. How hesitant she was on living in the same building as me, it would be cute if I wasn't getting constant images of how much she hates me for The Mirage to be her last option. I made a call to my assistant to request her to see the apartment tomorrow, and checked my schedule to make sure I was there 'by coincidence.'

I slouched on my desk and glanced at my computer which showed me Victor Black's sexual assault charges and indecent photos of him getting uploaded and then reported by anonymous users, as if reflecting my cruelty. It was a small reminder from something out there that I was too corrupted for y/n, but if whatever force has an issue with me being with her, they can try to stop me. Nothing was taking me away from her.

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

My morning was turned five times better when I got an email requesting me to come to The Mirage. Was the email suspiciously early? Yes. But so was my hiring at The Mirage. In fact, everything that was controlled by Christian welcomed me as if I was some saint, but it was probably just their large staff that could take care of things faster. Nothing else. I got ready and put on a blouse and some mom jeans; basic was the safest, after all, before leaving my apartment with the weight of not having an apartment ready absent on my shoulders. I practically skipped in joy on the way there and most likely got weird stares, but today was not the day to care. However, my happiness pathetically dissipated as I entered the building, the modern ambiance and furniture speaking a million words on how expensive it was. How was I supposed to afford it?

"Y/n?" A lady in a pearl white silk blouse and grey, ironed pants called, snapping me out of my stressful mind-fog and letting the real world sink back in.

"Yes, that's me," I confirmed, giving a warm smile.

"Right, this way, please," she said as she guided me to the apartment.

The wooden door of the apartment had an impeccable finish with the gold number '111' on it. Huh, my favorite angel number. What a coincidence. The kitchen had a polished, marble island with wooden drawers that blended in with the counters. The room had a sleek, grey dresser with matching silk curtains and a soft, queen-sized bed. The bathroom had a personal bath and shower with a wide counter that left room for the spacious sink and the mirror was a cabinet. I doubted I had somehow been transported into heaven, but when I saw the walk-in closet with glass doors, I was sure I had. But my trip to heaven was cut short as the lady told me the price.

"two thousand five hundred dollars..." I murmured as if I had never heard such a price before.

"Yes," the woman replied in a clipped tone.

I read her name tag. Karen. Yeah, Karen's were always uptight. Just as I was going to say I couldn't afford it and thank her for her time, familiar footsteps echoed down the hall.

𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧

I walked up to y/n and Karen, taking note of y/n's flustered expression and flushed skin and engraving it in my mind so I could keep her embarrassed face in my memory forever.

"Ah, y/n, what are you doing here with Karen? It's the weekend."

Looking for an apartment I answered internally to my own question. Before y/n could respond, Karen spoke. I was going to have a talk with her about that, but that was for later.

"Y/n was just looking at flat number 111," Karen replied for y/n.

"I asked y/n, not you," I said, letting her see through my warning until her cheeks turned pink.

Y/n must have felt bad, because she quickly confirmed Karen's words, "Yes, I was, but..." she paused, trying to figure out what to say, "the rent was, um, abundant in price."

I would think of her embarrassed speech and overly-sophisticated vocabulary amusing if she didn't confirm my suspicions that she was in a money crunch.

I turned to Karen before speaking, "How much is the rent?"

"Two thousand five hundred," Karen curtly answered.

"And what is your budget, y/n?"

Her face turned even redder, if possible, "Somewhere between one thousand and one thousand five hundred."

I don't know where she could find such a cheap place in D.C, except here, only because it was y/n and no one else.

"Alright, one thousand two hundred fifty. Sold," I said, drawing surprised glances from both of the women.

It was a shitty business deal and an irrational decision, but there were only two things that my rationality didn't apply to: Magda and y/n.

"I- uh, yes. Of course," her voice was practically a yell of joy.

Good. She deserved all the joy in the world.

"Alright, apartment 111 sold. Karen, please retrieve the necessary documents," a beat passed before I spoke again, "So, apartment 111, an angel number, right?" Her favorite one.

"Yeah, it's actually my favorite angel number," she replied with a small smile that seemed to light up the surroundings as if the Earth would be gloomy without her happiness.

Of course, I knew that, so I evicted the previous tenant so you could have it. Tension underpinned the air until it grew so palpable that it infiltrated my body, and I suffocated with unspoken words that formed a dangerous cyclone whirling inside me. But before I did anything stupid, the sound of Karen's heels clacking in the hall drew me out of my haze and back into real life.

"Here is the lease, Ms. y/n," Karen said before handing y/n the documents, which she read over as if expecting some brazen condition to be listed somewhere.

I would (definitely) do that with someone else, not y/n. Eventually, after confirming for the hundredth time there was nothing suspicious about the lease, y/n signed, and gave the papers to Karen who responded with a handshake and a "Thank you for signing with The Mirage," before turning to me.

"I really do appreciate you lowering the price," y/n said as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

God, I wanted to be her fingers, tucking her hair and grazing the soft skin of her cheeks. I wanted to be her plushie she snuggled with at night, to be the moonlight that danced across her face when she worked late nights. I wanted to drown in her if it meant that my death would be her.

"No problem," I breezily replied as if wasn't fucking up my thoughts so thoroughly you could've mistaken them for an orgy.

She opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, like her words danced on the tip of her tongue the way mine did before closing it and then speaking, "See you on Monday."

"See you on Monday."

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

The next week I moved into my apartment that looked like it came out of a page from Architectural Digest. I was still processing how Christian lowered the price by fifty percent. First, he paid for my groceries, and now he let me have a beautiful apartment for half the price; he was turning his satan-like image in my mind to Jesus. After I was done unpacking with the help of my friends Bridget, Jules, and Ava, we all had a drink to celebrate.

"To your nice ass apartment that I'm so not jealous about!" Jules cheered as we all brought our cups to tap hers.

"Woohoo!" Ava yelled as she downed the drink.

"Ugh, your apartment is too nice," Bridget whined as if she wasn't a princess.

Yep, an honest-to-god princess, but she was so down to Earth you couldn't tell. Sometimes I had to double-check if she was real to make sure I wasn't hallucinating me being friends with the fucking princess of Eldorra, but I'm glad I wasn't 'cause she's the best.

"I'm sorry, aren't you a princess?" I asked as I cocked an eyebrow.

"Royalty can still appreciate architecture even if it's not palace standards," she snapped back.

Fair point, but I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of admitting that out loud.

"Ahem, besides that, can we talk about how Christian lowered the price to one thousand two hundred fifty dollars? He definitely wants to fuck you," Jules said, drawing a small blush to heat my ears.

"He's my boss," I reminded her, pretending to be repulsed at the idea.

In truth, I wasn't repulsed. I mean, the guy's body looked like it was sculpted by God himself, and his lips looked like they would have an intoxicating mix of spice as their taste. I bet his di-

Oh, my god. No way I was thinking of Christian in that sense. Jules's comment really threw me off, and why was it so hot in here? The heater must be on or maybe it was just my thick hoodie.

"Which makes it even hotter. You know, like an office romance. You could give him an under-desk blowjob during his meeting," Jules responded, turning my whole face red until I resembled a ripe tomato.

I didn't have a witty comment that I could respond with, so I just chugged the rest of my drink. Eventually, the group had to go home as Ava had a date with Alex, her husband, and a very drunk Jules started talking to the furniture and was escorted home by Bridget back to her house. The silence was deafening as I cleaned up after our mess, and I couldn't help but ponder on what Jules said.

"Ahem, besides that, can we talk about how Christian lowered the price to one thousand two hundred fifty dollars? He definitely wants to fuck you,"

Whatever, I was just looking too far into it. But as I got in my bed, one question lingered in my mind before my eyes closed and my breaths steadied: did my boss want to fuck me?

[babybluebex]

keep her safe [todd hewitt x reader]

➽ pairing: todd hewitt x fem!reader (y/n) ➽ summary: PART 1! you meet todd hewitt, a strange man who has his thoughts on constant display, and he helps you escape a sticky situation. ➽ word count: 2.5k ➽ warnings: SPOILERS FOR CHAOS WALKING. mentions of violence ➽ a/n: i saw chaos walking 24 hours ago and i already have a whole series planned woohoo. also, i’m posting this on mobile, so sorry it’s so weird. ugh. enjoy!! masterlist & taglist in my bio

“Girl! Girl, girl…”

Each word came with a green-purple mist that circled around the boy’s head. But your face contorted with confusion; his mouth wasn’t moving.

“How are you doing that?” you asked, mirroring his defensive stance. The boy’s little wire-haired dog was yapping at you, and you thought for just a moment that he was a little cutie. The dog, that was. The boy was… Odd. He was tanned, big brown eyes with shorn brown hair, wearing rugged clothes, brandishing a knife at you. He seemed a lot less advanced than what you knew, and your heart went out for the people that lived on the planet. You were only there as a part of an outreach program from Earth. You and five others were sent to meet the people living there, see what their civilization was like, and report it back to Earth. Upon entering the planet’s atmosphere, though, your ship burnt up and crashed, leaving you with bruises and cuts on your body that not even your medpack could heal. You needed real medical attention, but you had no way of contacting the mothership. Your best hope was the boy that stood before you, holding you at the point of his knife.

“Doing what?” the boy said, but, once again, his mouth stayed pressed into a firm line. Then, the mist returned. “Girl, girl, high voice, pretty hair, no Noise, need to tell Prentiss, save her from the Spackle, shit, fuck, I am Todd Hewitt, I am Todd Hewitt, I am Todd Hewitt…”

“Todd Hewitt,” you said, your voice wavering. “That’s your name?”

“Shit!” Todd said— or rather, the mist said. You still couldn’t understand how the mist was making words. “Yeah,” Todd said, his mouth moving normally. His voice was low and gruff.

“Girl, girl, girl—“

“What the hell is that?” you asked. Your grip tightened around your blaster, trained on Todd Hewitt, but you were beginning to get the feeling that he was as confused as you were. The way the mist around him kept mentioning that you were a girl almost made it seem like… No. “Have you ever seen a girl before?”

“Yes!” Todd huffed back at you, but the mist betrayed him.

“No, all dead, pretty girl, Manchee shut the hell up, I am Todd Hewitt, I am Todd Hewitt.”

You lowered your blaster. He didn’t want to hurt you. He was as frightened as you were. He had never seen a girl before, so you were a weird offshoot of what he knew. Uncanny valley, almost. Nearly familiar, but not quite.

“What is that?” you asked, softer and slower. You holstered your blaster, and Todd put away his knife. “All around you. I’ve never seen it before.”

“It’s called the Noise,” Todd told you. While he had sheathed his weapon, his face was still stony and focused on you. “It’s our thoughts.”

You tilted your head in confusion. “Those are… Your thoughts?” you repeated. “You can’t control it? It just happens?”

“All the men on our planet have a Noise,” Todd said. “Women didn’t.”

“What happened to the women?” you asked.

Todd flexed his jaw for a moment, then said, “I need to take you to Prentiss.”

In the Noise around Todd, an image of an older man wearing furs with scars on his face appeared, and you surmised that this was Prentiss. “Why?” you asked. “Who is he?”

“Our mayor,” Todd said.

“Mayor, Prentiss, proud of me, ‘good use of your Noise, son’, Prentiss, she needs to see Prentiss, girl, girl, girl.”

“You’ve really never seen a girl before?” you asked. “Where are the women here?”

“They died,” Todd said flatly. “The Spackle killed them.”

“The Spackle?” you repeated.

“The creatures that live here,” Todd said. “They’re dangerous.”

You had a different name for the natives of the planet, but you decided to stay with the terms that Todd told you, for his ease. “Am I the first girl you’ve seen?” you asked, even though you knew the answer.

Todd nodded quietly, but his Noise said everything you needed to know. The image of a woman appeared, dark hair and a soft face, holding a baby that was laughing. The woman was singing something in a light voice that the Noise garbled into incoherence, and then the mist vanished. “Was that your mother?” you asked.

“Stop distracting me!” Todd barked suddenly. “Why are you here?”

“I came with an outreach program from Earth!” you exclaimed. Your hand went to your belt instinctively, but you remembered the progress that you had made with Todd. His weapon was still away, his little dog’s yapping resorted to whines, and, based on his toned body, you didn’t want to get into a physical altercation with him. He would win, no doubt, even though you had had combat training. “We came to see the first settlers’ progress, but our ship malfunctioned during entry… I’m the only one that survived.”

“Prentiss will know what to do, Prentiss is good, ‘Good use of your Noise, son’, Prentiss likes me, take her to Prentiss.”

“M’taking you to the mayor,” Todd said, reaching for you, but you stepped backwards.

“Where is Farnbranch?” you asked.

“Where?” Todd asked.

“Farnbranch,” you repeated, louder and clearer. “It’s where we were supposed to touch down. How far away is it?”

“Prentisstown is the only place here,” Todd grunted.

“On the whole planet?” you scoffed. “You’re the only ones? Really?”

“S’what I’ve been told,” Todd said. You could sense that he was growing agitated, and you sighed.

“Who told you that?” you asked.

“I am Todd Hewitt, I am Todd Hewitt, I am Todd Hewitt…”

Your face screwed up in understanding. If the Noise were his thoughts, he was repeating his name to obscure what he was really thinking. He was simple like you had first thought. In fact, he was actually quite smart. “What’re you not telling me, Todd Hewitt?” you asked.

Todd fixed his jaw. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

The man you had seen in Todd’s voice did in fact turn out to be Prentiss. He was old but strong as an elm, flat, grey hair hidden under a brimmed hat. As Todd took you into the center of town, a crowd of men began to gather, and you were overwhelmed by their voices. They were talking, and the Noise was spouting every thought. You tried to ignore the Noise that focused on your body or more salacious thoughts that came with a 20 year absence of women, but that Noise was the loudest of them all. It was so loud.

Prentiss took you into a cabin and sat you next to a metal contraption that you recognized as an old model of the same heating system you had had on the mothership. Your hands felt like ice, and you stretched them out to try to get any feeling back. Prentiss took a chair and scraped it against the wooden floor until it was next to you, and he sat down. He reminded you of your grandfather and the old cowboy shows he would watch, and you found yourself leaning towards him. He had no Noise.

“Todd told me that you came from Earth,” Prentiss began. In the back of the room, a younger man sat eating an apple. He had the same strong jaw and hard eyes as Prentiss, and his Noise was a continual loop of “Girl? Didn’t think girls existed, she’s pretty. Pa will sort this out.” “Is that true?”

You nodded. “There were supposed to be six of us,” you started. “But… Our ship crashed just outside of town.”

Prentiss leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. “You were supposed to land in Farnbranch, weren’t ya?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said, but your stomach roiled with unease. How did he know? “How far away is it? I asked Todd Hewitt but he said that he didn’t know another town existed.”

The other man in the room looked up from his lap at this, his eyes wide. “Pa,” he said. “I thought--”

“Davy,” Prentiss grunted, and the man stopped talking. “Control your Noise, son. Leave us be.”

“But Pa--”

“He can stay,” you said softly.

“Davy, I said go,” Prentiss said firmly. “And make sure you control your Noise. Don’t let anyone out there know she’s supposed to go to Farnbranch.”

Davy cast you a glance that made your heart pitter-patter in fear, and then he was gone. “Listen here, girly--”

“My name is Y/N.”

“That don’t matter here,” Prentiss snapped. “That Hewitt boy told you ‘bout why there’s no women here, and there’s a good reason for that. You notice how you don’t have Noise?”

Thank God, you thought. You nodded, though, tangling your fingers together.

“The Noise only affects the menfolk here,” Prentiss said. “Women don’t have it. They never did. But the Spackle didn’t like that. They didn’t like how they couldn’t tell the womenfolk’s intentions, and they killed them all. Every last girl.”

“The Spackle can speak our language?” you asked in astonishment. From all of your studies, you thought that the native creatures were fairly simple, not fully capable of spoken language. This insight was incredible and one that you were sure to report back to the mothership.

“No.”

“Then how did they feel threatened by the women?” you asked. “In fact, they would be more threatened by hearing a language that wasn’t their own, appearing from nowhere. That doesn’t make--”

In an instant, Prentiss had drawn a knife. While he didn’t point it at you, he held it firm in his fist. The veins that jumped on his wrist told you all you needed to know about him. It scared you silent. The air changed instantly inside the cabin. Prentiss didn’t want to help you, you could tell. “The world don’t make sense, girly,” Prentiss said. “All we can do is accept it and move on. Now, I’m not gonna let you go to Farnbranch.”

“Why not?” you asked.

“It’s not safe for you there,” Prentiss said.

“I get the feeling it’s not safe for me here either,” you said quickly. You said up a bit straighter, and you said, “I want to speak to Todd.”

“I’m not gonna let you do that,” Prentiss said. “See, the Hewitt boy’s special, and I can’t have you two goin’ and making an alliance.”

“I am not going to speak to you unless Todd is here,” you said firmly. Then, through gritted teeth, you said, “Bring. Todd. Here.”

Prentiss sighed, twirling the blade absently in his hands, and he stood up. Relief pricked at your skin for just a moment, but then Prentiss took a handful of your hair. You cried out in pain as he hauled you from your chair and threw you to the floor, and you screamed as Prentiss pressed the heel of his boot to your throat. “Ya gonna talk now?” Prentiss asked.

You drew in a breath and you screamed again. You hoped that Todd was in that crowd around the cabin and that he would help you. Truly, there was no reason to believe that he would help you; you didn’t know if he even liked you. Sure, he thought you were pretty, but that didn’t automatically mean that he cared for you.

“Todd!”

Prentiss pressed his heel deeper into your throat, cutting off your scream with a gurgle. It was hard to breathe, nearly impossible. “You killed them,” you managed at a whisper. “Th-The Spackle weren’t threatened. You were.”

“Aw, damn, she’s smart too,” Prentiss laughed. “That’s a shame. You could’ve made a really pretty wife for one of us.”

The door banged open, and there was Todd. He had a wild look in his eyes, and he lunged at Prentiss. Todd grabbed Prentiss’s wrists and wrestled him off of you, and you scrambled to your feet as you palmed your blaster. “Todd!” you cried, and his wild brown eyes focused on you for a moment before he saw your crisp white blaster. He saw your plan as clearly as if you had put it in the Noise, and he hauled Prentiss around so that his back was to you. “Drop it!” Todd yelled, his voice dropping deep in his throat.

“How d’ya know she’s in the right?” Prentiss yelled. “Just ‘cause she’s a pretty face? Womenfolk will deceive you, Todd! They’ll use you right up and leave you confused! How d’ya know she ain’t controlling you through the Noise right now?”

“‘Cause she doesn’t have Noise, you dumb fuck!” Todd yelled.

With that, you fired your blaster. A white-hot bot of energy buried itself into the mayor’s back, and he crumpled like wet paper. Todd hurtled himself away from Prentiss and grabbed your arm, and the green-purple mist of his Noise surrounded you like a thick cloud. “Gotta save her, gotta save her, pretty girl, Prentiss tried to hurt her, ‘Womenfolk will deceive you’, Goddamn it, shut the fuck up, I am Todd Hewitt, I am Todd Hewitt--”

“Get me to Farnbranch,” you rasped. “Please.”

[yeocult]

ATEEZ as fashion styles

HONGJOONG ━ ART HOE/VINTAGE

i can feel his ego boost whenever someone asks him where he got it from

“oh it’s thrifted” or “i made it”

wants to stand out and showcase his creativity and individuality

just wants to paint the world with his own colours

diy tied dye shirts, vintage graphic tees (usually thitrfted/Depop), embroidered denim jacket, corduroy pants, mixed match socks, hair clips, red blush everywhere, colourful sunnies, high waisted mom jeans, windbreakers, overalls, drawn on freckles, anything that stands out really, it’s all about being unique. a vibrant palette with red, mustard, and blue.

SEONGHWA ━ MINIMALISTIC

3 words; clean, fresh, and professional

simple outfits but make it look chic

ultimate boyfriend material

small selection of patterns and colours

turtlenecks, long trench coats, gold jewelries, thin black belt with a gold buckle, dress pants up to ankle, white socks, simple black/white shoes, plain t shirt, trousers, cardigan, blazers, nude tones such as beige/cream, white, and tan.

YUNHO ━ SOFT/CASUAL

oversized hoodies for the peak boyfriend look

his current peach hair fits really well too!!

probably smells like strawberries

all about comfort

oversized hoodies, friendship bracelets with cute beads and charms, berets, denim jacket, light colours slack/jeans, ribbed socks, corduroy, simple sneakers, collar shirts under sweater. pastels like lavender, baby blue, and light yellow

YEOSANG ━ SKATERBOI

do i even need to elaborate?

he’s been giving us skaterboi looks since predebut times all the way to his airport fashion

beanies, beat up sneakers (Vans/Converse), pant chains, hoodies and oversized sweater and shirts, hair down, black ripped jeans, stripped shirt underneath a tee, cropped chino pants, flat-bottomed shoes. simple colours like black, white, and hint of red.

SAN ━ DARK ACADAMIA

okok listen, san looks superior in round glasses

also dark academia is so badass but classy and that’s san??

their 2020 fankit photoshoot just proves it

wire-frame glasses, plaid, blazers, dark nude tones, dress pants up to the ankle, high socks, polo shirts, timeless watches, trench coats, slicked back hair, blouses, trousers, cardigans, shoes (Dr. Martens/Oxfords), broaches, belt matching shoes, turtlenecks. toned down shades such as navy, maroon, and brown/beige.

MINGI ━ STREETWEAR/TECHWEAR

i think mingi would look so good in techwear

his body portions and facial features are just so fit for this style imo

just imagine ‘win’ stage/‘pick it up’ outfits but bolder and edgier

chunky shoes, tactical/utility vest, heavy sliver jewelry and layering chains, cargo pants, rollercoaster belt that hangs off the side, shoulder bags/fanny packs, anything with straps (this sounds weird lol), be able to adjust anything to your waist/torso, baggy pants and jackets, make everything looks super spicy. colours like army green, red and white, or most of the time, full on black.

WOOYOUNG ━ GRUNGE/E-BOY

after 200626 happened, i had to

he had everyone, non-atinys included, whipped for him with this look

his current long back hair >>> anything else

platform boots, checkered/grid patterns, fishnets, chokers, ripped jeans, cuff the jeans, chains and more chains, those cross and locket ones especially, stacked on rings, sliver jewelries, buckle and eyelet belts, distress denim, one painted nail, collar under shirt, like a modern take on preppy. mostly black and white, usually paired with red.

JONGHO ━ HYPEBEAST

there hasn’t been a day where jongho doesn’t flex his Louie bag or his Chanel earrings that cost $5k

slap me with your gucci slippers please

his socks are probably more expensive than my whole outfit

fanny packs, fitted jeans, hoodies but with a brand name (Gucci/Balenciaga), two toned clothing, cropped bubble jacket, bucket hats, matching socks to the top, baggy pants/sweatpants, tucked in top to flex that belt, brand on brand (unless it’s done in an ‘artistic’ way), sneakers (Nike/Jordan), bold colours like blue, red, and sometimes neons.

-

what’s your fashion style?

[anlian-aishang]

Kinktober Day 14: Public & Confined Space

“I sent a request for kinktober but I thought of another scenario, so if there’s a spot vacant, could I request a risqué situation: Levi and s/o go at it in a “public and confined place” (you can choose the space) where they could easily be caught and neither can be too loud. And Levi is sexily teasing her about how she can’t moan too loud. Regardless though, I’m SUPER excited to see everything you write for kinktober! Ppl sent in some sweet requests🧡”

Word count: 1300 Tags: smut, levi x reader, slight voyeurism, canonverse, fem!reader

Remember! Levi hates art theft.

When it came down to it, the Scout Regiment was both to thank and to blame. Veterans yourselves, you were both exceedingly daring - stupidly daring - sometimes to your own detriment. That courage that had saved your asses countless times - that had been utterly drilled into you - was the same courage that made you think that you could get away with this. 

You were not just making out, not just having sex, you were fucking - fucking hard at that: on duty, in the supply closet, in the middle of the day.

This morning, when you read the assignment board, you immediately looked to each other and exchanged knowing smirks. If it was dumb luck or the work of fate, you were not sure and did not care. At last, this tiptoeing and under-the-covers crush would get the privacy it deserved. Time together, privacy together, were luxuries you were often not afforded. In that moment of eye contact, you both understood: you would not let it go to waste.

// // //

Not only was the timing perfect, but once you got started, you realized taking inventory was also the perfect task. Tall racks towered above you both, arranged in a convenient way, creating an artificial maze-like enclosure. Mounds of equipment - blades, handles, capes - were piled high on each shelf, allowing for only a few gaps of vision between your hideaway and the rest of the room. Those few gaps, given the fun you were having behind these four walls, could easily be ignored - perhaps too easily.

Truly, you made the most of it. A slew of wires and belts just begged to be used. Levi tied your wrists with cables, bound your ankles with belts - once again, as always - making the most of it. Strong hands clutched your shoulders, keeping you in his grip. Powerful thrusts slammed you back, keeping you pinned to the wall.

The rough of concrete against your back would surely leave marks. On his end, your scratches from foreplay had already started to scar his skin. Pleasure and pain drove you both wild. After such a long suppression of your feelings, nothing would be held back any longer. “Oh fuck…” Levi sighed, “Oh fuck me…” 

This change of tone made chills course through you. Levi was largely monotone, though you had learned to pick up subtle hints. This was entirely different, though. The flat in his voice had disappeared, replaced by a heated vulnerability that made you soak around him.

“Levi…” You arched your back against the wall, “Levi, please…”

Then, your telltale signs: a building pressure, a hot flush, an involuntary jerk. This fantasy you had dreamt of, not only since reading that assignment but since you first enlisted, was at last coming true. “Levi! Levi! I - I’m..!”

His eyes squinted shut as every muscle flexed. His jaw fell open, releasing a series of tantalizing pants, “hah… hah-ahh!” 

Suddenly, a different kind of shiver was sent down your spine. It was not just a kinky thrill, but instead, a fight-or-flight fear. The all-too-familiar sound of the creaky doorknob’s turn stood your hairs on end. In this hormonal haze, not only had you neglected your official responsibilities but also the basic musts of sex. You forgot to lock the door?

The heavy drag of the wooden pane was followed by nearing footsteps. 

Holy shit. 

// // //

The flipping of some papers, likely against a clipboard, “She and Levi should be here…” Hange. No doubt about it.

“Maybe they got done early?” None other to accompany, Moblit.

“Maybe…” Hange’s voice turned mischievous, “… or maybe they ditched.”

You never thought him one to gossip. Moblit caught you off guard in more ways than one, “They seemed like they’d match.” 

Ears picked up some metallic clangs. Someone must have been rummaging the canisters, one of many supplies that constructed your makeshift wall. “I think he needs to make his move soon.” 

Ironically, a few feet away, he was. Actually, he was making many, nonstop, repeated moves. If only you knew…

They mused on, “The longer he stays single, the grumpier that old man will get.”

After that, you picked up a barely audible grunt from your lover. Whether it was in response to the sex or that insult, you were not sure either way. You bit down on your knuckle, likewise, stifling either your laughter or pleasure.

But that biting was not enough. The small space between your lips was disproportionate to the volume of sounds you released. Levi threw a hand in your hair and tugged your ear to his lips. His voice was shaky as he warned, “Shhh…”

“I - “ He bit down on your neck, attempting to ground you. In fact, it did the opposite. A light gasp, “L-Levi….?!”

It was a true test. This complete submission and desperation of yours, while he absolutely adored it, was inversely related to silence and safety. He could play you up or play you down. His mind raced for a way to do both, “Don’t be too loud.” Levi whispered in your ear, “You don’t wanna get caught, do you?”

You rolled your lips under your teeth and shook your head. It was easier said than done, though. If he wanted you to shut up so bad, maybe he should have stopped thrusting into you. Instead, he did the opposite. Levi ramped up his pace: fucking you harder, faster, deeper. Underneath your forefront fears, you subconsciously wondered, What does he really want? Indeed, if he wanted your silence, this relentless back-breaking sex would only coerce the opposite.

He could not stop now though, his long-chased and once-delayed peak was again cascading. Likewise, when it came to you and your screams, he knew they would not be held back much longer. 

In the dark of the closet, his eyes adapted, trying to make out anything that could keep you quiet. Wires to tie your wrists, belts to bind your ankles, but there was nothing handy to cover your mouth. Meanwhile, you were still squealing. Levi threw his hand over your mouth, “Shut it, brat.” Intensity drenched his voice, “Those sounds are for my ears only.”

You peeked down to your lover. His eyes were darting frantically, purposefully, but to seemingly no avail. Eyes trailed down and landed on your saving grace. You knew that his cravat was your best and only option, but you also knew that if you opened your mouth, you were absolutely done for. With the release of your shameless sounds, not even humanity’s strongest would be apt to handle that situation.

You opened your eyes weakly. Though you intended to direct your attention to his cloth, you caught his expression first. It was one you had never seen before, one you had never expected to see on him: a polarizing blend of immense pleasure and anxious panic. Drive simultaneously intensified his gaze and reddened his cheeks. The contrast of command and vulnerability, fuck, it was to die for.

Bound wrists moved together as you went for his cravat. You snuck a delicate finger between the accessory and his skin, tickling his neck. Levi clenched his teeth and gasped. Only later would you learn, it was his most sensitive area. Surely, if you knew, you would not have made that move. With your hands on his neck, he knew he could not afford to protest. Levi managed to wink open one eye, using only that to ask, What the hell do you think you’re doing?

Despite the setting, you could not help but smirk. In an unexpected twist, all thanks to his special bundle of nerves, you had managed to turn the tables. 

After a torturous amount of time, you managed to untie the knot. Without the luxury of words, you merely shoved his cravat in your mouth, hoping he would get the idea.

The bondage around your hands and feet was enough, but with your mouth bound as well… 

A deviant smirk spread across his lips silently answered, Yeah, that looks good.

Kinktober Year 1 Masterlist

[peony-pearl]

Piccolo goes out to Rosin’s workshed looking for him, but he’s already taken off to go photographing. His corkboard above his workdesk (which is a mess of wires and gears) is full of pictures. It draws Piccolo in, and he walks up to take a look. Pinned to it are photos of the surrounding forests, of his friends Pan and Bulla; of Gohan and Videl squeezing each other in a hug; Goku and Chi Chi dancing in the kitchen or snoozing together in the shade; of Piccolo himself meditating; and so many more of the extended family. 

Piccolo smiles, his son is gifted at catching moments that are full of spirit. Something made them feel as though they were truly living memories, not just flat reminders of a previous day. 

His foot accidentally kicks over a small wastebasket, and he kneels down to pick up what’s fallen out; more photos. Perhaps the exposure was messed up. He looks at the photos and; no... they’re fine. He looks at them one by one; they’re all in good condition; until it hits Piccolo.

They’re all of Rosin himself. At least; they’re ones containing him. Photos of him with his friends; of him with Goku and Chi Chi; Gohan and Videl; study sessions with Bulma... The photos that had churned out of his handmade, belt-holstered printer that he’d pocketed - and then tossed. Looking back up at the corkboard, there wasn’t a single photo of Rosin up there. 

Why? Why did he toss his visage aside? Piccolo looked at the photos, his son’s wide, infectious smile looking outwards, cheeks smeared with splatters of freckles. He couldn’t understand why he would discard his own pictures.

Frowning, Piccolo reaches for a container of thumb tacks; all of them topped with the shape of a palm tree; and he sorts through the arrangement to find his favorites. There’s one with him between Pan and Bulla, the three of them beaming; he quickly pins it to the wall; another with him grinning at the camera as Chi Chi wraps her arms around his shoulders from behind. Another of Rosin pretending to flex around Krillin, which elicits a chuckle from Piccolo. Several more are found that weren’t taken by him, of him and Goku sitting on a dock, their feet in the water. There’s one of him, Master Roshi, Oolong and Yamcha playing cards; all of them deep in thought; another of him and Bulma working on a machine together, entrenched in conversations over the blueprints. 

Piccolo stands back, looking at the added memories. He fidgets with the remaining stack; poring through them, finding more that he wants so dearly to display, but is running out of room. He sorts through the stack - until one causes him to pause.

Piccolo knew this photo. Because he’d taken it.

Rosin sat on the edge of a nearby waterfall. He’d left his camera behind a ways to ensure it wasn’t damaged by the mist. Piccolo found him and, seeing his camera, snapped a photo of his son as he took in the scenery. He was seventeen now; and over the seventeen years between picking up that little egg and watching him grow, that moment caused Piccolo to reflect, watching his boy soak in the peaceful scenery. Did Rosin know he’d taken the photo? Immediately, Piccolo pins it up as well; trying his best to put it in the center of the board.

He hears Rosin’s voice around the house, calling out to him, and Piccolo has to quietly sneak out of the shed; the stack of photos is tucked into a pocket. He greets Rosin at the front door; the boy has more photos from his time around the grounds of their home. He drops his bag and goes out to sort his work in the shed. 

Piccolo watches; and just before Rosin enters his shed, Piccolo retreats into the house. 

He wonders if he’ll notice.

[zigtheeortega]

thieves in the shadows

part one | read on ao3

pairing | mal x mc [but other pairings could be implied]

word count | 6.5k

warnings | this is a crime au, so there are quite a few warnings. violence, blood, knives, guns, police, criticisms of religion etc. my mc is a detective in this series.

tags | @raleighcarrera, @pixeljazzy, @natesewell, @choicesarehard, @jaxmatsuo, @pantcmime 

author’s note | so for the last day of blades week, the lovely @pixelsandkink hosted a sleepover and one of the questions were “what type of au’s would you like to see?” and the idea of a crime au wormed its way into my brain and i haven’t been able to stop thinking about it! i tried to get the whole story done by epilogue day for @bladesappreciationweek but i only managed part one, so more’s to come – i really hope you like it !!! disclaimer: i had to make the names a bit more realistic since they’re human in this au, so tyril is ty, imtura is immy, and my mc zilyana is yana. another disclaimer: people hc imtura as black so she’s written as such in this fic!

•─────────────────•

bullets pelted the crates they were crouched behind, wood splintering in every direction. bodies were strewn across the warehouse, the unmistakable pools of blood streaking across the stone.

“raine! to your left!” immy yelled her way, barely sparing her a glance before unloading her clip, shell casings clinking against the ground.

the gun trembled in yana’s hands. she’d shot one before – practice at the gun range, glass bottles in a back alley – but never a live target.

before she could edge around the shield of crates to take her aim, the cold steel of the blade dug into the skin at the base of her throat.

“well, well,” the voice said. “you seem to be in a bit of a bind, detective nightbloom.”

––––

when she first got assigned to the case, she didn’t want anything to do with it. she was minding her business, just coming off of the high of the egovore case – she’d busted a druglord selling hallucinogenic laced opiates that’d killed a handful of teens in the area.

she turned the new case down initially, citing she needed a break, but in reality… she didn’t care to go undercover again. she’d been asked to do things she never wanted to do, like flirt with vicious criminals who could snap her in half without an ounce of remorse.

don’t get it twisted – she was meant to be a detective. it was in her blood.

but the things she was asked to do took a bit of a toll on her and she needed time to recuperate. she was exhausted, and quite frankly, wanted to be yana nightbloom for a couple of weeks before jumping into another identity.

however, when mayor valleros showed up to the station requesting to speak to her privately, she knew there was no getting out of it.

that night she curled up in bed, reviewing the sensitive case files as well as her new identity, hoping that she could wrap it up in a couple of months.

––––

the taxi dropped her off at the seedy motel on the outskirts of the city, just a couple blocks away from the auto shop.

she suited up in an outfit that “raine” would wear, tucking her gun into her belt, before making the trek.

the sun was low behind the old buildings, most of the strip abandoned or looted, graffiti covering nearly every inch of wall space. tents were scattered in empty lots, a handful of homeless people pushing their carts towards the tents as the last slivers of light dissipated.

all she knew about the area was that a man popped up a couple months prior, bought almost every plot, and set up shop.

he clearly bought the dying businesses so they would stay out of his way.

she’d memorized every inch of her file, committing her persona to memory as well as any details about this crew, which were surprisingly next to none.

mayor valleros couldn’t prove it, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the string of robberies targeting big businesses and millionaires was somehow connected to this rinky dink shop.

the garage was halfway open, the light coming from it trickling out onto the street. the trunk of an old convertible poked out, and she could hear the bass line of a soft rock song the closer she got.

the file she’d received was nearly bare – she was walking into the situation blind. from her knowledge, they were always open to recruits, but they turned away quite a lot of people. they had a serious vetting process and didn’t trust just anyone.

she probably had little to no chance of getting in, but she was gonna do her damnedest to earn their trust. 

when she approached the car, she took a slow cautious step inside, hand firmly on hip, ready to pull her gun out at a moment's notice.

a quick cock of a handgun pulled her attention south.

the man rolled to a stop from underneath the car, flat on his back against the scooter, brow quirked, the barrel of his gun pointed up at her.

“and who might you be?”

“i could be asking you the same thing,” she said, hand still on her hip.

“toss the gun over.”

she sighed, tugging it out from her waistband, squatting slowly to place it on the ground, skitting it towards him. she stood up slowly, hands in front of her in surrender.

he snatched the gun, before pushing himself up till he was standing. he slid her gun into his waistband with one hand, keeping his other trained on her.

“gimme the blade in your boot, too.”

she tried keeping her composure – she always kept a pocket knife on her but she nearly forgot it was there. how the hell did he know?

“fuck me,” she cursed under her breath. “if you insist,” he grinned, then motioned his hand towards himself. 

she dug it out of her shoe, tossing it over. “how could you tell?”

“lucky guess. didn’t really know if you had one,” he shrugged, pocketing the blade.

they stood in silence, sizing each other up. his eyes raked over her body, lingering on places she was glad she had covered in baggy clothing.

“so, you gonna tell me your name?”

“no.”

“have it your way, rando. you’re not getting past this garage unless you give me something. doesn’t bother me a bit.”

“you clearly seem bothered,” she muttered, shifting her weight to her other foot.

she probably shouldn’t have been so bold, but if he wanted to shoot her, he would’ve done it already.

“nope. i don’t have shit to do. i could do this all day,” he raised a single brow, the one with a slit shaved into it.

“raine,” she said, the one syllable begrudgingly making it past her lips.

“now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he cocked his head to the side.

“you’re not that smart if you think that’s anything more than my street name.”

“street name? what are you, a fed?” He laughed, motioning the barrel of the gun upwards. “show me your waist and back.” “didn’t know ty hired perverts as door greeters,” she rolled her eyes, tugging her shirt upwards, slowly rotating to show off her stomach and lower back, proving she wasn’t wearing a wire.

his brows furrowed as a loud, booming cackle sounded from the doorway.

“you’re just gonna let her talk to you like that, mal?” the tall woman laughed, crossing her arms when she came into view.

“why’d you just say my name like that? i had a whole thing going,” he all but groaned, running a hand over his face.

“eh, who gives a shit. not like she’s in a position to do much, anyway,” she shrugged, her biceps flexing with the motion. “plus, she clearly knows who ty is. she didn’t just waltz in here – armed, might i add – for nothing.”

“who sent you, raine?”

yana shook her head, already slipping into the new, abrasive personality, scrunching her face up in disgust. “i’m not telling you two bozos shit. bring me to ty.”

the woman closed the gap between them in a couple steps, towering over her. she was easily six foot (even taller if you counted the locs piled atop her head), tattoos riddling every exposed inch of her body, her menacing grin gleaming in the dim light. her hands fisted the fabric at yana’s neck, tugging her just high enough that the tips of her shoes brushed the concrete.

she leaned in, quirking a pierced brow. “bozos?”

yana’s resolve was weakening with every second she was dangled by the tall woman. mustering up the last bit of her strength, she furrowed her brows and looked her dead in the eye.

“yeah. you heard me. bozos.”

the woman howled with laughter, and set her down, tousling her hair. “i like this one. she’s fiery.”

“of course you would. you like ‘em when they talk back,” mal chuckled, lowering the barrel.

she sucked her teeth, shrugging. “the harder to tame, the better.”

“i’m not here for either of you.”

“raine, was it?” she ignored the dig, holding her hand out to yana instead. “immy. i’m kind of the brawn around here if you haven’t noticed.”

immy jabbed her thumb at mal, smirking. “he’s not the brains of the operation. don’t worry about that.”

“hey!” he said, holstering his gun. “you’re really gonna disrespect me like that in front of some rando?”

“damn right i will. right this way, raine,” immy said, offering her arm. yana eyed it, forcing a grimace.

“i highly suggest you take my arm so i don’t have to restrain you.”

yana laced her arm through immy’s, her taut muscle telling her everything she needed to know – she could not fight her way out of this one.

they weaved through the shop, making their way down a dim hallway towards a back room. the decor was modest, much like a bar you’d see on the edge of town where the patrons are always the same and everyone minds their business.

mal walked in front of them, approaching the big wooden door, rapping his knuckles on it a few times.

she was so wrapped in the adrenaline rush of it all that she hadn’t really noticed quite how attractive mal was. she’d dealt with attractive criminals before, but none that were as infuriating and arrogant as him. most of them minded their business and didn’t let those feelings surface, even if it was in a joking manner.

she guessed she was staring a bit too long – when she met his eyes, he winked.

“ayo, someone’s here to see you,” he yelled, leaning his hip against the door frame with a smirk.

“come in.”

“wow, bossman didn’t even hesitate,” immy said, seemingly impressed.

“maybe he knew she was coming,” mal mused before pushing the door open.

the room was large, the bookshelves lining the walls filled left to right, top to bottom with books. the black leather couches looked straight out of a casting call room, much to her distaste.

his desk was massive, seemingly a bit out of place with the rest of the more toned down decorations – long, polished mahogany with intricate carvings up and down the sides.

his posture was perfect, his fingers laced in a neutral pose. as they approached the seats facing his desk, he pushed his book to the side, slipping his glasses off and placing them on top of the cover.

“i’m assuming someone sent you,” he stated, rather than asked, expression unreadable.

“no one sent me. i don’t have a crew,” yana answered, trying to keep as calm as him.

“someone must have told you about our operation.”

“well, you’re not infamous by any means, but people are definitely talking,” she shrugged.

he stood, taking slow steps until he was at the front of the desk. he glanced at immy, then the chair, and before yana knew it, she was shoved down into a sitting position.

she tried to remain nonchalant as he leaned against the edge of the desk, arms neatly folded.

“so what do you think you know about us?” he asked with a small smile, bright blue eyes piercing.

“i know you’re ty, the head of the group. i don’t know much else,” she was being completely truthful with him, glad to drop the facade (albeit briefly).

he nodded. “that’s good. we want as little information out there as possible.”

he leaned down, long strands of hair falling in front of his shoulders, holding her gaze.

yana wasn’t one to squirm under pressure, but the way he was looking right through her, as if he was browsing the core of her being, she couldn’t help but ball her hands into fists to stop them from trembling.

“what’s your name?”

“raine,” she murmured, struggling to keep her face neutral.

his eyes subtly flitted around her face, probably trying to pick up on her microexpressions – she’d been trained in the art of facial expressions and lying, so she was thankful in that moment that she’d actually paid attention to the presentations.

he leaned back, looking at mal and immy. “she’s trustworthy.”

just like that? she kept her breathing even, trying not to visibly relax. she expected it’d be a bit harder than that.

“so, raine. what exactly do you want to do here?” he asked, walking around the desk to sit back in his seat.

“last time i worked with a crew, they cheated me out of most of my cut.”

ty nodded, eyes focusing in on her face again.

“i’m not here to make friends. i just want to make enough money to stay afloat,” she said bluntly, letting a bit of the truth shine through again.

he nodded again, putting his glasses back on, flipping through the book.

“we all pull our own weight here. we’re all expected to defend ourselves in any situation we’re in,” he said, voice low, scrawling notes in the margins of the book.

“can you shoot a gun?”

“yes.” 

“can you wield a knife?”

“yes.”

“hand to hand combat?”

“yes.”

most of the training was because of the academy, but she’d been a scrappy teen – she’d got into plenty of fights and had always been able to hold her own.

mal plopped onto the seat next to her, leg strewn across the armrest, popping a stick of gum in his mouth. “she’s gonna need a little bit of training. immy and i got her.”

ty arched a brow at mal, seemingly in slight annoyance. “training?”

“oh yeah, she strolled in here with a gun and a knife and i took her out before she could cock it,” he laughed, shooting a wink her way.

immy laughed, too, but ty wasn’t nearly as amused. “she’ll need to be at Mal’s skill level at least by our next phase.”

“‘mal’s skill level’? what the hell does that mean?” mal asked, sitting up straight.

immy’s soft chuckles morphed into her friendly booming cackle that yana had been introduced to a couple minutes before.

“you’re clearly weaker than immy. no one’s touching her,” ty said simply, delving back into his work.

mal sighed, standing. “cut me some slack, boss. not my fault she’s taller and buffer than me.”

“yes, you should blame genetics.”

yana found herself rolling her lips together, failing to back a smile. ty caught her eye and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

for just a second, she felt comfortable with them, but she had to bury that thought and keep at the task at hand.

they were criminals, this was an investigation. no attachment, no complications.

“when nia gets here, ask her to go shopping for raine,” ty said, then resumed his work.

“you got it, boss,” immy said, pulling yana to her feet, leading her to the bookcase across the room.

she pulled a book back, revealing a keypad. she typed a long string of numbers and popped her thumb on the screen at the bottom, stepping back so that the bookcase could shift. a set of stairs appeared, leading downwards, most likely towards a basement of some sort.

“are you guys gonna kidnap me or something?”

immy grinned. “nope. all the good stuff is down here.”

the concrete staircase led to a long hallway, multiple doors on either side. “your room is the last one on the left, right after the gym.”

“gym?” “yeah, you think i could upkeep these guns without a routine?” immy joked, walking with her to the end of the hallway.

her room was surprisingly big. king sized bed, walk in closet, huge bathroom with a separate shower and tub – it was larger than her apartment.

“i’ll leave you to it,” she said, pointing towards the dresser against the wall. “there’s some spare clothes in there.”

and then she was alone.

the shower she took was quick – she even stuck a chair under the door handle just in case. she didn’t trust anyone here enough to take a long shower.

she tossed on the clothes, wrapping her long dark hair up in a towel. right about then she’d wished she’d planned things out a bit better. all of her case materials were back at the motel, and she desperately wanted to update the case files with what she’d learned.

ty, mal, immy, nia. ty, mal, immy, nia. she committed the names to memory, and the appearances of the former three, too.

a knock at the door took her out of her train of thought.

she answered it, surprised to see mal standing there in a loose fitting floral top, way different than the hoodie he’d worn when she first met him.

“here,” he said, handing her the gun and blade. “forgot to return these in the excitement of it all.”

“thanks,” she said, turning to put both on the side table near the door, leaving mal standing there.

“you gonna invite me in?” he asked, leaning against the door frame.

she shrugged, feigning nonchalance as he strode in, plopping on the edge of her bed, legs sprawled wide while he leaned back on his elbows.

“so… raine. ready for training?”

“yep.”

“not talking much? understandable. i should probably introduce myself, though. properly.”

she eyed him, crossing her arms.

“i’m mal. i own all of this,” he said, gesturing around him. “volari’s the last name. well, the last name i picked.”

she nodded, knowing that she couldn’t reveal any personal information unless directly asked, trying to calculate out how to skirt around questions without being suspicious.

“the shop’s a front. kind of our homebase, ya know?” he popped his gum, gaze flitting up and down from her loose fitting clothes to her face.

“why are you looking at me like that?”

“just trying to figure you out, raine,” he emphasized her fake name, a knowing grin spreading.

yana rolled her eyes, crossing the room to the mirror, tugging the towel off her hair. “there’s nothing to figure out.”

“yeah, sure,” he said, sarcasm lacing his tone. “meet me in the gym tomorrow at 5 a.m.”

“that’s super early,” she said, watching him through the mirror as she raked her damp hair into a bun.

“we’ve gotta fit in your first training before we open shop,” mal winked, standing up from the bed.

“oh.”

“‘night,” he said, giving a lazy salute, before tugging the door shut with the toe of his shoe, leaving her standing alone.

––––

she barely slept that night, unable to stop the unending rolodex of details flitting through her mind.

names, height, build, tattoos, notable scars, voice – anything that she’d recognize regardless of a bad dye job or style change.

she gave up after a while, getting up when the clock said 3 a.m. slipping her blade into her waistband, she headed to the gym, hoping that she could cardio her way into a short nap.

the gym was immaculate – top notch equipment neatly lined the walls with more than enough space throughout for a group of five.

after scanning the room, she opted for a treadmill, deciding that sprints were the best way to tire out both her body and mind.

each pump of her legs was more painful than the last, the aching burn flickering up her legs with every slam of her shoe against the belt.

keep going, keep going, keep going.

yana didn’t give up. never was a quitter, never would be a quitter.

sweat beaded across her back and forehead, her breathing in tandem with her strides.

when she crossed the mile line, she slowed her pace, opting for a light jog for as long as she could handle it (another mile or two).

the sound of a singular shoe squeaking had her grasping for her knife, ready to point it at the intruder. But before she could get a grip on it, another hand snatched it from her waistband, flicking the blade out, training the tip at the base of her neck.

mal grinned at her. “not bad.”

she panted, flyaway hairs sticking to every slick patch of skin. he used the tip of the blade to delicately flick a strand off her shoulder.

“reflexes could be a bit faster, though.”

he lowered the knife, tossing her a cool towel instead.

“it’s 3 a.m. and i wasn’t expecting anyone,” she grumbled, dragging the towel down her face to sop up the sweat.

“correction: it’s 4 a.m. and you should always expect the worst.”

“why are you here so early then?” she snapped, flinging the towel over her shoulder in exasperation.

“same reason you’re here. can’t sleep,” he shrugged, before reaching behind him to tug off his white tee.

she finally got a full look at him and she wasn’t disappointed.

tanned, muscled torso, riddled with scars and tattoos alike, peppered with hair all across his front. It was really fucking hard not to stare.

she averted her eyes as he did a couple warm up stretches, leaning and stretching and looking oh so gorgeous while he did it.

his right arm was covered, a full sleeve from shoulder to wrist. the other arm was a half sleeve, his forearm bare except for a small tattoo with daggers and blood drops.

she’d noticed his gold earrings when she’d met him, since it was one of the flashiest things about him.

but the singular nipple ring? that was new. and definitely something she didn’t think would stir something in her.

she strode across the gym, trying to put some distance between them, grabbing the small weights. yana squatted and lifted and squatted and lifted but nothing she did could distract her from the soft grunts coming from mal across the room.

he was on a fucking pull up bar, tugging himself upward, hair tied back, sweat beading on his brow.

one of the biggest undercover no-no’s was getting involved with anyone while on the case. Even if they’re surrounding the case – not even a main target – it was all but forbidden.

unless… it was for intel.

get a fucking grip, dude. she shook the thought away, all but spraying herself with a hose at the thought.

“it’s about that time,” he said, a while later.

she pushed through her last few crunches, shaking off the burn as she stood up.

“i fail to see why i need to be trained. i don’t even know what we’ll be doing,” she said nonchalantly, stretching her arms.

the easiest way for her to get intel was to pretend like she didn’t care. It worked with most male egos she came across – the second she acted like she’d rather be anywhere else, the man would all but spell out his diabolical plans with a diagram and a play-by-play.

“i think you���ll at least need to know how to defend yourself. never know what situations we’ll get into,” he said, vaguely, scrubbing his own towel across his chest and torso.

unfortunately, that told her nothing.

“alright, so first thing’s first, we’ll need to roll out these mats –”

immy slammed the door open, cutting off mal’s first order.

“nia brought the grub! get in here before i eat it all,” immy said, throwing a knowing look at yana.

she looked to mal, waiting for his direction.

“go ahead. i’m gonna finish up my workout. save me a plate, alright?” he asked, striding towards the weights.

yana slipped past her and into the hallway without a second glance, trying to look anywhere but the sly grin that stretched immy’s mouth.

“so what was going on in there?” immy asked, teasing.

“nothing. just training.”

“just training. suuuure,” she said with a laugh, clapping yana on the back, knocking the wind out of her.

they trudged up the stairs to the autoshop, yana’s legs crying out with each step. she was regretting the workout in that regard, but a tiny part of her brain was revelling in the time she spent with mal, mind reeling over each physical detail of him.

they made their way to the tiny kitchen (much smaller than the one underground), greeted with a few platters of breakfast food and a smiling woman.

“hi! i hear you’re the one who took over my bedroom,” nia grinned, giving a friendly wave. “it’s so nice to meet you.”

she cocked her head to the side, making sure to make a slight spectacle of almost not trusting nia’s friendliness – had to lean into the “raine” persona, right?

nia’s smile didn’t waver as she gestured at the food. “i thought i could give you a bit of a warm welcome. it was undoubtedly nicer than theirs, huh?”

ty chuckled under his breath, stepping away from the counter with a steaming mug of coffee. “you know us too well, nia.”

immy snorted, grabbing a plate and piling up the bacon and pancakes. “thanks, chief.”

nia laughed in response, handing a plate to yana, encouraging her to eat.

it was such a weird atmosphere. the night before was pretty tense – yana was tense. she was petrified of sleeping through the night for fear of someone coming in the room and offing her.

and to be greeted with platters of food and a chill atmosphere? madness.

it made her a bit nervous considering in her experience some of the most heinous crimes were committed by tight knit crews that considered each other family. she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of shit she’d gotten herself into.

she piled her plate with fruit and oatmeal, leaning against the wall as she popped a spoonful of cinnamon oatmeal in her mouth, chasing it with a sliced apple.

“glad to finally tip the scales. i didn’t think we’d be adding anyone to the crew, but i’m so happy you’re here,” nia said, taking a sip from her mug.

“i think immy’s woman enough for the both of us,” yana shrugged, shoveling another spoonful in her mouth.

“don’t tempt me, raine. i have no issue telling you exactly what i wanna do to you,” immy lifted a brow, licking the underside of her spoon very slowly, holding her gaze.

nia nearly choked on her tea, mumbling a soft “excuse me” as she grabbed a napkin to blot her mouth.

“flustering the nun. another tick off my bucket list,” immy cackled.

“former and i was training,” nia threw a pointed look at her, locking eyes with yana right after.

“you’re here with us now. that’s all that matters,” ty said, with a bit of finality, hushing the rest of the conversation.

mal burst into the room, drenched in sweat and half naked. “pancakes? oh fuck yeah. thanks nia.”

he piled the food on his plate, plopping down on the barstool at the counter. he glanced back at yana, then patted the seat next to him with a smirk. “i don’t bite.”

she rolled her eyes, rigid stance betraying the fluttering in her chest. she slid in next to him and ate silently, eyes trained on her food.

“so, boss, what’s on the agenda for today?” mal asked through a mouthful of food.

ty stared at him in disgust, setting his mug down to address the room. “we have a lot of planning to do. these next few jobs have to be absolutely seamless if we want to evade law enforcement.”

“what, you’re saying that the pigs caught wind of us?” immy asked, annoyance lacing her tone.

“no, not to my knowledge,” ty shook his head, a single wrinkle appearing between his thick brows. “but we won’t be able to keep this up for long.”

he strode over to the spread of food, grabbing a single grape, tossing it into his mouth. “each his has to count. there’s absolutely no room for mistakes.”

everyone nodded in agreeance.

“mal and immy, you’re with me. we’ll be planning escape routes, seeing if they match up with our physical map, scouting the areas – the grueling work. nia,” he said, glancing down at her. “you’ll take raine shopping. she’ll need a dress for the gala.”

he trained his gaze on yana, gaze penetrating right through her. she held her breath, hoping that nothing about the way she ate, sat, breathed tipped him off –

“get her a wig, too.”

––––

a power nap and a couple hours later, yana and nia were in nia’s car, driving towards the center of the city to the mall.

“i’ve never been to a gala before,” yana murmured honestly, watching the storefronts pass by, gradually getting more and more expensive.

“once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all,” nia shrugged, flicking her blinker before turning into the parking garage.

shopping was fairly painless. nia took her to her favorite store, forced her to try on a handful of dresses, and thankfully the second one fit (and was both of their favorites).

“this is too much,” yana said bluntly, trying to mask her eagerness to wear the floor length gown.

“no it’s perfect. you’ll fit in seamlessly,” she said, swiping her card. the cashier handed her the plastic covered gown, and they were out again.

“i have a few wigs back in my room that you can try on. i’m thinking a short blonde bob for you,” nia said, reaching out to gently push yana’s long dark strands over her shoulder.

nia was beautiful. her long red curls soaked up the sun and reflected the gold – she was clearly the best of them all with a heart big enough for everyone and then some.

her eyes were soft, smile even softer, with curves even softer than that.

there was something about nia that felt like home. yana brushed the thought away, redirecting her mind to the event.

“what am i supposed to do at the gala?”

“schmooze some rich people, make them think you’re high society, gain their trust, all of that,” she said simply, unlocking the car.

–––

after a quick wig fitting, nia flipped a hand mirror yana’s way, grinning widely. “you look gorgeous.”

“oh... that’s different.”

nia frowned. “different as in bad?”

“no, not bad,” she said, running her hand through the short blunt bob that didn’t even graze her shoulders. “just different. i’ve never been a blonde.”

“oh, you’ll be alright,” she reassured her, grabbing a mannequin head with a long blonde wig on it, pre-styled with curls and braids galore. “there’s always a first time for everything!”

when they emerged from their room, ready to head to the event in an unknown location (which made yana insanely nervous), the rest of the crew were neck deep in planning, mumbling amongst themselves.

“we’re out! be back in a few hours,” nia waved without a second glance, jingling the car keys as she went.

the three of them looked stunned when they laid eyes on yana. immy’s mouth upturned into a smirk and mal’s scarred eyebrow lifted – even ty looked a bit taken aback.

“you clean up well, raine,” immy nodded, gesturing to her gown.

“thanks,” she said, a bit uncomfortably.

as yana, she was flattered; as raine, she was bothered.

“uh, well, i’ll be back soon. bye.”

“wait,” mal called as she turned her back. “here.” 

he slipped a blade and a thin leather strap into her hand, gently closing her fingers around it. “just in case.”

“is this –” she stopped, looking at the buckle and pouch. a thigh strap for the blade.

“yup. stay safe, raine,” he winked, returning to the table, which was covered in maps and loose papers.

–––

the gala was pretty boring.

maybe it was because she wasn’t exactly sure why she was there quite yet, so she couldn’t properly gather intel, but either way the attendees were bland.

nia blabbed on and on about mundane things with the men, laughing, twirling her hair, and gently resting a hand on a shoulder at the right time.

they were putty in her hands.

yana on the other hand was as charming as she could manage, trying to coax information out of the men who were two seconds away from getting handsy.

an hour and a half in, nia took the stage, which surprised her.

what shocked her even more was the fact that the gala was for charity. specifically nia’s charity. 

she commanded the stage like she belonged there, and by the end of her speech about taking care of the people of their city, every socialite was scrambling to add an extra zero to their checks.

“this is your event? for your charity?” she whispered in nia’s ear between shaking hands and thanking the patrons.

“yeah! i’ll tell you more about it on the way back,” she said offhandedly, before leaning in to hug a woman covered in decadent jewels.

when they made it to the car, nia spilled immediately.

“so, i’m the face of the charity by day. it’s fairly new and pretty small,” nia started, keeping her eyes on the road.

“and you failed to mention your connection to it because…?”

“the crew thought i should wait to tell you.”

“i feel like i don’t have all of the pieces here, though.”

she sighed. “you don’t.”

yana raised a brow.

“i’m a former novitiate. a nun in training, if you will. i trained at a large church in the heart of the city, and my dream was to eventually head an orphanage and lead troubled youth to christ.”

“what changed?” she asked cautiously.

“my eyes were open to the corruption of the church before it was too late, thankfully. i couldn’t handle the greediness. it felt like every decision was driven by profit, not spirituality. their numbers were dollar amounts, not souls saved,” nia sighed, slowing to a stop at the red light, tugging the wig off her head. “each case was hand chosen for potential monetary gain. nothing was genuine.

“after leaving the church, i created the charity specifically to take care of homeless citizens, since we have a huge population of them. we’re focused on small victories like proper kitchens and distributing survival kits right now, but we’re working towards bigger things.”

“so… why was i involved tonight?” yana asked earnestly.

“because you’re a new face. a pretty face. virtually undetectable to these people. i can’t do all of it on my own, you know,” she smiled.

“so what does this have to do with the crew?”

“i’ll let them explain that to you,” nia said simply, ending the conversation.

––––

when they entered ty’s office, the rest of the crew were there, sitting around, drinking and chatting.

“there’re the pretty ladies,” immy slurred from her seat, holding up her nearly empty mug of beer.

“any news?” ty asked after taking a small sip of what looked like scotch.

“raine did awesome, just as i suspected,” nia beamed, throwing her arm around yana’s waist.

“that’s what i love to hear,” mal said from the seat next to immy, winking when yana caught his eye.

“i told her a bit about the gala, and my charity, but i thought i’d wait till we were all together to explain further.”

ty nodded. “that was the right move.”

“i’m all ears,” yana said, slipping into the open seat next to immy.

“you ladies earned a drink. let me grab you one before we get started. beer okay?” mal asked, jogging out the door towards the kitchen.

“beer’s fine,” yana called, slipping her heels off and rubbing her aching feet.

as soon as they both had their drinks, ty addressed her, launching into a full explanation.

“nia’s our best judge of character. i’d apologize that you weren’t kept in the loop until now, but you know how these things work. we can’t compromise the mission,” he said, stepping up from his desk to pace.

“nia is also our decoy, if you will. she’s the one who draws in the potential targets so we can gather information and plan. the rest of us are… not quite on good terms with the law,” he said, pausing his stride to look at yana.

immy laughed, throwing back the last of her beer. “you can say that again.”

“what’d you do?” yana asked, eyes darting between mal and ty.

“well, i’ve just done a lot of dirty work for people,” immy sighed, wincing. “and it backfired.”

“i’ll refrain from speaking about personal matters,” ty said, a hint of pain in his gaze.

“unlike the boss, i don’t mind telling you. i can’t remember a time where i wasn’t pissing off some cop. the list is endless,” mal grinned.

“you can’t just ask us and then not tell us what you’ve done,” immy complained, sliding her mug onto ty’s desk, quickly grabbing a coaster when ty’s gaze turned sharp.

yana shrugged. “i don’t know. i’ve always been a bit of a problem.”

it was true. growing up in foster care toughened her up pretty early. protecting her brother from bullies kept her in trouble.

they were never formally adopted, but they spent so much time in the same foster homes over time that kade just became her brother. 

she got into the normal scrappy kid problems, stopping eventually when she’d racked up enough petty misdemeanors to potentially get time.

instead, she begrudgingly joined the force. she never liked being a cop, but she loved detective work.

it wasn’t her dream job, but it was the job that let her be whoever she wanted to be. yeah, sometimes she hated slipping into a different identity every couple of months (or years), but she couldn’t picture herself doing anything else. at least right then she couldn’t, as she sat amongst a crew that she’d infiltrated with no issue – she was playing them like a fiddle, and they had no clue.

“good thing we like to fix problems here,” mal said, eyeing her as he tipped his drink back.

nia laughed nervously, gripping her bottle tight. “okay, can we continue? please?”

“thank you, nia, as always, for keeping us on track,” ty said, nodding her way. “our operation is one that some would consider the… vigilante sort.”

“as in, you’re taking matters into your own hands?”

ty nodded again. “we’ve all experienced corruption in the city at different levels, and we’ve grown tired of sitting idly by while nothing gets done by the same officials who get reelected term after term while having no record of accomplishments.”

“and you think i’m a good fit here?” she didn’t know why she blurted that question out. it’s like every time she was on thin ice she ventured farther and farther, begging for it to crack.

“i saw it in your eyes, raine. you want to help people,” he said, holding her gaze. “this – our operation – can be how you do that.”

“i still don’t know what i’m getting myself into. i can’t decide anything without knowing,” she said, honest again.

“you’re going to have to decide.” his voice was firm, unwavering. he knew exactly what he was doing – every step of the past twenty four hours was a test, each interaction with each member converging to this moment.

she looked to each person in the room, from immy’s bright gaze, to nia’s warm inviting eyes, to mal’s sultry stare, to ty’s – his icy blue eyes were piercing. like the first time she met him, he was staring right through her as if he could see the essence of her being if he searched hard enough.

“i’m in.”

––––

[darks-ink]

Got My Reasons

“Doing the right thing for the wrong reason doesn’t make it good!” His glow flickered wildly, coalescing and twirling like flames. His eyes burned bright like a jack-’o-lantern’s. “Just because you helped me doesn’t make you the better person!” “You practically served yourself up to us,” she retorted, her voice flat. “What else did you expect, a heavily injured ghost unconscious in the vehicle of ghost hunters?”

Prompt: After being seriously wounded in a fight, Danny collapses inside the Fenton GAV to recoup. When his parents are called to the ghost sighting a few minutes later, however, they don’t notice who they’ve brought along for the ride Prompt by: @sapphireswimming Word count: 7,625

[AO3] [FFN] [more Phic Phight fics]

Content warning: descriptions of serious injuries, kinda terrible medical practice. The usual. But it’s all okay in the end!

---

The GAV screeched to a sudden halt, Maddie already half out the door before it had stopped. The ghost on the road in front of them roared, baring oversized fangs at the vehicle.

She rushed around the car, pulling open the doors in the back with force. A weapon. That’s all she needed. A weapon, ASAP.

The thought distracted her enough that she stumbled, almost falling over something out of place in the GAV. She barely caught herself on one of the shelves, already turning to scold Jack, when she saw—

“Phantom,” she whispered, feeling her brain grind to a halt.

Because it was, without a doubt, Phantom. The ghost seemed to be severely injured, splattered in green ectoplasm. It dripped over Phantom’s side, staining the wall of the GAV that he leaned against. One hand was pressed loosely against his side, but the ghost’s eyes were closed, and he hadn’t responded to her tripping over him, either. Passed out? But that wasn’t possible, was it?

She bit her lip. The ghost outside was a bigger threat. Maddie knew she had to focus on that one, first. Phantom was clearly in no state to leave, but…

Her hand touched the familiar metal curve of a Fenton Thermos.

Without another thought, she uncapped the device. Phantom was dragged in without another movement, not even stirring in the slightest. This was a perfect opportunity to study him, and the Thermos would preserve him until the right time.

With that settled, Maddie turned to grab a gun. Jack needed her. Phantom would come later.

---

“Uh, Maddie?” Jack’s voice rang from the back of the car, and she paused. “Why is there ectoplasm splattered all over the inside of the GAV?”

She blinked for a moment before realization struck. “It’s Phantom!” she yelled back, already turning to walk back. “I found him seriously injured and passed out in the back of the van, but we had to go deal with that attacking ghost.”

Now next to her husband, she clambered inside. The Thermos was still where she had left it, and she grabbed it. Let’s not get that one confused with the others. “I caught him in this Thermos. Not sure how bad his injuries really are, but this way he would be stable until we could look at him.”

“Good thinking!” Jack grinned, climbing into the GAV next to her to stow their weapons. “Passed out, though?”

“He didn’t move, not even when I tripped on him.” She frowned at the Thermos in her hand. “It was… strange. He was completely unresponsive, but he was still together. Leaking ectoplasm, but only from his injuries. Not destabilized.”

“Odd,” her husband agreed, clicking the last gun into its place. “I guess we have our work cut out for us!”

“Indeed.” She turned the Thermos, slowly, gazing at the meter in its side. It was startlingly full, a measure not just of mass but also of a ghost’s strength. Considering that Phantom was the only one in the Thermos… “Why don’t you drive us back, honey?”

His excitement would turn him in an even more reckless driver than usual, she guessed, but… she didn’t want to risk Phantom escaping.

Briefly, she considered clipping the Thermos onto her belt, but no. It felt safer in her hands, even as she had to take one off of the device to climb into the passenger’s seat of the GAV.

Their drive back home was… well. It was certainly fast.

Before she knew it, Maddie was clambering out of the GAV with one hand, the Thermos clenched in her other. “I’ll go prep the lab. Jack, bring in the spent weaponry and the other ghost, please?”

“Gotcha!” He bounded away to the back of the GAV while Maddie walked to their front door, quickly unlocking it. The house was empty inside—Danny was off with his friends, and Jazz away to the library—but that had become rather common these days.

At least she wouldn’t have to worry about either of them protesting their capture of Phantom. She didn’t understand it, the youth’s insistence that the ghost was good, but she certainly didn’t understand how her own children had fallen for Phantom’s tricks.

Well, it would be a problem no longer. Once she and Jack were done with their studies of Phantom, the ghost would no longer trick anybody.

Maddie left the Thermos on one of the mostly empty tables, quickly putting away the few things that were on it. She rolled a trolley over, paused. Rolled her eyes and emptied that, too.

By the time Jack had made it downstairs, their used weaponry stacked in a pile to the side—she made a quick mental note to make sure those were taken care of later—Maddie had finished preparing the table and the trolley. She had stalled out a large assortment of tools they might want or need for their inspection of Phantom.

There were no straps on the table—they had removed them due to the diversity in ghosts’ bodies—but she didn’t think they would need them, anyway. Phantom had been so weakened… He hadn’t even fought back when she’d tripped over him, when she’d captured him.

“Ready, Jack?” she asked, picking up the Thermos again. “We won’t know how he’ll act.”

“Ready,” her husband confirmed. He flexed his fingers, the metal ghost-proof gauntlets shifting with the movement. “I’ll hold him if he tries to escape.”

Maddie nodded, twisting the cap off of the Thermos. With a whir, it unloaded its contents, spitting Phantom onto the table.

The ghost groaned as he hit the surface, his limbs twitching slightly. He seemed slightly more awake than in the GAV, but not much. Didn’t even try to leave the table.

Ectoplasm gushed from several injuries all over Phantom’s body, the liquid spilling onto the table already.

“Not looking good, Phantom,” Jack commented, disengaging the gauntlets. Clearly they wouldn’t need them to restrain Phantom.

Phantom groaned again, a warble of sound that might’ve been intended as an answer. Definitely awake, then, but in poor condition.

She moved to roll him onto his back. Frowned at the deep slice in his side, right where the ribs would be on a human. The inside of the injury glimmered with fresh ectoplasm but it didn’t spill, not nearly as freely as she would’ve expected. No, the surface-level ectoplasm seemed… almost crystallized, a solid instead of a liquid.

Frowning, with one hand bracing Phantom, she reached in. The ectoplasm certainly felt solid under her probing finger.

Phantom groaned again, his left arm shifting slightly, like a weak attempt at batting her away.

“He seems to have some form of ectoplasmic bones,” she reported to Jack, finally rolling Phantom over all the way. The ghost twitched, his left hand wandering back to the slice. His eyes, he kept closed. “But his injuries are severe. He might destabilize before we finish our research.”

“That’d be a waste.” Jack frowned at the ghost on their table, too. “We’ll have to stabilize him. This is the first ghost with those kind of traits we’ve seen. We can’t risk losing him.”

That, at least, they agreed on. “We’ll need to close the injuries, stop him from losing too much ectoplasm. Can you get a needle and thread?” She looked back at Phantom, his complexion seeming to pale. “Fishing line if you can find it, but normal thread might be enough to tide him over for now.”

Phantom muttered something again, a whining noise that didn’t quite make it to words. It was odd. Maddie had been sure the ghost always spoke in perfect English, yet he seemed to be conversing in something else now. She was almost tempted to consider it a ghostly language of sorts, but why would such a thing exist? Ghosts weren’t intelligent enough for a society, let alone a language that drove such a thing.

“I found some fishing line, but not nearly enough for all his injuries.” Jack handed her the first aid kit, a sterile needle and clean thread, as well as a ball of tangled phase-proof wire. “… and I’ll have to untangle it first,” he added on, sheepishly.

“We’ll have to risk the normal thread.” She reached for the needle, then paused. Looked at Phantom. “It… His structure seems far more complicated than that of other ghosts. Should we see if he has a layer of skin underneath the jumpsuit? Stitching the two together might cause harm.”

Jack nodded, already grabbing Phantom’s right hand—the one not pressed against an injury. He hooked his fingers underneath the edge of Phantom’s white glove, carefully peeling it off.

As she had half expected, the glove came off entirely, damaged but not destabilizing even when removed from the ghost it belonged to. And underneath it, Phantom’s hand was… almost normal. The skin was the same cool tone as his face, a thousand small details she never would’ve expected a ghost to have, especially on a surface not usually exposed to sight.

“Let’s strip the rest, too,” Jack said, dropping the glove next to Phantom’s side. He reached for Phantom’s left hand, but hesitated. “The jumpsuit, at least. But, Maddie, what detail.”

“He’s unlike every other ghost we’ve tested so far,” she agreed. From this close, she could see the exquisite detail in Phantom’s clothing, too. A zipper hidden in the edge of his collar, which she tugged down to unzip the front of his suit. “And you couldn’t even tell from the way he acted! I wonder how many more are like this? Is it related to their strength?”

Phantom’s jumpsuit peeled apart to reveal a pale chest. Several smaller cuts littered his front, previously unnoticed due to the splatters of ectoplasm. The structure of it was, again, oddly detailed and human like.

Jack whistled, low. “What a scar, Mads! I wonder if it’s related to his death?”

“Why would he have scars of an event he doesn’t remember?” She zipped the jumpsuit down to his belt, working his right arm out of the sleeve. “I’d consider it more likely that it’s an old injury he got in a ghost fight. Maybe he kept it for intimidation purposes, to show that he won from a ghost with a certain level of power.”

“But then, why not show it off?” Jack asked, helping her by lifting Phantom up slightly. The ghost groaned, quietly, but didn’t try to stop them. “Why hide it under his suit?”

“He might’ve changed his appearance to appear more tame towards Amity Park’s citizens.” She rolled the right side of the jumpsuit down to Phantom’s hips, but that left the other side. “Jack, why don’t you keep pressure on that cut, and I’ll take off the rest of the jumpsuit?”

Her husband nodded, bustling over to press his hands against Phantom’s side. The ghost hissed, a strange warble and click to the sound, like a layer of audible static. His left hand batted at Jack’s hand, weakly, but it stilled quickly. The ghost went limp against the table.

“Did he pass out?” Jack asked, leaning over Phantom without taking his hands off of the injury. “Well, that’ll make our job easier, at least.”

She hummed as she peeled off Phantom’s left glove, slick with ectoplasm. His hand was sturdier than she would’ve expected of a ghost, a clear sign that his bone-like constructions extended into his hands. The skin was… surprisingly human-like, too cool but not as icy cold as ghosts usually were.

Maddie dropped the glove with the one already on the table, turning to lay down Phantom’s hand, when she noticed its appearance.

“Jack, look.” She held up the hand, her fingers tracing the extensive scarring. Its texture differed from the rest of the skin, rough and ragged like an actual scar. It seemed to originate in the palm, branching outwards from there, all the way down his wrist and into the cuff of his jumpsuit. It glowed, faintly, brightest at the palm. “Do you think it’s the same scar as on his chest?”

“Only one way to find out, huh?” Jack twisted his head to nod at Phantom’s face. “He has some kind of bruising on his throat, somehow. Green instead of purple, but you can’t mistake that kind of splotching.”

“At least we won’t have to worry about a crushed windpipe.” She twisted his arm out of the sleeve, feeling the bones in his shoulder shift with the movement. Definitely a human-like skeleton. How odd. “There we go. Definitely one large electrical scar, with the extremes in the palm of his hand and on his chest.”

Jack shifted his hands, allowing her to push the jumpsuit down to Phantom’s hips entirely. Now, they could see the ragged edges of the injury, the way it had torn Phantom’s… skin, for lack of better word, apart.

“Whoever, or whatever, he fought must’ve been something vicious,” Jack commented. Green ectoplasm continued to bubble up around his black gloves.

“Loathe as I am to say it, it was a good thing that Phantom dealt with it.” She looked over Phantom’s other injuries, but none seemed as threatening as the one on his side. “Something like this would’ve killed a human almost instantly.”

She picked up the needle, taking it out of its packaging. Using sterile tools might not be necessary, but Phantom was already defying what they knew of ghosts. Better not risk it.

“He must’ve caught it, at least,” Jack said as she threaded the needle. “If he was in the back of our GAV, the fight must’ve ended. Not sure where the Thermos went, though.”

Maddie gestured, and Jack shifted, pinching the injury closed instead of covering it up. She stuck the needle through, swiftly, but Phantom didn’t move.

“Definitely passed out,” she commented, moving to pinch the injury closed herself. “I’ve got this, Jack. Can you go look over the rest of his injuries?”

“Well, he has those bruises on his neck.” Jack paused, placing his fingers against the bare throat. “They seem… finger-like? Like someone tried to strangle him. A ghost my size, maybe?”

She threaded the needle through Phantom’s side again. “But why try to choke him out? That’d do nothing to him, he’s a ghost!”

“Maybe they were trying to snap his neck, instead?” Jack made an uncertain noise, moving up to Phantom’s head. “If he has something like bones, they gotta serve some purpose, right? So maybe breaking his spine would’ve disabled him, like with a human?”

“But as a ghost, his most important part is the core in his chest, not the brain.” She was making steady progress on Phantom’s side. The ghost still hadn’t stirred. He’d better not destabilize, not after all the effort they put into preserving him. “Unless he needs his head for some kind of offensive power, snapping his neck wouldn’t have done them any good.”

“There might not be any logic behind it, anyway,” Jack pointed out. “We’re talking about ghosts, after all. Maybe this wasn’t an attempt at strangling at all, but just the most convenient part for the other ghost to grab.”

He paused, gently probing Phantom’s head. “He definitely has some sort of skull, too. Very human-like, barely any flesh—or ectoplasm��over it. A cut on his temple, kind of deep. Looks like it bled badly, but it’s got some sort of crust over it, now.”

“Normal ectoplasm doesn’t crust… But normal ectoplasm also doesn’t form bone-like structures.” Halfway through the slice on his sides. The ribs still glinted crystalline against a backdrop of green so dark it appeared black. “No other injuries on his head?”

“None that I can see.” Jack hesitated, then ran his fingers through Phantom’s hair. The black of his gloves contrasted starkly against the white of Phantom’s hair. “There’s some dried ectoplasm in here, but I think it all came from that cut on his temple.”

“That’s good, at least. I’m not sure how his head injuries would compare to a human’s.” A few more stitches went into Phantom’s side. “None of the cuts on his chest seemed severe when I checked them out earlier, and I don’t think he has any on his arms, either.”

Jack hummed, walking past her to the other end of the table. “I’ll check out his legs, then.”

As she continued to stitch of Phantom’s side, Jack’s humming paused. His hands wrapped around Phantom’s left leg, gently probing the limb.

“I… think he has a broken leg,” Jack said, abruptly. “It feels like the bone-like structure doesn’t line up right. It’s not that way on the other leg.”

“We might have to set it, then.” Another stitch as she thought it over. “If his flesh injuries heal, his bones probably do as well. He probably doesn’t need his legs to walk, but having the bone grow wrong might stop him from forming his spectral tail.”

She paused, her hands stilling. “How does he form a spectral tail if he has bones?”

“I…” Jack halted too. “I honestly don’t know. He doesn’t move that thing like there’s any bones in it.”

“Maybe…” She continued her work again, pulling the needle through Phantom’s false flesh. “Maybe he can form and dissolve the crystal structures by will? To form bones and then make them go away when they’re a hindrance?”

“In which case we wouldn’t need to set his leg, because he can just reform it properly,” Jack pointed out. It was quiet for a moment as he, presumably, felt out the bones. “It feels like a clean break, at least. We can try waiting it out and offer him a splint if he needs it.”

“That might work.” She finished another stitch, looking over her work. Tied off the thread. “There, this should keep him stable for now. Let’s hope he doesn’t immediately rip it or phase it out when he wakes up.”

Which was baffling her, still. Ghosts don’t pass out; they don’t black out or sleep or go unconscious in any way. Even if Phantom had bones of some sort, what benefit could passing out give him?

“I’ll get a bucket and some cloth.” Jack had wandered off already, having finished his inspection. “We better clean all that ectoplasm off of him, make sure he’s not hiding anything more severe.”

She nodded, placing the needle back in its wrapper. It would have to be thrown out and replaced later; there was no sterilizing a needle so heavily stained with ectoplasm. Speaking of which…

Maddie stripped off her gloves, dropping them on a nearby table, and wandered over to the lab’s closet. It always paid to have a few jumpsuits on hand. One of the bins contained spare gloves, and she quickly pulled a clean pair on.

“I got the stuff!” Jack announced, bustling down the stairs. He had replaced his gloves with clean ones too, at some point. Hopefully before he left the lab and smeared ectoplasm on everything.

“Let’s get him cleaned up, then.” She took one of the cloths out of the water—warm, but not too hot—and pressed it against Phantom’s chest. The ghost made a soft noise, a staticky whine, his fingers twitching.

No further movement came.

They carefully cleaned the ectoplasm off of Phantom’s body; his scars seemed to glow even brighter when they were wet. As Jack finished cleaning off Phantom’s torso, Maddie moved over to his head.

Phantom still had his eyes closed, but they were no longer clenched as tightly. Thick globs of ectoplasm trailed down the side of his face, smeared through his hair.

Gently, she pressed the cloth against his head, just underneath the injury. If it had scabbed over, she didn’t want to reopen it. Phantom moaned, his eyes moving underneath the lids.

It wasn’t a sound, not a human one, but… Maddie could’ve sworn that Phantom called her ‘Mom’.

“Those noises are strange, aren’t they, Jack?” she asked, trying to distract herself from the not-word. Ghosts didn’t do parents; the concept of a mother should be completely foreign to Phantom. “I’ve never heard him speak anything but perfect English.”

“They’re so inhuman!” he agreed, as excited as ever. “The warbling, the almost static sound of them! It must be something lower than true speech, for Phantom to fall back into it when injured.”

Jack tapped on Phantom’s chest, right in the center of the glowing scar. “It’s almost like it comes from his core, sometimes, instead of his mouth. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“But why would ghosts have a basal language of their own?” She rubbed the ectoplasm stains off of Phantom’s cheek, the ghost’s nose twitching when she brushed too close past it. For just a brief moment, she could see green gums, sharp teeth. “They’re not sentient, not even like animals. Right? They would have no need to communicate with each other.”

“Well, if they can learn human languages, I don’t see why they couldn’t have their own.” He shrugged, coming closer to Phantom’s head as well. “They clearly have some form of intelligence, even if it’s limited. They can conceptualize and plan, after all.”

He lifted Phantom’s head, and she started cleaning the ectoplasm out of the ghost’s hair. It was odd, the texture of it just off. A little too slick, too smooth. Not heavy enough, as it seemed to stir even when neither of them touched it.

“I suppose you’re right,” she eventually said. Phantom’s head laid limply in Jack’s hand, the other braced under the ghost’s shoulders. “They must go out of their way to avoid using it around humans, then. I can’t think of a single ghost using it before, not even the animals.”

“It’s definitely weird,” Jack agreed. “And, I was thinking… It doesn’t seem the echo the same way as their voices either, does it?”

She paused, the wet cloth pressed against Phantom’s head. No. No, it certainly hadn’t. “Huh.”

“Maybe they do always speak in it,” Jack continued. “Maybe they just layer actual speech on top of it, usually. Maybe that’s what causes the echo? A voice from their core, for ghosts, and a voice from their throat?”

“I suppose it might be possible.” The clumps of green had mostly been washed out of Phantom’s hair, now, leaving just faint green stains. “I think this is as good as we’ll get it, Jack.”

He nodded, lowering Phantom’s head back onto the table. The ghost stirred again, a little, eyelids clenching and relaxing again. It sniffled, oddly enough, face contorting.

Maddie dropped the cloth back into the bucket of water. They’d definitely need to get rid of all that, too. Ugh. The disadvantages of working with ectoplasm.

Phantom warbled something again. His fingers twitched against the surface of the table.

“Look who’s waking up!” Jack grinned at her, from Phantom’s other side. “About time, Phantom!”

The ghost jerked, suddenly, like a full-body flinch. He hissed, a sound filled with static and pain.

And then he was sitting up, fingers clawing against the surface of the table.

“No you don’t!” she told him, pressing a hand against his chest. Pushed him back against the table. “You’re not tearing those stitches I just put into you.”

His eyes moved to stare at her, the green dull and glassy compared to their usual brightness. He frowned, warbling something at her.

‘why’ her mind told her it meant.

“Down, Phantom.” She pressed harder, and he collapsed back against the table. There was more tension in his body, now. In his false muscles.

Or were they false?

“We found you passed out in the GAV,” Jack explained, tone dropping into something comforting. “You looked close to destabilizing.”

Phantom’s eyes seemed to sharpen, finally, as they darted from her to Jack and back. His left hand wandered to his side.

“Don’t mess with those stitches,” she told him, sharply. He flinched, but dropped the hand. “We didn’t clean you up just so you can wreck all our hard work, you know?”

He licked his lips, tongue vivid green against his pale skin. “Why?” he croaked out, layered so thickly in static she could barely make out the word.

“Why?” she repeated, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Well, you were too interesting a subject to pass up, of course. None of the ghosts we’ve studied so far had bodies as complex as yours. What a waste it would be, to let you melt away like that!”

Phantom pressed flatter against the table. His hands wandered, like he was looking for something. “Now what?”

“Well, there’s no straps on this table, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Jack said, looking down at Phantom. The ghost stilled immediately. Huh. Odd. Why would he know to look for those? “For now, you appear weakened enough that there’s no risk of your escape, but you’re awake enough to answer some questions. Mads?”

“Sounds like a good start,” she agreed. This was probably the most pliable they would get Phantom. “Let’s start easy, shall we? Your leg is broken. Lower left. Do you want a splint for that?”

“I…” Phantom blinked, apparently caught off-guard by her question. “Um. I think I’ll be okay.”

She nodded, watching him carefully. His eyes seemed to brighten, slowly, becoming greener and greener by the second. Even his complexion seemed to gain some color back.

“Did you catch the ghost who roughed you up so badly?” Jack asked, crouching a little so he didn’t tower over Phantom as badly. “Wouldn’t want them to try the same on any humans, after all.”

“No, he’s… He’s not a concern anymore.” Phantom tried to push himself up again, but paused when she glared at him. “He’s… He only has it out for me. Doesn’t really care about the humans.”

Well, that was good, at least. “Is there any risk of him breaking in to chase you?”

“No, I took care of it.” Phantom shook his head, slowly, wobbling a little. “He needs his suit to be a real threat, and I destroyed that.”

A ghost wearing a suit? Something mechanical, then. Maybe like that annoying electric one, which controlled technology, but he didn’t seem all that interested in Phantom.

Must be an unknown ghost. That was… worrisome. The possibility that there was such a dangerous ghost out there that they knew nothing about, running loose in Amity Park.

Phantom seemed uncomfortable, pinned down flat against the table. She supposed that she and Jack were kind of looming over him.

“You can sit up, if you want, but be careful.” She tried to ease her posture, to soften her glare. Phantom was just a ghost, yes, but he was voluntarily giving them information. No point in shutting him down so soon.

The ghost nodded, sliding his hands underneath himself. Slowly, he pushed himself up. Cautiously. His face strained as he did so, briefly, hand sliding closer to the stitches in his side.

Curious. A pain reaction. Could be faked, of course, but it seemed… it seemed genuine. The barely-there hiss of static through his clenched teeth, layered over an almost physical sense of pain.

Maybe that was Phantom’s big trick all along. The ability to make others feel emotions. To somehow convey emotions and feelings that he, himself, did not feel.

“Do you want painkillers for that?” Jack asked, also watching the ghost grimace, hands hovering over the stitches. “Or, uh… Some ghost equivalent?”

Phantom’s eyes slid back to Jack, then Maddie, and back to Jack. “I… If you’ve got some. I need more than a human, though.”

“You want some water to help that go down?” Jack grabbed the first aid kit, digging through its contents for the painkillers. “Or food?”

“Um. Water would be nice. Food…” The oddly mundane sound of a growling stomach. Phantom flushed bright green. “I’d like food, yeah. Um. Thanks.”

Jack handed her the painkillers, already turning towards the stairs. “I’ll be right back with a glass and something to eat. Maddie, you figure out how much to give him.”

She turned the bottle in her hand, searching for the instructions. How did Phantom compare to a human? Was his metabolizing faster? Stronger? Did his ectoplasm somehow form organs, as well as bones? Some sort of non-crystallized solid?

“Um. I probably know how much I’ll need if you tell me what kind that is,” Phantom said, interrupting her train of thought. Her eyes snapped from the bottle to him. His shoulders were drawn up, tense.

“What?” she asked, still working through the sentence. “Oh, it’s… paracetamol. We don’t usually need painkillers for this sort of stuff.”

He nodded understandingly, and Maddie wondered how much of it he really did understand. His structure was definitely more complicated than that of most ghosts. He had bones, musculature, apparently even organs. Was it really that far-fetched to think that he might have something like nerves, too? That he might feel pain, or at least understand it?

“The teen portion, but up it by half, then.” He opened his hand, and only then seemed to realize that he wasn’t wearing his gloves, because he froze up. Stared down at his bare, heavily scarred hand. “Wh— Why am I not wearing my jumpsuit anymore?”

“We had to take it off to check your injuries.” She uncapped the bottle of painkillers, keeping Phantom in her peripherals. “And you seemed to have a structure underneath the jumpsuit, unlike most ghosts. We didn’t want to risk damage by sewing the two together.”

Phantom hummed at that. “I… thanks. I don’t think that that’d be good, yeah.”

“Well, it would be a shame to let you destabilize just like that, wouldn’t it?” She shook out a few pills into his hand. This was just… a study. An ordinary ghost wouldn’t have any desire for painkillers, and it definitely wouldn’t be able to process them. But would Phantom be any different?

“Yeah…” He made a face, hand curling closed around the painkillers like she might take them away again. “Well, thanks anyway, I suppose.”

Jack’s thudding footsteps sounded, and he appeared down the stairs. In one hand, he held a glass of water. In the other, a plate with a few sandwiches. “Sorry, we didn’t have anything quicker.”

He walked up closer, handing the glass to Phantom first. The ghost took it in his empty hand, fingers carefully wrapping around it, slick with condensation.

“Thanks.” The ghost raised the hand with pills to his mouth first, dropping them all in before chasing them with a big gulp of water. He made a face, following it with several smaller sips of water. “Eugh. That stuff never tastes good, does it?”

“It’s not supposed to taste good,” she pointed out, quirking an eyebrow. “You realize that, right?”

“Of course I do, I’m not an idiot.” He leaned backwards slightly, emptying the rest of the glass in one go. “Doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”

He handed the glass back to Jack, exchanging it for one of the sandwiches. Didn’t even try to grab the whole plate.

“Are you sure you don’t want more?” Jack asked, gesturing the plate at Phantom. “Those are some serious injuries to heal from.”

“Yeah, I guess, but…” Phantom shrugged, taking another bite of the sandwich before continuing. “It’s getting late. Wouldn’t want to ruin my appetite.”

Maddie could feel her eyebrow raising. “Dinner plans, Phantom?”

“I… uh.” His shoulders came up, suddenly, as he seemed to remember where he was. “Kinda, yeah…”

He took another bite of the sandwich, dropping his eyes down to his loosely folded legs.

Phantom looked like a scolded kid. It was the only thing she could think off. The way he curled up on himself, the tension in his shoulders. It just reminded her so, so much of Danny, whenever she scolded him.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, and she cursed herself. She couldn’t feel sorry for him. He was just a ghost! He was— he was doing it on purpose, to make her feel bad! To make them let him go!

The ghost continued eating in complete silence. His hair hung down over his face, barely moving anymore. The lines of his shoulders taught.

“Look, Phantom…” She paused, looking over at Jack. He shrugged back, looking equally unsure of himself. “We’re ghost hunters. We can’t just… let a ghost go.”

“Especially not one as fascinating as I am?” he sneered back, bitterly. He looked up, suddenly, venomous green meeting her eyes. “That’s all I am in the end, huh? No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I let myself get hurt just so no one else has to! In the end I’m just some ghost, to cut up and experiment on!”

She flinched back, involuntarily. The glow around his body, barely visible before, had flared out with his temper.

“It’s not like that,” Jack tried, feebly.

“No?” Phantom hissed back, the warble of static layered heavily over his voice once more. “Then what is this, huh?”

“We’re helping you.” She straightened her back, her fists balling automatically. “We’ve stitched you up, given you painkillers, fed you.”

“Because you didn’t want to lose me,” he countered. His lips curled, showing her once more those green gums and vicious teeth. Fangs. He’d had fangs all along, and she had never noticed until he bared them at her. “Because I was such a precious study object! And the painkillers, the food—”

He flung out an arm. “I bet that all that was just a test, to see if I was faking any of it! Could I really process food? Do painkillers really work on me? Wow!”

“Would you have preferred it if we hadn’t done any of that?” she snapped back. “That we’d left you smearing ectoplasm all over the place until you destabilized?”

“Doing the right thing for the wrong reason doesn’t make it good!” His glow flickered wildly, coalescing and twirling like flames. His eyes burned bright like a jack-’o-lantern’s. “Just because you helped me doesn’t make you the better person!”

“You are the one who broke into our vehicle.” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. Getting into a shouting match would accomplish nothing. “You passed out in the back of the Ghost Assault Vehicle.”

That seemed to take all the wind out of his sails. Phantom spluttered, but his glow dimmed significantly already. “I— That’s not what we were talking about!”

“You practically served yourself up to us,” she continued, her voice flat. “What else did you expect, a heavily injured ghost unconscious in the vehicle of ghost hunters?”

His shoulders came up again, Phantom halfway through curling up in a ball. He muttered venomously, some ghost-speak noise again.

And, again, Maddie somehow understood exactly what he said.

‘parents,’ he had hissed, from the very center of his being. An almost sardonic tone to it, somehow.

“Look, Phantom,” Jack said, picking up Maddie’s slack. “We’re ghost hunters. Supposedly, so are you. We found a potentially dangerous ghost in our vehicle without our knowledge, and we made the decision to patch you up. Regardless of the reasoning behind it, what else would you have wanted us to do? What would you have done, in this situation?”

“I…” Phantom sighed, blowing the hair out of his face. “I would’ve patched them up, too. But I definitely wouldn’t have told them that I saved them just because they were so fascinating, because I wanted nothing more than to experiment on them.”

“Would you have rather had us lie to you?” Jack asked, bluntly. “Would you rather have had us tell you that we patched you up out of the goodness of our hearts?”

“I… no.” Phantom shook his head, wrapped his arms around his bare chest. The picture of uncertainty. “No, because I know you would’ve been lying. You’ve been hunting ghosts for research for ages. Me, especially. There’s no way you would’ve patched me up out of kindness.”

“So then what do you want from us?” Maddie asked, shoving her thoughts to the back of her mind for now. “You didn’t want us to let you dissipate in our van. You didn’t want us to lie about why we helped you, but you don’t want us to tell you truth about that, either. What option does that leave?”

Phantom gritted his teeth, his glow suddenly brightening and immediately dimming again. “I don’t know! I just— Can’t you just be nice! Couldn’t you just fix me up out of the goodness of your hearts and mean it?!”

His fingers clawed in his hair as he curled even further into a ball, only the broken leg staying in its place. His shoulders were taught with tension, shaking lightly.

It sounded like… like he was sniffling.

Crying?

She grimaced, turning to look at Jack. He, too, seemed completely thrown off by the display.

It was just…

It was so genuine.

The shaking of the shoulders, the soft sounds of muffled crying, the barely visible glint of tears, the hitch in his breath, the soft keening of his core.

The hitch of his breath?

Hesitantly, Jack reached out. Placed one of his hands on Phantom’s shoulders—so big it almost covered the entire area. “Shh, kiddo.”

Phantom shook harder, but didn’t try to throw off Jack’s hand. The hitching of his breath was clearly audible now.

And Maddie…

Maddie didn’t know what to do. She knew how to comfort kids, and her heart clenched, demanded she help this teen, too. This kid that reminded her so much of her Danny.

But she didn’t know what to do. Phantom was supposed to be just another ghost. An ectoplasmic abomination that had lied and faked its way into everyone’s hearts.

Not this.

Not a teen, warbling “mom” at a stranger who cleaned his wounds. Not a teen who had hidden in their car when he’d gotten too injured to get away, searching for something that reminded him of his parents. For someone who’d keep him safe like his parents would’ve, should’ve.

“Oh, Phantom,” she said, threading her fingers through his hair. It was soft, still wet where she’d cleaned it. Still stained faintly green from his own ectoplasm. “Oh, honey… Why have you hidden this for so long? You are so… so human.”

He keened again, shaking harder under their hands. And in the sound, she heard ‘love acceptance warmth caring’ and ‘not me not mine not for ghosts’.

And for once, Maddie Fenton ignored her curiosity to focus on the crying ghost in their lab.

“Shh,” she told him, soothingly combing her fingers through his messy hair. “It’ll be alright, Phantom. We… It was our mistake. We were wrong.”

“We were so wrong,” Jack chimed in, rubbing circles on Phantom’s back. “We… You’re just a kid. How long have you been dead, kiddo? How old are you really?”

Phantom sniffled, and, voice warbling with emotion, said, “Two years. I— Sixteen.”

“Oh, sweetie.” He was so human, so young. He could’ve been her own son. “We’ve been so wrong. We never should’ve shot at you, never should’ve threatened you.”

“We let our assumptions lead us,” Jack agreed, quiet. Soft. “Phantom, we’re so sorry. Hey, shh. It’ll be alright.”

The ghost, so human and yet not, shook his head. Only slightly, just enough that Maddie’s hand didn’t dislodge.

“We’ll make it alright,” Maddie promised him, instead. Fierce, sharp. Determined. “Let us make it up, Phantom. Let us pay for our mistakes.”

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbled back, so quiet she could barely hear him. “Lemme leave.”

“Of course you can,” Jack assured him, still rubbing circles on Phantom’s back. “We won’t stop you, kiddo. We just want you to be safe.”

Phantom sniffled again. Slowly turned his head, until a single vivid green eye looked up at Maddie.

It was ringed with red, green-tinted tears still tracking down over his cheek.

“Do you?” he asked. He sounded… shattered. The echo of ghost-speak behind his voice wavered like glass in a storm.

“You’re just some kid in way over your head.” Maddie let her hand drop from his head, instead trying to convey her genuineness through her gaze. “You’re… barely a teenager. No one can—no one should—blame you for any of the damages you’ve caused, trying to help.”

“You’ve tried so hard, despite your death,” Jack chimed in, his hand stilling too. “You’ve died, and you’re still so good.”

“You’re so good, Phantom. I wish you were one of ours.” Maddie reached forward, slowly, wiping the tears off of his cheek. “If you ever need us, for anything, please don’t hesitate to come by.”

“I—” Phantom’s voice crackled, and he sniffled again. Wiped his own hand past the other eye. “I don’t— I can’t—”

“Please just promise us that.” Jack let his hand slip off of Phantom’s back, placing it on the edge of the table instead. He, too, stared pleadingly at Phantom. “We won’t force you to do anything, kiddo, we’re just asking. Let us help.”

Maddie slid the stained gloves over towards Phantom. “Phantom, we obviously remind you of your parents.”

The ghost hunched up again, slightly. Green spread over his cheeks like a blush. She pushed on. “You called me Mom when I cleaned off your wounds. You hid in the GAV because you felt safe in it, because it reminded you of your parents. They’re obviously not here, because you’ve died or because they’ve died or because of some combination of those, but you’re still allowed to want that comfort. And we are willing to give you that. It’s the least we can do, to repay what we’ve done to you, what we’ve threatened you with.”

“I—” His breath hitched again. “I don’t… I’ll keep it in mind.”

Well, she supposed they could hardly push for more. She didn’t think she’d be so open to accepting help from them either, if she’d been in Phantom’s place.

“Please do,” she told him instead. Patted him on the right knee. “Whatever it is, whatever you’re struggling with. You’re always welcome at our place. Okay?”

“Okay,” he whispered back. He wiped over his face again. “I gotta… I gotta get going.”

“Dinner plans, right?” She stepped backwards to give him some space. “You’d better eat well, young man.”

Phantom grunted, a noise vaguely underlined with acceptance. He stuck his arms through his sleeves, carefully pulling the jumpsuit back up over his upper body.

“And be careful with your injuries.” Jack handed Phantom the gloves, having apparently scooped them off of the table at some point. “Those stitches in your side will need some time to heal before you take them out, and your broken leg… Well, you’d know better than us how it heals, but still.”

“I know how to take care of myself,” Phantom grumbled back, pulling on his gloves. He grimaced at the left one, more green than white with his spilled ectoplasm. It had dried, crackling uncomfortably as he moved his fingers. “Despite the evidence of the contrary.”

He pushed himself off of the table, suddenly. Maddie jerked forward automatically, but Phantom hovered above the ground, his leg held limply.

The ghost raised further up, until he floated at their eye level. “I… Thanks. For helping me. And… the apologies, I guess.”

“It was the least we could do,” she assured him, crossing her arms loosely. “Please, Phantom, come to us if you need anything.”

“I’ll… keep it in mind.” He shimmered, turning transparent. Then, suddenly, he dove upwards, and then he was gone.

“Well…” Jack cleared his throat. “That… That happened.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, looking at the empty table. It’s surface was stained green with Phantom’s ectoplasm, a small puddle left where he’d bled the worst. “God, Jack. What have we done?”

“Something we’ve learned from. Something we won’t ever do again.” He looked up, meeting her eyes. “That’s all we can do, Mads. Make amends to the best of our abilities.”

She nodded, slowly. “We’d better get working on cleaning the lab. We’ll need to go through all our research on ghosts, strip it down to the base observations. Start over from scratch.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed a thumb over the edge of the stain on the table, absentmindedly. “But first, we should focus on our own kids, I think.”

Maddie paused. Turned to look at the clock. “Oh lord, you’re right. I’d better get started on dinner.”

“I’ll start on cleaning the lab.” Jack nodded at the stairs. “You go take care of the wonderful kids we already have, instead of worrying about Phantom.”

“Thanks, honey.” She pressed a kiss against his cheek, before turning to rush up the stairs.

He was right. They already had two wonderful kids. Worrying about Phantom would do them no good, not unless the ghost would accept their help.

The door to the kitchen swung open, and Maddie stared in the startled blue eyes of her son, the lingering sounds of the conversation she’d just cut short between him and his sister.

“Oh, kids, I’m so sorry. I’ll get started on dinner right away.”

“Something distracting in the lab?” Jazz asked, getting out of her chair. “Can I help?”

“If you could help me peel these potatoes, that’d be wonderful…” She passed a pan and a knife to Jazz. “And, yes, I suppose you could say as much.”

Danny laughed. She turned to look at him, at his cautious grin. “Must be something big.”

“Yeah,” she answered, watching him angle his head slightly. Letting his black hair slide down his face, parting just right for her to see a flash of dark red against pale skin. A scab on his temple, right where… right where Phantom had had a scab, too.

But… surely that couldn’t be?

No, it was just her mind playing things off.

Right?

[alex-wire-mesh]

Flat Flex Conveyor Belt

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[saoirse-lyons]

A Delicate Job

The heavy mahogany front door of the Onyx Court Jewellers storefront swung open, and Saoirse Lyons swept into the room. Above her head, an intricate chime crafted from the store’s namesake crystal emitted a soft jingle to announce her entry. A well-dressed elezen greeter welcomed her, and she gave her a small nod, smiling politely. The shop itself was relatively small, but lavishly appointed, with plush velvet carpets and three spacious counters of white marble veined with pearlescent seams. Several customers milled about the place, appraising the fine jewelry in their glass display cases, and consulting with attendants at the counters; they were enjoying the illusion that their city’s wealth was not built on the backs of the destitute, and that gang warfare was not the lifeblood of their commerce. The only thing breaking the deception was the armed guard with a scarred lip hovering in a shadowy corner near the door -- as well as the flint-eyed street toughs they’d seen milling about the surrounding street.

Saoirse paused, glancing over her shoulder as Lirene Harte pushed through the door behind her, the tall muscular woman in her street-sullied leather jacket standing out like a sore thumb in the upper crust establishment. Lir took stock of their surroundings with a dark glower that Saoirse thought might not have been entirely inspired by her request of her bodyguard to look intimidating. The memory of their whispered quarrel about the timing of their approach was still fresh on Saoirse’s mind. It had to be now, she told herself again, pushing aside the doubts Lir had raised. This is our best chance.

A large Roegadyn man in a well-tailored black gown pushed through a door from a back room and pulled a ledger from behind one of the counters. His white-streaked hair was coiffed into traditional flared tips, and she could tell even through his modest suit that he was far more muscular than one would expect from a jeweller -- even a Roegadyn. That’s our target, Saoirse realized, carefully composing her expression into a mask of critical interest as she swept toward the counter, tilting her head upward so she was looking down her nose at the much taller man. She had found that an austere appearance helped her to look older than she was, and made others more likely to take her seriously in spite of her youth and her slight build. In their rush to arrive, Saoirse had not had time to change into something more modest than her Ul’dahn street clothes, so she had simply pulled her hair into a tight bun and donned a high-collared traveling mantle. It would have to do.

The man’s eyes flicked up to Saoirse as she approached. He flipped the ledger shut and tucked it behind the counter in one smooth motion. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said, clasping his hands before him on the marble countertop. “How may I help you today?”

“Lisbet Toller,” she said, affording the man a small smile as she rested her hands on the countertop in front of her. Flexing the fingers of one black-gloved hand to catch the man’s eye, she briefly pushed aside the fabric of her ruffled sleeve on the inside of her wrist to reveal the small broach hidden under the folds of cloth -- citrine carved in the shape of a dahlia, set into a black field. “I’m here to collect an order. I believe that Mr. Templeton was seeing to it personally.”

“I see,” the man replied smoothly, his smile freezing at the sight of the broach before he shifted his gaze back to Saoirse. “I am afraid that Mr. Templeton is out dealing with a supplier at the moment, my lady. We expect that he will return within the hour, at which point I am certain he will be glad to assist you with your receipt.”

“Yes, Mr. Templeton has been a difficult man to track down of late, hasn’t he?” Saoirse mused, tilting her head to the side as she held the man’s gaze intently. “No doubt his hands are full with all the new business you’ve been pulling in. It’s truly wonderful to see the street full of fresh customers.” She watched the man shift his weight uncomfortably and knew that he had picked up her roundabout reference to the toughs they’d seen loitering in the street nearby on their way in; rival gang members, if their intelligence was good.

“I assure you, Miss Toller, that Mr. Templeton’s priority remains filling orders in an expedient fashion for our oldest and most loyal customers, such as yourself.” He tipped his head forward in a deferential bow. “Please accept my apology and assurance that upon his return, he --”

“Actually, Mr. River,” Saoirse broke in, “I see no reason why we couldn’t collect the order from you now.” She was pleased to see the Roegadyn man’s serene expression flicker slightly as she dropped his name. “You see,” she continued, lowering her voice slightly as she half-turned to gesture over her shoulder to where Lir was standing, “my partner has been eagerly anticipating this shipment for some time now, and I would be loath to disappoint her.” She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. “She can be quite rude, you know. It would be dreadful if she were to cause a scene in front of your other customers.”

Behind her Lir’s leather jacket creaked as she moved. In the polished black wall behind the Roegadyn, Saoirse could see her bodyguard folding her arms across her chest, her dark glower shifting while she made her appraisal of the man before them. A hard smile was now reflected in the glass, though it did not reach her dark eyes as she fixed them on his. With her unkempt hair and scarred, sunburnt features Lir certainly looked the type to cause a scene -- and enjoy doing it.

The Roegadyn man, Grim River, fidgeted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking between Lir and Saoirse, the few finely-dressed customers, and the guard at the door. He was making his calculations, Saoirse thought, disciplining her expression into one of relaxed confidence as she waited courteously for his reply.

“...Of course, madam,” he said at length, his tone slightly sour in spite of his polite mannerisms. Pushing away from the counter, he gestured for the door leading into the back. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

Saoirse gave the man a warm smile and strolled toward the door, Lir following with a brusque stride. The bodyguard managed to look vaguely disappointed as they passed Grim River, as if his reasonable response had deprived her of an activity she’d truly been looking forward to.  

They crossed through a narrow hallway and through a double-locked door into a larger wood-paneled room. The walls were packed with workbenches over which hung jewellers’ tools, coiled metal wires, and tiny cubbies labeled with names and grades of various gemstones. In the center of the room was a wide flat oaken table. Grim River cleared a leather-wrapped bundle of silver ingots from its surface, then moved to retrieve a small lidded box from a concealed cubby in the paneled wall. Setting the box before Saoirse, he turned the lock with a small brass key and cracked it open to reveal a gleaming jumble of jewelry -- mithril rings, silver bangles, gold talismans, and electrum belt buckles all competed for her attention, and each of them carried the subtle pulse of power that indicated they were packed with materia.

Grim River took a step backward, crossing his arms as he filled the doorway, keeping an eye on both of them as he waited for Saoirse to complete her inspection. Beside her, Lirene leaned back against the edge of the table between Saoirse and Grim River, her posture casual even as she tilted her head upwards, chin jutting forward as she met Roegadyn's gaze.

Ignoring both Lir and the Roegadyn’s posturing, Saoirse set to work immediately, spreading a leather tool roll open on the table to reveal a collection of arcane resonators, lenses, and measuring devices, and a small number of crystals. Work swiftly, but appear unhurried, she reminded herself. Taking a long, slow breath through her nose, she began assembling the necessary implements. A full inspection might have taken hours, but they didn’t have time for that. Instead, she would focus her scrutiny on a single trait -- one that would confirm her employer’s suspicions.

She set out a small electrum plate with a hole for a post on one side, then selected a gold bracelet from the box and set it carefully in the center. Slipping a tuning fork from the roll, she struck it once against the edge of the table to produce a sustained tone, and slipped it carefully into the post hole of the plate. As the tone reverberated through the metal plate and the bauble upon it, she raised a lens in either hand and bent over the bracelet, peering through both lenses toward the place where the materia met the gold setting. Arcane tessellations bloomed into view through the nested lenses, kaleidoscoping amid the tonal resonance emitted by the fork. Shifting and turning her lenses this way and that, Saoirse sifted through the visual mosaic until at last she found what she had been looking for -- a foaming line of fractals interrupting the otherwise perfect pattern, encircling the join of the materia to the bracelet.

Keeping her expression neutral, Saoirse set the bracelet back in the box and repeated the process with three other pieces of jewelry, finding the same fracture in the pattern around every materia socketed into them. As she worked, she divided her attention between the jewelry and the rest of the room, casting surreptitious glances through the lens until her eyes landed on a dim sliver of arcane refraction underneath a floorboard. Sloppy work, she thought, affording herself a small smile while her back was still turned toward Grim River. Finishing her work in silence, she tucked the jewelry back into its box and snapped the lid shut.

“Mr. River,” Saoirse sighed, clasping her hands on the table in front of her. “I am certain that you do not take us for fools.” She did not turn toward him as she spoke, forcing the man to move away from the door to the opposite side of the table in order to see her face.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” he said, leaning on his knuckles against the table as he loomed over her.

Saoirse resumed her pleasant smile, although it did not touch her eyes this time as she continued in a cool tone. “The original materia have been removed from these pieces, and replaced with weaker substitutes. Work like that leaves a scar, Mr. River.”

A flicker of… something passed across the man’s features, but he recovered quickly with a smooth reply. “Miss Toller, we are moving these items in the state we received them. If the materia have been tampered with, it must have happened before they were turned over to us.”

“We might be inclined to believe that, if you’d not been sitting on this shipment for weeks,” Saoirse said, her smile frozen on her face as she held the man’s stare. “This scarring is days old. Days -- not weeks.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle in the silence as she watched his expression carefully. “Do I need to fetch you an abacus, Mr. River?”

Grim River’s placid expression soured as he leaned toward her, the table groaning an objection as his weight settled heavily against it. Saoirse drew in a breath at the man’s abrupt change of demeanor and beside her Lir stood, her hand falling to Saoirse's shoulder in a protective gesture. On impulse Saoirse splayed out her fingers atop the table, signaling to Lir to stay her hand and watch how this played out. There was a pause, and then Lir withdrew her hand and stepped back again though her eyes remained fixed sharply on Grim. When he spoke at last Grim’s voice was low and agitated. “That thrice-damned liar! I warned the man away from those greenhorns. He’s going to ruin us with this farce!”

Taking in the man’s disgruntlement, Saoirse pivoted to a different tactic. “Would you have me believe that Mr. Templeton did not keep you apprised of his intentions? You -- his second?”

“I was aware of his new friends. A little extra muscle, he said. I suspected he was dipping from our shipments to pay them off, but I never thought he’d stoop to such idiocy as double-dealing against the Citrine Seal.”

“Mr. River, I don’t know whether you’re fully aware of the value of these goods,” Saoirse said, nodding toward the box, “but it would be quite a substantial sum for a little extra muscle.” She eyed Grim askance. “And if you’re truly unaware of Mr. Templeton’s plans, one wonders whether the man might be courting a new subordinate.”

“One wonders indeed,” the Roegadyn said indignantly, smacking the flat of his palm against the table, the impact causing the delicate instruments to jar at the impact. Yelping, Saoirse caught a lens before it could bounce to the floor. Grim didn’t seem to notice. “That sodden-witted buffoon seeks to supplant me, does he? The whoreson’s both a fool and a coward!”

Saoirse huffed as she began reassembling her kit. “Mr. River, normally I am not one to tell you how to manage your business, but if you are to outlive Mr. Templeton’s maneuverings, then I advise you to keep your head. Now,” she paused, slipping the delicate lenses back into their holsters, “there is the matter of the materia we are owed. The authentic ones -- not these flaccid pretenders.”

Grunting, the Roegadyn folded his arms across his chest. “I would naturally be inclined to do so, madam, but as the rogue has not informed me of his dealings, I know not where he has squirreled the cargo.”

Saoirse gestured offhandedly in the direction of the sliver of arcanima she had witnessed earlier. “Check the floorboard beneath the green chest, Mr. River,” she said, tightening the cinch on her tool roll and slipping it into her satchel. Grim eyed the chest curiously, then turned a confused look back to Saoirse. “And please do not reveal to the man how sloppy his hired arcanist is,” she continued, encouraging him toward the chest again with a nod of her head. “If the man is going to hide things from us, we’d much prefer for him to hide them poorly.”

They were leaving the shop just minutes later, after leaving instructions for the Roegadyn to lay low for a few days while the Seal cleaned up his boss’s mess. Saoirse suspected there would be a change in management, and resolved to put a good word in for Grim River. Tucking the small unassuming wooden chest that contained the real materia under her arm, she and Lir swiftly made their way back through the lobby and into the sweltering city streets beyond -- not noticing as they passed that the guard in the storefront corner had gone missing...

To be continued...

[ruluxe]

NSFW EDITION

WHEN YOU SEE THIS, SHARE 3 RANDOM LINES PARAGRAPHS SNIPPETS/EXCERPTS FROM 3 WIPS (bc I've been looking through my WIPs for over an hour and can't find just paragraphs)

sidenote: i haven't written in a long time, so all of these fics are really old and not current WIPs (under the cut)

1. Man on a Ledge - KariAzu - Karino Kōhei/Azusa Yūya | Caste Heaven (Point Break Series, 2015)

“Don’t make me do that again.” It’s hot with an accusation that would suggest something akin to romantic sentiment but Karino’s words aren't meant to be caring and they drag down Azusa's spine like thick blocks of ice.

“Fuck you,” Azusa hisses and he tries to get up but moves too quickly. His legs are jellied and his knees buckle and he falls back inelegantly, the edge of the couch barely catching him. He doesn’t wait for himself to regain some semblance of control over his body; Azusa refuses to let Karino see him weak. “What you did had nothing to do with me.”

Karino finally turns, his face unsmiling and his eyes flat but the look Azusa gets cuts through him like a knife. “Of course it did. It had everything to do with you. You needed to be reminded of your place —”  

“Oh careful,” Azusa sneers. “That almost sounds like you give a shit. Are you saying I needed to be reminded of my place at your side? Give me a fucking break.”

“My side?” Karino cackles and it's such an ugly sound, hollow and unworldly. “You must have hit your head a lot harder than I anticipated.” He takes long strides to cross the room until he’s hovering over Azusa. “Your place isn't at my side, you fucking target. It's at my feet, doing whatever I tell you to do. It's on your back with your legs spread wide just for me, like the fucking whore you are.” 

2. Say it Like You Mean it - KiKasa - Kasamatsu Yukio/Kise Ryōta | Kuroko no Basuke (PWP, 2017)

"Say that to me," he says, biting and pulling at Kasamatsu's lip, grinning like he's up to no good. And he isn't, not really.

"Say what? You idiot," growls Kasamatsu, the other's grip relaxing in his hair. Kise's eyes are drawn to Kasamatsu's mouth as he slides his tongue over his lip like he's trying to assuage the assault. Kise moves in, tastes the warmth off the other's mouth, follows the same path across Kasamatsu's lips with his own tongue. Kise can hear the sharp inhale and feel the other's nails scrape at his scalp as Kasamatsu opens his mouth but Kise doesn't take the bait.

"Say what he said. Tell me to get down on my knees." Kise slides his hand down Kasamatsu's chest, hooks his thumb into the elastic waistband of the other's shorts. "Call me a slut," he breathes against Kasamatsu's lips.

"You're ridiculous," the other snaps, pulling harder at his hair. "You want me to purposely degrade you? That will turn you on?"

"Humour me."

Kasamatsu heaves a sigh. "Get on your knees, slut." His tone his flat, like he's bored and completely unfazed by what's going on.

"Say it like you mean it," urges Kise, spreading his fingers over the hard shape of Kasamatsu's cock. Kise guesses he was wrong, and Kasamatsu just has a very good poker face.

Kasamatsu grunts, the fingers in Kise's hair flex and tighten so much that it hurts and suddenly he can feel the other applying pressure like he's forcing Kise down to the floor.

"Get on your knees. Slut," rasps Kasamatsu and this time he sounds like he means it, like his voice is made of cold, hard steel. Electricity crackles up his spine. Kise capitulates, allows the other to guide him down as he drops to his knees. There's a swooping feeling in Kise's stomach as Kasamatsu jerks his head back and he's looking up into blue eyes that are nearly eclipsed by black. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Mhm," Kise hums, looking up at Kasamatsu through his hair. "Now tell me what you want me to do."

Despite the hesitation Kise sees in the other's heaved shoulders, colour rises in Kasamatsu's cheeks as he licks over his lips. He looks uncertain but interested and his eyes don't flick to the television when the muffled moans of the woman can be heard. "Undress," he says finally, his tone still firm but lacking the grit Kise was hoping for.

Kise complies, reaches under the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head. His hair catches in the collar and when he gets it off, he drops it to the floor as seductively as possible. He blinks up at Kasamatsu, bites his lip as he pouts. "Like this?"

Kasamatsu sighs and for a second Kise thinks this is over before it even begins, that Kasamatsu really is too straight-arrowed for this sort of kink to work. But then he straightens, folds his arms over his chest and scowls.

"Stop looking at me with that idiotic face. I want you, not a porn star."

3. In the Silence - Sheith - Takeshi Shirogane/Keith | Voltron Legendary Defender (Zombie au, 2018)

Instead he settles for sliding fingers under Shiro's chin, tipping it upwards so when he dips in it's at a better angle to slot their mouths together. Shiro's lips are as warm as the blossoming in Keith's chest, slowly swallowing the pain. His hands find purchase in Shiro's hair as he fits between the other's legs. His tongue sweeps the inside of Shiro's mouth as Shiro's hands firmly grip his ass. 

"Come to bed," he says when he catches a breath. 

Shiro looks up at him as his hands begin working at undoing Keith's belt buckle and unzipping his jeans. The reflection of flames dance wildly in his eyes.  "Not yet."

Keith groans, a protest cut short the minute Shiro's mouth slips over his cock. Tingling heat meanders up his spine and coils in his stomach. Shiro wraps a hand around the base of his cock, twisting up as his mouth slides down. Keith cups his chin, guiding him as his thumb presses against Shiro's bottom lip. He watches with bated breath as Shiro's cheeks hollow and fill, only exhaling when Shiro pulls off to lap a slick stripe from between his sac up the bottomside of his shaft. 

"Shit, Shiro," he gasps, head falling back as he grabs a fistful of Shiro's hair. It's been so long since they've touched each other like this. 

Shiro moans around his cock and the vibration travels through his body like the thrum of a taut wire, rocking him back on his heels. He follows Shiro's head with his hand, tightening his grip when Shiro reaches the base of his cock and holds it there; the other's nose crushed against his abdomen, the heat from his breath sticking to his skin. Shiro huffs a laugh as he sucks at his sac. Keith releases him and Shiro pulls back, thumbing over the head of his cock. He dips in, wraps his lips and tongue around the head. 

"Shiro —"

He looks up at Keith then, his pupils blown to pools of obsidian. He licks at his lips and Keith's stomach swoops and tightens, the heat under his skin nearly unbearable. 

"I'm gonna come," Keith says, breathless, dragging his thumb across Shiro's spit sheen lips. 

Shiro takes his thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip. "Mm," he hums, "not yet baby." 

Keith leans down, snaking his arms around Shiro's neck. He grins before kissing him, the taste of salt still on his tongue. "Then bed, now." 

Shiro offers him a wicked smile, one he hasn't seen in a long time. He returns the kiss, snagging Keith's bottom lip between his teeth. "Or here, now." He stands from the chair and Keith takes a step back to allow him space. 

"Here… now," Keith parrots with a grin, watching as Shiro reaches out, grips his hips with both hands and pulls him in. He slides a hand between them, wrapping it around Keith's cock. 

"Yeah," Shiro says, stroking. "Here. The floor, the table, the counter. Take your pick." 

[lamrien]

💋--kissing roughly for you-know-who and i'm already sorry about it :/

“Is it yours?” Lucien asks, voice flat. They’re standing in the kitchen across from each other. Lucien’d been digging through the fridge when Ronan came in. The tile’s stained red. He’s set his phone on the counter-top, next to Ronan’s jacket, crumpled up and worse-for-wear. It’ll need to be dry-cleaned, at least, if not thrown out entirely. His hair’s a mess. And his shirt– Lucien’s heart has decided to perch in his throat and it’s thundering so loud he feels like all other sound is drowned out. Maybe the worst part is he doesn’t really know why.

“Of course not,” Ronan says, incredulous. He’s already working at the buttons of his shirt, starting at the bottom, but his fingers aren’t really doing anything. They’re not unbuttoning. They’re just. Sitting. On top of the buttons. There’s a stutter to his movements, half-hesitant. Lucien takes a step forward, hands flexing, arms already outstretched.

But there’s still– there’s still blood. It smells like it, and looks like it, metallic and sharp in the air. And it’s not like he’s never seen it before, but it’s different, loathe as he is to admit it, when it’s on Ronan and not some stranger he’s never spoken with. There is a strangeness to this, and the distance between them, less than a foot apart, standing in their shared kitchen that they don’t really share and looking at each other. Lucien, for a few unbearable moments, is left to watch and wring his hands and worry. And Ronan is looking at Lucien like he can see it on his face, like he knows Lucien doesn’t know what to do, and he hates it.

You could hear a pin drop, and then:

“Do I want to know?”

“Would you care if I told you?” Oh, and that’s a little harsh, a little meaner than he’s used to, but Lucien’s no fool. Ronan’s still a little rough around the edges, obviously.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Oh, please.

“You’re just – the worst. The absolute worst. I don’t even know why I bother to…” he’s beset by his own internal ramblings, voice kept at a low mumble while he finally snaps back into his own body. It’s enough to break the ice and he makes quick work of the buttons, all filigree, golden and shining and splattered with little drops of crimson. If it were anyone else it might have been awkward, standing in each other’s space, just, you know, breathing, but they’re at least comfortable with each other by now. They’d have to be. Lucien wouldn’t have married him otherwise, he thinks. Ronan shrugs the shirt off when he’s done and he’s not shaking anymore, but he’s got a look in his eyes like a frenzied beast, a little manic. It’s out of character, for him, or what Lucien’s seen of him, what Ronan’s willing to show.

He makes a decision for the both of them. He hadn’t been planning on spending the night, but he is, now, and Ronan’s just going to have to live with it. He’s still holding the shirt, so Lucien pries it from his hands and leaves it by the doorway. The kitchen floor and counter-top and jacket can all wait until tomorrow, when it’s not close to midnight and they’re not both the way that they are. “I want to shower and then go to bed.” I, he says, but really means you, and Ronan’s smart enough to trail after him, ever-obedient when he wants to be. The bathroom’s plenty big for the both of them but Lucien hates looking in the mirror that takes up most of the fucking wall, so he focuses on getting the water warm instead, sleeves rolled up to his elbow.

Ronan’s tired enough – or wired enough – that he doesn’t bother playing games. There’s the sound of shoes being kicked off, a belt buckle, fabric hitting the floor, and then he’s under the water before Lucien can warn him that it’s hot. Ronan waves off his bare-minimum fussing and turns the knob so it’s lukewarm and then sits atop the built-in rest in the shower. Installed for days where even physiotherapy doesn’t do the trick with his leg, Lucien knows that, but it’s got other purposes, too. Convenient, when they were younger and playing at being even younger than that.

Ronan’s got gray in his hair and crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. Lucien, if he does bother to look at himself closely, can see that the bags under his eyes are not going to go away, no matter how much sleep he gets. His left shoulder gets sore right before it rains, and he’s never quite understood the science of that, but it’s a neat little trick in spite of the pain. Verona, by most standards, is a city with a young soul. A soul in love. They’re about to turn the corner and outgrow it, he’s sure, but chances are, Ronan doesn’t care. And neither does he, now that he thinks about it. Ronan’s watching him like he knows something, one brow raised and the other set in a knowing sort of smile. Lucien matches the entire expression save for the smile, and then strips and steps into the shower anyways. It’s that, or sleep with that tacky feeling that comes with full-body sweats, the kind that accompany nervousness. The water feels nice.

He’s standing in the space between Ronan’s spread legs and staring down at him – raises one hand to thumb at a fleck of blood sitting at the left side of his jaw, larger than the rest. If he examines him closely enough there’s splatter everywhere, from collarbone to cheekbone to chest to belly. He can’t help himself. “What did you do, flay someone from the stomach-up?” He can picture it pretty easily, but he can picture Ronan doing most things easily.

Ronan’s got his fingers digging into the dips of his hips, rubbing in small circles, idle movement. He doesn’t have the same smile as before. In fact, he’s not smiling at all. He’s got a thousand-yard stare, almost, but Lucien’s still cradling his jaw with one hand. And then, “maybe I did.”

“You’re awful.” It’s stupid – he almost tacks on my love at the end, but doesn’t. He doesn’t think he can really bring himself to lie tonight. Just the thought is exhausting.

“But not the worst?”

He doesn’t even have to sigh act like he’s playing at unimpressed – Ronan’s already grinning, wolfish, because he knows he’s won, and his husband is awful in the aftermath of a victory. Even so, he acquiesces to letting Ronan take him apart under the warmth of the water, all teeth and tongue clashing together. Ronan’s always bitten more than he’s kissed, but there’s something nice about the familiarity of it. He’s got fingers tangled up in hair, and, maybe it’s a little absurd, but all he can think until the water gets cold is not the worst.

@ronanivarsson  /  ASK MEME

[lisadashy]

🔥 Hayseed Junkrat cosplay [ Overwatch ] 🔥

Love this skin design! ❤️🧡💛 I’ve been upgrading this project over 2 years. 📷 tags: (1) E.Hua Photography (3) Snap Happy Ian (4) Magic Missile Studios (The rest are from my solo shoot) ⚙️ Detonator 3D printed kit: birchprops

Some progress shots can be found on my Instagram: dashycrafts

Construction notes below in ‘read more’ link:

💥 Mask:

Mostly eva foam; heat formed around a cast of my head

Foam sealed with Flexbond, painted with Angelus acrylics and finished with a satin acrylic clear coat

Hair dome is detachable from the mask (3 velcro+elastic attachments)

Pony tail section is detachable from the dome via velcro inside the grey band on one half of the circle; an LED battery pack for the two pony tail lights is stored inside that band in the other half of the space

Flickering LEDs are from those LED candles; I've removed the LEDs and re-wired them to some compact, thin button cell battery holders

Orange plastic sheet (document folder) for the lenses - sprayed with “CLEAR DE-FOG”

Vision is fairly limited, especially in low light with the LEDs on

RE: Breathing: There are gaps in the mouth hay and between the hay dome and mask at the top

 💥 Tyre, back mount and logs:

Hay is individual strips of eva foam glued on covering a foam base

Back panel removable, small items can be stored inside

Spikes are eva foam and worbla, attached with bolts and wing nuts (ended up being a hassle to screw them on/off, I should have tried something else)

Tyre attaches with a wooden peg that fits into a slot on the back mount - Apoxie Sculpt molded around the peg inside a PVC end cap which is bolted to the mount

Back mount is worbla heat-shaped over a bowl and eva foam

Logs rest on a metal bracket bolted inside the back mount, there is also webbing bolted on which wraps around the logs to secure them

Logs are eva foam cylinders with scored and heated detailing

Logs can be dissembled for travel with a threaded plastic rod inside

Rope has been tinted with some acrylic paint

 💥 Singlet and waist wrap:

Cotton flannel 'buffalo check plaid' found on Etsy

Started the pattern by cutting up a cheap plain singlet, transferred that basic shape to paper then drafted the rest

Shoulder straps have strips of eva foam inside to make them sturdier, these are embedded inside the clips

Clips and patches are eva foam

I ironed on fusable interfacing to the patches and clips to try sewing them on but had some issues with the edges not sitting flat so finished them off with some glue

Darkened areas of the flannel with some watered down fabric paint, sponged on

Bottom raw edges were coated with 'Fray Stoppa'

Rivets are googly eyes

Waist wrap fabric is from the right pant leg cut off! The original colour of the pants is close enough and has a nice linen texture; dug out some fabric from my stash for the backing to make it sturdier; features sewn-in snaps

Attached a clip and keyring combo to the rope with electrical tape

💥 Arm armour and hand:

Eva foam and worbla for fingers

Hand patterned by drawing onto a disposable rubber glove (should have allowed for wider gaps for better flexibility, also probably should have used eva foam instead)

Hand pieces completely separate from black under glove, joined together by elastic (this ended up being annoying to put on/take off, next time I make gloves I’ll try attaching the pieces directly to a glove)

💥 Pants:

Started off as 2nd hand linen pants found on Ebay; dyed darker brown

Rope and patches hot glued on

Weathered with some fabric paint

Hay thigh held in place with elastic that loops around a belt

💥 Peg leg: 

Pine furniture leg

Upper section is eva foam construction, front and sides only

When posing my knee rests on a support inside - dowel screwed into the leg, part of a knee pad screwed into dowel (ended up trimming most of it off as it was too bulky), added some worbla to make a curve then some foam on top for padding

Elastic straps attached to secure it around my leg, also one longer strip goes up to my belt and loops around tightly

💥 Red glove:

Started as a yellow leather glove bought on Ebay

Patterned a gauntlet cuff, made with eva foam; other details also foam

Painted with Angelus acrylics

💥 Trap:

More eva foam construction!

PVC pipe base

Jaws swivel open and closed

💥 ‘Bare’ foot shoe:

Traced around my foot to make a pattern, added a bit extra all the way around to ensure my foot doesn’t touch the ground

Clear PETG base cut with small holes drilled in for the straps (two overlapping like a cross at the middle, another over my big toe)

Eva foam added for padding/comfort, cut slightly smaller than foot, matching holes, taped on

Mesh fabric straps threaded through the holes, ends taped down (holes kept the fabric tight)

💥 Detonator - 3D printed kit by @birchprops

Glued parts together

Hours of sanding the raw PLA

Sprayed layers of filler primer

Hours of wet sanding primer

Masked and sprayed the colours on then more sanding

Completely reconstructed the printed bracket from thermoplastic as I accidentally broke the section where it bends; fragile part that ideally should be actual metal. I think it has a bit more flex than the PLA now; screwed into the body

Drilled a hole into the bracket so the antenna could be attached with a screw

Drilled out a large cavity in the top of the main body underneath the button plate to make space for an LED and button cell battery holder

Drilled out holes for magnets to hold the plate on

Glued magnets onto the plate

Filled in the magnet holes with Apoxie Sculpt and squished in the magnets to help with making the holes the right depth and alignment

Made a new translucent button that can be illuminated to replace the original opaque one. Cut and sanded acrylic rod. Dyed red.

Drilled hole for button to fit into

Wired a red LED to a button cell (2) battery holder

Glued magnets into the 'metal' ring at the top so it can swivel separately to the red cap

Cut, sanded and painted the orange and grey wiring

Drilled holes for the wiring to slot into

Made a thermoplastic cover piece for the grey wiring

Wrapped 2 different kinds of tape around; bottom layer is silver cloth tape, top is Scotch transparent tough tape for more noticable texture

Applied Rub n Buff to 'metal' parts

Painted weathering details

Sprayed clear coat

[mymomanddadaregonnabesomadatme]

Enjoy...another chapter of my undead Jongerry AU...

READ IT HERE OR ON AO3, BABEY!!!

It is the screaming pulse of his own pain that wakes Jon from sleep, electric splinter in his mind that almost sends him tumbling out of bed as he clutches at his head. The piercing wrongness is sharp as his body finds his shoes, slips them over his heels without the influence of higher cognitive functions. It is in this state that he stumbles out into the archives, target on the back of the source of his pain.

-

Gerry’s thumb is embedded in the paper of a photograph, digging into it with a shaking intensity that rattles his core. It is the eyes of the subject he scrapes away at with the tip of his nail, arm rumbling furiously as he starts to lose a grip on himself, lose control of the concise circle of his motions. There is a crash underneath his elbow, then, a suddenly overturned mug on a pile of statements, littered with the resulting shards. The tepid water soaks into the paper, swirls the ink deep into the core of the page: far away from coherence. Gerry feels a joyless delight at the destruction, plunging his hands into the wet paper stack and tearing, pulp and eyelashes flying outward as his hands reach the scattered ceramic. “If you want information so bad, maybe you should manifest someone with a little less resentment under his belt next time.” He growls, sends a fresh pile of statements cascading to the floor and tears into it with vigor he didn’t know his artificial body was capable of.

“Gerry, stop,” Comes the admonishment from behind him, an unwelcome betrayal from his last earthly connection. “You know big, bad Elias can’t get you here, right? Or are you really so caught up in it that Beholding is all you care about now?” A fresh rip through the air: the enthused desecration of coerced history. The next pile he picks up is thick in his hands, big enough to blind a big, malevolent eye. “Gerry, it hurts.”

It is gritted now, squeezed out with an angry force from behind the Archivist’s teeth. This stops Gerry, spins him until he’s looking at the hobbled frame of his Archivist, hand clutching head as the other maintains his grip on the table: the only thing holding him upright. His legs try to buckle under him despite the grip on the table, and Gerard holds the statements still in his hands, watches through the thick fog of anger coating his brain. His hands do not move to tear them, lowering slowly as he exhales. “…Thank you.” Is the sigh that comes from Jon, easing himself back up until he’s more or less upright. Walking shakily over, he takes the pile of statements from Gerard’s hands, placing them lightly in the overturned box on the floor. Gerard does not resist, bending down to grab a single statement, place it in the box, and repeat. He works methodically while Jon scrambles, desperate not to feel, desperate to stop feeling. When they are done Jon is breathing shakily, propped up by his hands on the wood of the floor. “Sorry.” Gerry musters, though there is nothing in his voice but anger. “D-don’t be, Gerry, it’s fine. I’m sure I would have done…more or less the same thing, in your position.” “Yeah. Sure.” He does not meet Jon’s eyes, stares and angry mile into the distant wall. “I’m tired of existing so other people can toy with me. I don’t need to keep being brought back so things can reach into me and play around. I don’t deserve that. I never have.” “No, you– you don’t. You didn’t.” It’s with some hesitation that he lifts his arm, places it lightly on Gerard’s shoulder. “Sorry I trashed your archives. Probably should have figured they were wired straight to your brain.” “Yes, well…I’m sorry the demonic entity that keeps bringing you back from the dead is my employer.” Gerard flashes a smile, drops it fast. His breaths in and out are heavy, steady, focused as he lets his eyes fall closed. “I’d love to just burn myself out, become something they couldn’t use for anything but – but they would see that, too, wouldn’t they? Soak up every agonizing moment until there was nothing left to feel their pain for them. Wish I could do it without them ever even knowing.” “Well, does–does alcohol…still work on you? Or–or drugs?” “Jon, you’re not supposed to give people advice on how to kill themselves easier, you know.” “Oh! Sorry, I’m…I’m sorry. I just thought, well–not enough, I suppose…”

Gerry lets out a small huff of a laugh, a reluctant exhalation of bitter energy. “I’m sure no matter what I did they would drag me back anyway,” he sighs, feeling the unconscious squeeze on his arm as the Archivist flexes in response. Gerry pulls his hand away from angrily gripping his knee, grabs the extremity holding onto his arm and returns the squeeze in kind. Then, faster than the Archivist can track, he is encircled in arms and pressed to Gerry’s chest, glasses pressing in an awkward diagonal against the logo on Gerry’s shirt. Jon tries to settle into the feeling, snake his still-shaking hands around Gerry’s back, resting them in the mess of his hair. He lets his glasses press unevenly into his face, tries to even out his breathing as he lets his head weigh onto Gerry. “Sorry, you need to come up for air?” “You…really don’t need to worry about me when you’re feeling like this, Gerry.” “Jon, I don’t think I can express how much easier it is to worry about shit like that than it is to sit in this feeling.” “…We’ve got a few minutes until I really start to get uncomfortable. I promise I’ll let you know.” “...Alright.” And Jon feels Gerard relax, let the weight of his head fall on top of the Archivist's for as long as Jon will allow. And Jon monitors his allowance carefully, silently tracking the overwhelming seconds in the soft crook of Gerry's neck.

- Jon is already gone when Gerard wakes up the second time, dull sounds of life filtering in beneath the door. He eases himself up, finds himself needlessly trying to crack his back again, if only to engage in some manner of morning routine. He stares down at the same shirt he’s been wearing for over a week, monotony starting to itch at the back of his mind as he does so. It seems vaguely amusing to steal a stuffy Archivist shirt when he toys with the idea, but altogether useless if he’s trying to feel more comfortable in his– he guesses it’s skin? More comfortable in his new form, anyway. When Gerard runs out of midmorning ruminations, he pushes his way through the door and out into the archives. Jon attends quickly for once, head popping up the moment Gerry pokes a foot out onto the threshold, tape recorder clicking itself on before Jon can hover his thumb over the requisite red button. "That's a neat little trick." Gerry quips, pulls an uneven smile at the furious whir of the tape recorder. "Very spooky. Don't think Gertrude could turn those things on with her mind."

There is a frown, vaguely hiding a pout, as Jon thumbs back over the button, turns it off with a frustrated click of his tongue, "I'm not turning them on," he deflects, throwing an accusatory glance at the archaic piece of plastic. "Very intriguing. Did you think that was going to make it less spooky, Jon?" "I didn't--nevermind, you can...bother me about it later. I’ve got something else I assume you’re going to be much more happy about.” Curiosity quickly piqued, Gerard pads his way over to Jon’s desk, watching as he slides a hand back over his chair and into his coat pocket. “Here.” It takes Gerard a moment to process the thick stack of bills currently being held out to him, drooping under its own weight as it sags over the edge of Jon’s hand. “You’ve got me on payroll already?” Gerard clicks his tongue, lays a finger under the pile without pulling it out of Jon’s hand. “Not…entirely. I thought about– what you said, about having some amount of independence. Especially in the interest of exhibiting some more trust, I…thought this was more or less fair.” Gerard’s finger pauses its hefting of the money as his eyes cut over Jon, narrow with focus. “Christ. This is yours?” “It won’t be in a second when you stop making me hold my hand out in the air. I’m getting sore, you know.” “I can’t take this.” Jon makes an effort to waggle it enticingly, although it occurs to him too late that that might be less humorous and more insulting. “It’s…fine?” He reassures, trying not to jostle it in Gerard’s direction a second time, “If it’s going to be that much of an issue you can make some promise to pay it back, but I spend a lot more time between bookshelves than I do investing in new furniture and remodeling a flat I don’t use. Plus, as far as I’m concerned you’re…more or less an employee here, aren’t you? Official hiring process aside, I think I’m allowed to compensate you.” This finally earns a snort from Gerard, a reluctant acceptance of the cash into his hands, although he holds it gingerly, as if he’s still uncommitted. “Fine. You win. If it was some weird pity thing for the dissolved arm we were gonna have a row, honestly.” He tucks the money into one of many pockets going up and down his leg, leaving his hand inside with it. “Oh, relax. Money comes from such an unsavory source around here I would think you’d be happy to rearrange it.” “You’re telling me to relax, are you?” Gerard scoffs, and he catches the familiar twitch of Jon’s lip as he resumes his writing. “Spend a little more time down here and I’m sure I’ll rub off on you…alleviate some of that needless tension you’re always carrying around with you.” And then Jon does not hide the quirk of his lips, peeking up conspiratorially at Gerry with an eyebrow arched over the rim of his glasses. Gerard feels the familiar need to reorganize his hair as he breaks eyes too quickly, pops his feet over the floorboards as he makes his way towards the door. At the threshold he stops, resting on the door frame as he pulls his head back in to appraise Jon for a moment, “What are you getting up to today?” “Oh, you’re– yes, I suppose you would want to get out first thing, then. Just– the usual, permitted nothing extracurricular comes to bother me.” Gerry snorts, hand still gripping the door frame, “Right. Not gonna ask me what I’m up to, huh?” “Oh, I wasn’t sure it was– got something exciting planned?” “Mind your own business.” Gerard quips back immediately, taunting glimmer of piercings as he grins, disappears with a final accusation of, “Nosy.” And if Gerry had known Jon’s reaction, he would have been sad to find out he missed it: the peek of defiant tongue over his lower lip at the now-empty door frame before the tape recorder clicked itself back into existence. - It comes on subtly, sometimes: misplaced irritability and paranoid lapses of memory, forgetting his objectives and slowly become an exposure-broiled trigger primed for fight, or flight, or freeze. When it is a tumble of old wood after a creak in the floor, it’s the familiar demon-hounded pulse of fight that grabs a nearby pipe, whips it at the source of the noise. Gerard vaguely entertains the idea of feeling bad for the rat that scurries away from the source of excitement, clearly terrified. Mostly, though, he feels a vague sense of terror, too familiar, and begs for the unclouding of his mind so he can get out as fast as possible. Priming his body and mind for fight is a skill: developed over years of learning how to keep himself safe, keep his body moving when seconds expand, become the chasm between life or death. But in his bones is a well-oiled mechanism of terrified stillness, of breath held under the onslaught of a terror from which there is no escape. When there is a figure at the door, lanky and tense while Gerard’s arms are buried in his old closet, freeze returns, claws static into his bones, makes brittle his soul and skin. The silent prayers that expression and pose communicate attention and understanding, the cloak stretched over the shaking horror of vulnerability. It does not matter for a while that the visitor is young, pierced and pock-marked and hunched in a garish orange coat, doe-eyed and friendly. It doesn’t matter after they’re gone, either, conversation a vague imprint on Gerard’s mind as his body struggles to reset, acclimate to the reality of this home after his mother. He finds what he needs, and moves out the door of what used to be his room, what will always and never have been his room. The kid in the coat looks up vaguely from their phone, knapsack curled into itself on the wall and chip bags dotting the floor around it. Gerard thinks maybe he should apologize for staring in visceral terror at a polite set of questions, say enjoy living here more than I did, say maybe it’s haunted and don’t get possessed. But his terror carries him forward, squeezes conversation in his throat and clutches the bulk of his social acuity, twists it painfully, and all he manages is an off-beat, “seeya”, surly and Vague as he trudges through the door.

-

It is when Jon has already thrown himself into the back office and shoved his arm forward on an insight-directed whim that he belatedly registers the impact of Gerry, black-clad and heavy against the aging concrete of the office walls behind him. He turns, small hiccup of disorientation running through his mind, and pulls in the image of Gerard: thick black coat and hands lightly clenched over both knees, the dense framing of his face in hair that matches the imprint on his mind Gerry’s related statements had always left with him. As his eyes trace the light sticking of strands of hair to skin, the uncontrolled quiver of his breaths in and out, he puts it together, and blanches. “God, sorry, Gerry, I– is this something I shouldn’t have barged in on or something I’m…going to make more unpleasant by making a whole thing of?” Hands clutch together at Jon’s chest as he asks this, stuck by his obliviousness between two preferable remedies to the situation. Gerry doesn’t have a reply for a second, just eyelids pinched shut in focus, the rumble of tear over cheek as he struggles to collect himself semi-silently. The laugh he gives is weak, wet after a struggled inhale, a fleeting attempt to meet Jon’s eyes. “Sort of fucked both of those approaches up already, haven’t you?” “I suppose, yes, I just– are you…are you alright? Do you want me to leave?” Another exhale, slow and methodical, followed by a pause resting above the flow of feelings from the eyes, the cleaning of mind. “Think I sort of lost the game of taking care of this subtly. Thought I might actually get away with crying about my mum in a black trench coat in broad daylight. Like it’s not ridiculous enough I’m destined to get caught.” Jon fidgets, hand over hand, watches the careful breaths still winding in and out of Gerard as he tries to untangle himself gently. “You may…cry in whatever you like.” He offers, feels the limp attempt at reassurance dropping, clumsy, from his lips. “Gave me a weird look when you got in here. I know how it looks.” And it’s with a strained smile, eyes away from Jon, lightly angry under amusement as he look at wall through water. Jon tugs his sleeve, rolls his thoughts over his tongue and his words through his brain before he settles, explains: “You just took me by surprise, looking all of a sudden like– so much how I had pictured you? Before?” And Gerard’s eyes do pop open at this, whip up to Jon’s before he can catch himself, both of them breaking the contact without lingering. “I just mean that, I read about you a lot before, ah, before actually meeting you. Walking in and sort of– forgetting, almost? That I was expecting you back? So it was like you, dropped in from the back of my mind for a second there, sort of gave me a flash of just being a bit– starstruck?” The wide-eyed contact is maintained for a moment this time, mortified and gobsmacked, Jon breaking first and fumbling spectacularly, “That’s not the right word. You know what I mean,” “Christ–” “It was a…misuse of the term, I’m not trying to idolize someone I’m working with it’s just sometimes easy to forget that, well, you’re someone that had a bit of a, ah, reputation before I met you, is all, that, ah–” “Jesus, Jon–” “It was just shocking for a moment, um, c-clash of worlds? I didn’t mean to make you feel…weird?” He ventures, hands knit together and eyebrows doing the same; anxious intertwining of the self. “It’s– fine, just…unexpected. Didn’t expect to get celebrity status getting ruined by my mother for a couple of decades.”

And there is a note here, plucked in his heart, that reminds him, curls Gerry’s eyebrows down into himself as the impact of a memory hits, blows the cover off another attempt to clean house. He lets out a sigh this time, frustrated and low, throwing his head behind his hair as it moves into his palms. Jon is stuck again, tethered to the directionless idea of responsibility, in the intangible framework of easing the pain of another. He takes a step away, pauses, turns, slides his heel with all the decision of a sputtering engine and a dying flame before stubbornly re-igniting, lowering himself down beside Gerry. He remembers, tries to organize and understand, lays a hand on Gerry’s shoulder in a fabrication of the night before, under the memory of tightly gripping fingertips thrown over his own. The return is slower this time, interrupted by thought and feeling, and when Gerry’s hand rolls over Jon’s it is firm, but not desperate, soft pressure periodically disrupted with the clenching of a processing mind. Jon’s eyes glance over Gerry’s hand, the tight black strands of ink that run down his knuckles, the chipping black paint on his nails and the way the deep brown skin surrounding them strains lighter as his fingertips press onto Jon, release. The open blackness of the eyes spot him up and down, soak in his surroundings and trace lines for Jon’s eyes to follow along each finger, over the curve of his wrist when surrogate eye contact proves uninteresting: less relevant than the form of his bones, the spirit of his muscle. Jon tries something vaguely reassuring, a light rub of thumb over Gerry’s shoulder and a squeeze that feels ridiculous as he plans it out and excecutes it before feeling the reassuring pressure on the back of his hand. Then the spark of insight, small flicker ripped lightly across his mind, the inevitable blurt of knowledge: “You went to your old house.” A lowering of Gerard’s shoulder under Jon’s hand as he sighs, a stilling of the hand atop it before Gerry slides it off, holds it in his lap. “Yeah.” Is what he manages, fingers rubbing along the cuff of his jacket: worn down in a pattern of the same movement over years and years that Jon sees playing out as he watches Gerry’s hand run the practiced course. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to– see that, it was…tertiary knowledge that made it somewhat obvious.” “I’m sure it was a bit obvious regardless. Still a bit of an exposed nerve about it if you don’t mind, though.” “I know. I didn’t mean to…be so vocal about having realized. I’m just not used to being able to, ah, see much of anything from you? Took me a bit by surprise.” “I’m full of surprises today, huh?” Nerves pull in Jon’s throat, allowing him to squeeze out a, “Don’t–” as his hand pulls up, hesitates for just a second in the air, “Don’t be an ass.” He scolds, rubs his hand roughly into the back of Gerry’s hair. Gerry yelps, then laughs, relieved jump pulling up from Jon’s stomach in response. “Pretty bold, there.” Gerry turns, smile genuine under sad eyes, Jon watching the slow roll of saline over the hill of Gerard’s cheek, the valley of his mouth’s corner, sweeping over his chin. He tries to shake off what he assumes is an underlying fascination with pain, pushes past the unpleasant feelings he does not have the time to entertain. “I thought maybe a less…direct approach might be a little more uplifting.” “Not a bad guess. Real scholarly evaluation there.” “I’m sure I’ll owe a great psychic debt for the resources expended on that insight.” Jon deadpans in return, delights in the rolling laugh from Gerry as he wipes his eyes. He rolls his head over his shoulder, then, reaches onto a neighbouring shelf and grabs a familiar ceramic cup on a saucer. “Let’s see if this is ice cold, huh?” The light wince Jon watches his face pull into on the first sip confirms that it absolutely is. Ideas knock around Jon’s mind as he watches the cup, the lessening of tension in Gerard’s shoulders, the fall of hair over one side of his face, runs him back through the preceding moments to evaluate. “I can…leave you alone if you need in the future, if it helps. I probably should have been paying enough attention to realize I hadn’t left to door closed. Considering I’ve had things breaking in here before…” “Thinking about how I snuck a cup of tea in here without you picking up on it, space cadet?” Gerard smirks at him over the lip of the cup, takes another tepid sip. He doesn’t let Jon open his mouth before he continues, “Anyway, it’s– fine, honestly. Spent enough time running through this same cycle in random hotels and locked up in my room in my life. Don’t actually mind some company every once in a while, frankly. Maybe a little change in the routine will let me feel like I’m actually making progress for once.” He snorts, pulls the swirling cup of tea down into his lap, stares at the broken film of cream swirling on top. Jon joins him in this for reasons he can’t completely understand, watching the silent swirl of curdled dairy surrounded by the careful pressure of Gerry’s hands. “It was because of her, you know.” Gerard cuts through the meditative silence, keeps time with the break of fat membrane as his hand lightly twitches, neither motion lost to Jon. His eyes don’t leave Gerard’s hands for a moment, then scatter up his arms, over his jewelry, across the folds of his outfit to return a voice back to his face. “What?” Falls lamely out of him, tumbles the small distance between himself and Gerard, rolls over his shoulder and splats against the wall. Gerard just pulls a laugh, small and sad, but patient, before he clarifies. “The tea. The preparation you were so shocked about, anyway. The heavier the cream, the longer it’ll stay in the fridge, the less you need to use at a time. Mum didn’t really stock the kitchen with my interests in mind, she was already being sustained by her work pretty early on as I can remember. So there wasn’t a lot in the house to eat except things that would stay. A lot of rice, and a lot tea, and not much else, frankly. And tea stays, sure, but it doesn’t taste particularly good when it’s been sitting in a dusty death house for years, so…you improvise. Sugar to liven up the horrible dustiness, cream to cut through the acidity. Cream’s got more fat, too, could suck a bit more calories out of something without spending too much time downstairs being ‘indulgent' trying to feed mys–” Jon’s hand is not coordinated when he slides it over Gerard’s mouth, impulsive and clumsy, rolled over with a lack of foresight that sends his ring finger under Gerry’s lip and pokes awkwardly onto one of his teeth. Gerard feels the weight of it, feels the back end of a word trapped on his tongue as Jon looks over apologetically, gently lowers his hand. “Gerry, you– you have to stop telling me about your trauma around your mother.” There is a pleading to Jon’s demand that twists into Gerard, and the “What?” he spits in return is incredulous and angry: clumsy disguises for shock and hurt. “I don’t mean– I don’t want you to feel that you can’t talk to me, a-about your life? About your past, but your mother, she– she’s so profoundly immersed in all this, everything you say about her can– even if it’s about just you being a child or a teenager experiencing a harmful parental figure you– you have to understand that it feeds the eye because of what she is. I don’t want to sit here and find your pain–” Jon struggles for a diplomatic turn of phrase, fails to find it: “…Appetizing. I don’t want you…telling me things because I make you feel the urge to, either. I know I didn’t ask but I don’t always– need to? I know just being around something connected to this institute can…make you want to share things you don’t actually want to share.” Gerard’s lip is tight, but the anger has fallen from his eyes as he allows the ghost of hurt to stay, watching the Activist fret. He drops his shoulders, leans back on his hand before he sighs our his reply, “Can’t just be that you’re easy to talk to?” “I’m certain that’s not the case.” Gerard laughs, Jon doesn’t. He just manages a dry smile, belated and hollow, before the corners of his mouth drop back down. “I haven’t– seen you yet, and I assume you haven’t seen me yet, either, but you will. If I had realized–” Jon sighs, arms crossing as he looks away, “Well. It’s not like I can really make that promise anymore, anyway, is it? Just– you will see me in your dreams when you relive the trauma of what you’ve told me about her. It’s what I do now. Just watch people relive the worst moments of their lives, voyeur into their private agony, night after night. If you see me, and you will see me, I just– I want you to at least know what I’m going to see now. I think I owe you some– transparency, around what I am and what talking to me can do to you.” And Jon has returned his eyes to Gerard, sad and tired: the Jon special. Gerard just shrugs, takes another sip of lukewarm tea. “I mean, I don’t dream about much else besides my mother. Might be nice to have some company there, too.” “You can’t be serious–” “Why not? Clearly I’m inclined to tell you all this anyway. Not like I’m particularly concerned about you knowing, evidently.” He cuts another smirk at Jon, obfuscated still by the lip of the cup and long stands of stubborn hair. The look Jon returns is incredulous. “It’s nothing like just telling someone about your history, Gerry, it’s–” “Real spooky. Some yucky monster sort of stuff, yeah. I get it. I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the whole world I’m immersed in, you know. Promise I won’t hold it against you if you jump out from behind my mum and yell 'boo’ while I’m taking a nap.” Small, abbreviated sounds pop out of Jon, the beginnings of retorts as he throws up his hands, rethinks, re-arranges, repeats. He finally gives up on the concept of argument, shoulders dropping in time with his previously gesticulating hands. “I think…I’m something a bit more upsetting than that, but I suppose I can’t press the issue. Um– consider yourself warned, I guess?” And a smile does crawl back over Jon as he looks up, sheepish and lopsided. “Noted. It’s not, uh– it’s not like I’ve been dreaming much since I got brought back, frankly.” Gerard shrugs, “Like I said, if it happens, might just be nice to have some company.” Jon doesn’t move to retort this time, just watches as Gerry drains the end of his tea, stares into the bottom of the cup for a moment, contemplative. Jon pulls himself back up, moves to return to his search for a statement, but pauses on his way back to the shelf. “That person didn’t think you were being rude, by the way. The one in your old house.” Gerard starts, small but visible as he looks up. “That’s…good to hear, I guess.” “I’d hope so. You were worried about it.” Gerard snorts. “I was, was I?” “Sorry, I just– I’m not exactly intuitive enough to suss that out on my own. Might as well be straightforward about where I’m 'seeing’ things from, right? Anyway they– just figured you were a bit stressed. Don’t think they took it personally.” “Happy to hear it.” And he is, but he spins a little mockery into the comment regardless. And when Jon speaks again there is that distant fuzziness in his voice, the capture of ideas as he’s compelled to ask, “As far as I understood, your old house had been occupied by new tenants for the last few years, but...it certainly didn’t look that way, I don’t suppose you–” “Kept tabs on it while I was in the ground? Can’t say I did.” “Right…right.” Jon concedes, shakes off the remnants of intrigue from the sliver of Gerry’s house slipped into his mind, “I don’t feel particularly inclined to investigate whatever happened, there. Already had enough of your mother’s legacy for one lifetime, frankly.” “Yeah. She was like that.” Small laughs, polite and strained, as Jon returns to digging through piles of statements and Gerard soaks in the after-burn of his emotional exhaustion. His voice cuts through it, finally, pulls Jon’s attention away from a statement wedged between the back of a bookcase and its poorly built shelving: “Jon, can I…use one of your tape recorders if you’re out doing eyeball errands again? Got some tapes from home I’m sort of ancy to listen to, honestly. Promise I’ll be nice to it.” “Wouldn’t entirely blame you if you didn’t, frankly.” Jon laughs, dry but fond, continues: “The perks of quasi-employment, right? Be my guest. Use whatever you like. Just, ah, don’t tear apart anything else that’s wired straight to my brain, I suppose.” Their smile is shared, light contact of eyes as Jon walks past, rigid clutch of paper to his chest before he looks forward and disappears through the door.

-

Jon’s conversation with Basira is dry, a slow trudge through information that leaves him exhausted with the prospect of more investigation without the promise of progress. Disquiet claws at the base of his mind as Basira runs through potential objectives, pulls together leads that fall apart as she tries to connect the edges, interlock the relevancy. She is quiet on the subject of her informant, deflective when pressed by Jon about the tap of her information run dry. “Sustained some injuries,” is all she’ll give him, rumble of energy with no purpose growing under her skin, coagulating without direction. “You seem nervous.” Jon pitches as he watches her flip through the same three pages of information, curl of anger knit into her face as she tries to knead trajectory from unchanged paper. “Reckon you should be, too, Jon.” She cuts back, thumb still jammed between pages, gripping useless dialect and frivolous jargon. Daisy sits across from them, two tables away, eyes tracking words she does not read as she listens, traces the familiar tempo of Basira’s misplaced ambition. “I am. But that’s– I’m used to it.” “Maybe you should stop being used to it, then. Major player comes into our institute right when a major source of information gets mysteriously injured. That tells me something’s happening– something that involves us. You’re sure we can trust him, Jon?” “Positive.” Comes, reflexive and certain. Daisy clicks her tongue, partnered with Basira’s frown. “Fine. Better hope he’s ready for whatever’s coming, then. Because I’m sure it’s something bad.” “We sure that’s not just the feeling of this place, Basira?” Daisy does not raise her eyes, flips another page of the book and absorbs little besides the gruesome illustration on the left hand side of the page, a medieval woodcut of archaic torture. She smiles inwardly, adds on: “Maybe the trips out were helping your mood out as much as our objectives. It doesn’t exactly feel good to be trapped in here all day, does it?” Basira moves her mouth to speak, slips under Jon’s interjection as she forms her thoughts too slowly, “No, Basira’s right. I feel it too.” He runs his eyes over the words under Basira’s hand, reflected on the gold of her rings, distorted and decorative. Tries to see, feels his mind tumble uselessly, windswept debris. “Feeling doesn’t always translate into knowing, though, I suppose.” He sighs, “For the nerves, um– have you tried running with Melanie? I know she’s always, ah, 'burning off steam’ as she puts it…” “Used to.” Basira cuts, quick closing of book kicking a light layer of dust into the air, “I get the feeling she’s not keen on having me do it anymore. She always seems to get done with it right when I ask her if she’s planning on going out.” “Maybe she gets tired of you hassling her about her progress every time you talk to her.” Daisy snickers, traces a line of black ink blood absentmindedly. “It’s not hassling to ask her how she’s doing. She’s in therapy because she’s trying to make progress, Daisy. I think I’m allowed to be interested.” Daisy snorts in response. “Sure. Let me know if that warms her up to you any time soon. Won’t make her feel like she’s got a sergeant breathing down her throat every time you grill her about progress.” “I am not like that when I talk to her.” “You like a project, Basira, is all I’m saying.” And Daisy finally looks up at this, wry smile wrinkling into her cheeks, eyes working to burrow into Basira’s core. Basira just moves her eyes, fiddles a bracelet in response, “She’s not a project. Just–” “A…subject of focus?” Jon pitches in, clumsy, one step behind and out of place. Daisy cackles for a reason Jon does not catch, Basira cutting her eyes at her in return. She swings them back to Jon, still gripping a bracelet in the tension between her finger and thumb. “Why don’t you let me worry about my own stress levels, Jon?” She cuts, nerve pinched and Daisy biting her cheek behind her, “I’m sure if we can figure out what’s coming I’ll be a hell of a lot less stressed anyway.” “Um– sure, Basira.” Jon sighs, mirrors the tension Basira wears by rubbing the back of his neck, re-organizing the cuff of his sleeve. The humour falls from Basira in levels he does not anticipate, camaraderie short-lived with her only in peacetime, he feels: an ungraspable state of being under their current jurisdiction. He just lets out another squeeze of tension on a breath, swivels and turns as he feels the interplay of personas run sour beneath the institute roof: cyclical and preordained, scored by a low, mocking laugh he does not understand.

-

Gerard is leaning against Jon’s desk when he returns, head nodding softly with his hands jammed into the pockets of his coat. As Jon walks closer, he sees the steadily spinning mechanisms on the inside of the tape recorder, hears the soft chaos of its contents: low dirge of instrumentation and the soft strain of vocals rumbling out from beneath it. Jon holds in a laugh as he runs his eyes over Gerard’s excessive display of decorum, politely self-contained as he curls in on himself, lightly mouthing the occasional lyric. This hold releases the moment Gerard is swept away, however, throwing his head halfway down his torso and ripping his arms excitedly out of their respective pockets, pulling a thrilled laugh from the previously clenched jaw of Jon. Gerard’s head swings up, wide-eyed and hair-haloed, teeth bared in a mouth still halfway through a lyric. Jon has to throw a hand over his mouth not to laugh even harder at Gerry’s transparently mortified face, only fails to do so partially as he chokes on a string of laughs behind his palm. “Some important information on those tapes, was there?” He grins, hand still blocking rows of teeth, humour-exposed. “I never said there was gonna be something productive on these. You’re the one who’s all horny for productivity around here, not me.” “Ah, just let me come to my own predictable conclusion, did you?” Gerry smirks, hands back to weighing on the lining of his pockets, “I didn’t accuse you of being predictable, either. Could of asked if you were feeling curious. I wouldn’t have stopped you.” “Frankly, I never imagined anyone but the institute was still using tapes. I don’t usually have the benefit of feeling this current.” “What? No, tapes are great - the sound is all a part of a particular time and place and feeling, you know? I’m sure the Eye wouldn’t find statements half as juicy without all that crackle and fuzz.” Jon snorts, watches the rhythmic bounce of one of Gerry’s legs, body still lightly linked to the sounds rolling out from the cheap plastic speaker. “I’m sort-of surprised to see you so contained with it, frankly.” Jon quips, catches the tail end of another softly mouthed lyric, “Thought there was a bit more excitement to listening to this sort of thing.” “Challenging my credentials, are you?” Gerard smirks, finally turns his body to face Jon entirely, hip resting on the lip of the desk, “Weird and quiet in here, you know. Don’t want to feel like I’m disturbing the atmosphere.” Jon pulls a grin, lightly taunting, runs his eyes over the same energy playing over Gerry’s mouth, “Well, then, you officially have my blessing to do so, Gerry.” Gerard breaks, crack of a laugh as he turns, dials the volume up enough to properly fill the space around them, hugging walls without rattling, sound stretching just far enough. Audible, angry, but not disruptive as the low growls and frantic strings bounce into Jon’s ears, light up the base of his mind with unfamiliar unease, intrigue. “Slightly more tonally appropriate, yeah?” Gerard asks, rolls his hip lightly on the side of the desk. Jon takes a spot on the opposite corner, leans his hand back on the wooden surface as he internally resigns to an unproductive afternoon. “More in line with my expectations for the genre, anyway. Aren’t you supposed to be slamming your brain around inside your head, as well?” Nervous, pitchy laugh as Jon flirts with the edge of his social comfort zone, light social terror as he meets Gerard’s eyes over a lopsided grin, “Never understood the motivations behind that, if I’m being honest.” Gerard makes a point of running his eyes up Jon: the rigid sensibility of his pressed trousers and sensible shoes, the collegiate embrace of his thick sweater layered over crisp button-up, the comically thick rims and lenses of his glasses, nose bridge divots from a lifetime of bookishness, and the way his hand grips his elbow, slender fingers grasping for security even under the blanket of relaxed conversation. The grey-streaked hair perpetually falling over one eye dampens the effect somewhat, a bit of attractive dishevelling paired with the patchy stubble and faded scars, but Gerry doesn’t linger on it: just piques an eyebrow for effect and responds, “You don’t say.” And pushes himself off the desk, feet braced wide with his hands still committed to the lining of his pockets. “It’s all about how it moves through you, right? Brain’s what controls all the feeling in you, isn’t it? It’s gonna get the most out of being a part of an experience.” “I suppose I can vaguely understand the appeal of having something move its energy through you.” Jon concedes, watches the small rock of Gerry on the balls of his feet: almost nervous, if Jon felt he had the capacity for it. Gerard’s eyes then whip to one side as his arms pull out of their sanctuaries, uselessly shove leather sleeves up towards elbows. “There’s that whole myth it causes brain damage, too. 'More than drinking’ my ass.” He laughs, eyes still cut across the room as he clicks his tongue. The music swells behind him, almost comical against the casual conversation, and Gerard lets his eyes slide back over Jon for just a moment, “Can’t imagine old cock 'n’ eyeballs would appreciate that much, right?” And he laughs, uneven, catching in his throat as he finally throws his head forward, back, rhythm quickly knit into the motion as his hair catches the belated momentum. Jon’s laugh in turn is that shaky staccato, warbled and delightful as he throws a hand up to stop it. He just catches the stubborn smile under the rumble of Gerard’s hair, feels the bubbling of delight at the energy of the scene before him. Watches the depth of his enjoyment as his head spins a hectic circle, encased in a furious spiral of hair within the static crackle of the running tape. Jon’s laugh is contagious, foreign pull of excitement from a mire of stress, and Gerry stumbles under the force of his rattling brain, leans back on the desk with a shared spit of humour. And Gerry runs a hand over his head, pulls back a thick chunk of hair as he feels that maybe his face can still sweat a bit, and he almost misses it as his eyes drift towards the window: Jon’s sudden rapt attention, eyes locked on the spinning wheels of the tape before he throws his head forward, then back, grabbing it immediately as he straightens out, “God, no– that felt absurd.” “You’re not actually supposed to try and get brain damage, Jon.” Gerry quips, small flash of thrill at the Archival unhinging laid out before him. Jon is sheepish, transparently thrilled under the slap of grey hair now flung over his head from the single movement. Gerry lays a hand on the volume knob beside them, buckles under the institute's atmosphere as he turns it, keeping his eyes on Jon's as he leans conspiratorially into the space around him. "Could I...drag you somewhere with me tonight?" "Somewhere...important? "Not at all." Gerard laughs, rolls himself back onto his elbows, weight dropping back to the lip of the desk, "Show tonight I wanna catch." He confesses, rolls a smile back onto Jon, "No fun going alone, frankly." "You want to drag me to a metal show." "Aw, come on. Being an eyeball freak's all about learning new and exciting things, isn't it? Maybe someone will get their teeth knocked out and you can ask them about it." "I'm not an eyeball freak--" Jon struggles to retort before catching the pinch of Gerard's eyebrows -- nervous and uneven -- and deflates; crawls his bony fingers up the arm of his sweater, "You...actually want me to come, don't you?" The smile is shaky, eye contact always dropping, dropping, dropping away: cyclical gears of interaction's facets, "Honestly, after last night, the idea of being alone at night is sort of--" “Hey, Jon.” It’s a knock on the door frame and the small frame of Melanie with it: compact burst of energy and tension. Jon doesn’t feel her; unaligned and spiritually sightless, wisp of smoke on the tail of agonizing wound in her spirit's rebirth. But she hovers at the door with the same familiar simmer of anger, singes the ends of the olive branch she continually struggles to extend: “Basira and Daisy are going out for a bite. You interested at all?” “Um– just some chips, is fine?” Jon ventures, flush behind the still-mussed fringe of grey and brown, and Melanie points emphatically down the hall, “Better catch up with them, then.” “What? You’re not–” Melanie scoffs, drops her hand, “I’m not running back up there with your order. Go get your own chips.” An incredulous look from Jon, a space of silence, so she adds: “You’re going to miss them if you don’t head out, you know.” “Right,” And he grabs his coat off the back of his chair, clumsy shuffle of arm into sleeve and jumpy step forward before he remembers, turns, “Gerry, sorry, would you…like anything?” “Something small, yeah. I’m…” Quick flicker of indecision, dark eyes hovering over Melanie before quick resolve: “I’m…a little curious if I can still eat like this.” And Jon nods, serious and still ramming hand into sleeve as he all but runs out the door. Gerard and Melanie share silence, a quick look: trepidation folding under amusement. “That…was interesting.” Melanie lobs, still braced against the door frame across a deep breath of space. “Yeah. Well.” Gerard shrugs back, exaggerates the weight of his lean on the wood of the desk. Melanie just rolls her eyes, pushes her shoulder against the warp of the door frame and hesitates, focus dropping on the floor like a marble. "I've never seen him like that." She confesses, focus rolled along the crack of the wood, threatening at the toe of Gerry's boot. She runs along a tooth with her tongue, mind still a slow spin of idea, "I think I've sort-of been...underestimating his capacity for humanity." "Christ, he's not that bad." Gerry intones, spun back to frown at her from under the weight of his hair. The smile Melanie returns is fondly pitying. "Hey...let me give you one piece of advice, alright? Don't...tell Basira what you are." Small surprise over eyes, then absorption, a light nod as Gerry takes it in, "Sure. Thanks." "No problem. You fuck that up, I didn't say a thing, though, right?" "Yeah," Gerry smirks, finally runs his eyes up to meet her, "I get how this works." "Good." Melanie snorts, kicks the back of one trainer with another as she eyeballs the hallway, "I'm back to not being your friend, then, I guess." And it's said lightly, small bite and sarcastic smile. And as she pops back out of view, a "have fun at your concert" rolls into Gerry's ears on the heels of a laugh, gentle slap of her shoes echoing down the hall.