#Plate Conveyor Belt

[alex-wire-mesh]

Chain Metal Belt

Chain metal belt is a high-quality product designed with precision. It is constructed using durable and corrosion-resistant materials. The wire belt features a single strand chain with uniform spacing. The width of the belt is adjustable. The length of the belt can be customized to meet specific requirements.

Key Features: 1. The belt offers excellent tensile strength and load-bearing capacity. 2. It provides smooth and efficient transportation of various materials. 3. The belt’s open structure allows for easy cleaning and maintenance.

Advantages: 1. The belt is highly resistant to wear and tear, ensuring a longer service life. 2. It can withstand high temperatures, making it suitable for use in extreme industrial environments. 3. The belt’s modular design allows for easy installation, replacement, and expansion as per specific requirements.

Applications: 1. In the food processing industry, the chain metal belt is ideal for transporting baked goods, vegetables, and meats. 2. It finds application in the automotive industry for assembly lines and material handling processes. 3. The belt is also suitable for recycling facilities to handle various types of waste materials.

[frascospecimen]

Yeah yeah we’ve all heard about the fact that the asynchronous rondo is a panopticon whatever.Does anyone care that it’s conveyor belt sushi themed. I think it’s really cute :^]

[little-shiny-sharpies]

Beat the heat (110 F) with the portable partners and a new little friend

[dadsbongos]

my type?

4.3 K words

summary - Yuuji Itadori is a total knockout boyfriend - the only hitch? You’re nothing like his usual type of woman, and it’s making you unsure.

warnings - 18+!, femreader with jugs and vagene, p in v sex, unrealistic car sex, specifically stated that reader is non-tall with big tits, dumbification for both parties, squirting, non-curse AU where sukuna and yuuji are brother-roommates, unprotected sex

Itadori, Yuuji was an amazing boyfriend - something straight out of a top-selling shoujo manga.

Faithful and doting and affectionate. He handed over his hoodies the moment you mentioned an unpleasant breeze, he proudly held your hand in public, and he boasted about the very act of dating you to anyone with ears. But even those displays felt backhanded, the deeper you dug into your own mind. You had no real reason to complain about the situation.

And you especially had no reason when the cause behind your complaints would be so shallow.

You had an ass in the same way that everybody else did, but nothing comparable to the pin-up poster Yuuji tore down when you two started dating. Or his celebrity fascination, Jennifer Lawrence (which also mysteriously stopped being mentioned when you two started dating).

Rather, your body was much more endowed in ways that made Nobara tease as you passed lingerie stores with hot pink lighting and black walls and heavy busts plastered in the windows. She’d snag you by the sleeve and point, just to watch how you scoff and look away.

Yuuji pointedly ignores those stores. He ignores everything in relation to them.

You’d picked this shirt just for tonight. It dips low into your cleavage, just tight enough to still push up the tender meat of your breasts. Not to mention the color - deep crimson, Yuuji’s favorite. Well, at least the closest you’ll ever get to a favorite color with his indecisive nature.

Yuuji sits across from you at the scratched table. When his eyes aren’t scavenging the conveyor belt for small, shiny, colored plates serving anything that may catch his eye, they’re on your face. And only your face.

Normally something you’d absolutely cheer over - if this were a first date, but the fact is that this is one of many dates. And after so many dates that you can’t count anymore, you’re starting to want Yuuji’s eyes to drift.

You want him to look and you want to watch him sweat and go red. You’re starting to need it.

The need only grows more apparent mere days later.

Yuuji keeps his hands stubbornly on your hips, barely making an imprint from outside your clothes. But you choose not to make a fuss since he’s otherwise fully engrossed with keeping his lips pasted to yours. Your hands are sweaty and hot on Yuuji’s cheeks, you just know they are, but he doesn’t seem to mind when he lets you hold him close and grind on him.

Yet his palms are stiff against you. They don’t feel warm or cold or clammy or moist. They just… are. He chokes back every groan and huff and you almost feel embarrassed to be letting out hitches and breathy moans so freely in comparison.

Puffing your chest out, you can feel your breasts pillowing against Yuuji and you’re hoping to tempt him to move his hands up. Under your shirt and bra with bare skin on bare skin. The idea makes you mewl, dragging your hips harder against his and further pushing out your tits for him to grope.

And suddenly, his stiff hands are picking you up off his lap, sliding you beside him on your couch. Yuuji grins, standing and swiping his hands down the legs of his sweatpants before planting a kiss on your forehead, “Sorry, gotta pee.”

“Oversharing!” you call after his retreating form.

When Yuuji returns, he sits down and rewinds the movie you two had put on earlier. He frowns and murmurs about how much the both of you missed. When you don’t turn back to the TV immediately, Yuuji smiles again and kisses your cheek.

Your gut twists unpleasantly.

And that need festers into utter desperation by just the next afternoon.

“Hey, Yuuji,” you come up from behind your boyfriend, arms dangling over the back of his couch and framing his shoulders. You place your chin on his head, staring at the intense cooking competition he’s watching, “So, I know I just got here… but! I’ve got a small, teensy errand to run.”

“Mhm?” he tilts his head back to meet your eyes, “Want me to go with you?”

His offer has you nodding, trying to smother down the bright simper he threatens to drag out of you, “Yeah, if you’re not busy.”

Sucking in air noisily through his teeth, Yuuji gestures out to the show he lazes in front of, “I dunno, babe, I am watching TV.”

“Very funny,” you back away from his couch, already heading to the door to tug your shoes on, “Just saying, you don’t have to come with if you don’t want to,” Yuuji always wants to come with, you like that about him, “Just getting some new bras.”

Your current ones are fine, but maybe a stuffy changing room is that nudge he needs.

“Oh,” your boyfriend pauses, eyes widening, “Uh. You might want to take Kugisaki for that, she’d know more than me,” he can’t even look at you, “I’m not really the kinda person you’d want around for that.”

You almost ask what he means by that, but the rejection has fried your brain to a gray, crunchy crisp. The kind of fry that looks like it could flake apart with a harsh jab. Again, that terrible, awful knotting in your stomach returns, but you carry on. Because if you claimed to no longer need this errand ran, then he might know what your scheme was - and that was far worse than whatever this hell was.

So you nod slowly and meekly call out that you love him before exiting the door. He says he loves you more.

You really wish you asked what he meant.

Finally, desperation comes to a head when you meet Yuuji’s friend - Todo, Aoi.

Todo, Aoi, who stares at you - eyes narrow as he judges each wrinkle in your clothes and jitter of your muscles - then turns to Yuuji, and asks point-blank, “Did you lie about your type, then, brother?”

Yuuji rips the hand in his pocket out and cuts it across his neck in a slicing motion, mouthing a couple of rude ‘shut up’s. You lean into Yuuji’s side, squeezing the hand he lays in yours tighter. It isn’t sweaty. And it isn’t very warm, either.

Aoi doesn’t seem very upset at the idea, “I’m happy you’re happy,” you look down at your shoes when he glances back over at you, “I was excited when I thought we had the same type.”

No, you weren’t very tall. And no, your butt wasn’t exceptionally big. You fell on the more mediocre sides of those categories, the thing you excelled in (what you thought most guys were thrilled over) was having a large bust.

“Dude!” Yuuji hits Aoi in the shoulder. Hard, “Shut up!”

He squeezes your hand so tight you think it might bruise.

“Sorry, brother,” Aoi, you were warned, was extremely unusual - little to no boundaries and almost inept at social interactions outside of fighting. He does seem sympathetic enough, turning to you, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

It’s all so sickening. How you wish Yuuji would hurry up and show interest in shallow things. How you place personal esteem on this whole fiasco. How right Aoi is. How badly you’re letting everything affect you.

The ringing in your ears, for example. The way you no longer think you can stomach whatever Aoi was cooking tonight. The shortness of your breath.

You try to push it down. Tonight is supposed to be fun.

Yuuji shoves his friend, much more lightheartedly than his previous blow, and goes to kiss your forehead - but hesitates. His smile is uneven, “Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he squeezes your hand, “I love you,” then, apologetically, he smooths his thumb over the sore spots where he clenched your hand, “I love you so much.”

And you know that. You know it like you know your favorite movie.

Tonight was supposed to be fun.

He loves you, you know that - what you don’t know, is if he wants you. Doesn’t he get sweaty palms like you? Doesn’t he feel his intestines tie into bunches of little knots like you? Doesn’t he get all hot in the face like you? Doesn’t he want you like you want him?

It’s humiliating to imagine that he doesn’t, and the mere idea makes you so nauseous you think you might hurl at this very moment.

Maybe your boyfriend just doesn’t find you as attractive as you want him to.

Maybe you should give up this repetitive scheme.

The car is quiet, unbearably so. Your knees are angled away from Yuuji defiantly, legs pushed to the far side of your seat so it’d be a hassle for him to reach out and hold your thigh. You used to think it meant something when he did that, but now it seems as though he’s doing it out of duty. Like holding the door for someone behind you. Or offering your seat on the bus to elderly passengers. Simple acts of simple kindness.

The most basic peacekeeping, if anything.

Yuuji peeks at you without turning away from the road, hands tightening around the steering wheel, “Are you upset?”

You could be snippy. You could even opt to not respond.

But you do neither, “Yeah.”

He sighs through his nose, “Seriously, don’t listen to Todo. He doesn’t know anything.”

Now, you’re a little snippy. To point out that Aoi’s being stupid isn’t uncalled for, but to claim he doesn’t know exactly what stupid shit he’s saying is.

“He has a point.”

“Huh?” Yuuji turns his head fully to look at you, something he only does because the quiet backroad home is empty, “What’re you talking about?”

Only flickering, crooked, rusty street lamps are witness to your impending breakdown. Your boyfriend returns his stare to the road. Crickets sing outside and the wind flattens over long grass that shines under moonlight.

“Yuuji,” sinking into your seat, you ignore his eyes, “You can’t seriously say you have no idea,” he’s quiet, lips pressed thinly, “Since we met, practically everybody has known your type. I knew you had a type! It was a shock to our friends when we got together! And now that we are…”

Pulling off into the grassy plain lining your way home, Yuuji slips the key from the ignition and unclicks his seatbelt to really examine you. His eyes scramble over you, every part the sensitive, concerned boyfriend you know and treasure. He pouts, but it’s in earnest; hurt simply because you’re hurt.

“And now that we are?”

“Why don’t you look at me?”

“I look at you!” he rubs the back of his neck, now quirking a brow at you, “I look at you all the time.”

“No,” you whine like a petulant child, hands coming up to cover your face, “It’s different!”

Aoi’s words just won’t stop creeping up your spine. Yuuji setting you aside on the couch. Yuuji insisting that you bring Nobara to a lingerie store instead of him. He was lying to someone, right? Was it to Aoi or you?

But everybody had seen that poster, and everybody could hear him declare his preferences.

“It’s way different,” you’re so humiliated you’re nauseous, your voice wobbles.

Yuuji tenderly takes your wrists, dragging down your hands. His smile is squiggly, brows high to his forehead, “Talk to me, pretty girl. You want me to look at you?” you nod, “So tell me what you mean by that.”

You almost hate how soft his voice is. It makes it so hard to be upset.

“I’m not your type,” your eyes trail the way Yuuji’s fingers dance around yours, “And every time I try to… you know, get you to think of me as something other than just cute or pretty - you turn me down. I feel like you don’t find me attractive.”

“Oh, like sexually?”

“Mhmm,” you nod glumly. When he’s quiet for just a couple of seconds too long, you ask, “Did you know what I was trying to do?”

“Kind of,” Yuuji’s cheeks are growing red, eyes now abandoning your entwined hands to stare out the windshield, “I do find you attractive - that’s a little bit of the problem.”

“What?”

He sucks in a breath sharply, engulfing your hands completely with his and squeezing (much more mindfully this time), “I’m crazy about you,” he can tell you don’t believe him, “It scares me a little,” he pulls his hands away and cradles his own over his lap, “I’m worried that if I give in, I’ll scare you off… like I’m too eager or something.”

“Yuuji!” you adjust in your seat, moving sideways and finally letting your knees face your boyfriend again, “You wouldn’t scare me off by being eager about my body! That’s a good thing, right? When we’re both into each other, that’s good!”

“No, I mean,” he’s gone rouge all the way up to his ears now, a fire bright in his chest, “I want you so bad it makes me feel like all my skin’s burning. My hands get all gross and sweaty so I have to wipe them on my pants, and- and I can’t think straight,” he’s still not looking at you, but the way he’s pressing his arms down on his crotch tells you he wants to, “Even now, I think I’m going crazy just imagining you…”

You sit up on your knees, leaning over the center console just to watch your boy squirm at the invasion of space, “Imagining me?” he nods shakily, “Imagining me how?”

He whines, turning his head and pressing his scorching face into your neck, “You know how.”

“Come on, pretty boy,” you kneel over the console entirely, squeezing behind the wheel to settle on Yuuji’s lap - slapping away his hands from the growing tent in his baggy pants, “Entertain me, please?”

“Imagining you under me, on me, between my legs,” his hands fly to your hips, palms slipping up under your shirt, and, God, his palms are sweaty, “Any way you’ll have me,” you cup his cheeks and press messy kisses to his lips. Yuuji’s hands roam further up your shirt, fingertips teasing under the cups of your bra, “Any way I can see your tits.”

“I thought you were more into ass,” your bravado falls under his admission, suddenly bashful.

Yuuji closes his eyes, swallowing hard while pushing his hands under your bra, he can feel his heartbeat all the way at the back of his throat. His rough palms cupping the soft, fleshy fat on your chest, “As if that matters,” his brows knit, hips subconsciously jerking up into yours, “I’m a horny guy: my hot girlfriend has big boobs, and I’m obsessed with her big boobs.”

“Just ‘cuz you’re horny?” you tease, grinding down on the bump of his hard cock. His loose pants let him spring up under your skirt, knocking into your panty-clad cunt.

“Nah,” his eyes flutter open, sweaty palms moving around your back and clumsily unhooking your troublesome bra. It takes him three tries, “I like every part of you all the time…” the tip of his tongue parts his lips in hard concentration, “Your whole body makes me feel like I’m full of bugs.”

“‘Full of bugs?!’” you snort, lifting your arms so Yuuji can yank off your shirt and bra in one ungraceful motion.

“In a good way,” he promises, eyes locked on your heaving chest. You can hear the thick breaths he struggles through, “‘m so nervous and horny at the same time, it feels like bugs in my stomach.”

“What’re you nervous for?”

“‘Cuz I wanna make you cum, but I’m worried I’ll cream my pants before we even get to it,” he finally looks into your eyes, he smiles at you with flaming cheeks and palms at your breasts, “It was so hard making sure I kept it together… Been jerkin’ off every night thinking of you - ask Sukuna, he’ll tell you. It’s been embarrassing.”

“Augh, Yuuji!”

“It’s true!”

It makes your palms hot and sweaty, the image of him so desperate. All for you.

“Hm,” you croon, grinding against your boyfriend’s cock, back arching to press your tits closer to his face, “Yuuji...”

Wrapping his arms around your waist, Yuuji sucks one of your nipples between his lips and laves it with his tongue. He bucks up against your wetting panties. Pulling away from your nipple with a soft pop, Yuuji stares up at you with another earnest, flustered pout, “Can you take it out for me?”

As if you could forget what he’s talking about, he humps you again.

“Please, take it out,” he cranes his neck to run his warm, wet tongue over your other, unattended nipple.

“Aw,” you didn’t think seeing your big, energetic boyfriend act so pathetic would set you on fire the way it does. One of your hands stretches down between you and Yuuji, wrangling down his pants with him lifting his hips to help, “Do you want me to play with your cock?”

He hums against your breast, nodding eagerly, “Yuh- yeah- ! Please?”

Your fingers wrap around the warm softness of Yuuji’s erection, thumb playfully nudging his mushroom tip’s slit. He throws his head back, ricocheting against the car seat headrest with a throaty groan.

Giggling, you lean in to kiss the sensitive spot just under Yuuji’s jaw, hand still working up Yuuji’s weeping cock, “Having a good time, honey?”

“Uh-huh,” he unwinds his arms around you to grasp your hips once again, fingers bruising at your sides, “Feels so good - so, so good…”

“Who’s making you feel good, Yuuji?”

“You!” his right thigh twitches under you, “You, you - ‘s always you!”

“Always me?”

His chuckle breaks off into a slack-jawed moan, “Said I jerk off to you every night, didn’t I?” he reaches for your wrist, “Wait, wait!”

“Were you…?” so soon?

“I told you!” now he’s the one whining like a petulant brat, “I don’t wanna cum before you, but you just make it so hard.”

So soon.

Your thighs squish around Yuuji’s, hips grinding on nothing - desperate in search of friction.

“You like that?” he sounds breathless, staring at you as you watch his bobbing cock. All red at the head and straining against your hand, “You’re so mean, babe.”

“I like it a lot,” you sit up, lips finding Yuuji’s drool-slicked ones, “I like knowing I have that effect on you.”

“Since I first saw you, I think,” he admits, hands skimming under your skirt now, “Can I… ?”

You nod, holding tightly to Yuuji’s shoulders while you lean on one leg. You could, theoretically, drag your panties down your lifted leg by yourself - but Yuuji stubbornly joins your hand all the way down to your ankle.

Before trying to slip inside you, Yuuji cups your hot sex. His chest tightens, middle finger shakily tracing along your soaked cunt. Tongue lolling back out of his mouth, Yuuji tucks your nipple back into his mouth when he inserts his finger in your hole. Trying to keep his mind as busy as possible so he can stop thinking about how badly he needs to bury himself inside you.

“Yuuji,” your breathing is ragged, already lowering yourself before he even pulls his finger out of you, “I’m so past ready.”

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles against the swell of your tit, teasing his teeth against the full flesh, “I dunno if I’ll be able to get in…” he chuckles to himself, lightheaded when he taps the head of his cock against your clit, “Might slip right out, huh?”

“Stop teasing,” you cradle Yuuji’s head to your chest, arms thrown around his neck, “You’re the mean one.”

“I know, I know,” he lowers in his seat, pressing himself finally, finally, finally inside your pussy. Your tits press even closer to his face when you gasp at the stretch, “I’ve been ignoring my poor pretty girl this whole time,” he says it so mournfully, so heartfelt, “So selfish, just thinking of my pride - I didn’t even wonder how my girl felt.”

“Ahh, Yuuji,” you moan, piercing your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I’m sorry, pretty girl,” he pushes down on your hips, lowering you on his stiff cock until your thighs are flush with his soft pants. They’re a little wet. You don’t care much, and you don’t think Yuuji does either right now. He screws up into you, one arm tight around your waist to pull you down into his thrusts and the other hand finding your slippery clit, “I’m so sorry, angel, can you forgive me?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” his fingers work quick circles on your nerves as he fucks you and you’re barely able to scramble together the words (let alone carry those words out in a sensible form), “Yes - ah! - yes, Yuuji!”

There’s something in the way he twists his hips this time because his cock beats into a particular spot that sends white sparks through your veins. You snap back, head hanging and forcing your bouncing tits directly in Yuuji’s face. Before you can even begin to beg, your big, energetic (and maybe a little pathetic) boyfriend is already nodding to himself.

“Right there, angel?” his fingers leave your clit to press down on where his cock batters your insides, “Is that it? Want me right here?”

“Please!” you squeal, thighs quivering and lungs fresh out of air.

“Uh-huh,” he keeps nodding, head too empty to realize he doesn’t need to anymore, “Uh-huh, anything for you… fuckin’ anything…”

When your lower half burns out, Yuuji keeps you upright - fully fucking up into you at that same spot he pushes down on your tummy. The need to cum burns every nerve in your body - it burns and burns and burns until it changes.

Something fuller and more familiar - in a more daily-life kind of way.

“Ah, Yuuji,” your hands perch on his shoulders, body bouncing with the weight of Yuuji’s hips slinging into yours, “I think- ! It feels like- !”

“Talk to me, angel,” dumbly, he looks up at you, almost snickering, “‘Entertain me.’”

“Feels like ‘m gonna pee,” you try warning him, you really do.

But something behind his eyes just shines brighter, grin widening and he actually laughs, “Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Fuck yeah,” he stares, wide-eyed, at where you’re creaming on his cock, “You gonna squirt on me, baby?” his foolish nodding quickens with his hips, “Squirt all over me, angel, I want it - want it so bad. Soak my car, oh,” his pretty mouth circles into an ‘O’ just at the thought, “Please, please soak my fucking car!”

Your head jerks back, nails digging into Yuuji’s shoulders, throat snapping raw as you cry out braindead mixtures of your boyfriend’s name and pleas for more and harder and his cum.

He moves the hand on your tummy to swish your clit and spread your mess as far as he can, mouth popping open almost instinctively just to catch stray droplets of your cum in his mouth. One day (tomorrow) he might regret (will definitely regret) intentionally making you spray cum all over his front, and even back, seats, but right now he couldn’t possibly imagine not doing it.

“‘m gonna cum,” he grits his teeth, moans choked back in his throat, “‘m gonna cum - where?” before he can ask again, you find the strength to swivel your hips down on him, “Inside?”

“Inside!” you sob, chest tight and eyes watering at the overstimulation of Yuuji still swirling a thumb on your clit, “Cum inside, Yuuji!”

“Fu- ck,” he squeezes the word out of his chest, seating you fully on his lap when his cock throbs. He juts his chin out towards you when he starts cumming, “Kiss me?”

And you waste no time throwing yourself forward to press chaste, sweet kisses on Yuuji’s drooling lips. He hums and whimpers into your mouth, greedily drinking in the taste of your lips on his. As if he’d been starved of it his entire life.

Yuuji keeps you against him, the both of you slowly coming back down to Earth.

His sopping pants are beginning to cool underneath you.

“Ugh,” you groan at the feeling, “I think we made a mistake.”

“Yeah…” Yuuji sighs, “Oh well. Can’t unfuck in the car now.”

You’re kind of dreading pulling off Yuuji’s soft cock - if you hadn’t done enough to ruin Yuuji’s pants before, then that most certainly will.

Yuuji sighs again, heartier, hands coddling your hips and tenderly rubbing circles into your bone. His eyes fall to your breasts and remain there, “I really am sorry, angel. I- I never, ever wanted you to feel like I didn’t want you.”

Because he does. Good, God, he always does.

Every time he sees you, his hands get all sweaty and his cheeks are hot and his stomach twists into jumbles of knots.

“It hurt,” you admit, “but it’s fine now,” you giggle at the idea of him apologizing over trying to be respectful, “It isn’t like you were being a dick, you know?”

“Yeah, but! Ugh!” he clenches a hand over his heart dramatically, frowning, “I hurt my girlfriend’s feelings. My sweet girl :( “

“You’re cute,” you kiss one of Yuuji’s fiery cheeks, “Okay, help me off.”

“Oh, yeah, huh,” he stretches over your shoulder to wring your panties back up your leg, “It’ll be unpleasant, but I think you need to wear these back to your apartment.”

“I’ll live,” you pick at the elastic to Yuuji’s pants and snap them back against his sweaty thigh, “Can’t be worse than this, pee pants.”

“Hey, it’s not pee,” he pouts once again tonight, “And be nice.”

You shake your head, leaning down to press your lips against Yuuji’s once again. Soaking in the taste like you’d been starved of it your entire life, “Never.”

[tojipie]

welcome home <3

he’s unboxed ! who cheered. by far one of my most requested fics of all time. started this series 6 months ago and it remains one of my favs :,) this is by no means the end though ! i haven’t been writing any of the additions to this series in “order” and i am still 100% open to writing about his life inside/after prison lol. thank u to all the lovely ppl that have been showing love to these since april mwah mwah mwah mwah

as always, prison bf toji series linked here <3

content: (incarceration, fem reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, p in v smut, pining, road head, swallowing, creampie, dirty talk, multiple rounds)

“just step through here and—yep,” the guard waves his security want across your outstretched arms, clearing you to take your belongings from the conveyor belt.

you’d done this dance a hundred times over the past seven years, driving up to the district penitentiary twice a week to see your boyfriend—now fiancé.

toji told you he didn’t have it in him to wait, popping the question during a conjugal visit a month ago. 

the man had known he’d wanted to marry you even before he got locked up. the feeling was mutual, but unspoken, always hanging in the air between the two of you.

you on the other hand had known you wanted to marry toji the moment he whispered his first “i love you,” said to you through the crackly speaker of a burner phone on a night when neither of you knew if he’d be coming home or not.

you make a beeline for the release wing, breaking into a subtle jog without drawing too much attention to yourself. the bouquet of green flowers you’d bought at the grocery store jostles in your purse, leaving a breadcrumb trail of stray petals.

there, around a bend and down the corridor stands the man of your dreams, flanked by officers and personnel at the front desk. 

metal cuffs clack together as the man reaches to accept a clipboard from the release agent, skillfully uncapping the pen with his teeth to fill out the means for his freedom.

he looks up a split second before you speak, dropping the clipboard with an audible clatter. toji tears down the corridor with a look that speaks of relief beyond words.

“toji!” you yell, sprinting to the inmate with outstretched arms. you nearly trip over your own feet with how quick you barrel towards him.

warm bodies clash together at last, squeezing, cradling, and caressing every inch of each other at last. his law enforcement entourage watches from afar, some smiling, others annoyed.

you’re lifted clean off the ground as strong, tattooed arms slip over your head and around your body. thick fingers work their way into your hair, cradling your head to his shoulder. 

actions speak louder than words, you know that much from how quickly he buckles, dropping to his knees with your body still wrapped around his. 

toji smells different every time you come to visit. there were days when the tang of blood stuck to his skin no matter how hard he scrubbed, a telling sign of his short temper. 

other days he’d smell like the earth, soil from the rec field permeating his already brown garments after his morning run.

once in a while, you’d catch hints of industrial paint and car exhaust, a smell built up from hours of making license plates for pocket change from the state. “pennies,” he’d tell you, “that’s all we fucking get in here.”

today, toji smells like himself. like the man you fell in love with 7 years ago in the passenger seat of a BMW, gazing into green eyes while gentle hands brushed the hair from your face. 

you almost think he’s laughing until warm tears trickle through the porous fabric of your shirt. 

strong shoulders quiver as quiet sobs rack his body, you rub his back in small circles, unable to pull away with how tight he’s holding you against his chest.

“i love you,” the inmate whimpers, wiping hot tears with his sleeve. he pulls back to press your lips together, mumbling nonsense in between kisses.

“pretty girl—m’ sorry— missed you,” his hands shake as they curl into the fabric at your waist.

you’d seen him cry exactly twice in his life. the first being the night he’d opened up to you in full for the first time, quietly relaying stories of neglect and abuse from his childhood while you kissed tears from his cheeks.

the second was well, the day he went away.

to see him break down like this so openly was devastating. he hated being emotional, told you it was humiliating. you’re sure he felt more than vulnerable, the leader of the city’s biggest drug ring, crumpled on the floor of a prison hallway 

“it’s okay baby,” you tell him, still rubbing circles into his skin.

to touch him like this, at last, was unlike anything the two of you had been allowed to experience for the past 7 years. this wasn’t your two legally allowed hugs at the beginning and end of your visits, or a quick fuck in a storage closet.

this was love. to hold and be held in front of law enforcement personnel without threat of being reprimanded. this was the first time you had been allowed to feel him under the tips of your fingers with an audience, publicly declaring your claim on each other without fear. 

you never blamed toji for what had happened, as angry as you were that first year. he blamed himself enough for the both of you really. 

you’d come to learn over the years that it had already been too late for him to get out of his line of work way before you’d found each other, a cycle he couldn’t break.

prison was always a possibility, inevitable even. that’s just how it was.

you slowly gather your purse off the ground, cellophane-wrapped flowers coming into view. 

“for me?” he laughs, slightly embarrassed. dark green carnations, just like his eyes. 

“who else?” you tease, watching the distress melt from his face.

you share a look briefly, yours saying you’re safe with me. his saying i know.

the soft clicks of black work boots pull you from your thoughts, a female officer in tow.

“you guys ready to get started?” she asks softly, shooting you a sympathetic look.

toji stands with a chuckle, not letting you respond. silver cuffs dig into the meat of your thighs as you’re carried back to the group.

 ˚ ✧ ───────────

half an hour of paperwork for his freedom. that’s what you give the prison in exchange for his belongings and dignity. 

the waiting room is quiet, sterile air filtering through dated vents. calloused fingers rub over your ankle, legs propped up in his lap.

“feels like a hospital in here,” he mumbles, trying to cut through the silence.

the cuffs are gone, thank god. though you’re more than unhappy with the marks they left on his wrists. toji doesn’t seem to mind, used to almost a decade of this treatment.

the release desk worker slides you two a yellow bag under the glass divider once you finish your task, pointing you in the direction of the bathrooms in case toji wanted to change. 

the inmate—no, ex-inmate you remind yourself— hands you the bag with a disinterested look. 

he doesn’t want to remember, you realize. too scared to wear the suit he had on the day the world took you from him. you quickly trash the old clothes and hold out your shoulder bag to him, fresh clothes neatly folded inside. 

“always prepared huh?” toji smiles, grateful at the gesture. “haven’t changed a bit.”

you wait a couple of minutes outside the single-stall bathroom, physically picking your jaw up off the floor when he emerges.

to say that his old shirt fit would be... egregiously wrong. blasphemous even.

toji’s shirt doesn’t just “not fit”, it’s bursting at the seams as it struggles to accommodate his hulking form, stretching over plains of corded muscle like a rubber band pulled too tight. 

seeing him so often had likely gotten your brain used to the change, preventing you from realizing how fucking big your fiancé had gotten. truly.

the black garment is so tight against his body that it’s practically a second skin. you make note of the way it molds into the dips and curves of his abs, mentally reminding yourself to get him to wear it for you later. 

you suppose the change makes sense. if toji wasn’t with you on a day visit he was always in his cell, sticking to a strict workout regimen to take his mind off things. still, you rack your brain trying to pinpoint how and when such a massive transformation slipped your mind.

a tattooed hand snaps you out of your trance, cradling your cheek.

“you focused?” your fiancé teases, rubbing circles into your jaw with his thumb.

“i think that thing’s gonna explode if you move,” you swat his hand away. 

“would you rather i take it off to be safe?” he asks, jutting a thumb behind him at the waiting room desk.

the workers make no attempt to hide their oggling, faces pressed against the glass barrier separating your party from theirs.

“no— god keep it on,” you mutter, shooting them a nasty look.

“you and your girlfriend ready to go fushiguro?” an officer says, holding the door open for the both of you. toji squats down momentarily to get a grip on your thighs, folding you over his shoulder to carry you fireman style.

“wife,” he corrects, shouldering past the guard and trudging down the corridor with calculated steps.

the coos that ring out from the help desk are humiliating.

waxed tile fades into worn concrete as the two of you pass the threshold into the prison parking lot, your soon-to-be-husband muttering a curt “go fuck yourselves” to the officers who’d wished him good luck on his way out the door.

you’re proud of him for holding his tongue, in a way. knowing toji and his temper there were a hundred more creative and undoubtedly gruesome things he could have said to the personnel who’d kept him locked up for the better half of a decade. 

the world flips right side up again as you’re gently placed on your feet in front of the car. 

toji raises his head to the sky, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

“s’ nice,” he mumbles, reaching to intertwine your hands. “felt the sun during rev time but.. not like this.”

you hum, rubbing your thumb over tattooed knuckles. 

“get ready to experience a lot more sun then,” you giggle. “wanna have a look at the car?” the question is more of a rhetorical one at this point considering he’s already running his hand over the hood with a whistle.

“haven’t seen this baby in a while,” he smiles, internally gushing at your choice to welcome him to the world in the car he used to drive you home the night you met. your fiancé doesn’t have to say thank you, you know how grateful he is from his smile alone.

he falters for a bit, looking like a newborn fawn with how careful his steps are as he circles the vehicle. you figure wearing proper shoes instead of rubber slides must feel at least a little abnormal after 7 long years. 

“alright,” toji states, rolling his shoulders in his too-tight top. “fuck are we waiting for, i wanna go home.”

 ˚ ✧ ───────────

you pay no mind to toji the first time he turns to look at you, opening his mouth to say something before slumping back into his seat with a frustrated sigh.

the fourth time it happens, you speak up.

“what are you doing?” you laugh, eyeing him from the driver's seat

“getting rubbed to death by my fucking zipper,” he mutters, repositioning his lower half to take the pressure off his cock. his frustration isn’t aimed at you in the slightest, all blame placed on his bottoms.

oh.. oh.

the whirlwind of emotions toji had gone through in the past 3 hours alone had taken a toll on his mind and body. but tasting the first morsels of freedom with you, alone in a car that smelled like you? you’d be worried if he wasn’t hard.

you had no problem helping his little problem go away, the question was how soon.

the idea that piques on you is absolutely shameful, you’re not even sure where it came from but you don’t have it in you to care. 

you know this road, you’ve used it a thousand times to make the trip up to the penitentiary. judging by how long you’d been driving you’d say there was about 10 minutes left before ruler-straight tar merged into the twists and turns of the suburbs.

“when did your license expire?” you ask, cautiously peering in the rearview mirror. good, no cars.

“3 years ago,” he laughs, “why?”

fuck it, you think.

“you still remember how to steer?” 

“course i d— oh.”

it finally dawns on him. you smile, shooting him a look that says “want to?”

you’re sure you have your answer judging by how quick he shucks his jeans and boxers down, freeing his cock from its confines.

“oh fuck,” he groans, struggling to keep his eyes open as your mouth presses against his base. 

your fiancé steers while your head bobs just beneath the dash, one hand on the wheel and the other placed firmly at the crown of your head, guiding you up and down the shaft.

your throat flexes around the intrusion, fighting the hulking feeling of his length mercilessly fucking into your mouth.

“fuck, perfect girl— my girl,” he shudders, hips moving to buck into your slick throat.

“gonna cum, gonna— shit,”

fingers kissed in dark ink massage your throat softly, urging you to swallow the hot load coating every inch of your mouth. you flutter around his length, pulling back to clean him off with your tongue.

“fucks gotten into you, pretty girl?” he whispers, so out of breath you barely hear him. 

 ˚ ✧ ───────────

you barely make it up the steps of the house before you’re shoved against the door, tattooed hands groping up and down your body with fervor.

“keys,” he says against your lips, “keys—fuck, now,” his voice is hoarser this time, desperation clear.

you whip around to jam the item into the lock, not unaware of the rock-hard dick grinding into your jean-clad ass from behind.

you’re being carried to the couch before you even step off the doormat, a stray throw blanket cushioning your fall as you’re pressed into squeaky leather. 

“won’t be gentle,” toji groans, ripping your jeans and panties down in one fluid motion.” can’t right now.”

“don’t be.” you say, rucking his shirt off his body surprisingly quick. “wouldn’t want you to.”

you needed him, needed toji to have his way with you. to christen your home round after round until you couldn’t feel where his body and yours ended.

when it came down to it, you suppose 

he smiles at the crude admission, rubbing the head of his cock up and down your drenched folds.

“filthy,” he mutters, said almost lovingly. toji grips his base and sinks to the hilt with a sharp groan, shuddering at the heat of your walls.

the stretch is delicious, filling you from every angle and pressing right against that special spot. you’re surprised at how easily he slams in, though you’re embarrassed to admit it was entirely because of how soaked you were. 

toji immediately pulls back with a flick of his hips, pistoning into you like his life depends on it. 

he hasn’t changed, you think. still so incredibly in tune with your body, skills that would put a pornstar to shame.

this was better than some quick closeted fuck under the cover of night after slipping a guard a rubber band of cash. this was primal, filthy. two bodies writhing against each other, the only goal being complete and utter pleasure. 

toji makes no effort to shush you like he would if you were sneaking around, basking in your sighs and whines like water from a stream.

“missed this,” he says, licking a long, wet stripe from your sternum to your pulse. “missed you, missed having you every day.”

“you’ll have me forever,” you moan, sucking a purple bruise into the tattooed skin of his throat.

thick fingers thread into your hair to hold you to his neck, silently commanding you to bite down.

and so you do. you bite down hard on the junction of his neck and shoulder, licking over pink teeth marks as his thrusts reach their maximum speed.

the pleasure you feel is blinding. stars explode behind your vision while the curve of his cock hits that heavenly spot in you just right. over, and over, and over.

your climax sneaks up on you before you can think, ripping a wail from the depths of your chest. toji’s thrusts falter to a halt as you lock down on him, pleasantly caught off guard by the vice grip you have around him.

“oh my g— holy shit,” he groans, mouth hanging open. dark brows furrow it to a look of pure pleasure, emerald eyes squeezing tight.

“keep going,” you mumble, scratching rivets down the skin of his back. “just keep fucking me please don’t stop please pl—”

“yeah? keep going?” he teases, groping at the swell of your breast. “greedy huh?”

you did want more, that was the thing. you just came the hardest you ever had in years but you’d be damned if he didn’t keep giving it to you.

brutal thrusts shake the frame of the couch. your bodies meld like they were made for each other, sharing pleasure in the comfort that came with the knowledge that the both of you intended to fuck until you physically couldn’t anymore.

“gonna come,” your fiancé pants, mouthing at the curve of one of your breasts. blunt teeth brush over the bud of your nipple, sending shockwaves down your spine

“inside, fuck—please,” you’re practically shaking.

“inside?” he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue like gold. “you want my seed? huh?” 

you nod, clutching to his naked back as he ruts into you, deeper than ever. strong hands grip the back of your thighs practically folding you in half, opening you up in ways you thought to be impossible.

hot release fills you up for the second time that day, shrouding your lower half in a blanket of warmth.

you sigh, low and satiated at the feeling inside of you, pulling toji to your chest when he collapses on top of you.

“we should probably..” toji trails off, completely out of breath. “should probably head upstairs.” he heaves, chest swelling with deep gulps of air.

“or we could go another round?” you mumble, throwing the question out there. 

“shit, yeah.. probably should right?” he chuckles

taglist ! 🏷️

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[bloodibambiidoll]

ok so hear me out. rafe and weird!girl get into an argument and rafe calls her weird or says something about her being normal for once and my girl gets all upset as she should.

Nonnie, are you in my walls? I’m very much having a day like this. This is heavily based on the day I had today and writing it made me feel sm better. Slight angst. Fluff. 1.8K words. NO MINORS!! (Note: weird!girl is autistic coded bc I am autistic)

You were extremely overwhelmed. It feels like every single thing is out to get you today. Before you and Rafe left to go on your first grocery shopping trip since you moved in together you got into a bit of a disagreement over the list. You are extremely picky. You have set safe foods that you like to stick to and you don’t like to stray from them. But Rafe on the other hand would eat almost anything. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that you wanted to live off of freezer waffles and chicken nuggets when he hired a professional chef for the two of you.

“Baby, why would I buy you the cheap freezer shit when I can have it made from scratch all fancy n shit?” It wasn’t about the price, you know that. It was just that Rafe wanted you to have the best of everything he could possibly give you and sometimes you just wanted the simpler things. Something that he’s still trying to understand.

“It’s just… I don’t want that. I want the ones from the store. That I always get. The ones I like.” Your lips were formed into a pout as you looked down at your lap and played with the rings on your fingers.

“Aight, Bats, if that’s what you want.” He shrugged and kissed your forehead before leaving you to finish getting ready. It was what you wanted. But you could tell it wasn’t what he wanted so you felt bad. You didn't want to be an inconvenience.

So after that you got in your head that you were too much for him. You spent the entire card ride to the grocery store thinking about how a normal girl wouldn’t want specific foods. A normal girl would be more than happy to have a personal chef make them anything and everything they wanted. A normal girl would be able to go to those fancy restaurants Rafe likes because she’d actually like anything on the menu. He tried to take you once and you spent the entire meal picking at your plate of chicken and veggies, so he never tried again settling to go places that had things you actually liked.

Then at the store you were so in your head that if you hadn’t made a list you probably wouldn’t have gotten a single thing you wanted. You couldn’t stop feeling like you were a burden to him because you needed him to buy you an entirely different grocery list from his own. You kept trying to put things back. Or tell him you didn’t need things that you did, in fact, need. You could tell Rafe was getting frustrated with you and it only made you want to shut down even more.

It didn’t help that the grocery store was easily one of your least favorite places. The lighting was awful. There were always so many people everywhere not looking where they’re going. The freezer section was always so cold that you spent that entire section of the shopping trip practically shaking. It was so goddamn loud. People talking. Kids crying. The squeaking of the old grocery cart wheels. So going there when you were already feeling overwhelmed was a recipe for disaster.

You fully lost it when you were checking out. The cart was extremely disorganized because you were too checked out to keep it in order the entire trip. The store you were at had it so you bagged your own groceries so the fact that the cart was a complete disaster made bagging them incredibly difficult. You were struggling to keep up with the cashier and also bag the groceries efficiently. He kept pushing the conveyor belt button, rolling the groceries that you haven’t bagged yet to pile up on top of each other at the end of it. The cart was full of bags and you weren’t even half done so you had to run and grab another one, only letting the pile grow further.

Rafe bought a case of beer and it the midst of you trying to frantically bag everything in a timely manner the cashier also asked you for your I.D. Which only frustrates you more. You don’t even drink beer. And it made you have to pause bagging again to dig in your purse. The cashier kept looking from the card to you and back again, like he thought it was fake.

“I know I look nothing like that, that was 7 years ago.” You didn’t mean to sound snippy, but you were pretty much at your limit.

“Baby, it’s fine, he’s just lookin’ for the date.” Rafe shot you a look and it only pissed you off more.

“Well he’s looking at it like it’s fake or some shit!” You scoffed as you slammed a full bag into the cart. Which only earned you another look from Rafe.

On the way home he hardly talked to you, instead he decided to blast trap music when you were clearly already overstimulated so you decided to put your headphones on and drown him out.

“Bats, the fuck is going on with you today, huh?” Rafe is towering over you the minute you enter the kitchen, backing you up against the counter.

“I just don’t like the grocery store. And you made me feel bad about the food. And everything was just so loud in there. And I felt like you hardly talked to me the entire time. I’ve felt like an inconvenience to you all day!” You snap at him as you stomp your foot in frustration, glaring up at him.

“All we did was go to the fuckin’ store. You’re seriously that worked up over it?” Rafe scoffs, running a hand through his hair.

“Yes! I am! The grocery store is extremely stressful for me and you’re not being considerate of that!!”

“That’s ridiculous, people go to the grocery store every day. It’s not a big deal. I don’t know why you can’t just be fuckin’ normal sometimes.” Rafe throws his hands up, letting them fall against his thighs with a smack. The minute the words leave his mouth your bottom lip starts to quiver as tears brim your eyes. And he knows he fucked up. Immediately he knows he fucked up.

“You know what? Why don’t you go find a normal girlfriend then!?” You push against his chest, running past him to your shared bedroom. You slam the door behind you, sliding down it as the tears in your eyes begin to spill down your cheeks. You knew it.

“Baby…” Rafe’s voice travels through the thick wood as he lightly taps on it. “ I’m sorry… that was- I shouldn’t have- Bats, can you open the door, please?”

“No. Go away.” You whimper as you curl further into yourself against the door.

“Baby girl, please? Just wanna talk. Lemme see you.” He turns the knob, pushing on the door lightly causing you to shift forward slightly. “C’mon, get away from the door, let me in.”

“Why don’t you go find a normal girl to talk to.” You snap at him before trying to push back against the wood but he’s so much stronger than you that it doesn’t even budge. Rafe shoves his foot into the crack of the door, pushing it until he can slip through. It slams shut behind him from your weight, causing you to yelp. He drops to his knees in front of you, taking your face in his hands. “Baby, look at me.”

“No.” You shake your head, subconsciously nuzzling into his touch. Your lips are quivering so bad your teeth are chattering as tears flow down your cheeks and Rafe kind of wants to kick his own ass.

“Listen I- I shouldn’t have said that, okay? I didn’t - fuck baby, I didn’t mean that shit. I was just frustrated. Doesn’t make it okay though, never wanna make my girl cry.” Rafe runs his thumbs down the apples of your cheeks, wiping away the salty tears that continue to fall. “I think I’ve gotten pretty damn good about knowing how you work. But with us living together now there's gonna be new shit that I’m gonna have to pick up on. I’m so sorry princess.”

“I just - I - just wanna be enough for you. Don’t wanna be a burden.” Your body tries to curl in on itself even more but Rafe doesn’t let it, he grips onto your hips and pulls you into his lap. He wraps his strong arms around you as he starts to rock you back and forth.

“Want you to listen to me baby, aight?” He takes your jaw in his hand, tilting your head towards his to get you to look at him. When you do it nearly cracks his heart. He hates that he made you feel like everyone else always has. “I never should’ve fucking said that shit. I didn’t mean it. Not even a little bit. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you, okay? I fuckin’ love you and all your weird little shit. Your weird little shit just makes me love you more. I’ve never known anyone like you. You’ve taught me so much. I guess I’ve just still got some shit to learn. But I’m trying, Bats. I’ll never stop trying.”

“You really mean it?” You sniffle as you look up at him through your teary eyes and Rafe has never felt more bad than he does at this moment. If he saw anybody else making you cry like this they would be so fucked and here he is, doing it.

“Of course I fuckin’ mean that shit, baby girl. I’m sorry for losing my patience with you today. I never, ever, wanna hurt you. Never wanna make you feel like all these other douchebags on the island do. Kind of want to run them all over, including myself right now.” Rafe lets out a dry chuckle when he sees the corner of your lips tilt up slightly. His large hand runs down the back of your head, smoothing down your hair as he continues to rock the both of you. “You know I love you more than anything, right?”

“It’s okay, Rafey. I know I can be too much sometimes. But I do know that you love me.” And you do. Especially right now. Rafe never opens up to you like this. And you kind of want to blow him right now.

“Hey, you aren’t too much, aight? Don’t ever let anyone make you feel that way. Including me, put my ass in check baby. God knows I need it.” He smiles down at you before leaning to place a gentle kiss on your lips. “Want me to put some nuggets in the air fryer for you and we can watch that movie you’ve been trying to get me to watch?”

“Mhm, that sounds perfect daddy.”

All things Rafe & his weird!girl here

[lspiritomb]

sushi shop panopticon

the layers are conveyor belts, the bomb launchers/spotlights ordering tablets, the main cannons plates and the faces salmon roe sushi!

[copperbadge]

Behold, a slightly longer video of the cheese conveyor belt!

This is at Culture & Co. in Nashville, which is incredibly and delightfully the second charcuterie conveyor belt restaurant I've eaten at in the last two years, the other being Pick & Cheese in London.

As with Pick & Cheese I do know myself, so I set out the rule ahead of time that I could only take three plates, and thus I chose with care. First course: "Bruleed Brie" with passion fruit caramel cultured butter. This is a brie-style cheese from Pennsylvania (where my yinzers at) which has had one open side dipped in sugar and then presumably melted with a culinary torch; it looks like jam, but as you can see in the second image, when you tap the brulee it cracks like toffee.

Both the brulee brie and the butter were fantastic; the acid of the passion fruit cuts the sugar and the fattiness a little, but it also really emerges as its own flavor. I think this is the most imaginative way to upgrade brie I've seen in a minute. I kinda wanna try it at home.

Second plate was a Cumblerland "tomme-style" natural rind cheese from Tennessee (specifically Sequatchie Cove) with house made potato chive crackers and rosemary. The real highlight of this cheese is, honestly, the rind -- it has a flavor unique from the rest of the slice, which is much milder and reminded me of a young gouda, almost. The crackers don't look like much but however they make them they were really packed with this nice earthy salty flavor.

For "dessert" I almost went with a vegan cashew-based "Gouda" with shiitake bacon, mainly for the bacon I'll be honest, and you can actually see that plate go by, it's the first one you see in the video up top. Instead I decided to go with...I'm not sure even what kind of cheese this is because it's called GOAT RODEO BAMBOOZLE. I mean, the menu said it was a semi-soft washed rind goat's milk cheese, so there's that.

Normally I avoid goat cheese because I find it very dry texturally, but this was nice, it had that kind of gamey goaty taste but was much more buttery. It came with two pecan shortbread cookies (sandies) and a little cup of root beer caramel, which you can see dripping down a bite of the cheese in the second image. I don't know how you make root beer caramel (sasparilla in the milk?) but it had a nice peppery note to it. I wanted to down it like a shot but resisted.

Anyway, all three were fantastic, not a loser in the bunch, and the wait staff were super pleasant and knowledgeable, so it was a pretty great meal, especially for $30 (including tip).

I don't know who's setting these cheese conveyor belts up across the world but whoever you are, if you bring one to Chicago I will be grateful and I will eat there and bring visiting friends there. Some of my friends even drink wine, so we won't be cheap dates, I promise. We're so close to Wisconsin! Think what you could do with the curds, man, the curds!

[callahanisms]

a fair trade

pairing: miguel o’hara x gender neutral! reader

word count: 1,010 words

ao3 link: 🕷️🕷️🕷️

summary: your help is needed to defeat a multiversal entity, one that you’ve defeated before. but what can miguel offer in return for your service?

notes: kind of mishmashing the movies and comics together. do not fret if you haven’t read any of them! it’s mostly just referenced (much like how it was referenced in the last post). the fic on ao3 is also locked to registered ao3 users only. it’s a precaution i’m taking in response to ai using ao3 fics to be trained.

“(Y/N), we need your help.”

“Miguel, I’m in the middle of eating lunch. Because, you know, I didn’t have breakfast.”

“That’s on you.”

“Some of us don’t like breakfast.”

“Okay that’s not the point! The point is that we need your help!”

You were just sitting at your table, peacefully. After a mission earlier today, you thought you enjoyed a nice break. All you’ve been doing is going on missions across the multiverse, at the expense of your personal life back home. Your friends missed you and were constantly wondering why you would dip all of a sudden. After all, it wasn’t like you to just...cancel last minute. You loved your friends. You always made sure to be there. What you didn’t expect when accepting Miguel’s invitation was to be worked constantly. There was always a multiversal threat at stake, even for something small.

You were literally the local expert on the multiverse. Small things wouldn’t cause catastrophe. But Miguel believed they would. He believed in a domino effect. You believed that it was necessary to stay vigilant but not every small thing required attention. Sometimes the multiverse acted weird. It was a multiverse. It acted on its own accords.

“Miguel, is it actually something to worry about? Or is it something like the Vulture ended up in the wrong reality which can be cleaned up without my help?” You took a sip of your drink.

“It’s someone by the name of Verna. And she’s brought with her an army.”

“Verna? Never heard of her.” You shake your head.

“Really? She claims she’s fought you before.”

“If I saw a picture, then maybe I would recognize her.”

Miguel doesn’t hesitate. “Lyla.”

Part of you wondered what it would be like if your name was always on the tip of his tongue, ready to speak on a moment’s notice. You always wanted someone who could say your name with such ease, who thought of you constantly.

“Already on it.” Lyla pulls up a video. “This is live footage of the whole thing. We’re lucky she hasn’t spread her destruction further.”

As you were taking a sip of your drink, you choked on the liquid. Thankfully, you did not die. “We need you alive (Y/N).” Miguel says.

“I thought I banished her to the ends of the Multiverse!” You exclaimed.

“So you have fought her?” Lyla questions. “Was this the multiversal being you battled before?”

“She’s the reason I have no magic!” You crush the metal cup in your hand. “It took everything for me to banish her! And she just comes...comes back like nothing happened?” You squint a little. “She also looks a lot different than I remember. You said her name was Verna?” Lyla and Miguel look at each other before nodding. “She went by a different name. Called herself the Matriarch of...something. I don’t remember.”

“All the more reason for you to finish up and join us.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I lost my appetite.” You picked up the dishes and cleaned out the plates, dropping them off with the conveyor belt of dirty dishes. “You owe me Miguel.”

“Owe you what?”

“A break. Like a real break. My body needs to properly recuperate, you know.”

He inputs the numbers and opens the portal. “I can do that. You’ve done good work so far.”

“Exactly. Not getting paid here.”

“None of us get paid.”

“It was a joke. You know, Peter was right. You’re like the only one of us that isn’t funny.”

“That’s hilarious.” His voice did not change in tone and his facial expressions did not give away that he was humored.

“Lighten up a little. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re extra stoic because you want to kiss me.”

“I do not want to kiss you.”

“Everyone wants to kiss me.”

He looks at you, eyebrow slightly raised. “You should pay me in kisses actually. Think that’d be a fair deal. I help you guys stop Verna, again, and I get a kiss. It’d be the perfect reward.”

You feel his gaze on you. “It’s a joke, I promise. You don’t have to actually.” Even if you did want to kiss him.

He takes a step towards you, much to your surprise. His hand reaches up, fingers curled slightly, and his knuckles graze the skin of your cheeks. It’s reassuring in a way and his touch is gentle. It reminds you of when you first joined, how his fingers gently wiped away the crumbs at your face. His hand uncurls and cups your face. “How badly do you want a kiss?” He asks.

His voice made your legs shake. “If I answered that I think you’d make fun of me.”

“I mean...it’s a simple yes or no question.”

“Yes?”

You weren’t expecting his lips to crash against yours. The sheer force almost causes you to fall over and your hands fumble to grip onto his body. You could feel his muscles flex beneath his suit. You kiss him back, but most certainly not with the same amount of force he does. Miguel even goes as far to nip your bottom lip, causing a small gasp to emerge from your throat. It was a little embarrassing and your cheeks grew warm. He pulls away, satisfied and with that cocky smirk on his face.

“Make it back alive and I’ll give you another.” He puts his mask on. “Maybe even more.”

“You...have a lot of confidence that I will.” You were out of breath. Very much out of breath.

“You’ve beaten the odds before. It’s part of who we are.”

Miguel walks through the portal and you clench your hands for a few seconds. You were nervous. It wasn’t just the kiss that made you nervous (though your heart certainly was pumping for that reason primarily). Lyla looked at you with a smile. “You better come back. Or else I’ll lose the primary thing I make fun of him for.”

“I’ll try Lyla. For you.”

“Sure, sure. Now get going before people die.”

[mistyffa]

went to a revolving sushi place the other day and. oh my god I need to bring a feedee there. first of all, it'd just be a such a cute date, the place had great vibes and it's in an area I love. but also. cheap food. in large amounts. on a literal conveyor belt. you could eat so, so much so quickly and barely even notice. and there are rewards for different amounts of plates. after 15, you get a keychain, so on and so on.

i can just imagine walking in there with a huge, waddling fatty, belly sticking out after months of overfeeding, tight shorts and a crop top, those little charms decorating her keychain and the zippers on her bag. sitting there, astonished, as she slams back dozens upon dozens of plates of sushi and deserts. Jesus, I need that.

[mychlapci]

thinking about B getting kicked to sub level 50 not bc of whatever the canon reason is but instead it's bc of the problems he caused by having super addictive cum a guard fucked him once and got some of B's transfluid on his own plating and suddenly all of the guards on that level are too busy sucking him off or bouncing on his absolutely massive spike to actually do their jobs

Orion and D end up down there and B knows they're gonna want to leave as soon as they can and thinks up a plan and so when they ask him how to get out he says he'll show them if they do him a favor first and they wind up awkwardly sucking B's spike off together only for their demeanors to shift the second the B aims his load into both of their mouths and it hits their tongues and now they never want to leave they just want to ride that spike until their sparks extinguish it just feels so good when that hot transfluid spills so deep right into their forges

-burrito anon

they had to isolate Bee from everyone else because his cum is just too good. if Sentinel knew about this guy he would've probably had a whole team of people working on dissecting his transfluid in the hopes that he could make his own cum addictive.

Bee can easily keep someone down in sublevel 50 with him, as long as be gets some cum on them he'll have friends forever! And they can warm his spike while they watch the conveyor belt, and go at it like turborabbits when the trash chute is off for the night and overall have tons and tons of fun!

(until Orion and D16 get pregnant, of course, and they realize they can't stay down here. They Are taking Bee out with them, obviously.)

[alex-wire-mesh]

Plate Conveyor Belt

Plate conveyor belt is composed of steel plate, rod and chain. It is the hinged type conveyor belt to convey the heavy goods. As source conveyor belt factory, Alex produces the belt since 1990.

Plate conveyor belt is also named: Hinged conveyor belt Steel plate conveyor belt Metal plate conveyor belt Hinged plate conveyor belt

Plate conveyor belt size: Plate thickness: 1mm Rod diameter: 5mm Spiral pitch: 100mm Pitch: 25.4mm Width: 1100mm Length: 5000mm/roll

#plateconveyorbelt #conveyorbelt #platebelt #wirebelt #transportbelt #metalbelt #wiremesh

[buffetlicious]

Went for a medical appointment at the local polyclinic in the morning and by the time it was done, it was nearly lunch time. Dropped in to Sushi Express (爭鮮) at Northpoint City for some conveyor belt sushi.

Picked up this S$1.50 white plate Marinated Spicy Mushroom which I initially thought was mock abalone slices. Even sis who went separately with her friend said this was a good eat.

A S$2 black plate with Mentaiyaki Salmon Sushi rolled pass and was picked up. The spicy cured pollack roe and mayonnaise lend a creamy umami profile to the torched fish. The Shichimi Grilled Salmon Belly Sushi is sprinkled with Shichi-mi tōgarashi (七味唐辛子) or seven-flavour chilli pepper, a common Japanese spice mixture containing seven ingredients.

The S$3 yellow plate of Mala Seared Swordfish Sushi is from the new seasonal menu. A jumbo, albeit thinly sliced swordfish topped with tuna negitoro fused with a dollop of Mala sauce. Although it said torched, there isn’t any searing marks on the fish at all.

This Grilled Salmon Belly Sushi is my favourite among all the sushi rotating on the conveyor belt. Their takeaway shop used to sell this at just S$0.50 a piece which is such a steal and I buy ten pieces at a go.

Selected image courtesy of Sushi Express Singapore.

[moongreenlight]

It's WIP Wednesday and I'm thinking so hard about “Chateau Lobby #4 (In C for Two Virgins)” by Father John Misty that my head explodes.

Retired!Price x Divorcee/single mom!reader (titles are hard who cares)

Cw/Tw: Pressure to perform sex/sexual acts

Little 1k blurb that ends right before the smut because I just got done ovulating and the thought of writing about cock and dick is not in the cards rn.

There was never much time to date while John was working. Never enough of him to occupy all of his work and pleasure. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to spread himself thin enough to coat the surface of all his wants.

He tried for a few years, early, when he could stay out late and still feel alright putting in a full day’s work the next morning. But he’s a romantic at heart. Never found much appeal to a fast-and-loose lifestyle and eventually stopped looking for trouble in places he would find it.

He was now alone, but with more time to figure out what he really wanted after retiring. Had more of himself to portion out. Pursued his hobbies. Picked up odd contracting jobs out of a need to keep himself busy. Found trouble with a single mother and recent divorcee who hired him off of an online ad because she needed help with a few things around her new house.

He knew he was in for it the moment she opened the door. Asked her out while he was half inside a cupboard under her sink. She said no twice.

Third time’s the charm.

She must have been put on one of those religious conveyor belts and turned out like she was on a factory line- that or she had parents to piss off. Married, turned out two kids, and split young. Must have been straight out of high school, because now that the divorce is finalized she’s cheating her way through a business degree at the community college around her day job.

Still carries some of that youth and innocence in her even though she’s only a year or two his junior. In the way she snorts when she laughs and hastily covers it up by holding the back of her hand over her mouth. The three times already tonight she’s prefaced that she doesn’t kiss on the first date and she’s got a strict rule about no ‘secondary locations.’ It’s charming. Like she’s spending any fleeting moment of free time discovering herself.

And is he glad she’s wasting her precious time on him. Even more glad he caught her on a weekend where her ex had the kids, though the idea of introducing himself to her house, her innocence, her little family, was fucking intoxicating. Made him forget the two fingers of whiskey sitting up right of his plate.

He gets so tipsy on the thought of besting her rules that he can’t help but push his luck after she- ever so delicately- refused the waiter trying to drop a dessert menu at the edge of the table.

“Cheap date.”

A snort from her. She has to pull her lips away from the rim of her wine glass to stifle it. House, even though it’ll give her a headache, she says. Couldn’t possibly bring herself to spend a dime of his money further than what was necessary. Darling thing. He’d love to see how far that ‘good girl’ act went. How much pressure it could handle.

She’d probably pull him in warm. Gooey in the middle when he finally got her spread open.

“Wasn’t out to test your fiscal limits”

She dabs the corner of her smile with a napkin. It’s his turn to laugh now.

“Shame. Half my appeal is the restaurant.”

She falters for a breath. Her eyes go a bit wide, like she’s suddenly worried she hasn’t thanked him enough. Hasn’t been good enough to please him. The thought makes him ball his hand into a fist to distract from the tightness in his slacks.

“Gosh, John, and it is such a nice place. Dinner was fantastic. Thank you, really.”

Her fingers curl around his fist. She has to stretch a bit to reach him from across the table. Her fingertips don’t touch even when she tries to wrap her hand around his. Earnest is thick on her voice now. It honeys her tone. He wonders if when she pulls away she’ll leave a sugary stickiness on his skin.

He tsks, a smile flirting across his mouth. Unable to help himself. A hungry stray being tossed a hot meal.

“And how impressive would it have’t be if I had my heart set on bringing you ‘round t’mine for a nightcap?”

She wrinkles her nose at that, though there’s a glittering of humor in her eyes when she gives his hand a kittenish slap.

“You couldn’t afford it.”

Sharp as a tack.

He has to clench his jaw shut to keep from sinking his teeth into her. They ache to see if she’s candy-floss all the way through.

“No?”

“Dinner was fantastic, John. Thank you.”

She throws him a warning glance with that. There’s the faintest outline of severity blurring into the soft edges of her voice. He digs his nails into his palm.

“M’I that bad to talk to?”

He’s pulling out stops now. Ignoring the chirping alarm sounding in the back of his skull that tells him that he should be able to pick out if he’s insisting for the right reasons or not.

She’s more difficult to guilt a second time. Rolls her eyes and starts folding her napkin on the side of her plate.

“Must be.”

She is fucking delectable.

Trouble. Everything about her. Every new layer he peels back sets him ablaze. He’s smoldering in his chair, waiting for the smoke curling off the crown of his head to set off the smoke detectors.

It takes some effort, but he’s able to get her to settle on him coming ‘round to hers after dinner. ‘One drink, John. I’m serious.’ She digs her heels in a bit, but he’d already made his mind up. He’d have her. Tuck her in a paper bag and take his dessert to-go.

She makes him turn away when she punches the code into her garage opener. Says the remote in her car is dead, and while he looks around the edges of the house for security cameras, he makes a note to come back and get both of those things taken care of for her. Doesn’t like the thought of her alone in her driveway after work tired and vulnerable.

Never mind if she had to step out in the rain. Sugar melts.

He tries to convince her to sit on the couch with him while she nurses a weak pour of wine, she refuses. Sits on a plush armchair catty-corner to him in the living room and smiles while shakes her head.

“Not used to being told no?”

It’s less of a question than it is a plain statement. A surface-level observation. It should strike him as an insult, but watching the words fall from her pretty mouth made pride swell in his chest.

“Should I be?”

Trouble. He’s inching toward the line.

“You’d think.”

He wonders what she would think if he took her down to the studs. Not much of anything- if he was lucky.

[blizzic]

In my mind, this is how it went down:

Editor: Chainsaw Man is so great, you should do a part 2!

Fujimoto: Nah, I've already used all my ideas.

*fujimoto goes to get sushi*

*sees the sushi conveyor belts and imagines a human head coming out on a plate*

Fujimoto: *calling his editor* hey, yeah, I changed my mind. We're doing a Chainsaw Man part 2.

[rotworld]

14: Again and Again

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

the stray night lords who joined your eccentric warband mostly keep to themselves. their sudden interest in your new mutations and ability to recover from grievous injuries is worrisome, but as always, you'll do anything for your warband.

->warhammer 40k. original chaos space marines (night lords)/reader. explicit; contains graphic descriptions of violence, sexual violence, mild/mentioned body horror, consensual but not safe or sane, consensual non-con/non-con roleplay, mentions of slavery and general disregard for human life.

.

.

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The Night Lords are absent again. 

Siarotha tells you this isn’t unusual. It doesn’t matter that there’s little else to do on this nameless, empty world you share and no way to leave without the warp gate. They’ll show up when they feel like it and not a moment earlier. You wonder if it’s the venue. The manufactorum’s maze of narrow corridors and machinery-stuffed assembly rooms are claustrophobic even for you. The cavernous hall the warband favors for meetings once housed a crisscrossing labyrinth of cogitators, conveyor belts and metal walkways until Erghol did some defenestrative redecorating. The only furniture left is an enormous stone slab, roughly circular and wide enough to make a decent Astares-sized table where no one has to stand too close to each other. You worry that the space might be too open.

Dagger and Claw remind you of feral cats. They like enclosed spaces; walls at their backs, a clear view of exits and entrances. No matter how many times they threaten desertion, vanishing in the midst of raids and battles, they always seem to come slinking back. It’s the security, you think. Safety in numbers, the promise of food and a roof over their heads. They hiss and bristle but they know where shelter is.

It could also be that they haven't figured out a convenient way to steal the warband's entire cache of supplies and carry it with them, but you prefer to be optimistic.

“What we need,” Kyloteknis says, “is the support of a Forge World. Our logistics are nonexistent. Access to ground transport should be our first priority so we can stop hauling our spoils one crate at a time. Armor repair is a close second.” He needs it more than anyone, the plates and panels protecting his limbs gradually becoming a singed, dented mangling of metal. The beveled dome of his helmet swivels back and forth, scrutinizing the rest of the warband. 

“Seconding,” Grigori says on his left. The star of Chaos on his shoulder pauldron has been nearly obliterated from all the hits he takes on that side, the paint scuffed and the embossed surface chipped and uneven. 

“And what exactly do we have to offer them in exchange for access to their resources?” Zonaras asks dryly. He’s one of the few who forgoes his helm, comfortable enough to reveal his shaved head and small, scribbling facial tattoos. 

Kyloteknis makes a rumbling sound of consideration. “They’ll want a favor. Something too dangerous for them to do themselves.” 

“Likely too dangerous for us, as well.” 

“A garrison, perhaps?” Siarotha suggests. He looms beside you in his full armor but he’s left his helmet off, long hair tucked over one shoulder in a loose braid. “Why incur a debt we can’t pay when we could simply repurpose a vehicle we come across?” 

On your other side, Erghol grunts in agreement. “Seconding a garrison. Can’t afford any weapons breaking until we have a proper armory. Better to take whatever we can get our hands on.”

Zonaras nods. “A garrison will have maintenance personnel, as well.”

“Hm. True,” Kyloteknis says. “We could really use some slaves—”

“Serfs,” Siarotha says quickly, glancing at you nervously. Kyloteknis turns, probably glaring under his helmet at the interruption. “We could easily obtain some serfs from Kheralath. They would adjust well, I think. My warband was there not long ago and discontent towards Imperial authorities was quite high.” 

“I’m not terribly concerned with how well our manual labor ‘adjusts.’”

“Maybe you should be,” you say. “Humans are most efficient when they’re happy. I’m a good example.” 

“No. You are deranged. You are not a standard model for human behavior.” 

“Either way,” Siarotha says firmly, “it’s within the system. Calibrating the gate would be simple.”

“Kheralath?” Zonaras asks, suddenly animated. “I’ve been there as well. Yes, they were extremely dedicated, although I’m afraid the populace won’t be of much use to us anymore.”

Siarotha’s eyes rapidly change colors like a startled chameleon. The air around him grows chilled with anger. “How many of them did you kill?”

“Let he who has never obliterated millions in the pursuit of infernal truths cast the first stone.” 

“I think I’m starting to see why you didn’t want me to come,” you say. 

The heavy drag of something moving over the rockcrete makes you jump. Nobody else seems surprised so you must be the last one to notice Claw sauntering closer—stormy, midnight blue, silver skulls and red wings. Red hands, too, you’ve always noticed. Strange. Dagger’s are the same blue as the rest of his armor. He’s extremely good at not making noise until he wants to be heard, which means he wants you to know he’s there. 

“You sound more like bureaucrats than soldiers, bickering like that,” he drawls. He’s pacing, circling like a cautious predator looking for the weakest link in a herd. It should be hard to tell with his helmet and the unblinking red lenses of the eyes, but you’re absolutely certain that he’s looking at you. “So. A garrison. Do we even know of a garrison we can take without too much trouble?” 

“We’re better off keeping this a hit-and-run operation,” Kyloteknis says. He tracks Claw’s movements around the room, unwilling to lose sight of him. “Isn’t that particular brand of cowardice your specialty? Maybe you have a suggestion.” 

“Hm. Maybe.” Claw slinks closer. He passes behind Grigori, then Zonaras, slowing when he reaches Erghol just to make him snarl. “Ah. I just thought of something,” he says. 

Your only warning is a crackle—a split second staticy sound as a white-hot, glowing sheath of energy engulfs his claws. Erghol and Siarotha are right next to you but they’re not fast enough. Four razor-sharp lengths of steel impale you with a burst of boiling blood, piercing your lungs and smashing through your ribs. Claw is close when he does it. You can hear the hum of his armor’s internal components, can hear the quiet chuckle just loud enough for his helmet’s vox to pick up. He withdraws his gauntlet in a sharp, vicious motion that sends you stumbling into the table, your fingers scrabbling over a puddle of your own blood and minced insides. 

All hell breaks loose.

Kyloteknis shatters the table when he vaults over it, lunging for Claw who narrowly avoids a swipe from a furious, roaring Erghol. The only reason you aren’t trampled is Siarotha, swept up in his arms and away from the chaos. You see them tumbling through steel guardrails and punching through the guts of dusty, long dead machines. Zonaras makes a half-hearted attempt to break it up until Claw barrels into him racing for cover, bolterfire scouring the ground behind him. 

“Surely it wouldn’t bother you if something unfortunate should befall Claw during the next raid?” Siarotha says quietly. You shake your head urgently. It hurts too much to talk. “You can’t be serious. He tried to kill you.” 

No, he didn’t. He knew you would heal. That didn’t feel serious, you think. It was personal, but not like a grudge. He wanted you to know he was coming. He wanted you on guard and anticipating. And he lingered just a moment after he did it, loose and relaxed behind you. That wasn’t anger, or aggression, or a threat. So what was it? You want to figure it out but the room is spinning and your chest is aching, and you’re starting to itch all the way down to your bones. 

By the time you’re finished molting, Claw has slipped away and Erghol is doing a bit of enthusiastic remodeling with the walls. Siarotha tells you the meeting has been rescheduled. You crawl out of the sticky wreckage of your old self and try to remember everything you know about domesticating strays. 

*

It takes a few days for Dagger to appear. 

It’s unusual, you think, to see them apart. As long as they’ve been here, they’ve been attached at the hip. Old friends? Lone survivors of their old warband? Mentor and newblood? You’re disappointed by how little you know about them. Everyone in the warband is tight-lipped about their previous lives but they’re opening up little by little, learning to begrudgingly trust one another. Kyloteknis has stopped hurriedly putting his helmet back on when someone finds him outside enjoying the wind on his face. Zonaras and Siarotha bicker with ever so slightly less menace in their voices. You’ve glimpsed Erghol and Grigori together with increasing frequency, training, talking, silently standing together atop an observation platform to watch the sky darken. 

You’re helping reorganize Kyloteknis’ workshop. This would be ridiculous ordinarily—anyone in the warband can lift an entire table one-handed—but he wants scrap metal and spare parts from the second floor of the manufactorum and he can’t cross the rickety grate-floored walkways without shattering their rusted frames. He did not ask for help so much as he vaguely mentioned his dilemma with the same grating reluctant tone one might use to report casualty estimates. He left immediately after, claiming he would return later when you’d completed the task. 

So here you are, elbow-deep in a dead cogitator’s wiring looking for the cogs and connectors Kyloteknis asked for, when you hear movement behind you. Dagger doesn’t risk stepping onto the flimsy walkway, standing on the more solid platform behind you and blocking the only way out of the room that isn’t a very long, painful drop. 

“Hello, Dagger,” you greet him. He’s not holding his namesake but you see the sheath at his hip, large enough that calling it a “dagger” feels a bit absurd. He stands at an angle—not so far that the weapon is completely hidden, but far enough that you just get a peek. 

“I heard you’re attending meetings now,” he says. 

“Did you hear what happened at that meeting?”

“Of course. Claw told me in excruciating detail.” His voice dips into a gravelly rumble that you’re tempted to identify as teasing. Mocking, or playful? You can’t tell if you’re supposed to be in on the joke or the butt of it. He leans against the railing at the edge of the platform casually. “What are you doing over there?” 

You shrug. “Scavenging. Kyloteknis wants some of this stuff.” 

“Mm. You like to be useful.” 

You look across the walkway at him. He looks back, you assume. Like Claw, you’ve never seen him without his skull-faced helmet. Astartes size is hard to estimate through the bulk of their armor, but you think he’s smaller than Claw if only by a little. Built to skulk in the shadows while Claw draws the enemy’s attention. 

“I do,” you say.

“That’s how it was in the Eighth. The weak ones are useful for the strong ones. That’s how they survive.” He turns, staring at the wall, but you think he must be seeing something else. “We don’t have the instinct to fawn over small, defenseless things. We want to torment them. A fledgling in midnight clad is better broken by his brothers than by an enemy. We know exactly how hard to push.” You pull your hands out of the cogitator and give Dagger your full attention and he follows the movement, helmet turning slowly, curious rather than tense and alert. “I guess,” he murmurs, “it’s all we know how to do.” 

There’s a dark, hungry edge to his words that sends a shiver down your spine. “Is that how it is?” you ask. You make your voice deliberately small and quiet. Weak. Just how he wants you. “You want to break me?” 

Dagger doesn’t answer for a minute. The ancient metal of the manufactorum groans and creaks quietly all around you. He rests his hand on the sheath at his waist. “You’re standing too far away,” he says in that same syrupy tone. “Why don’t you come a little closer?” 

Maybe Kyloteknis was right about you after all, because you start walking down the metal walkway. You don’t rush. Each step is slow and deliberate, just like how Claw circled you at the meeting. You never take your eyes away from the red lenses embedded in Dagger’s helmet and you can feel his gaze without seeing it, how it burns into your body. 

“Tease,” he purrs. “So you don’t just have eyes for your rabid dog and that sorcerer. Quite a collection you’ve started. Will you seduce Kyloteknis?” 

You laugh. “I’d probably have better luck with Zonaras.” You’re halfway there and your heart is pounding. This is a bad idea, isn’t it? This is definitely going to hurt. You’re not sure why you’re so excited. Maybe it’s the way Dagger’s started shifting slightly, like he can’t stand still anymore. His metal fingers close around the blade’s handle, squeezing impatiently.

“You would. Word Bearers and their needy idolatry.” He grabs you when you’re close enough. The movement is so swift you barely see it, just a passing shadow and then your forearm is caught in his crushing grip. He yanks you into him, straight onto the point of the knife you didn’t even see him unsheathe. The flesh of your throat parts around hard, serrated steel. An arterial splatter arcs as high as Dagger’s chestplate, dousing the winged skull emblazoned there in flecks of scarlet. You choke and sputter, coughing up reddened saliva. 

Dagger cups your jaw with his free hand. He wants to see the light leave your eyes. Your hands rake and scratch uselessly at his armor as another thick gush of blood oozes from your open throat and splatters on your feet. Dagger hisses something you don’t catch. A word you don’t know; a language you don’t speak. His exhale is full of satisfaction.

The knife comes out in horrible jerking motions, slow and sawing, blinding pain overwhelming your senses. Dagger leans in so you hear him right next to your ear. “There’s a statue of a saint straight ahead from the west entrance,” he says. “Half-toppled. Missing an upper body. Come tonight, alone.” 

He’s gone by the time you’ve made sense of the words, shriveled ribbons of flesh hanging through the grate of the walkway under you. Siarotha’s presence passes through your mind in brief glances, drawn by heightened emotion and racing thoughts. 

You think of a cat. A mangy, flea-bitten thing that arches its back and puffs up its tail. Two of them, for good measure. Siarotha sees them in your mind’s eye and you sense exasperation, and amusement, and fondness. And ultimately, agreement. 

*

You can see the saint from the manufactorum, but you hadn’t realized what it was. The figure has been cleaved nearly in two, the cut diagonal and crooked leaving jagged edges behind. It was carved from some sort of gray stone, dark-veined like marble, the surface detail still smooth and precise although it was only made yesterday. You see meticulously rendered folds of cloth, a tangle of vines and flowers frozen in eternal full bloom where the robe puddles upon a massive rectangular plinth. You wonder who it was meant to be.

Dagger never gave you a time but nightfall seems appropriate. The streetlamps don’t work but they don’t have to. The moon is a perfect silver circle, just bright enough for you to navigate the bumpy, uneven streets. Looming silhouettes of steel skeletons and decrepit stone form lattices of shadows against the starry sky. You don’t come this way often. The warband chose to settle in the region of the manufactorum where the structures are mostly intact and you rarely have time to wander the more distant ruins. It’s darker here, the trees more numerous and sprawling. You have to slow down so you don’t lose your footing, hands in front of you to feel for the edge of the statue’s base. 

The shadows shift in front of you. Something moves in the dark. You hear footsteps approaching from up ahead and behind you at the same time. Not the weighty, metallic crunch of space marine armor. Normal, if heavy, footsteps. Boots on stone. “Claw?” you ask. “Dagger?” 

A hand cups around your face, covering your mouth. You’re tugged against a warm body, frighteningly tall and thick with muscle. “Shhh,” he whispers. You don’t know which. A blindfold made of dark cloth is tied around your eyes and you’re dragged forward. 

You struggle to tell them apart. The vox in their helmets makes the whole warband sound the same, impossibly deep and rumbling, but there are peculiarities unique to each. Grigori sounds hoarse on those rare occasions he says anything. Erghol has the abrasive, gritty voice of a chemfactory laborer, damaged by centuries of ecstatic battle cries and screaming fury. Kyloteknis has a habit of using old High Gothic terms for machinery and weaponry. Claw and Dagger have spoken to you so much less so it’s hard to tell who’s who.

“Small, sweet thing like you, out here all on your own?” one of them purrs. “Dangerous. Do you want to get hurt?” 

“I think they do,” the other says. “I think they’re desperate for it.” 

You walk until the ground changes, evening out to smoother stone. You’re led around turns, down a flight of steps, shoved suddenly. You catch yourself and feel softness beneath your hands. Towels. Linen. Pillows. No mattress, but so many blankets that it doesn’t matter. You have no idea where you are when the blindfold comes off, but it’s as dark as a tomb. You no longer hear the breeze or feel the chill of the night air. You’re indoors somewhere. No windows and no light. 

Someone sits behind you and someone sits in front of you. Your arms are seized, held together behind your back. You hear the hiss of a blade being unsheathed.

“Do you know much about Astartes?” The words are murmured against your ear. “How it works? How they made us?”

“Not really,” you admit. “Siarotha has told me a little about being a neophyte but—ah!” You gasp when sharp, pointed steel slides down the center of your chest, splitting your clothes open with the slightest pressure. The room is cold. You’re undressed with precise cuts that whisper across your skin but never quite puncture.

“They put a lot of things into us. That means they have to take a lot out.” Whoever’s behind you leans in close, pressing himself against your back. He’s half-dressed and you can feel all the bumpy nodes and ports across his chest and arms where his armor hooks into his nervous system. “At least, that’s what they tell us. None of it’s really gone. Just twisted.”

“For the really unlucky ones, it untwists,” the other one says, chuckling. The tip of the knife drags down your chest, over your sternum, and stops at your belly. It presses just a little harder, a stinging pinch that makes a thin stream of blood trickle down your body.

“You like to be useful, right?” Teeth nip the shell of your ear and the body behind you shifts slightly. Your arms are released long enough for him to peel off the clothing on his lower half. You inhale sharply when he comes back and you feel everything, skin to skin. A monstrously large cock twitches against your lower back, already hard and leaking precum. “Then you can be useful for both of us.” 

It happens at the same time. The knife sinks in—is that Dagger? It doesn’t feel like him. He wasn’t steady like this. Steady like Claw with four massive blades in your chest, the perfect control and stillness. It’s a slow, shallow stab. Holding. Teasing. You can feel him watching you shake and whimper. The other one knocks your legs apart and nudges the head of his cock against your entrance. He prods and pushes once, twice, a third much more violent time that sinks past your resisting muscles. He’s far too big and you’re not prepared, the sheets bunching up beneath your fists. 

“Hold onto him,” Dagger whispers in your ear. His hands are on your hips, forcing you down and sheathing himself deeper. “He likes it. Scratch him. Try and fight.”

You hear a shaky exhale in the dark. Your hands find Claw’s shoulders—clothed. Wearing some kind of skin-tight shirt. He swallows audibly when you grab onto him tightly, digging your nails into him. He slips the knife in deeper, just a little. Another inch. Then he holds it there, and you feel his hot breath fanning across your face. Dagger rolls his hips under you and you tremble around the stinging thickness of his cock. He rewards you with a pleased sigh, squeezing and massaging your hips. He whispers in the same language you heard before and Claw answers him, sounding strained. Holding back, you think. But you want everything he can give. 

“No,” you whisper. Soft. Helpless. “Don’t. Please don’t.” 

Claw shudders. The knife suddenly tilts, angled up, tugging and ripping at your skin. Blood slicks his fingers and pours down your abdomen. “Beg me,” he mutters. “Beg me to stop.” 

Dagger encourages you. He runs his hands over your shoulders, rubbing, teasing out knots and sore spots. You’d melt against him if you weren’t in so much pain. “Don’t do this,” you whimper. “Don’t hurt me, please. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t—”

You choke on the words when Claw drags the knife all the way up your chest in one quick, violent movement that rips you open. Your trembling, clawing grip on his shoulders isn’t an act. A blood-slicked hand cups your cheek and your gaze is lifted, your eyes gazing into darkness. You can’t see anything more than the faintest outline of a person, but you know he sees you. You hear his breath growing faster and shakier, feel it in hot puffs against your face. Then he’s kissing you, and his hands plunge into the wound. 

Dagger starts to fuck you in earnest and you can’t tell what hurts worse. The slap of his thigh, muscular thighs against your ass is humiliatingly loud in the otherwise silent room. He uses you, impales you on his length over and over. You feel raw and skinned inside by the time he brings you down fully, seated in his lap with his entire cock gripped by your tense, agonized muscles. You can feel Claw where he shouldn’t be, his touch like fire fondling the inside of your skin. He kisses furiously, nipping and biting at your lips. He pulls away to run his tongue along your cheek and moans at the taste of your tears. You hear the sickening squelch of your organs as he gropes and squeezes them. 

Everything starts to sound muffled and distant. Your heart is pounding. You can feel your pulse behind your ears, a constant throbbing. And there’s the itch again all over everything, the molt coming. It makes them ravenous. Dagger grabs you around the middle and fucks you like he’s trying to kill you, hard and impossibly deep. Claw kisses your forehead. There’s blood on his lips. Blood in your mouth. Blood trickling from your open belly, and slippery, meaty organs flopping out of you to splatter wetly on the floor, and—

*

You wake up clean, whole and comfortable. And warm; almost too warm. Blankets are piled on top of you so heavily that you can barely move. You blink blearily, trying to get your bearings. Siarotha’s faint amusement tickles the corner of your mind. You wonder how long he’s been there. How much he saw. Heat curls through your body and phantom sensations prickle across your skin. 

All of it, apparently. 

“Hungry?” Claw asks. 

You still can’t see anything. Is it still night? Do they cover the windows? You wonder where this place is, how they found out. Where all the blankets came from. Someone peels off several layers of bedsheets until they find your arm. Your wrist is grabbed, hand pried open. A plastic wrapper is placed in your palm.

“It’s chocolate,” Dagger says.

“Chocolate?” you echo. Intrigued, you fumble with the wrapping, trying to find a way to tear it open.

“Expensive chocolate, by the looks of it. Found it when we sacked a governor’s estate. Here.” The wrapper is plucked from your hand. You hear an abrupt ripping sound, and then something softer and warmer is set in your hand.

Your first bite is small and testing, barely a nibble. “Whoa,” you say. One of them laughs. He sounds far away. “You’re not leaving me here, are you?”

“No,” Claw says. “Don’t you want to go back?” 

“You want me to walk all that way, after everything I did for you?” 

“You want someone to carry you?” Dagger says dryly.

“I could stay here for a while,” you suggest. “You could, too.” 

Neither of them say something for a moment. You wonder if you pushed too far, too fast. But after a while, you hear movement in the dark. The blanket nest dips on your left, and then on your right. They don’t touch you. They don’t even talk. But they sit there while you finish the chocolate bar, watching, quiet and content.

“What are you grinning about?” Dagger asks.

“Nothing,” you say. A bad lie that makes them chuckle. 

You’re thinking about feral cats, of course. And how with enough persistence, and patience, and gentle touches, they will walk right up and eat out of your hand.