#bulk forming agents

[unpretty]

So I saw gooey blowjob anon ask (quoted below) and your followup and I have a bit of knowledge on the topic of what exactly is going on.

What you're seeing is porn special effects. It's like the fake blood in slasher movies, except it's fake bodily fluids.

What's going on is that the filmmakers are using (usually) methyl cellulose mixed with water to create a lubricative, snot-like slime that's applied to the folks in the porn in question.

They also put a bit of a tinting agent in it and use it for fake semen as well.

Why methyl cellulose? It's non-toxic and edible. It has a medical use as a bulk-forming laxative. So if any of it gets swallowed it's not going to cause issues.

So yeah, what you're seeing is something akin to a slasher movie havign a bajillion gallons of blood spraying everywhere.

They look like they've been slimed on a Nickelodeon gameshow because that have actually, in fact, been slimed.

-o-

Anon: "My biggest porn pet peeve is how gooey blowjobs are now. Like a little mucus to show that dome deep throating happening is fine. But sometimes there's so much it's like blowjob giver has been slimed on a Nickelodeon game show. And then all i can think is "they're using snot as lube. That's all snot there dripping down their face. Is snot sexy now?" and they play with the snot in their mouths like it's semen but I'm pretty sure it's not. The solution i came up with is to add 'vintage' or 'retro' whatever I'm looking for and the blowjobs are less slimy." Unpretty: "man i was starting to think i was doing something wrong. like how much am i supposed to be drooling here. because mine don't look like that. i make a special effort to get sloppy with it and it's still not that bad. good to know porn has just gone the extra mile with slime and i'm not unusually dry in the face."

i can't believe innocent blowjob enthusiasts are being forced to reckon with someone's untagged slime fetish

[cece693]

Where's The Trust?

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader tags: Steve is an asshole, Steve bashing, bucky suffers in this one, reader is hurt and pissed off, bucky can't catch a break, mentions of stucky

Bucky knew things were good. Almost too good.

He was getting comfortable—maybe for the first time in decades—and the nightmares from his past as the Winter Soldier had finally started to loosen their grip. Every day, he worked a little harder to accept that while he was the one who’d acted under HYDRA’s control, the horrors he committed weren’t truly his own doing. His steps toward self-forgiveness were shaky, but they were real. And somewhere along that rocky road to redemption, he’d found someone worth sharing his life with: you.

You, who had risked your own standing as an Avenger to defend him. When so many saw only the assassin, you saw the wounded man beneath the metal arm and blank stares. You saw his quiet kindness, his gentle humor, the way he’d tense up before an unavoidable confrontation but relax the second he spotted you watching. Where others hesitated, you extended trust. Where others viewed him as HYDRA’s creation, you treated him as an ally, even a friend—then something more. The world thought you were naive, but you proved them wrong.

For a while, everything was as close to perfect as it could be in a life full of missions, press briefings, and looming threats.

For a while.

Things started unraveling with two seemingly small mistakes on Bucky’s part. The first was not telling you about Steve—Captain America himself. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Steve and Bucky had a deep bond stretching back to the 1940s, but how that bond had evolved into physical intimacy during the war was something Bucky never mentioned. Snippets of memories would strike Bucky at random: late nights in shared bunks, furtive touches when loneliness became unbearable, stolen kisses in alleys when they weren’t certain they’d survive another day. Despite it all, Bucky insisted to himself that what they’d had was an act of desperation brought on by terror and the need for solace. Nothing more. Definitely not love. So why bring it up now if it was dead and buried?

His second mistake was the lack of boundaries. In his scramble to piece his life back together after HYDRA, Bucky clung to people who felt familiar—Steve especially. The easy camaraderie, the sense of recognition that lingered even when the bulk of his memories refused to surface…Bucky welcomed all of it, never stopping to think how it might look to you. Or even how it might feel to Steve, who was clearly still carrying a torch.

Maybe if Bucky had been more careful, he might’ve noticed the subtle cues: Steve’s lingering stares, the way he always found an excuse to touch Bucky’s arm or stand a little too close, the half-smirk that seemed to form whenever you were around. But in the end, Bucky never realized the trouble simmering beneath the surface until it was too late.

It happened on a Friday afternoon. You could have sworn the day itself felt lighter. You’d finally gotten a rare breather from Avenger duties, and Bucky had promised—promised—to keep his schedule clear so the two of you could have a date night. Not some fancy outing, just a simple meal you’d cook together, stolen moments on the couch, maybe a movie playing quietly in the background while you snuggled in the afterglow of peace.

Despite living in a high-tech facility with an entire staff of agents, you insisted on making Bucky’s favorite meal yourself, wanting to spoil him in a way he rarely allowed himself to be spoiled. The scent of roasting vegetables filled the common kitchen, and you hummed softly as you set plates and utensils, trying to remember if Bucky liked more salt or pepper.

But as the minutes dragged by, the hopeful spark in your chest started flickering out. The clock ticked. Fifteen minutes…then thirty. The food grew lukewarm. Your phone showed no missed calls or texts. Each second weighed on your shoulders. You told yourself he could be caught in a meeting with Fury, or maybe Sam had roped him into a last-minute training session. But a cold, worried feeling took root in your gut. Bucky never forgot your plans, and even if he had, he would have called or texted.

Eventually, you abandoned dinner and set out into the corridors of the compound. Late afternoon shadows stretched across polished floors, your footsteps echoing in a place that could turn labyrinthine at times. Quiet missions had taught you to move silently, and you followed your instincts toward Bucky’s quarters, each step of your boots feeling heavier than the last.

When you reached his door, it was slightly ajar. A thin wedge of light cut across the hallway. You could see movement inside, two blurred silhouettes, and you heard hushed voices—one of them unmistakably Bucky’s, the other heartbreakingly familiar: Steve.

Your arm froze mid-knock when you heard it—your name, spoken by Bucky in a low voice, followed by a wet, unmistakable noise. A kiss. Your heart plummeted. For a second, it felt like your entire body had been doused in ice water. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, couldn’t force your mind to make sense of what you were hearing.

Pushing the door open, you found them in the far corner, Steve pressed against Bucky, one hand curled around the back of Bucky’s neck, the other cradling his jaw. Their lips were still together for a half-second longer before Bucky jerked away, eyes going wide with something akin to horror. He spotted you in the doorway, and Steve slowly turned, an odd mixture of guilt and triumph flickering across his features.

“(Y/N)—” Bucky stammered, panic stretching his voice thin. “This isn’t…it’s not what it looks like.”

But all you could see was that moment they’d been locked together, the way Steve’s fingers had curled possessively against Bucky’s skin. The memory flashed behind your eyes again and again, searing a path of confusion and pain.

Steve raised his hands as if approaching a frightened animal. “I’m sorry you had to see it this way. But I can’t keep lying to you. Bucky and I—” he hesitated, looking at Bucky with a sadness that made your stomach lurch, “we’ve been together for a while.”

Your pulse hammered in your ears, and you struggled to speak around the tightness in your throat. “What…?” It came out in a breathy whisper, anger fighting with despair in your chest.

“Steve, you bastard!” Bucky spat, turning on him with wild eyes. “Tell him the truth. Right now.”

“I am,” Steve replied, his tone heartbreakingly sincere. “We’ve been together for months, and you were having trouble breaking it off with them.” He turned to you, letting his gaze flicker down in practiced remorse. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, (Y/N). It wasn’t fair to you. But I couldn’t stand by and watch Bucky live a lie anymore, no matter how much it might make you hate me.”

At that, your anger ignited with a white-hot spark. You whipped your gaze to Bucky, your breath coming in short bursts. “Is...is any of this true?”

“That’s a load of bullshit!” Bucky insisted, turning fully to you. “I swear on my life, (Y/N). I love you too much to ever do something like that. Steve and I…we had something in the past, during the war, but it’s not what he’s describing now. I ended it decades ago—”

Your mouth felt dry, heartbreak pulsing in your chest like a new bruise. “Wait.” You interrupted, eyes widening. "So you and Steve did have something and you failed to tell me this?!"

Bucky cursed under his breath, flexing his metal fingers in agitation. If you looked closely, you could see them tremble—an involuntary sign of his distress. This was his number one mistake, and deep down, he knew it. He should’ve mentioned that he'd slept with his best friend, but he convinced himself that if he said nothing, it would remain buried in the past.

“Y/N—” he tried, but the words caught in his throat.

"Why didn't you tell me this, Bucky? And before you say something like it being in the past and not meaning anything, well it certainly meant something if I found Steve with his tongue down your throat!"

Bucky’s shoulders slumped with guilt and confusion. “Because…” He paused, searching for words. “Because it wasn’t serious. We were stupid, reckless kids, stuck in a war, thinking we wouldn’t make it home alive. We tried to find comfort wherever we could. That doesn’t mean it was love. That doesn’t mean I still feel that way.”

Steve’s gaze flicked to Bucky, his lips tightening. “You can’t deny what we had, Buck. Don’t cheapen it.”

“Damn it, Steve, I’m not cheapening it—I’m telling the truth!” Bucky roared, voice echoing off the walls. Then he looked at you, desperation etching lines across his face. “Please, (Y/N), you have to believe me. I never gave him any sign that I wanted this again. He showed up, kissed me, and I was too shocked to push him away immediately. I—I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Your throat felt tight, tears prickling behind your eyes. His pleas rang hollow in the wake of what you’d seen with your own eyes. “Don’t you see how hypocritical you are, Barnes?” you snapped, voice quivering with fury and heartbreak. The tears gleamed, but your expression remained resolute, lips set in a firm line. When you called him by his last name, Bucky’s features twisted—he knew you were putting distance between you, and that realization seemed to cut him deeper than any knife.

“Doll,” he whispered, voice on the verge of breaking.

“Shut up!” you roared, the force of it making both men flinch. A flicker of pain crossed Bucky’s eyes. You’d never shouted at him like that before, with so much bitterness and hatred. No ounce of the man that loved him. “I told you all about Tony when we started dating. It didn’t matter that it was years ago and it wasn’t even official—just friends helping each other out. But I told you because I respected you, and I respected what we were building. Yet here you are keeping something this big from me.”

You swallowed hard, anger surging in tandem with the ache in your chest. “Just tell me this—and be honest with me. If I hadn’t come in and seen that kiss, would you have ever told me? Would you have ever told me your history with Steve, or would you have left me in the dark, pathetically believing your lies until the kiss turned into fucking?”

Bucky’s entire body went rigid. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again before any sound escaped. “(Y/N), I swear…I was going to tell you eventually. I was just—”

“Scared,” you finished bitterly, hating how tears threatened to spill over. “God, Bucky, do you think I wasn’t scared when I told you about Tony? I did it anyway, because I valued your trust more than my own fear of losing you. Obviously, you didn’t feel the same.”

“(Y/N), no, that’s not—”

You refused to hear the rest. “It doesn’t matter,” you said, voice going hollow. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Bucky’s eyes flew wide. “W-What do you mean?”

Your chest tightened painfully, and you forced yourself to stand straight, meeting his gaze head-on. “We’re done,” you declared, each word slicing the air.

Bucky looked as if he’d just been shot. “No,” he breathed, shaking his head as if that alone could reverse your words. “No, (Y/N), don’t—you can’t mean that.”

Before you could turn to leave, Bucky lunged forward. He seized your wrist in a desperate bid to keep you from walking away. “Please,” he begged, his voice breaking on the single word. “Don’t do this. Let me explain, let me fix—”

“Let go,” you hissed, glaring at him with every ounce of hurt and anger you possessed.

He didn’t release you, his grip trembling but firm. “I love you,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. “I—I can’t lose you like this. Not over something I swear is just a misunderstanding. Steve and I—we aren’t—”

Your free hand shot down to the sidearm strapped to your thigh, your fingers curling around the handle in warning. “I said, let go,” you repeated, heart hammering. “Or so help me, Barnes, you’ll lose that flesh arm too.”

For a moment, Bucky looked as though he might still cling to you, but the sight of your hand on your weapon made him recoil. Slowly, painfully, he released you, his eyes swimming with anguish. “(Y/N)—" Without another word, you turned and strode out of the room, not daring to look back, each step echoing hollowly against the compound’s polished floors.

[averycutesalamander]

that ask made me realize that i haven't really put all of my headcanons in a cohesive place lol, which is probably kinda confusing. the bulk of this is explored in ddbb. these are all pure speculation, and im pretty sure at least one of them is now unambiguously not canon, buuuuut whatever. canon is my oyster and damn am i allergic to shellfish. obligatory reminder that my takes on things are not the be-all and end-all, you're welcome to disagree with me, etc etc

All of his visible body is artificial. Yes, even his hair and skin. I think the only organic parts of him are the majority of his brain and parts of his nervous system. (Probably my most controversial headcanon. I don't know why, but this just feels right to me. At an absolute minimum, I think he has a reinforced skull; it feels a little weird for him to turn his entire body into an indestructible war machine only to leave his head, perhaps the most important part of his nervous system, vulnerable.)

He can feel things on his body. He has an extremely complicated "nerve net" beneath both his body and his skin that lets him sense pressure. His skin is more sensitive and can better differentiate between textures. (Also controversial, but I struggle to believe that he can't feel anything. It would be difficult to navigate the world in general if you can't feel where you're walking, and I can't imagine him having so much dexterity with his gun if he couldn't feel his hands. This is just personal preference, though.)

He can drink, but he can't eat. When he drinks things, they're basically just stored as-is inside of him until it can later be emptied. The only solid he can eat is his rounds, and anything else just gunks up his systems. (My logic here is that it seems like it would be way harder to handle the variety of textures and materials in foods than just liquids, and that would be a lot of space taken up that could've otherwise been dedicated to weapons or utilities. Also, thematically speaking, there's something extra tragic about sacrificing something as culturally significant and comforting as food.)

He doesn't really digest things. They just go into that aforementioned storage. This makes him immune to all kinds of poisons and drugs and whatnot. This also means he can't get drunk, unless he finds some kind of wacky program to simulate the feeling. (I think it's safe to say that this is officially non-canon. There's the line he has on the Express about the vomit-inducing agent, and in 2.6 he mentions drinking to numb emotional pain, which unambiguously implies that he has a stomach capable of digesting. I formed this headcanon before he even came out, and I'm quite attached to it and all of its implications, so uhhhhh... Whatever.)

He has a little bullet factory inside of him, specifically for his explosive rounds. When he eats his regular bullets, his body recycles the materials to create the exploding rounds that we see in his ultimate. There is, in fact, a step in the production specifically to print the shark faces on the cartridge. He does sometimes have to refresh resources (usually gunpowder, because sometimes the bullets pop in his mouth when he chews them), but it's self-sufficient for the most part. The only thing he has to add is phosphorus, which makes the bullets explosive.

He's waterproof in the sense that he can go dunk himself in a lake if he wants, but there are a few issues. First is that, in order to prevent water from getting into his internals, he has to seal all of his external vents; this is risky for temperature management reasons, but if the water isn't cool enough, he has emergency heat sinks internally. Secondly is that water degrades his body rather quickly, especially his joints and other small components. All this means is that he just has to make an extra visit to the mechanic. (There's some ambiguity on canon compliance here. He endures rain in Penacony like it's no problem, but that's also within the dream, so we can't be sure.)

Other miscellaneous stuff: he can hold his breath way longer than a human can (his system doesn't use very much air); he's quite tenderheaded; he can go quite a while without sleep, but he still needs it in addition to charging; he's tasted a truly insane amount of inedible things, including gasoline, gunpowder, crude oil, dirt (honestly not that strange, because if you work outside for long enough, you will eventually get dirt in your mouth no matter how hard you try to avoid it lol), the liquid inside of a battery, lighter fluid, charcoal, mercury, gallium, hand soap, and antifreeze, just to name a few; he has a spectacular singing voice; he keeps his gun immaculately clean; he has two gay dads (let's pretend Graey is a man, it's gender neutral enough); and probably some other stuff I'm forgetting.

Edit: also I hc him to be like 300 lbs total but it's super flexible depending on what I feel like doing lol.

Edit 2: actually now that I've thought about it longer I'd wager he's closer to 250 lbs. Still hefty but y'know.

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 13

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 13/? 8.4k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Catalyst — an agent that provokes or speeds significant change or action.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter warnings: angst, drama, implied partner abuse, harm to fantasy creature 

Monday, December 9th 1985

Eddie propped his cheek against his knuckles as he watched you from the back of the classroom, just like he did every day. You were radiant on this one, brimming with excitement as you lectured on your favorite subject.

“We’re still in the planning phase for our short stories, but now that you all have a general idea of what you want to write about, I want you to start putting together an outline,” you prompted.

His eyes traced down the back of your blouse to where it met the waistline of your trousers. His hands still itched to hold you there. Burned was a better word now. He watched your hand scratch words onto the board with a nub of chalk, following the bend and curve of your fingers as they formed letters. 

The past three weeks had been much of the same. You and him, behind the big desk every Monday and Wednesday after school. You; trying to focus on his schoolwork. Him; trying to focus on you. You; letting him get away with it. 

There was plenty of studying happening too. In between studying the curve of your lips, the hue of your laugh, and the bones of your knuckles under his thumb, there were shining moments were something would click and he would solve an equation. Perhaps it was something to do with memory association or whatever textbook word you used to describe the psychology of learning, but something about the way you presented things made it easier for him to absorb. Perhaps it was your gentle patience, or your intuition. Knowing when to press forward and when to back off. Knowing how to show something differently than he’d been taught. Maybe it was just sweeter coming from your lips instead of Ms. O’Donnell’s. 

Eddie shifted in his desk as you clicked the end of your sentence against the board with a flourish. Stretching against the confines of the tiny chair, he hunched over the slab wood barely big enough to fit his notebook, and picked up his own chewed utensil to copy what you’d written. Maybe it was the bulk of his jacket, thicker and warmer with padding for winter, but suddenly he felt claustrophobic.

You whipped around brightly to face the class. “Alright, who remembers what three things inform character action?”

The question was met with restless silence. A cough. A sniffle.

With a defeated sigh, you turned back around to scratch desires, fears, and misbeliefs onto the board.

Glancing out the window at the pale grey sky and naked trees, Eddie counted on his fingers the number of months until there would be leaves on them again. 

Five. 

He just knew it would be an agonizing winter. One that dragged on and on, long after the groundhog saw its shadow. Huffing, he stared down at his beat up spiral notebook, blue lines blurring in his tired vision. The pen went slack in his hand. He closed his eyes and listened to your voice.

“I know these are short stories, but in the end something should have changed internally or interpersonally for your characters as a result of the plot. Remember, the plot is what happens, the story is how it affects the characters,” you said, jotting down the last bit.

It took on a different tone in front of the class. More rigid and professional, louder so it carried to the back of the room. It lacked the warmth and softness that it held when he was next to you. He imagined, for a sweet moment, how it would sound even closer; against the shell of his ear as you breathed a sigh beneath him. The gentle feather of your lips as they traveled south, just below his ear, where his jaw met his neck. In the playground of his mind, he could show you what a man he really was. Here, his hands were free to wander wherever they wanted; dip into the valleys of your clavicles, over the hills of your breasts, around the bend of your waist, the peaks of your hips, the mound of your—

A snicker broke his reverie. When he opened his eyes, Jason’s were already on him. 

“Taking a nap, Munson?” he mouthed mockingly.

Eddie rolled his eyes and seethed as he glared down at his notebook again. He shifted against the back of the hard plastic chair, against the tight cage of the desk. Finding no relief, he huffed and stared blankly ahead at the chalkboard, at the beige concrete wall, at the big desk, and then—at you. The gap had never been more enormous. An ocean of desks, a gaping chasm between where he was and where he wanted to be.

He must have looked downright pitiful, because the look you returned brimmed with a soft concern. In the two seconds he held you, Eddie released a deep sigh. Then you were back to the board.

“L-let’s start by highlighting the main point of each scene,” you said quickly, turning as you cleared your throat. Eddie caught your hand dart behind your neck before it fell promptly to your side. “Basically, why a scene exists and what it needs to accomplish. Does it provide information about the characters or move the story forward? Remember, these are short stories, so we want to make each scene really count.”

Eddie gripped the chewed pen and dutifully copied what you wrote. He knew he could have asked you later, had you explain it all again, given him tips, and pointers, and strategies, even helped him with his outline. But he wanted you to see that he was trying. He wanted you to see that he cared. He was always bad at school. Bad at paying attention. Bad at turning in assignments. Bad at following rules and keeping his mouth shut. 

He wanted to be good for you. 

When the bell rang, chair legs screeched against tile, notebooks crinkled, zippers ripped open and shut in a frenzied cacophony. Eddie hung back until the room filtered out. Until the only person left was you. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he padded up the long isle of desks until he reached yours. A standard routine.

“Hey,” he said, just like every other day. Just to savor another couple seconds in your presence, alone.

You looked up at him from the mess on your desk as you did countless times before, same tired smile, same soft eyes, same response. “Hey.”

Eddie rocked back and forth on his heels, holding your gaze for a little too long. “I’ll—uh, I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Your face grew bright and warm, a glint of summer against the pale, grey sky. “Yeah, see you later, Eddie.” 

There it was, the thing he really came for — his name. He sighed a smile and gave a single nod, turning slowly toward the door. 

______

By the time he made it to chemistry class, Eddie was ready for a nap. Maybe it was the pizza that sat like a rock in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was the fact that, yet again, he had stayed up entirely too late, lost in your world. 

But he couldn’t just stop, not when Cybelle was being attacked by a ferocious fenfink — like a weasel, only much larger. Sharper claws, bigger teeth, and fatally attracted to something Cybelle had on her person. They were packing up camp in the morning when it happened. Perhaps it had been drawn to the smell of sweet Myrnish breakfast cakes, or the herbs stuffed inside Cybelle’s mask, or perhaps it was her gold amulet that sparkled in the glow of the fire. In hindsight, they really should have picked up a sword in Fenwood. Not that Lazarus had ever swung one. Not that he would trust himself to when the beast was grappling with the neckline of Cybelle’s coat as she struggled to fling it off her. Too much movement. Too many opportunities to miss. Instead, Lazarus had done the only thing he could manage to do in a panic, which is to grab the animal’s back and try to pry it off. 

The path through the boglands was narrow with small allowance for a camp site. On either side lay deep, murky water spotted with mounds of moss and pale, petrified trees. The fenfink didn’t give up easy. It tore at her silk with its claws, sniffing and growling at her crescent moon mask as Lazarus tugged at its furry body. As Cybelle’s boots threatened stumble back over the berm of the trail and into the wet abyss, Lazarus tugged as hard as he could, but the animal snatched a lifeline; a shiny gold chain that glimmered in the pale blue light of the early morning. 

It bent Cybelle forward at the neck. Time froze as her golden promise, his future, dangled in the space between them. Her hands fumbled at the animal’s rear claws to unlatch them from her abdomen. Eyes desperate, mask askew, Lazarus knew what he had to do. One good yank and the chain would break. She would be free, and he could hurl the beast into the bog to buy them time.  He knew it could be done, in theory. What would become of the treasure, however, would be left entirely to fate. 

In the glittering twinkle, he saw his cottage, his garden, his full size bed, his curtains billowing in the salty air. It swayed and skirted across the taught chain, dangling dangerously close to the edge of the murky water.

With a strangled cry, Cybelle worked the claws free of her dress, and he was left with a split second to decide. The golden tether winked in the fire’s glow. Fear flickered in her umber eyes. With a firm, decided tug, Lazarus broke the chain. Time slowed to a halt as the glimmering treasure launched upward with the force of it all. Cybelle stumbled back over the berm, grasping desperately at the air. It followed the arc that she took, hovering just out of reach. She just about bumped it with her fingertip, but the cold, wet shock at her back knocked the wind out of her.

Lazarus watched his dreams tumble into the water, helpless to stop it. As he grappled with the snarling beast, his eyes caught the last golden glimmer of hope before it plunked beneath the inky surface of the bog. He pivoted quickly, launching the creature in a heartbroken rage, and it flailed in the air before its headfirst collision with a tree scattered the birds for miles.

A wet, sobbing cough from the other side of path sent him scrambling toward it. Cybelle was a mess. Clambering on her knees, waist deep in a peaty, black filth that soaked through her gold coat. Her hands raked desperately, blindly, at the thick decay beneath the murky water. 

Lazarus stumbled over the mossy ledge and into the bog, extending his hand, but she could not meet his eyes.

“I-I can find it,” she choked, sucking what little breath she could muster as the soaked fabric clung to her face. “It-it is somewhere here… I heard it.” 

His heart sunk deeper than the treasure. “Please, Cybelle,” he pleaded. 

“I can find it,” she insisted weakly, and another desperate grasp beneath the water sent her tumbling further down. 

He dove in after her then, sinking deep into the muck to grab her by the waist before she slipped beneath the surface. Cybelle was persistent, twisting in his arms as sobs shook her tiny body. He simply gripped her tighter, drawing her toward his chest and out of the water. Her struggles paled to his strength.

“Please,” she whimpered, stamping his white linen shoulders with muddy hands. “I can—I can…” she could barely catch a breath, silk crescent now crooked and blackened with peat. 

With both arms clasped tightly around her back, Lazarus shushed her. “It’s gone, Cybelle.” He could not hide the mourning in his voice.

She shut her eyes with a defeated grimace and went limp. Tears burned her lash line as she sobbed against his chest. They opened when she felt a finger brush behind her ear. Gingerly, slowly, Lazarus hooked his fingers through the loop of her mask, eyes darting back and forth between hers in a wordless request for permission. Her stillness granted it, and with that, he peeled it away.

In the pale blue light of the early morning, waist deep in muck and mire, Lazarus saw Cybelle. Not for the first time ever, but for the first time like this. Raw, and ragged, and inches apart. She inhaled deeply, freely, and for the first time when she breathed out, there were no barriers between them. They stood there a moment in a captivated stillness with nothing but the hum of frogs and song of birds.

Cybelle was the one to break the silence. “We might as well turn around then,” she wavered bitterly. “I have…” her breath hitched, “nothing to offer you.”

Lazarus sighed, shaking his head as he raked in her soft features. “Your company,” he began, “is enough.”

Cybelle shut her eyes, blinking tears over her lashes to streak trails through her the dirt on her cheeks, and for the first time, her muddy arms drew around his waist, and she embraced him.

Eddie pressed his heated forehead to the cool slate of the lab table and shifted his stool back against the floor with a loud screech. Images of fenfinks, and pendants, and bog mire danced behind his eyelids. He could hear the weary exhaustion in Mr. Westfield’s voice. He didn’t even need to look up to know he was leaning against his desk and running his hand through his thinning hairline as he’d done a hundred times before at the top of sixth period.

“Alright, so today we’re going to be creating magnesium oxide. Magnesium plus oxygen. Get it?” The question was answered with sleepy eyes and a few stray sniffles. Mr. Westfield sighed. “Right. Since the school can’t afford enough bunsen burners for all of you, this week you’ll be splitting up into pairs.”

The room came alive, eyes meeting eyes as claims flew across the room. Eddie peeked over his arms at the table in front of him. Tina was practically falling out of her stool as she reached for Chrissy on the other side of the room with grabby hands. 

Mr. Westfield looked thoroughly unamused by the commotion. “I’ll be assigning them.”

The classroom groaned almost unanimously. 

“Hate to be a party pooper,” he started, his tone indicating quite the opposite, “but you’re here to learn, not to chit-chat. Ok, let’s see here…” Mr. Westfield adjusted his glasses on his nose as he scanned down the list of names in his attendance book. 

A restless silence fell over the room as the students awaited their fate. 

“Looks like we have an even number, excellent. Tina, you’ll be with Bobby.”

Eddie could see Tina’s eyes roll through the back of her head. 

Mr. Westfield peered up from his glasses. “Don’t act so excited. Ok, then we’ll have Ricky and Carmen, Sally and Janae…” he went down the list of names, checking them off and scribbling them on the side of the sheet to keep track.

Eddie sat up and glanced around the room as pairs were made, mentally checking off classmates as their names were called, ears perked and primed to hear his own. As the ones who remained dwindled and dwindled down to only two, his pulse quickened. 

“Ok and then that just leaves Ms. Cunningham,” he punctuated with his pen, “and Mr. Munson.”

Fuck.

Eddie turned his head slowly, reluctantly, toward the other side of the room where Chrissy Cunningham sat, and was met with a soft, coy smile. He swallowed and whipped his head to face forward. 

Un-fucking believable. If there was a God, which Eddie sincerely doubted, he sure had a twisted sense of humor.

Since their brief confrontation in the hallway following Tina’s Halloween party, Chrissy had, to his honest surprise, respected his wishes and kept her distance. It never stopped her from looking though. Stares, he would discover, were something you could feel. Burning into his temple from behind the curtain of his hair in class, heating the back of his neck at his locker as her perfume wafted up the hall. It was almost a daily occurrence. 

As the classroom rearranged itself in a cacophony of screeching stools and shuffling backpacks,  Eddie remained planted right were he was, thumbing at the bent spiral of his notebook, mind racing as his eyes glazed over. It was less than a minute before he smelled that familiar perfume and heard the stool next to him scoot against the floor.

“Hey,” came a voice like powdered sugar. 

Eddie looked up from his notebook with a slow hesitance. “Hey.”

“I…grabbed you some safety glasses and an apron,” she said, setting the items on the counter.

Silently lamenting the idea of spending the remaining hour wearing them, he gave a single nod and thanked her.

The room bustled with chatter as Mr. Westfield came around to dole out the bunsen burners, crucibles, scales, and other small tools. “You got a hair tie, Munson?” he asked.

Eddie patted himself down and feigned disappointment. “Fresh out I’m afraid.” 

“I’ve got one,” Chrissy interjected, rolling a powder blue scrunchie from her wrist to swing from the curve of her finger.

Eddie stared at it a second as it dangled in the space between them before snatching it. “Thanks,” he conceded. As he twisted the satin band around his curls to form a low ponytail, he could feel the heat from her gaze. It lingered as he put on his goggles, even as he tied the ribbons of the stiff apron behind his back. 

Wayne, perceptive as ever, had been right all those years ago outside the auditorium. He did, at eleven, have a crush on Chrissy Cunningham, but there were only so many times a person could ignore him before he got the memo. Before he figured out he wasn’t worth their time. It wasn’t the first time it happened. In fact, Eddie had become so accustomed to getting looked through instead of at that he’d made it a lifestyle to stand out. To talk loud, and dress loud, and play loud. To bite back, and shirk rules, and cause a scene. And over the course of a year he barely remembered, he’d left whatever feelings he might have had for her exactly where they belonged; in the graveyard with everything else he would rather forget.

But for some reason this year was different. He wasn’t sure what switch flipped that caused her to suddenly see him. Maybe it was because she was tired of her meathead boyfriend and needed a distraction. Maybe it was because he looked especially dangerous this year. Maybe it was because he’d been held back so many times that he’d become more forbidden than ever; an odd and tempting fascination. 

Eleven year old Eddie would have been elated. Twenty year old Eddie was, to put it simply, annoyed. 

Mr. Westfield returned to the front of the classroom to give instruction, and Eddie tried his best to follow along with the handout. 

The room sparked to life with the hiss of gas and the whump of it igniting from all corners. As the tall flame dance in front of him, Eddie tried to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that tempted him to dangle the sleeve of his flannel a little too close so he could escape to the nurse’s office. Freshman Eddie wouldn’t have thought twice.

Chrissy turned on the scale between them and set the empty clay crucible on top of it as instructed. She leaned in to record the weight and copied it onto her worksheet. Eddie did the same. According to the worksheet, the next step was to add the magnesium and weigh it again. 

“Make sure the coil isn’t too tight,” advised Mr. Westfield, “you’re gonna want to leave room for air.”

Eddie picked up the clay triangle, doing his best to stay focused on the task, and set it on the metal ring above the flame as demonstrated. 

“I think the ring is too high,” said Chrissy, leaning in to twist the clamp loose enough to lower it. “It’s gotta be like, in the blue part of the flame I think.” Her arm grazed his as she reached into his bubble, and suddenly he was back on that couch, feeling the her phantom fingers on the pins of his vest again, gold halo crooked, lips ghosting cherry alcohol. Eddie shot his gaze forward.

“Ok, now place the crucible in the center of the triangle,” Mr. Westfield instructed.

Eddie grabbed hold of the metal tongs and used them to pinch the pale clay vessel. Chrissy leaned closer as he lowered it to rest above the flame. 

Then they would wait. In the waiting, the classroom grew louder. Tina stood by her stool, arms crossed, eyes cast sideways in annoyance as Mr. Westfield came over to address the lack of flame coming out of her bunsen burner. 

Eddie sat there in tense silence, eyes fixed forward as the flame licked the crucible with its blue heat.

“You know, this definitely beats equations,” Chrissy remarked with a soft chuckle.

He couldn’t really argue with that. Eddie didn’t say that though, instead he just nodded quietly. 

“Say um,” Chrissy thumbed at the gummy eraser of her pencil, “Jason hasn’t given you any trouble, has he?”

Resentment rose up from the graveyard. “Define trouble,” he groused.

Chrissy sighed. “He can be a real asshole sometimes,” she admitted, to his surprise.

Eddie took a deep breath. It was vivid — the way she stumbled off that couch. How she nearly tripped over her own shoes. How Jason barked at her. The crazed look in his eyes. The fear in hers. “Sometimes?” he bit back.

Chrissy toyed at the hem of her skirt. “He’s not all bad.”

He wasn’t sure if it was the inflection of her voice, or the way her eyes cast down in shameful denial, but it transported him — all the way back to that small kitchen table, feet dangling from the chair as the red wax in his hand filled in the flame from a dragon’s mouth. He could see his mother in the kitchen doorway, her finger coiled tightly around the telephone cord, uttering the same words to a concerned voice on the other end. 

Eddie hardened his lips and shook his head bitterly. “Yeah, well, doesn’t make him good.” 

“Alright folks, listen up,” Mr. Westfield called out, drawing the attention of the class. “Next you’ll add the oxygen by lifting the lid to let some air in.”  

With a sudden, determined movement, Chrissy reached across him to grab the tongs, bracing herself against the slate table. She gave them a few clicks before pinching the handle to lift the small, clay lid. A reaction occurred; blinding and white, igniting the gap between crucible and lid in a flickering flare.

They jumped back in unison. 

“Try not to stare,” advised Mr. Westfield with monotone enthusiasm. “You could damage your eyes.”

Timely advice. Eddie blinked the white dots that clung to his vision away, and a smile caught him by surprise, betraying his steely resolve. 

Chrissy caught it, and her sea green eyes found his from across the bunsen burner as she lowered the lid again. “That was awesome,” she whispered wildly.

It was kind of cool, he had to admit. He would take playing with fire over staring numbly at numbers on a page any day. Eddie peered over the rim of his plastic safety glasses and offered a tentative smile. 

The heating continued, allowing for air every once in a while until finally there was no more reaction. There wasn’t much to say. Eddie removed the crucible from the burner. Chrissy added water from the pipette until the contents formed a paste. Eddie returned the crucible to the heat. The water evaporated. In the silence of their cooperation, in the passing of tools and scribbling of notes, Eddie wondered how long it would be before Chrissy came to her own conclusions. If she would ever figure out that even though Jason wasn’t all bad, she could do so much better. 

Not with him, but on her own.

Clutching the crucible in the tongs, Chrissy set it on the scale for the final time. They both copied the weight onto their worksheets — different than when they started.

With five minutes to the bell, the cleanup was frenzied; a clammer of equipment hastily returned to shelves and boxes backdropped against the hissing water of half a dozen sinks. Even Mr. Westfield had given up on volume control in favor of tidiness. Eddie rid himself of the dreaded apron and goggles just in time for the bell to ring, and with that he snatched his backpack from the floor and followed the flow of his classmates out the door. 

It wasn’t until he made it to the hallway that he remembered. Reaching back behind his neck, he felt it; ruffled satin. The owner was only a few feet ahead, ponytail swaying in ruffled white cotton as she walked. 

“Chrissy!” 

Her footsteps slowed, eyes brimming with a coy mischief that shot dread down his spine when turned against traffic to face him.

______

“Outlines are due on Friday,” you called to your class as you wiped down the board, a cloud of chalk dusted the air as you swiped the soft eraser over the letters. Like the wave of a magic wand, the bell had turned your practically snoring class into an eruption of noise. Before you could hear a pin drop, now you had to shout. With two periods left in the day, you wondered how many more times you would answer the same question. How many more times you would ask one only to be met with coughs and tired eyes.

Your feet hurt. Even the boots you had chosen for comfort and practicality were causing an ache in the soles of them, the hard heel putting too much pressure on your own. The lukewarm coffee you’d savored during fifth period had long since run its course through you. Glancing up at the clock, you realized you had about five minutes to take care of business or be forced to suffer for the duration of seventh period as well. Setting down the eraser, the decision was easy.

Your tired feet clicked down the crowded hallway with a sense of urgency that seemed to evade the rest of traffic. Scent pockets of perfume, mint gum, cigarettes, and body odors wafted through the air as you hurried past the rows of slamming lockers, dodging a pair of students overcome with the temptation to roughhouse, one grabbing the other by the backpack and yanking, sprinting ahead so his friend couldn’t catch him. You sighed, voice too tired to conjure discipline. 

As you picked up on that strange, familiar scent of the approaching science lab, your eyes, like a magnet, were drawn to a familiar silhouette, standing just outside the door. You would have recognized him anywhere, picked him out of a crowd of thousands. Flutters bloomed in your chest. His long, dark curls bounced as he shook them out with his hand, like he was scratching the back of his head. 

It was enchanting; the way he did just about anything. The way he moved, his sharp elbows and quick hands, the bright timbre of his voice, how his energy could shift on a dime from a soft breeze to a ripping gust. 

The past three weeks had been much of the same. Conversations that strayed from educational to casual. Lingering glances. Secret touches. Stolen moments. Never speaking the truth of your heart. Never offering more than your hand. 

The flow of students swept you forward, and as you passed, a figure emerged from behind where his shoulders obscured. In the seconds that slowed to a crawl, your eyes gathered volumes. 

Strawberry blonde, petite, clutching a book to her soft, white cardigan. Sparkling eyes under soft blue shadow, cocked head, fluttering lashes, a smile bright enough to draw a moth.

Craning your neck back as traffic surged, you searched for his eyes.

Eddie didn’t see you.

You blinked, hard, and snapped your gaze forward over the sea of students as your heart leapt into your throat. 

It was fine. 

Click.

It was nothing.

Click.

He’s allowed to talk to people. 

Click.

He didn’t see you.

Click.

Of course not, it’s crowded.

Click.

It burned, like the image was seared into your retinas. Her clean, white sneaker coyly toeing at the tile. Teeth that teased at plump, pink lips. Heavy lidded eyes. Arched back. Delicate fingers curled around a textbook spine. You tried to blink it away.

It was fine. It was nothing.

You rounded the corner for the faculty bathroom, relieved to find it empty, and shut yourself inside. The tried old light bathed the room in a yellow wash. You locked the door and stood there for a moment, heart racing, chest heaving in the quiet reprieve from the bells, lockers, and voices. Space for your thoughts to grow louder as you went about your business.

Why shouldn’t he talk to some girl? There was nothing wrong with that. In the glimpse that you caught of his face, it was lacking in distinct expression. Listening. Nothing worth noting. It was hers that really stuck with you. Her rosy cheeks and perky ponytail. The way she batted her eyes and licked her lips like she wanted to make a meal out of him.

Eddie Munson; summer wind. Tall and roguish, charming and animated, full of surprises. It was shocking he was single. Downright unbelievable that no other woman in this entire school would harbor any feelings. There had to be at least a handful that cast shy gazes as they passed him in the hallway. At least a few that floated curious whispers across lunch tables. In the dark corners of your imagination you had always figured, you’d just never seen it. And now the image wouldn’t leave you. Sticky. Clinging like you’d stepped in gum. 

You met your tired eyes in the mirror above the sink. Timeless, it mocked, as the whisper of lines became canyons. 

On the other side of the door was sea of young women. Free to talk and gawk and get into the sort of trouble he surely had a taste for. The kind of trouble you only had the freedom to imagine. How long before the novelty of you wore off? Before his restless hands sought something more? Something he could grasp in broad daylight? Someone who could keep his stride, share a milkshake or a bucket of popcorn?

You cast your welling eyes downward, turned on the water, wet your hands, and pumped the soap.

It started subtle, last spring. Started with the way he looked at you; a flame that dimmed to embers over months of dinners spent alone, plates gone cold, beds left empty, leaving you with nothing but to wonder how he looked at her. 

Time moves quickly for young men. You of all people would know it. Like a wildfire; hungry and insatiable, devouring everything in its path. It renders promises of meaning, leaves the past in charred remains. It surges ever forward, seeking fuel. 

It left behind an ice in you. Stalling over the sink as the world surged on outside, you felt it seize your chest again.

Eddie Munson; wildfire. Twenty years old. Restless. Reckless. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You weren’t an item. You were nothing.

The water was scalding. Bubbles erupted as you worked up a lather. Scrubbing your knuckles, your palms, the space between your fingers where his had nestled once. 

No. You weren’t nothing. 

The bell had you flinching; a loud and shrill summons back to your post, your place, your duty. 

You were his teacher.

Pinballs. Louder than the shrieking bell. Louder than ever before. You didn’t dare meet your eyes again, frightened of what sort of monster would stare back.

What am I doing? 

You turned off the water and paused, hands weeping over the sink. 

It was foolish, to play with fire. It was foolish just about anywhere, but here the walls were made of tinder, the desks of charcoal. His fingers like matches, striking you with every touch. But oh, how you craved the heat. Close enough to thaw you; the ice deep in your chest, weeping as it melted, pooling in your lap, making puddles on the floor.

Droplets fell to the tile as you turned to grab a paper towel. It soaked through, blooming dark, wet patches as the brown paper blotted up the dampness.

You shook your head bitterly. No. You certainly weren’t nothing. You were a phase. A passing fancy. An odd fascination. You would never make it to May. You’d be lucky if you made it to January without losing his interest entirely.

You crumpled the soggy paper in your fists and threw it in the trash. Blinking back tears, you pressed your hand to the door and took one deep, final breath as you prepared to face the world again — to put on your mask and perform in front of twenty pairs of judging eyes.

The gap was enormous. Cavernous and treacherous. He deserved someone he could be with in public. Someone he could take to a park or a movie. Someone he could go to fucking prom with. 

With a ragged exhale, you pressed open the door.  

He deserved someone his own age. 

The hall was a flurry of slamming lockers, a scattering of the few straggling students who rushed to find their classrooms. The wind cooled your heated face as you marched, one foot in front of the other, to your post. Shoulders back, deep breaths, sore feet making echos off the polished tile. 

He’d get tired of you too.

Click.

Click.

They always do.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The hall stretched on like an Escher drawing, twisting and distorting in your vision as you neared your classroom door. Tears threatened your lashes, and you huffed them away with a determined shrug of your shoulders.

As your fingers grazed the cold metal handle, you caught your own eyes in the glass. Sad and droopy, welling with longing and resentment. On the other side you could already hear the commotion, the questions, the stares, the awkward silence. The bell rang again — a final warning. 

With a heavy sigh, you turned the handle.

______

Eddie twisted the ridged dial of his locker in his fingers, left and right until he heard a click. Popping the door open and slinging his backpack forward on his shoulder, he unloaded three weighty textbooks into the dark, cluttered enclosure. He grabbed his thick, leather coat, tucked it under his arm, and slammed the door shut. 

In the absence of the books, and of the dimming noise as it filtered out through the front doors and into the parking lot, he felt another weight lift in him. In a matter of minutes, the mindless chatter, the tried scenery of this dull prison, the days worth of stares that clung to him like glue would fall away as he passed the threshold of your door. 

With every step he took, Eddie felt lighter. The slamming lockers didn’t phase him, the weird looks from freshmen went right through him, even the shoulder check from a jock coming around the corner glanced right off. In a million years he never would have expected to feel relieved to stay after school, or a pep in his step as he approached a classroom, but in a million years he never expected to find you behind the big desk. 

He could feel the warmth already as he approached your open door. Hear your laughter at his stupid jokes, feel the heat of your arm graze his, catch your hand, and you, by surprise. But when he turned into threshold, knuckles raising out of habit to rap against it, he was met with a different scene.

You didn’t look up. Not even when tapped his knuckles to the wood in a shave-and-a-haircut—two-bits pattern. Head cast down over a sea of papers, you looked like you were drowning. He padded slowly toward the big desk, face dropping as he noticed another detail: the wooden folding chair—his chair—sat empty and open. Across from you.

Eddie dropped his backpack to the floor with a heavy thump, making his presence known. “Hey,” he started, tentative and cautious. 

It wasn’t until he was practically towering over you that you finally looked up at him, face heavy, expressionless, tired. “Hey,” you stated plainly.

Eddie craned his head and searched your eyes. “You ok?”

You blinked and swallowed. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” 

He stood like this a moment, vision locked with yours, dark eyes roving, searching. When you offered nothing more, he simply nodded once, strolled around to the front of your desk, grabbed the back of the chair with a determined slap, and dragged it around to where it belonged — beside you. 

He took his place in it; draping his coat over the back of it like always, creaking the wood with his weight as he plunked himself down.

You resumed wading through the sea, heavy gaze cast over it. 

Eddie toyed with a pencil on your desk, tapping the eraser to the wood as his eyes bored a hole into the side of your head. You just kept on roving, shoulders tense, lips worried. He could have been invisible, watching you from a hole in a poster, or a crack in the wall. You offered him the same level of attention. “Something’s wrong,” he confronted, unable to take the frigid silence for a moment longer.

You sighed and set your pen down. “I’m sorry, it’s just…” your hand worried the back of your neck, “…a lot, this time of year, work wise.” Your eyes met his only for a second before casting downward again at the pages. “Here, let me clear this up.” Your hands busied themselves with the mess, shuffling the paper into a clumsy, hurried pile.

“No—no, it’s…it’s ok.” He scooted his chair closer, feeling so useless all of a sudden, burdensome, like his presence added to your task load. He wanted to help, to alleviate the tension, but his hands simply fumbled in his lap as you collected the clutter with your chalk dusted knuckles. As you tapped the pile of papers against the desk in haste to form a semblance of a pile, his hand gained a mind of its own. 

As if possessed by its own separate consciousness, an impulse deep and thrumming with the need to soothe, it took up refuge in the place between your shoulders; warm and firm, drawing slow, caring circles at your blouse. 

You froze, papers stiff against the surface, gaze straight ahead. His hand followed suit, freezing, twitching, arm locked in its extension.

“Y-you should—” you stuttered, blinking wildly as you found your breath. “Why don’t you go grab your schoolwork?” you asked with a curtness that startled him.

Eddie lurched his hand away like you were a hot stove. “I—I’m sorry I just… w-wanted to help. I’m sorry.” His mind became a whirlpool, swirling with worry as his stomach did backflips. He fumbled with the zipper on his backpack.

“No—no, Eddie, I’m… I’m sorry,” you lamented. 

He’d never seen your face so fraught. Like you’d stepped on a cat’s tail, chased it through the house with apologies. 

“It’s not your fault, it’s…” You swallowed, breaking his gaze. You couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to. 

Mine.

He was losing you. 

He should have expected it by now. What could he possibly offer you anyway? His hand? A few stolen moments? Some flirty comments to make you feel good about yourself for a second or two? 

He wondered when the other shoe would drop. When you would open your eyes and see this for what it really was — that you were a grown ass woman with a college degree and a real career, and he was twenty years old repeating his senior year of high school for the third fucking time, selling drugs to teenagers, and oh, your student for fuck’s sake. 

It wasn’t lost on him; that he was playing tee-ball in a big league stadium. He stared into the crumpled contents of his backpack with a deep, shaking breath, and pulled out his notebook. It fell from his hand with a dejected slap against the big desk; juvenile amidst the tidy assortment of office supplies. The spiral was bent and crumpled, the cover worn soft from abuse. He sat there a moment and stared at it as the heavy silence swallowed you both. 

Your lips hardened to a bitter line, eyes cast down over the evidence of your position. Over the evidence of his. You wouldn’t look at him, like you were afraid to. Finally, after a suffocating minute, you spoke — frigidly professional. “What do you want to work on today?” 

The question sent a hot rage coursing through him. So that was it, then? Business as usual? Pretending like nothing happened? That none of this was real? Eddie sat back in his seat and boiled with a gaze so intense it could have burned right through you. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of an answer. Not until you gave him enough respect to look him in the eyes when you asked the question.

You just sat there, frozen, shoulders locked, eyes cast down at the big desk for an agonizing moment that stretched well past the point of comfort. His gaze was unrelenting, fueled by stubborn indignation. You felt it. He knew you did, because when you finally did submit your eyes to him, you flinched. 

He almost felt bad for it. For causing you to shrink so small, to look so fragile, like how you did when you’d relinquished a fragment of your past, when the impulse to soothe you drove him to your hand. The impulse rose again, as did some annoyance by it; the grip you had on him, even in his most determined anger. 

“What?” you choked out, barely above a whisper.

You knew damn well what. The audacity to ask sent heat coursing through his veins again, but the look in your eyes, like cornered prey, quelled the fire enough to sigh his way to a level-headed response. “You’re acting different,” he said simply. 

You swallowed, breaking his gaze like you’d been caught. It would be insulting to deny it. He could see the gears turning over in your head, the thoughts forming careful words behind your eyes, but in the end, all you could muster was, “I’m sorry.” 

It was a weak admission. It answered nothing, really, other than confirming his suspicions. But it was something. He wanted to press, to poke, to pry, and get to the bottom of what caused this shift in you, but in the silence of the classroom, with floors that echoed and walls that listened, words like “you won’t let me touch you,” seemed too far too direct, far too pointed. In the end, it was your eyes that said the most; welling like pools with all the words he knew would pierce the ever thinning veil, poke holes in your shared secrets, make them monstrous and real.

In the end, your eyes just tugged him forward, made him soft and pliant until all he could muster was decency. “It’s…” he sighed, raking his hand through his hair, “it’s fine.” Soft as he intended it, he couldn’t hide the broken edge.

There was little relief in sigh you gave, heavy and ragged. Your fingers grazed the curled, beaten corner of his notebook with a caring reverence that made him wish that he was paper. 

He wondered how much longer it could go on like this, before you craved something more than he could offer. Before you tired of secret touches and passing glances. Before some hot-shot with a convertible saw you at a bar somewhere and swept you away. The crushing realization hung heavy in the space between you, the gap more cavernous than ever.

Eddie twisted his rings in his lap, fingers burning. It was a miracle you’d let him touch you to begin with. But you did, and he had, and by god, he refused to go back. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. Not when you’d let him into your world, given him more than he ever thought possible — a sliver of hope. For you. For himself.

When the silence became too much for him to bear, he broke it with your name.

Your first name.

Bitter grief melted to soft shock as your lips parted, eyes widened. At last, he had your full attention. 

With a deep breath, he started. “I don’t… know what happened. If it’s something I did o-or something someone said, or, fuck,” he ran hand through his hair, exasperated, words trailing off into nothing. 

“Eddie,” you started, eyes softening deeper; into sympathy, into pity. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?” he snapped, but the quiver in his voice betrayed him. 

You swallowed, shaking your head, but before you could give an answer he didn’t want to hear, he continued.

“I know, it—it’s ludicrous, this whole thing. To think that I—” he breathed a bitter laugh, “that you,” he glanced at the door. 

But instead of shutting him down with the ugly truth, you leaned closer, like your whole world hinged on him. He saw it then, hope, glimmering like a golden treasure in the tremble of your lips, in the pinching of your brow, in the welling of your eyes that threatened to spill over.

“I know,” you whispered, like it caused you pain. 

Slowly, Eddie raised his hand to rest on top of his notebook, a fractional distance from yours. Close enough to feel your heat, to catch the subtle tremble of your knuckles. So transfixed by the curve of your delicate fingers beside the broad, ruddy angles of his, that had he not dared to draw his eyes away, he might have missed the tear that pinched through your lashes when you closed them.

Slowly, bravely, he inched his pinky forward. Just close enough to graze yours. It was a phantom of a touch, but you didn’t pull away. In fact, when he looked up, he was surprised to see a whisper of a smile. A sad, soft thing, like it was breaking through layers to surface. Emboldened, he raised his pinky, ever so slightly, to gently stroke yours. The gesture was small and silly, but enough to earn a puff of laughter through the smile that cracked the gloom upon your features.

It opened up a narrow passage, and he entered with the boldest thing that he had ever said.

Maybe it was the fact that he was too stubborn, or perhaps too stupid for his own good, but the sheer audacity of what came out of his mouth next surprised even himself. “Um, my band is playing at the Hideout tomorrow—a-and—” he swallowed, gaining composure as he raised his eyes to your level with conviction. “I want you to come.” 

It was all he could offer. An experience. 

Your jaw dropped. 

“I think—I-Iwant you to see some of the new stuff we’ve been working on. I think you’d like it,” he peddled on.

“Oh, Eddie I—” you shook your head. “I don’t know, I mean—”

He doubled down, brows level and serious. “We—we don’t have to come together. Hell, bring a friend, bring several. It doesn’t have to be a big deal if we don’t make it a big deal. People go to bars all the time.”

As you worried your lips in your teeth, he could see the scales tipping back and forth, weighing the odds and risks against the want. “Oh god, I don’t know.”

“You’re allowed to exist in public. You don’t just like… fold your arms and retreat into the walls here at night,” he laughed.

It snapped a chuckle out of you, like sunlight peeking through the clouds. “Oh yeah? Tell that to the students I run into at the grocery store,” you quipped. Then, as quickly as the sunlight came, the clouds were back. You surveyed the room and dropped your eyes in pensive worry. 

Eddie stroked his pinky over yours, slowly, sweetly. “Please?”

You gave him a look, one that threatened resistance but hiding just beneath it, surrender.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he persuaded, “just me on stage, and you in the audience cheering with your girlfriends or whatever, well, hopefully cheering. I mean ‘Hand of Doom’ is still a crapshoot sometimes but,” he breathed a laugh. 

With a chuckling shake of your head, your resolve crumbled like sand in front of his eyes. 

“You can boo us too, wouldn’t be the first time. We’ve got tough skin.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed. “I’m not gonna boo you.”

A wicked grin cracked like lightning across his face. “Not gonna, you mean you’ll come then?” 

You sighed, deep and heavy, shifting the scales back and forth.

Eddie tipped his head and raised his eyebrows. “You know you want to.”

“Of course I want to,” you deadpanned.

His umber eyes glimmered, wild and auspicious. “Well then, do what you want,” he said, sitting back in his seat like the decision was easy.

Want. A shelved, forgotten thing, like something you’d lost in the move. Something you’d tucked away long before that. Left to grow stale inside a box, in the back of a closet, in a place you barely remembered. 

It sat beside you now, loud and unignorable, with lips that begged and eyes that pleaded. And you, in all your years of practiced discipline, could no longer deny it. 

Eddie Munson; wildfire. Restless, frenetic, warm, and compelling. 

With a dignified sigh, and a verdant conviction that peeked through the ash, you turned to him at last, and surrendered.

______

A/N: So begins the craziest week in the whole story. Two words: Donkey Kong. 😈

The next chapter might take me a little longer than usual just because it's a moment we've all been waiting for and I want to make sure it's absolutely perfect.

Also, I've been featured on a PODCAST so if you want to hear me talk about this story and specifically the appeal of reader insert fics, check it out HERE!

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[quirkless-accident]

Danny secretly reforming LoV

(aka there are benefits of having 2 forms and being an underground hero/ spy other than flushing out human trafficking rings)

Danny is a secret powerhouse.

Sure, he's got the powers and personality for his daytime endeavors, but that's always been Phantom.

Fenton, however, is a different story.

He's got a few useful powers, and he's been asked on several occasions to work with some underground heroes that he just ended up being some sort of a double agent. Phantom is daylight, Fenton is nighttime, and neither are getting any kind of sleep.

Tonight, he gets a tip from about a bar.

----------

Meeting the League of Villains like this was not something he had mentally prepared himself for, but due to his general experiences he's able to school his expressions pretty well.

He's advertised his quirk to his contact as a general enhancer. His senses and strength are different enough from his more physical ghost powers for this to be a solid play, and keeping these particular cards close to his chest has gotten out of more than a couple scrapes. So when he walks into the bar owned by the League, he stands a bit taller, quirks his head a bit more, sniffs the air, and narrows his eyes at everybody.

He's a big guy. He got his father's genetics when it came to height, and he comes up to a respectable 6'7", and with his many years of training and hero work, he's bulked out quite a bit. All this to say is, even Fenton is a formidable foe. In the lion's den, he's gotta show that he's not one to be messed with.

"Name's Yokai," Danny tells them. "I heard you might be looking for new members?"

-----------

It goes well enough. Danny proves he can bring his own natural talents to the table, and lies through his teeth enough to convince them he's fully on their side. And though he didn't lie about hating the government and the Commission, it's still a pretty solid performance.

There's a weird energy around Kurogiri that sends a cold shiver down his spine. It's enough to clock that there isn't something completely human going on, but not enough to actually activate his ghost sense, which in and of itself is a relief. He has no idea how he would explain that when it's not a part of his known quirks.

Instead, he talks with Spinner first.

He's a stoic kinda guy who seems to be higher up in the ranks due to his ability to keep up with Shigaraki in various video games. He doesn't say much, but when he does speak it's practiced, calculated, as if one wrong word will get him thrown out. Danny knows it's something he's probably had to deal with his entire life. Not everybody is so accepting of mutation quirks that are as drastic as Spinner's.

He's also one of Stain's followers, which will either make things incredibly complicated, or a little easier on him.

Toga is, too, and it looks like Dabi has his own plans. The League for him just seems to be a way to enact them without much getting in his way.

He shares hobby with Spinner and gossips with Toga while they do each other's hair. While he can't let her feed on him for obvious reasons, every time he visits them he makes sure to bring a bag with him that he steals from a random hospital.

With Magne they talk about different parenting tactics, because while neither of them technically are, they're close enough. Danny's got Elle and Magne has this colorful crew to look after. They also talk about sexuality and gender, and Danny has had no discomfort in showing her the twin scars on his chest.

If they hug it out after that particularly emotional conversation, well, everybody is smart enough to keep their mouths shut.

With Mr. Compress, he's more of a theatrical kind of guy. Danny brushes up on his Shakespeare, giving a million thanks to Mr. Lancer as he does so, so he can converse with the man. Danny shows him a few complicated card tricks that make Compress chuckle at him as if he's a child, but Danny doesn't find himself minding one bit.

He goes through the whole League like that, more or less. He doesn't know when this became less of an information-gathering mission and more of a gentle-reformation one instead, but he can't say the results aren't there. They all look a bit more relaxed and at ease. Danny finds himself wanting to take care of them.

He of all people understands what it's like being different. Growing up quirkless and then struggling after his accident, he's never quite fit in. Unfit for regular society, not human enough or ghost enough to properly be in either world. He finds that most of the League have the mindset they'd of because of how society has treated them. And while their actions haven't been okay, he can't say he doesn't understand. If he had had a worse support system he probably would have ended up just like them.

Kurogiri is the one he doesn't hang out with much. Not because of any particular reason. He's usually busy cleaning, or breaking up fights, or setting up meetings or off doing who knows what. Because of his fast travel ability he's constantly running errands for everybody.

But when he does take a moment and slow down, he and Danny share some tea together. Or rather, Danny drinks tea in Kurogiri's quiet comfort. His motivations seem more protective than they are malicious, and that's something that Danny understands all too well. Even if the one he's protecting is a mislead murderer.

Because of their naturally ghostly nature, the two can communicate seamlessly without words. There's this underlying current of emotions that only they're aware of, and Danny's not sure if Kurogiri really even notices. Having not been around ectoplasm or ghosts in general, it can be hard to put a name to what this weird emotional feedback loop is. But Danny's got plenty of experience under his belt to realize that it's ghost related.

With this feedback loop and Kurogiri's general vibe, he eventually figures it out. It takes him a long time, but once he learned it was possible, the answer seemed obvious.

Two souls forcibly inhabiting one body, and neither one of them are in true control. He's not really sure how it was done, and he's not sure how to fix it without completely blowing his cover. Going in and separating the parasite from the host wouldn't be too much trouble with his overshadowing ability, but it's not something he can just do in the presence of the League.

He sips his tea instead.

---------

There's something familiar about the name Shigaraki but Danny can't for the life of him place it. Maybe it's because he raided the USJ during a training exercise in a desperate attempt to kill All Might. Maybe it's because he's the leader and figurehead of the League. But it's more than that, isn't it?

He just can't figure it out.

-----------

Months go by like this. Danny brings them things like medical supplies, gloves for Shigaraki, books for Compress, some high end burn cream for Dabi to prolong the effects of his quirk. He takes care of them, and in turn they trust him with information. Not enough to really do anything with it, but sometimes they tell him about a drop that happened, or a supply run they're hitting. A man named Sensei is mentioned more often than not, and he has to wonder if they've told this guy about Danny as much as they've told Danny about Sensei.

He's more than a little intrigued by this mysterious boogieman, and more concerned by the second about the mental toll he's taken on Shigaraki.

It's obvious the kid-because that's what he is to an immortal like Danny-didn't have a nice childhood. With a quirk like his, he probably had a rough awakening. His parents either didn't accept it or they were killed, or maybe they abandoned him. Either way, the clear malicious intent Sensei has with Shigaraki rubs Danny the wrong way, but he's not sure how to broach the subject without setting him off, and tipping everybody off that he's not really who he says he is.

It all comes to a head when Danny is invited to meet this Sensei character. He goes through Kurogiri's portal somewhere in the middle of the pack, with Shigaraki leading the charge. They enter into this large, cavernous room with giant Nomu test tubes lining the walls. In the very back, sitting on a high chair above the reason of them, was a man that just had an overwhelming sense of wrong. Hooked up to dozens of machines, Danny could tell that this man was more powerful than most of the S-Tier villains and ghosts he's fought. And judging from the weird energy that's similar to Kurogiri's, with an underlying current of maliciousness, it's not a surprising realization to Danny that this person should be dead.

"Ah, the famous Yokai," the villain drawls. Danny narrows his eyes as he feels a prodding sensation in the back of his mind, and firmly puts up all of his mental defenses. He's been mind controlled enough to know what it feels like, and he's not about to let some boogieman get the advantage on him.

"Ah, it seems like your heightened senses are good for more than just surveillance," the man says.

"It's a fun little party trick," Danny replies, trying his best to keep the edge out of his voice. Judging from the side eye that Dabi gives him, it's obvious he doesn't do a very good job of it.

The League up to this point has always been pretty laid back. Dabi especially usually has this aloof vibe he puts off, but all of them seem to be on high alert now. Backs are straight and their attention is forcibly stolen by the man in the chair.

"It's not very often that my young pupil finds someone worth his interest."

The nagging feeling in the back of his head is back, a more forceful prodding this time, and Danny closes his eyes to focus on blocking the intruder out. When he opens them again, there's a distinct chill in the air, and everyone has taken a step back from him.

He doesn't need to look in a mirror to know that his eyes are a ghostly green.

Fuck.

"You should be dead," Danny tells Sensei. His voice has this unearthly echo too it, laired in a way that tells everybody he's got just as much power as the man sitting in front of them. There's a sense of danger coming from from him, but it's directed at Sensei. His protective aura washes over the League, wanting to keep them from this battle for their own safety.

He takes a deep breath in, and lets his transformation take place. As he does so, it's like a little piece to the puzzle has unlocked itself.

Years ago-nearly a hundred years ago now-Clockwork had told Danny about a man named Shigaraki. About how he's cheated death time and time again, and how he will continue to do so. Danny had asked if he needed to go and stop him, and Clockwork had said it wasn't the right time.

With the man right in front of him, Danny can't think of a better opportunity.

The League steps back and braces for battle, and as much as Danny understands, it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

"I'm sorry for lying to you all," he tells them. "But for what it's worth, I truly do consider you to be friends."

Without anymore fanfare, Danny launches himself at All for One.

-----------

It's a long battle that takes down most of this mysterious warehouse they're in, as well as several of the nomus.

Danny pulls himself out of the rubble, stumbling as he does so. he's heavily injured, and ectoplasm is leaking out of him at an alarming rate, but dying is quite possibly the least of his worries.

During the fight, the League had tried to help, but it seems as though All for One wanted Danny to himself. He had protected them from AfO for as long as he could, but in the end Kurogiri was forced to take everyone away.

They would never trust him again. They would never want to be around him again. Danny should be okay with that because they're villains and he's a hero but he knows deep down that it's far more complicated than the black and white world most people want to believe in. Just because they're villains doesn't mean they're inherently bad people.

All for One is gone. Died and ended, with no hopes of ever coming back as a ghost, but in doing so he pushed away his friends. This little family he's found himself in.

There are helicopters and news anchors and paramedics and whatnot, and it's all too loud, too much, and it nearly overwhelms him.

So he disappears.

-----------

He doesn't want to go home to his lonely apartment so he doesn't. He can't call anybody or tell anybody because this is off the record and confidential to the nth level. So he goes to the one safe place he can think of.

Floating into the bar, he's not surprised to see it abandoned. Everything is still there, left behind by the previous owners, but nobody's there to greet him like usual.

It's fine. Danny expected this.

He didn't expect the ache in his core to come with it though.

He goes through the motions of hunting down a half decent first aid kit and gets to work, dumping alcohol on his wounds and sewing them up with practiced precision.

He's about halfway through with a particularly nasty gash on his arm when Kurogiri's portal opens in the middle of the bar, and the League steps out.

They look pissed, and Danny can't blame them. If he were them, he'd be pissed too. But now that his secret is out, he can finally do something he's been itching to do for months.

He ties off the stitches and wipes it down with a relatively clean rag before stepping up to Kurogiri. Everybody tenses, but with a nod from Kurogiri, they don't attack.

Danny transforms once more, and places his hands inside of Kurogiri's chest.

With his experience, it only takes a couple of minutes to separate the two. He pulls this purple, pulsing blob out of the host, and without anything to feed on, it dissipates.

Who's left is a man with clouds for hair and a bandage over his nose.

"i-I'm me again," he says, almost in awe.

"Took me a while to figure it out since I was undercover, but I figured that might help you out. Having a parasite forcibly put into your body like that can't exactly be good for your health."

"Thank you. Name's Oboro Shirakumo. Legally dead, I guess."

"Well, that makes two of us, I suppose."

"What do you mean? You're a daylight hero at the top of the charts, there's no way you're dead!"

Danny gives Toga a small, sad smile.

"Phantom is a daylight hero. Fenton, though...He's been legally dead for nearly a hundred years."

It takes a while to explain the accident and his growing up quirkless, but in the end, the League doesn't kill him. Maybe because they know it won't do them much good. But by the time he's done, he gives them an opportunity.

"Listen, I know things are complicated now, but...I've got a big house with more than enough rooms for everybody if you need a place to stay."

Wordlessly, the League looks to Shigaraki, who mulls over it for quite some time before shrugging.

"As long as it's better than this dump."

Danny can't help but give a relieved grin.

"Let's go home, then."

[sungbeam]

𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞

agent!kim sunwoo x agent!fem!reader

6.3k words, enemies 2 implied lovers?, spy au, angst, action, swearing, depictions of violence/blood/weaponry, drinking, UNREALISTIC STANDARDS FOR HOW LONG SOMEONE CAN BLEED OUT T_T, mentions of murder and death, i think that's the bulk of it?

a/n: requests now closed! omg i actually had quite the trouble writing this one 🤧 but i hope it's still enjoyable!! thanks so much @shakalakaboomboo for ur req <3

There was something about the rain tonight that would make the smell of blood even more distinct. The moment you stepped out of the cab, you were hit by a wave of hot, all-consuming heat, accompanied by the insistent drumming of the downpour. The near abandoned streets tonight were doused in the scent of petrichor, and you blinked the water out of your eyes as you made your way toward the entrance of the building of interest.

Just as you had expected, Chanhee had logged your identification into the system, and your card alerted green with no problem. The man standing guard by the scanner passed you a nod. “Evening, Miss.”

You gave a nod back, sweeping your hand through your drenched hair to get it out of your eyes. “Good evening. Is there a bathroom nearby? I’m kind of new to the building.”

He pointed down the hall, around the corner. “Right that way. Have a good night.”

“Thanks, you, too. Stay dry!” You added the last part with a lighthearted smile, coaxing a similar expression from the guard who no doubt had a long night ahead of him. If everything worked out okay, he would still be able to leave alive. If everything worked out perfectly, then everyone could leave this building alive tonight.

You winced to yourself as the soles of your shoes squelched with each step, the shiny marble floors becoming even more shiny as water dripped down to form a trail to the bathroom. You found the ladies’ washroom right where the man had said it would be and let yourself in.

You saw his reflection before you even saw him. Your heart leapt in your chest, but that slowly came back down to Earth when your brain processed who it was. Eyes narrowed, you went over to the middle stall and enclosed yourself within.

“Took you long enough,” Kim Sunwoo, the bane of your existence, drawled. He stood outside of the stalls, leaning against the sink counter, with his body fully equipped with all the necessary items. He seemed to be fully dry, despite it having rained cats and dogs outside. The suit was dry, his hair was dry. Everything about him was pristine and neat and ready to go—howdy doo.

You glared at the door as if you were Superman with x-ray vision and laser eyes. There was a garment bag hanging on the back of the stall that you swiftly unzipped to swap out your drenched clothes with. “What the fuck are you doing in the women’s restroom, you perv?”

“Well, the only other person in here is you, so I wouldn’t say it was much of a scandal. It’s just you, after all,” he replied snidely.

You shivered as the air hit your cold, wet skin, and you hobbled into the pair of dress slacks that were given to you. You really hoped that Chanhee hadn’t given you a pair of chunky loafers just for “fashion’s” sake this time. (You appreciated his fashion advice on any other occasion, except when you were on an assignment.) To your relief, they were a simple pair of flats, and you dug out a note in the left shoe with Chanhee’s scrawl: Found the most boring, “practical” pair of shoes in the closet. You’re welcome.

“Do you ever worry about sounding like an asshole?” You voiced out into the echoey bathroom as you buttoned up your blouse and donned your suit jacket. “Oh, wait. I forgot that assholes don’t have to worry about sounding like an asshole.”

You could hear his eyes roll from behind the door.

Once you were done, you shoved all your sopping wet clothes into the garment bag and stepped out of the stall to twist your hair up and off your shoulders. Sunwoo eyed you from his little corner. There was a screen propped in one of his gloved hands as he went over the schematics of the building and where the two of you needed to go to retrieve the required target before the auction.

“Are we ready, princess?” He asked sarcastically while you double checked the weapons and tools hidden in certain parts of your clothing. Knives, ammo, lock picks, and a gun.

You ignored his mocking nickname for you. "Do you have the money?" You asked him as you both started making your way to the bathroom door.

"No." He nearly crashed face first into your back from how abruptly you stopped. He frowned. "Can you move—?"

You whirled on him. "We can't go to an auction to bid on an item without money," you said, feeling your pulse rise in your neck.

"We can," he huffed, reaching around you to open the door and usher you out, "if we're not there to bid."

"Since when were we not going to bid for it?" Your head went on a swivel, voice low, as you stuck close to Sunwoo on the way over to the private set of elevators further down the hall. It was awfully quiet in the lobby, save for the sounds of your breathing and footsteps.

Sunwoo passed you his device and reached into his jacket pocket to toss you a card on a lanyard. "Since Changmin and I decided it would be easier to just steal the damn thing instead."

Your head raced as you skimmed through the schematics and plans that Sunwoo and Changmin had come up with. These were blueprints of the auction room, neighboring rooms, and vents. Yeah, chunky loafers would not have done you any favors tonight.

But footwear wasn't the problem. The problem was that half the team had gone and decided on a whole new plan without consulting the other half. You jammed your finger against the "up" button to summon the elevator. "Of course, you would go behind my back and just decide this."

He tucked his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. "The director already okayed it. Plus, they weren't willing to give us more money than they approved of."

The elevator doors opened, and the both of you stepped inside. Sunwoo reached over and jammed his thumb against floor forty-two.

You leaned your head against the elevator wall, eyes fluttering closed. You would have throttled the director for not approving of more money being put towards this assignment. You thought it would only make sense since the flash drive that was being auctioned off tonight contained such highly sensitive information. It just didn't make sense.

"If we won the auction the right way," Sunwoo suddenly said as you mentally cartwheeled through about a dozen potential scenarios and concerns, "that would simply put a target on our backs for those who want it. Stealing it first would keep our identities low profile."

You had to admit that his words had some reason to them. You watched the numbers on the elevator tick-tock its way up to level forty-two. "So what's the plan, Oh Mighty One?" You asked, inspecting the card on the lanyard around your neck. It had the same identification as the card you'd used to get into the building, but this one had a special seal in the corner that would no doubt be used to get you into the auction itself.

"You're gonna cut the lights, and I'm gonna steal the drive."

Your head whipped toward him. "You're shitting me. I'm not a man-in-the-chair, Sunwoo."

"Never said you were," he said. "It's just too risky to have us both go for it."

Something creeped into your chest and your fingers clenched around your lanyard. "Don't give me that bullshit," you said, having to pull back a full-on snarl. "Just say you have zero faith in me to my face." It was just like the academy all over again. You could hear his taunts egging you on from across the sparring mat, could envision his gaze cutting toward you with every first rank he received. He was good at almost everything, while you had to haul ass to even get to second.

You were so sick of being underestimated.

He considered you for a moment, but you couldn't look him in the eye, choosing instead to stare straight ahead at the steel doors of the elevator. He opened his mouth to say something, but the elevator slowed to a stop and the two of you had to walk out onto the floor.

The two of you fell into step with one another as you made your way down the hall to the large pair of doors at the end. There were two men stationed on either side, dressed in the typical dark suits and earpieces. Attached to their belts, you noted the shotguns hanging there. If you could get closer, you might be able to identify the model…

"IDs," said the one on the right when you and Sunwoo approached.

You and Sunwoo held your cards face up, and both guards took a device from their back pockets to scan the seals in the corner. When their devices lit up green, they reached for the doors and beckoned you through.

The auction room itself looked cavernous with its wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, ceiling dripping with panels of modern lighting, and pedestals littered about the room like a fancy showroom of expensive black market items. You and Sunwoo stuck together mainly, thankfully not sticking out like a sore thumb thanks to the business smart attire you'd changed into. There were a few people with more luxury branded garments on, but other than that, it seemed Chanhee had hit the dress code right on its nose.

Sunwoo tapped you on the arm with the back of his hand, his fingers subtly marking out the chairs, the second floor railing around the perimeter of the room, and the guarded door by the foot of the stage. "We need a distraction to get in there. Once we get inside, we'll have plenty of time to grab the thingamajig since it's the last on the—"

"Hold on—the thingamajig?" Your face screwed up in incredulity.

"Are you judging? Why are you judging?" He asked, plucking twin flutes of champagne off an orbiting waiter's tray. He handed you one. "Drink this. Act natural."

You rolled your eyes and chugged the glass. While you did think Sunwoo was good at a lot of things, alcohol tolerance was one of the few where you came out on top. Right now, you were going to take full advantage of it because that liquid courage was definitely needed. "You say that like I've never done this before, lightweight."

"Oh, shut up."

You and Sunwoo lingered for a moment, pretending to eye the list of auction items being displayed on the flat screen on stage. According to the countdown timer, the two of you only had a few minutes before—

The lights went out.

A gasp fell over the crowd as you placed your empty glass on a nearby table and grabbed Sunwoo by the upper arm. "That wasn't you, was it?" You whispered to him, making your way toward the side of the room where the back door was.

"Yes, because I can control electricity with my mind," he hissed back at you.

"Everyone, please remain calm—" a man had stepped onto the stage and was attempting to placate everyone in the room. He had his hands held out, an easygoing smile on his face. All of the guards and staff members were holding up emergency flashlights, and a few other guests were beginning to pull out their cellphones.

Yours and Sunwoo's eyes darted from the crowd to the man guarding the back door. To your surprise, you saw the man pause at something in his earpiece, before turning around to enter the door he was guarding.

"Fuck, catch the door," you said to Sunwoo, grabbing the glass out of his hand and shoving him toward the door.

He launched for it, barely shoving his body through the opening before it clicked shit. He grimaced as you caught up to him. "This door is fucking heavy," he said, baring his teeth at you when he noticed you were trying to prevent the champagne from spilling. "Can you put down the damn alcohol, Ln?"

"It might come in handy," you quipped, slipping in through the door behind him.

When the door shut behind you, the hallway was encased in darkness, save for the haunting red EXIT signs above your heads, one at each end of the hallway. You followed Sunwoo's lead since he'd been the one to study the blueprints of this place, your free hand grazing over the pistol hanging from your belt beneath the flap of your suit jacket.

"What the hell happened? That wasn't one of us, was it?" You voiced into the dark.

Sunwoo had whipped out a small flashlight and put the butt in his mouth to hold while he jimmied the opposite door open. "Mm-mm," his answer was muffled, but you knew what he meant. The door fell open a little too easily, and Sunwoo only cocked his head in curiosity for a moment, then he was moving forward.

The hair on the back of your neck stood up when you heard voices echoing from somewhere within this next room. The AC was jacked up to a decently high power here, keeping the room cool and dry for all the items that were supposedly being auctioned. This next room was a labyrinth of shelves, and through them, you could make out the movement of lights slicing through the spaces.

"This feels too easy," you murmured to your partner as the two of you peered through the cracks between shelves.

"Yeah, no kidding," he muttered back. "I think somebody is trying to steal something, too."

"The drive?"

"Could be."

The voices came closer, footsteps shuffling and light swarming through the shelves like visible beams through a thick fog.

You grabbed onto Sunwoo again and yanked his arm over your shoulders. You felt him stiffen. "Act drunk, you idiot," you instructed into his ear, "and when they get close enough, do the thing."

He sent you a look. "The thing? And why do I have to be the drunk one again—"

"Freeze!"

Both you and Sunwoo's heads shot up as bright lights blinded your vision. You couldn't tell how many there were—two? Three? But you felt Sunwoo relax in your hold as he sunk into the role you'd assigned him.

"I'm so sorry," you lamented, holding up the flute of champagne in your hand. "My friend over here just drank waaay too much at the open bar and started wandering."

The lights were nearing. "How did you two get back here?" Asked the same voice.

"The door was unlocked during the power outage! I am so—" Your eyes found the circle shapes of the muzzles of handguns being pointed at you and your partner when they had neared enough, "—sorry. We're just a little lost now."

You squeezed Sunwoo's side as you hobbled the two of you closer to the lights like a damsel in distress. "Just point us in the right direction and we'll be—"

If you didn't know Sunwoo like you did, you probably wouldn't have even registered what just happened. But within the blink of an eye, you felt him leave your grasp, and you tossed the glass of champagne at one of your opponents. "Hey, catch!"

On instinct, the one across from you had to drop something to catch the flying glass of champagne, and unlucky for them, it happened to be their gun. Your foot kicked that sucker like a soccer ball beneath the nearest shelf. You grabbed the champagne out of their hand—thanked them for holding it—then smashed the glass over their head.

Quick and easy, yet your heart was pounding against your chest. What the hell was going on?

When you were finished, you leaned down to pick up the fallen flashlight. Sunwoo was looming over his own opponent with his boot on the man's chest, and he pocketed the spare gun while the flashlight hung from his other hand.

You both looked at each other. "We gotta go."

"I can't believe you made me do the drunk scenario."

"Can you just shut up and focus?"

Navigating the maze of shelving was a lot easier with the flashlights. At least now, both of you could see where you were going without fear of anyone else catching you. But when neither of you found the so-called hard drive you were tasked with retrieving, you were met instead by another door leading out to another unknown location.

Sunwoo dove in headfirst. (Right, he studied the maps. Ugh.) "I have a feeling someone's taken the drive already, so be prepared to shoot."

The next room was a long corridor that sloped downward toward a lone elevator. Creepy.

You scowled. "Like I'm never prepared to shoot?"

His gaze was equally as disgruntled. "Just because you got the highest marks in all of our projectiles classes doesn't mean you'll actually shoot."

That remark was something akin to an arrow to your chest. A muscle feathered in your jaw as he called the elevator up to the floor. "You were the top of class in projectile training; you have a license to kill; and yet, you have zero kills in your stats."

How the…? "I don't have to kill to execute my objective. Those aren't assignments I take," you countered, stepping into the elevator when it opened its jaws for you.

Sunwoo crossed his arms over his chest. "Ln, you didn't even take the gun away from the guy earlier. That is protocol."

"I have a gun—"

"That's not the problem, and you know it." He snarled. He took a step near you, both of your tensions rising, heat boiling between your two gazes, nostrils flared. "Just think about it, huh? How many times could you have made it easier on yourself by shooting your way out of something? You know what I would do to have an aim like yours? It's a fucking gift in this field, Ln. And yet, here you are, too scared to even hold a gun—"

You stepped into his space, got up in his face. "You know fucking nothing about me, so quit acting like you do," you snarled and forced the tremor out of your voice. Your hand fisted at your side, close to the weapon you were cursed and gifted to always be tied to.

His tongue poked the inside of his cheek and you were so close to him that you could measure the length of his eyelashes. "What in hell happened to you?"

The elevator dinged. You'd arrived.

You pulled away, mentally shaking yourself away from this conversation. "Don't start acting like you care now."

"I don't," he said as you both walked out of the elevator into a massive underground parking structure beneath the building. "I just need to know that I can count on you if we're in trouble."

"You can," you answered. But there was a microscopic break there, and you were certain he'd heard it, too. There was a question in his stare—he was never as good with guns, but he could fight his way out of a scenario just as well. You were the right choice out of the two of you for anything long range, but the question was if you could still live up to that one-trick reputation.

The underground garage created the perfect echo chamber for loud noises. You and Sunwoo simply followed the audible cacophony coming from further within the garage. Gun rounds were being unloaded without mercy, tire squeals were shut down by no doubt those same gun shots.

You wiped your hand on your pants, sticky from the champagne from earlier, as you and your partner pressed yourselves up against two columns. Just beyond, there was an active shootout taking place—which side had the merchandise, you weren't quite sure of.

Sunwoo signaled to you in a way you recognized from games of capture the flag at the academy. Two fingers swished toward the men behind the cars closest to him, then for you, the ones on your side. Heart hammering against your ribcage, you could only nod, and enclosed your fingers around the handle of the gun in your belt.

You blindly double checked the ammunition loaded up in your firearm, but it was futile since you'd already checked in the bathroom much earlier. It was loaded completely, and very much ready to fire.

You didn't need Sunwoo to signal, because you seemed to know exactly when the other was going to whip around the stone column and take one person out at a time.

Arm—one down—a leg, oh, was that a thigh?—but there went two off your side, as easy as shooting clay pigeons. Instead of a jitteriness filling your nerves, everything seemed to muffle and calm when you had a gun between your fingers. Like second nature, you picked off people (without killing them) before they even realized their mates were gone.

You would nail them in the arm, the shoulder, the butt, the leg, then duck behind the pillar for cover. Guns had become too easy of a game for you.

You barely even noticed that the others on Sunwoo's side started shooting at both of you.

"Fuck," you heard your counterpart curse as he pressed himself against the column.

The two of you connected gazes, and he didn't even have to ask before you were pulling down the hammer again and taking aim—

"LN—YN! BEHIND YOU!"

Your heart lurched into your throat, and you dove.

A line of bullets buried themselves into the concrete where your head had been, and you winced, feeling the burn of concrete through your clothes.

You rolled behind the nearest car, swearing as you clambered to your knees for cover. Somebody had set up a few cars behind you, ready to take you out with an automatic rifle.

"Sunwoo, you need to cover me," you shouted at him, glancing over your shoulder for his visual confirmation.

He gave a firm nod, already leaping into hand-to-hand action and ditching his gun for his more trustworthy melee weapons instead.

Through the windows of the car, you could just make out movement of the gunman. You crawled over to the other side of the car, tracking the feet and legs you could see beneath the vehicles. You reloaded your pistol, smacking the magazine into place, then pressing the hammer down.

Shots suddenly rained down on you, and you pressed yourself further to the ground.

"Come on, come on," you urged, "reload already."

And when you heard that beautiful sound of silence, you yanked yourself to your feet, pointed the barrel through the window, and shot. You heard the curse, and it was enough for you to whip over the back of the car and smack the butt of your gun into their head. The gunman went crashing to the concrete; you tucked your pistol away and picked up the automatic.

The heft of the gun was an old friend—it sank over you in cold realization… how much damage you could do with this.

With pursed lips, you emptied out the gun and kicked it under the car.

You rushed to line up a shot with your pistol to help Sunwoo who was juggling a fight against two others.

He didn't need that much help, but there was the glint of a knife, and you didn't even blink. The bullet buried itself in one of their shoulders, and Sunwoo elbowed him off his back, shoving the other's face into the car in front of him. He yanked his opponent's hair back and smashed their head into the metal again.

"You got it?" You asked him, sliding over the hoods of cars to get back.

He knew what you meant. Blood ran down his nose and there was a purplish cut on his lip. Sweat dripped down the side of his face as he dumped the now unconscious foe to the concrete. "Yeah, it went flying somewhere over there," he inclined his head down a row of cars, and you gave a nod.

The two of you jogged over in the direction Sunwoo asserted and began looking for the discarded drive.

You straightened after ducking beneath a car, but your eyes caught a flash of someone—your instincts lurched.

"Fuck, Sunwoo—!" You had the time to shove him out of the way as the rounds went flying past your heads and you tackled him.

Something pierced into the skin of your shoulder though, and you felt the bullet rip through your clothes and flay your skin as it passed. Your hand slapped over your arm as you fellz Sunwoo's stabilizing you. "Shit, Ln," he said, grasping your good side.

"It's the guy from earlier," you groaned, feeling the blood begin to pool.

"Huh? What guy—"

"The one I didn't take the gun from in the hall." The regret poured into you as swiftly as your blood flowed out of you. "I'll cover you—just find the damn thing."

He sent you a look, but nodded. "Okay."

You were lucky you hadn't been nicked in your good arm, you thought, as you clambered to your knees and peered over the edge of the car.

There he was, the man you'd smashed over the head with a glass. His forehead was bleeding profusely, but he still stumbled toward you, cocking his gun and firing. You ducked, crouching around the car to get to the other side. Mind racing for strategies, you thought you could easily take him down one limb at a time like the others.

All thoughts went flying out the window though when the man started barreling toward you, teeth bared, like a bull seeing red. You yelped as a bullet pelted the ground an inch from your hand. You ducked behind the car, ignoring the pain in your shoulder to palm your gun and aim.

You heard it hit its target.

But he just kept running.

"Are you serious?" You cursed, then regretting it immediately when he threw himself across the hood of the car to knock you down.

You cried out as your head hit the car behind you, the pain stabbing white in your vision. Adrenaline and fear pumped through you as you fought to keep his hands away from your neck. You even found where your bullet had lodged itself and pressed on it.

He grunted at the feeling, nearly twisting your arm off for that. You were trying, trying, trying.

His gun was gone; it didn't matter. You weren't good at hand to hand.

And your grip on his thick fucking wrists slipped. His hands were around your throat. You couldn't breathe—you thrashed around, smashed your gun against his face. He swept your efforts away, determination pressing his thumbs into the hollow—

BANG!

You saw the life drain out of his eyes. He fell over you, blood and a smoking gun sandwiched between your bodies.

Oxygen rushed into your lungs and you coughed. The realization hit you, a hammer striking against the percussion cap.

You just killed this man. You just shot him, point blank.

Oh god—you heaved his limp body off you, his blood staining your clothing, and you felt like Lady Macbeth, scrambling over blood that would not wash away.

"Yn!" Sunwoo's voice.

You wrestled to your hands and knees. "It's not my blood," you coughed, dry gagging at the sight of the pale body, rigid from rigor mortis.

Your mind was everywhere. Another one dead. What if he had a family? What if what if what if—?

"Ln, come on, you're alive. You can do it."

You were on your feet. There was a ringing in your ears from when your head smashed against the car.

Sunwoo ran over to you and threw your good arm over his shoulder to get you to the car he had broken into. "There you go. Hey, I got the drive. How 'bout that?" He wiggled a slim, black tab—the thing that had caused all of tonight's trouble.

You shook out the orbs dancing in your vision. How hard had your head been struck? "It still feels too easy."

"Don't say that," he groaned. "I just wanna get out of this place."

You really shouldn't have spoken so soon.

You heard the shot before you felt it; then the next one, then the next.

Sunwoo twisted around to shoot three rounds himself, silencing one of the people who had gotten the strength to pull himself up for one last try.

All breath left your throat as your hand reached for your lower abdomen. One of the bullets had gone through, piercing the side of your stomach. It had gone all the way through, back to front, the bullet lodged in the metal of the car in front of you.

You couldn't even see which blood stain was yours.

"Nonononono," Sunwoo chanted as your knees buckled and you started slipping to the ground. "Yn—Yn, stay with me," he urged, laying you gently on the ground.

The pain twisted itself until your eyes watered. You thought you tasted blood in your mouth. "Should've shot them dead like you said," you managed to say.

Sunwoo leaned over you, panic wide in his dark eyes as he held your face between his palms. "Yn, honey, you need to stay with me." He pressed his hands over the wounds opening and you screamed, the sound grating against his ears. He knew it hurt—god, he knew, but he needed to stop the bleeding somehow. Oh fuck.

"I'm sorry I screwed up so many times," you grunted to him. You tasted the iron coating your throat and suppressed the urge to cough it all out. You could barely think with the fucking hole in your stomach, but all you knew was that if he wasn't quick, the shot could be fatal.

"I'm gonna get you out of here." You could hear the resolve in his voice, but the shaky undertone, too. You'd never heard his voice shake before. "Don't apologize." Not until I get you out alive.

He scooped you up and you screwed your face up in agony. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your teeth clamping down on your tongue to muffle the screams. There was blood in your mouth.

It hurt. Fucking hell, it hurt.

He went through the motions of wrestling the car door open, laying you in the passenger seat, trying to find something to staunch the bleeding on both sides.

The whole time, you kept your eyes on his face, trying to ingrain his features in your memory. The blood from his nose had partly dried, but the cut on his lips made his bottom one even poutier.

You'd never seen him so worried, or scared, with the crease between his brows. You wanted to reach up and rub it away.

"Hey," you rasped, catching his wild eyes. "Stop fussing over me and drive."

He clicked his tongue, eyes darting between your face and the knot he was tying with the jacket he found in the backseat. "Yah," he said half-heartedly, "don't tell me what to do."

He passed you another glance before shutting your door and running for the driver's seat.

As soon as Sunwoo collapsed into his side of the car, the elevator, from which you'd come, slid open. A flood of guards in armor and equipped with automatic weapons flooded out in a tidal wave. You both swore a colorful line of words.

"Drive, drive, drive—!" You urged, breaking out into coughs, then doubling over when the motion only intensified the bullet wound.

"What do you think I'm doing, woman!" He yelled and the tires squealed as he pulled out of the parking spot to make a mad dash for the exit.

Bullets fired at the car, lodging themselves in the metal and cracking the back windshield. You heard the glass shatter, and you reached for your gun to try and knock some of them off.

Sunwoo shoved your hand down. "Oh, no you don't. Save your energy, hot stuff."

It wasn't until he had navigated you both away safely from harm's way that you really let everything soak into your head. Your blood marinated the car seat beneath you, and you could feel your energy being siphoned toward the gaping hole in your stomach. Reality dawned on you faster and faster.

Did you fear death?

The streets were empty; it was still raining. You were right about the hot rain—it made the blood scent bolder.

Sunwoo made a turn onto a street, and another, to take any lingering tails off.

"I killed someone tonight," you voiced out into the quiet car amongst the humdrum of rain. It drizzled in through the shattered back windshield and onto the backseat.

"It's okay, Yn," he said quietly. "You had to."

You paused, swallowing. You inhaled sharply and you swore you were starting to get used to the throbbing all over your body. "You… you were right."

"You don't have to do that. Save your en—"

"No," you said with more force. His mouth snapped shut. "I just—" your eyes drifted closed for a moment, "—I just wanted to get this off my chest."

When he remained quiet to give you the space to speak, you told him, "What you said in the elevator was right… I uhm, I feel like a coward when I can't stomach a headshot anymore. I just… Sunwoo, I hate who, or what, I become when I have a gun in my hands."

You felt him glance over at you. "You're not a monster, if you think that's what you are," he murmured. You felt his hand cover yours where you were holding your injury.

"I've hurt a lot of people," you admitted, eyes staring out the front windshield. "The organization told me to pull the trigger, and I did. Even in the academy, I never felt good enough unless I was hitting a target." It had become a momentary triumph only, until every hit made you sink deeper and deeper into guilt. You had been tearing yourself apart at the seams, and you could remember those moments, seeing the fallen with people who cared about them rushing to their side.

The twisting in your stomach suddenly didn't feel like it was from the gunshot.

"Your record—"

"My record is doctored," you said blankly. "They wiped it when I gave up being a sniper."

He meditated on that for a moment, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip. He winced when he was reminded of the injury there. "I know that I was and have been—not the greatest toward you—and... I'm sorry. I think some part of me just thought it would catch your attention—which is no excuse—but…" His finger tapped on the steering wheel in time with his blinker. "I always thought that you would go far regardless. I thought you'd be recruited as a sniper for the high profile shit."

A smile curled at the corner of your lips. "Yeah?"

He nodded, his own lips pressed together. "Yeah. The best, y'know? And I thought… at least as a sniper, you won't be in the line of fire."

Your chest throbbed. "I still got shot, too, though."

"Yeah, but…" He turned into a barren residential street, no doubt toward the safe house nearby. "They wouldn't be shooting at you, I guess. I dunno. That's what I was telling myself, anyway."

You shifted your head slightly to peer over at him. There was a sincerity to his words that you had almost never remembered hearing out of his mouth. You believed him—you believed that he cared. "Thinking about me in your free time, Kim?"

"You wish," he joked, but it was a weaker comeback.

The house he pulled up to was at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was the standard, cookie cutter suburban house, with its front lawn trimmed and windows dark and lifeless. Sunwoo carefully drove the car into the empty garage for privacy, then ran over to your side to help you out.

You could feel yourself falling out of consciousness with all the blood loss.

Your head was drooping as he picked you up in his arms again. The crease between his brows made a reappearance and with your last bit of strength, you reached up to gently rub it away with your thumb. "Hey… I'm gonna be okay," you whispered to him in the dark and quiet of the garage.

He swallowed, peering down at you. "You better be," he said. "Who's gonna have my back then?"

You smiled since you couldn't laugh. Maybe the blood loss was making you loopy (probably), but you swore he smiled just a teensy bit.

He managed to get you on the couch, and you whimpered at the surface beneath you. He disappeared for a moment, but when he returned, it was with a first aid kit and a phone. "I called headquarters; they'll be here in five," he murmured, kneeling next to you and beginning to peel off the blood coated fabrics.

You hissed, body squirming with whatever energy you had left. "I can't believe I'm still alive."

He huffed and gently applied pressure to the wound with gauze. "The only one who gets to kill you is me. Remember that."

"Yeah, yeah," you panted. "Sew me up or something."

"It's gonna hurt. Wanna hold my hand?"

Your eyes met his. "You're ridiculous." But somehow, he managed to make your heart lurch. Even bleeding out and halfway dead, he could make your heart rate spike.

He gave a shrug as he threaded the needle and you held onto the gauze for the moment. "You know what they say…" his voice softened when you both heard a familiar voice announcing his presence from the front door—Changmin. Backup was here. "Enemies make the best lovers, do they not?"

"Did it take me almost dying for you to think of that one?"

Changmin rushed in with a full kit in his hands and practically shoved Sunwoo out of the way. You bit on your tongue as the newcomer inspected your wound.

Sunwoo leaned over the edge of the couch and grappled at your hand, his other brushing the sweaty hair out of your face. "We're not done with this conversation, okay? You better not die on me."

You squeezed his hand when Changmin began stitching you up. "Wouldn't dream of it."

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @zzoguri @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @loveliestfelix @bless-311 @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu @justalildumpling @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @outrologist @vernonburger @maessseongs @kflixnet @ericlvr

[dleatherncigar]

Agent Lewis. pt 1

Agent Lewis awoke with a start, his senses jolting awake as he found himself in a state of disorientation. His eyes fluttered open to a dimly lit room, his body feeling unnaturally heavy, every breath a laborious effort. Panic surged through him as he attempted to move, only to find himself confined by an unfamiliar weight pressing down upon him.

As he struggled to sit up, his hands groped for purchase on the surface beneath him, finding only the cool touch of bare skin. It was then that he realized he was completely naked, a wave of vulnerability washing over him. Frantically, his hands roamed across his body, encountering short, pudgy fingers where once there had been slender digits.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he glanced downward, only to be met with the sight of a massive belly protruding from his abdomen. It heaved with each labored breath, making it difficult for him to draw in air. His heart pounded in his chest as he grappled with the reality of his transformation.

Gone was the lean, tall, agile frame of Agent Lewis. In its place stood a short, stout figure, the reflection of which stared back at him from the window. Male pattern baldness had claimed his once-full head of hair, leaving only a sparse ring of graying strands around the edges. But atop his upper lip, a thick, graying mustache now adorned his face, adding to the weight of his new identity.

He felt dwarfed by his own body, the once-familiar contours now alien and unfamiliar. This was not what he had expected. The magnitude of the transformation hit him like a ton of bricks, leaving him reeling with disbelief. He had known that assuming a new identity would come with its challenges, but nothing could have prepared him for this. The weight of his new form bore down on him, both physically and mentally, threatening to crush his resolve.

And yet, amidst the turmoil, a new sensation stirred within him. A craving, deep and insistent, tugged at the corners of his consciousness, yet unsure and not recognizable. The thought of it filled him with a strange sense of comfort, a reminder of the role he was now meant to inhabit.

But as he sat up in the recovery room bed, his vision still blurry from the aftermath of his transformation, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease when his gaze fell upon the familiar yet indistinct figure staring back at him through the window. Who was this person? Try as he might, he couldn't quite grasp the identity of the individual beyond the glass. It was a disconcerting mystery that added another layer of complexity to an already overwhelming situation.

Still, Agent Lewis was not one to succumb to despair. With a deep breath to steady himself, he pushed aside his doubts and focused on the task at hand. He may have been transformed into someone unrecognizable, but his determination remained unshaken. This was his most deep cover mission yet, and he was determined to see it through to the end, no matter the cost.

As Agent Lewis continued to explore his new body, he couldn't help but feel a sense of disbelief at the extent of the transformation. Gone were the familiar contours of his 25-year-old physique, replaced by a rounder, thicker form that seemed almost foreign to him. He was 18 inches shorter. His once-toned back and long, lean legs were now a distant memory, obscured by the bulk of his swollen stomach and the presence of prominent man boobs. He attempted in vain to locate his penis amidst the folds of flesh, only to find it obscured by his burgeoning belly.

Running his hands over his newly acquired features, Agent Lewis felt the stubble of his thickening mustache and the smoothness of his bald scalp. He couldn't help but miss the cascade of hair that used to adorn his head, now lost to him in the transformation. Despite his initial shock and discomfort, a sense of awe crept over him as he marveled at the skill of the doctors and the precision of the procedures that had brought about his drastic metamorphosis.

Embracing his new identity as an Italian mobster, Agent Lewis found himself craving the trappings of power and luxury that came with his new persona. He yearned for the feel of fine silk suits against his skin, the heady aroma of thick cigars wafting through the air, and the sense of authority that came with being a respected member of the criminal underworld.

As Agent Lewis continued to explore his new body, he couldn't help but notice the peculiar sensation of his mustache brushing against his lips with each breath. It had grown so long that it moved rhythmically with his respiration, causing an unusual tickling sensation that he found oddly satisfying. No longer able to breathe through his nose as easily as before, he had become a mouth breather by necessity, the mustache serving as a constant reminder of his altered physiology.

At first, the sensation was disconcerting. The feeling of his own facial hair tickling his lips was foreign and somewhat intrusive. But as he adjusted to this new way of breathing, Agent Lewis began to appreciate the sensation in a different light. It was a reminder of the meticulous attention to detail that had gone into his transformation, from the length of his mustache to the shape of his belly. It was these subtle nuances that would help him blend seamlessly into the world of the Italian mob.

Running his fingers through the length of his mustache, Agent Lewis couldn't help but marvel at its density and texture. It was a far cry from the smooth, clean-shaven look he had been accustomed to, but there was a ruggedness to it that he found appealing. As he experimented with different styles and shapes, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in his newfound appearance. He was no longer just Agent Lewis; he was Vinny Capone, a formidable figure in the criminal underworld.

However, amidst the discovery of his new identity, Agent Lewis noticed another sensation stirring within him—a craving for cigars. This was entirely new to him. The thought of the thick, pungent smoke curling around him filled him with an inexplicable desire. It was a craving that seemed to emanate from deep within, urging him to indulge in the vice of his new persona.

Suddenly, the door opened, and his handler, disguised as a mobster, entered the room. "Welcome back, Agent Lewis, or shall I say Vinny Capone," his handler greeted him with a wry smile. "What do you think of your transformation? Let's get you a robe, your glasses, and a mirror. It's time to fully embrace your new persona." With a nod of agreement, Agent Lewis rose from the bed, ready to take on the challenges that lay ahead with his newfound identity as Vinny Capone, and perhaps, a thick cigar in hand.

As Agent Lewis, or rather the persona he was being molded into, Vinny Capone, greeted his handler, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over him. "Did he just call me Vinny Capone?" he thought, a tinge of disbelief coloring his thoughts. "No, I can't be Vinny. I would never have agreed to this."

His handler, sensing his confusion, handed him a robe and explained the situation. "You are Vinny Capone now," his handler said firmly, meeting his gaze with a steady look. "I didn't tell you before because I knew Agent Lewis would never agree to this. But Vinny Capone is a necessary disguise for this mission. You have to become him, live as him, if we're going to take down the mob from the inside."

The weight of his new identity settled heavily on Agent Lewis's shoulders as he processed the revelation. He was being thrust into a role he had never anticipated, a role that went against everything he stood for. But as he looked into his handler's eyes, he knew there was no turning back.

With a silent nod of acceptance, Agent Lewis donned the robe and followed his handler out of the room, his mind racing with the challenges that lay ahead. He may have been unwillingly transformed into Vinny Capone, but he was determined to use this new identity to dismantle the criminal empire from within, even if it meant sacrificing a part of himself in the process.

As Agent Lewis stood up, feeling the weight of his new body pressing down on him, he realized the enormity of the task ahead. Walking when 18 inches shorter, 40 years older, and carrying this much weight was a challenge unlike any he had faced before. But if he was going to live convincingly as Vinny Capone, he knew he had to start studying his movements and mannerisms.

Steadying himself against a nearby surface, Agent Lewis took a moment to accept his new reality. He may have been unwillingly thrust into this role, but he was determined to make the most of it. Unable to speak as his vocal cords continued to heal from the transformation process, he knew that actions would speak louder than words in his new life as Vinny.

As he began to move around the room, he couldn't help but notice the familiarity in his movements. Despite the drastic physical changes, there was a certain fluidity to his motions that felt oddly natural. It was as if his body already knew how to inhabit this new persona, as if Vinny Capone's essence was already coursing through his veins.

With each step, Agent Lewis felt himself growing more accustomed to the weight of his new body. He may have been shorter, older, and heavier than before, but he was determined to make it work. If he was going to convincingly infiltrate the world of organized crime as Vinny Capone, he knew he would have to become him in every sense of the word. And so, with a silent resolve, he set out to master the art of living as someone else, all while plotting to bring down the very man he was now masquerading as.

As Agent Lewis prepared for the next phase of his transformation – memory conversion – he knew that he had to make the most of the time he had left before the procedure. It would take a couple more days before he could undergo the process, and in the meantime, he was determined to master his new body. But he had a growing and increasing craving which he was unable to shake.

Agent Lewis was Spending his days reading everything he could get his hands on about the Italian mob and studying Vinny Capone's mannerisms, Agent Lewis also spent a significant amount of time staring at himself in the mirror. Despite the initial shock, he had grown somewhat accustomed to his short stature, the sensation of his mustache itching his lip (which he oddly loved), and the constant reminder of his large belly.

However, as the days passed, a new sensation began to gnaw at him – the craving for a cigar. It started as a subtle longing, but with each passing hour, it intensified, until his head began to pound with the desire for a smoke. It was a craving that he couldn't ignore, a physical manifestation of the transformation he had undergone and the persona he was now inhabiting.

As he stared at his reflection in the mirror, Agent Lewis knew that he would have to find a way to quell the craving before it consumed him entirely. But for now, he pushed aside his discomfort and focused on the task at hand, determined to master his new body and prepare himself for the challenges that lay ahead in his mission to infiltrate the world of organized crime as Vinny Capone.

Yet, with each passing day, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was becoming more like Vinny. His movements seemed more natural, his thoughts aligning with the mindset of a mob boss. It was as if his body was adapting to the persona he was meant to portray, merging seamlessly with the knowledge he had gained from his research.

Though initially unsettling, Agent Lewis allowed himself to embrace this transformation. He reasoned that it was a combination of his body adjusting to its new form and the extensive preparation he had undertaken. Whatever the reason, he knew that becoming more like Vinny would only serve to further his mission. And so, with a sense of determination and acceptance, he continued to immerse himself in the role, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

As the day of the first memory transfer and brain alteration from Agent Lewis to Vinny approached, Agent Lewis couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and apprehension. What would he sound like once the procedure was complete? Would he adopt the accent and diction of Vinny Capone, further solidifying his new identity? These questions swirled in his mind as he prepared himself mentally for the transformation that awaited him.

Meanwhile, a tailor arrived to create custom suits for him, along with hats and walking sticks. Vinny even had custom boxers, a detail that seemed strangely intimate yet necessary for his new persona. As Agent Lewis watched the tailor take measurements and discuss fabric options, he couldn't help but marvel at the attention to detail that went into crafting Vinny's wardrobe. It was another reminder of the immersive nature of his new identity and the lengths to which he was willing to go to maintain his cover.

As the tailor finished his measurements and left to begin work on the suits, Agent Lewis felt a sudden surge of longing for a cigar. It had been building within him for days, a relentless craving that he could no longer ignore. With a sense of urgency, he signaled for a cigar, unable to bear the wait any longer.

When the cigar arrived, it was long, thick, an 8x80. Not sure how Agent Lewis knew that, as he had never smoked a cigar before. Nevertheless, he was given a humidor, with a smile - this was a sign the transition was successful - and lighter. Agent Lewis was not sure how to smoke the cigar; however, his body seemed to know. He surrendered to the body's memory and desire. With practiced ease, he prepared and lit the cigar as if he had smoked them for decades.

His handler, who had been observing the proceedings with keen interest, was thrilled by this development. To him, Agent Lewis signaling for a cigar was a sign of progress, a tangible indication that the transformation was taking hold. It was a sign that the doctors needed to see, proof that their procedures were having the desired effect.

As Agent Lewis accepted the cigar and took the first satisfying puff, he couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction mingled with trepidation. The road ahead was still fraught with uncertainty, but in this moment, he allowed himself to savor the taste of victory, however fleeting it may be. With each puff of the cigar, he felt himself inching closer to becoming the man he was meant to portray – Vinny Capone, Italian mobster extraordinaire.

The day of the brain and memory alterations had finally arrived. As Agent Lewis prepared himself for the procedure, he steeled his resolve, knowing that this would be the final step in his transformation into Vinny Capone. He would receive memories of and from Vinny, allowing him to survive deep undercover, to live, to become him. He was ready.

When he woke from the memory transfer, there was a newfound confidence coursing through him. He felt as though he had lived a lifetime as Vinny, experiencing his triumphs and hardships firsthand. Memories flooded his mind: the warmth of a close Italian family, the ruthless path of becoming a mob boss, the deep-seated hatred for law enforcement, the indulgence in cigars and women, the love for fine clothes, and the allure of money.

But amidst these memories, Agent Lewis still retained a sense of self. He was still inside, a silent observer amidst the torrent of experiences that now defined him as Vinny Capone. It was a conflicting sensation, the clash of two identities vying for dominance within his mind. Yet, he knew that in time, the two sets of memories would merge and coalesce, creating a seamless tapestry of his new identity.

As he spoke for the first time since his transformation, Agent Lewis marveled at the sound of his own voice. It carried the accent and diction of Vinny, a testament to the success of the memory transfer. There was a shock in hearing himself speak in this new voice, yet there was also a strange comfort in it, as if he had always been meant to sound this way. Vinny had a unique diction and lisp, and Agent Lewis found himself replicating it flawlessly. "How did they do this?" he wondered, astounded by the precision of the alterations made to his mind and voice.

Moreover, he noticed that he was beginning to think in Italian. Vinny's language and mannerisms were becoming second nature to him, blending seamlessly with his own thoughts. It was as if he was truly becoming Vinny Capone in every sense of the word. With a mixture of awe and trepidation, Agent Lewis embraced his new identity, ready to embark on the mission that awaited him as the Italian mob boss, Vinny Capone.

As Agent Lewis awaited the final memory transfer that would complete his transformation into Vinny Capone, he found himself surrounded by the trappings of his new identity. His new suits had arrived, along with a motherlode box of cigars. He had already indulged in all of the previous cigars, despite never having smoked one before. Yet, it felt strangely natural for him, as if the act of smoking a cigar was encoded in his very being.

Part 3: https://www.tumblr.com/bodyswappertransforming/747596031827623936/agent-lewis-part-3-vinny-capone

[adviceformefromme]

Listen I feel so ugly all the time I'm trying to get myself better but it seems like every time I do something comes up and knocks me down to the point where I just quit and it pisses me off. Recently I started to use my journal more to write down stuff to better myself I write down quotes of the month, and listen to podcasts at work sometimes. But after work, I'm so tired I work from 8AM-4PM I don't have the energy to do anything especially working out and that's my biggest issue and it hurts me to the core that I'm this way. Do you have any tips to help me? Please cause I need it bad.

Hey sweetie, okay some ideas...

What is it you don't love about yourself ? What is that makes you feel ugly? Are these things you can accept or want to change? If you can't accept things you don't like about yourself, then honestly I would start thinking about making some changes. What is within your power to change? What would make you feel beautiful? Is it your teeth? Start saving for the Invisalign or teeth whitening strips, is it your thin hair, look into new hairstyles, weaves, extensions.. If it's your face shape that you really can't make peace with maybe its worth getting some fillers. And while I don't want to promote these things, in my personal experience I have felt happier when I've invested in my image. I had 11's between my eyebrows and after so long of trying to accept these lines in my head I got botox and I was the happiest. So go invest in you, if you can't afford it do what you can, save up & research online. Invest in your image. I've seen friends feel so unaccepting of how they look for years, putting themselves down because of early wrinkles, bad teeth - when all it would take is some investments. So choose you. This is your one life, do you want to spend it feeling ugly and second class every time you look in the mirror? Or do you want to invest in looking and feeling your best?

On the low energy - I would assess your diet. What are you eating, drinking? This will be a huge factor. Carbs - the devil in my opinion. I spent a vast majority of my life in carb crashing and hunger and needing more sugar / food DESPITE thinking I was eating and drinking healthily. Now I am studying nutrition, I am learning how detrimental my diet was to my overall health. So I would advise, protein and greens diet. Cut sugar, in the form of carbs/ starchy vegetables, replace chocolates / crisps with nuts and fruits. Drink more water, invest in some celtic salts, supplements (vitamin D + k2, vitamin c, DIM, selenium, magnesium - ensure there on no nasties inside bulking agents), grass fed meats, organic veggies, salads, bone broths weekly.

I would also make sure you are doing exercise. It needs to be sweat inducing. A run down the road and back to start with if you're unfit. You don't need a fancy gym. Take a cold shower when you get home (you can start with a hot temp and then do 30-60 seconds cold to build yourself up). Do some stretches, make an effort, as simple as while the kettle boils, make this an opportunity to touch your toes or rotate your hips.

These are some starting points. I would begin the latter first, get your energy and body right initially and then start putting money and investments into your image. Health is wealth, so while you may or may not feel beautiful, without investing in great health you will ultimately struggle.

I hope this helps. DM is open if you have more questions/ need more support xoxo

[spiralinghours]

“On Display”

Fandom: Saw franchise

Characters/Pairing: Detective Mark Hoffman x Special Agent Peter Strahm

Rating: 18+ (R)

Tags/Warnings: Feeding kink/fat fetishism/belly kink, mild pet play (use of animal name calling… pig play maybe?), dominant Strahm and submissive Hoffman dynamic

Summary: Hoffman’s weight is a little more obvious and Strahm gets excited seeing public reactions. Strahm also invites Hoffman over for a little more pet treatment.

Author’s Notes: The 4th follow up or installment after “Filth”… Dunno if I’ll do more in this specific series, though I do like the idea of of more domestic pet Mark, so we’ll see. As usual, hope y’all like.

Thoughts of the conflicting, heated interaction in his office had lingered like a sheer reverie or a fuzzy nightcap in Mark’s constant thoughts. It made sense the way it would go on to subconsciously affect his nighttime after hours binges—seeking comfort in the richness of food, but also reaching a gratification in the lustful act of devouring everything he could, feeling himself stretch, wanting Strahm to see the results of his secret, shameful activities. Mark wouldn’t so readily attribute his behavior to just Strahm, but there was no denying he was the catalyst.

Hoffman wasn’t the only one weak over this newfound, fucked up rapport. Strahm did his best to be subtle when he picked up on certain things, but his tense and stern demeanor often lead to snapped pens and pink crescents from the way he clenched his fingernails into his own clammy palm.

It was different things throughout the day that had Peter acting uncoordinated and unwise—squeezing his thighs together so tightly that his sharp knees clanked. Hoffman would be sat in a chair and reach forward for something, displaying both how his—ugh, Peter hated how he’d started using the word—tits shelved over his wide belly, and also just how much of a struggle bending down or reaching forward was becoming. Not to the extent that it was impossible, but definitely in a burdensome way that emphasized every curve, every way in which his gut bowed out.

Peter was squirming.

Mark had also taken to hefting the curve of his gut and undoing the lowest button on his shirt when he didn’t think anyone was looking, anytime he sat down. From there, he would go about his desk work, unconsciously scritching the sides of his belly, cold stare never leaving whatever paperwork was in front of him.

There were other things starting to happen: seemingly innocuous, joking interactions from Fisk or Perez or other higher up’s on the case. (But hardly ever fledgling officers, who feared looking at Hoffman wrong lest they get their heads bitten off… Still, it was evident that behind his back they wanted to snicker.)

Fisk had taken to using cheeky, bearish terms with Hoffman, and saying things like “How’s the bulk going?” or “Getting ready for winter hibernation?” The comments were usually lost on Mark, who was typically focused on whatever inner thoughts were struggling to form, unless they were punctuated with a little poke or soft punch to the belly. All those little touches would merit were dismissive grunts and not much else.

Perez, alternatively, had a more subtle, gentle approach in how her interactions shifted. It was as if she had taken an interest in making sure Mark was taken care of—babied even.

“I didn’t know if you had time for breakfast so I picked up an extra egg and cheese croissant,” she would offer. Some days it would end up being two breakfast sandwiches or pastries, which she claimed was an accidental duplicate, or something she changed her mind about.

Sometimes a plate of cookies, folded neatly into foil wrappings, would be left on Hoffman’s desk, or in front of his office if the door was locked. Lindsey would chalk that up to “Well, since you liked them the last time you tried them…”

Strahm didn’t often outright say anything about the treats, but when Mark caught his glare one day, plate of brownies this time under his inspection, “Perez’s a stress baker,” was all Peter could explain. There was a bitter, curt taunt to his words.

But it was an acknowledgment. Mark hardly took in the connotations of everyone else’s behavior towards him. He only cared what Peter saw and thought.

Overall, Mark’s gut went from making the occasional peek to full on protruding past his suit jacket, leading the way wherever he walked with a slight bounce. Which on that note, his already signature stiff waddle had become… more pronounced.

When it came to his shirts, there were no creases, no wrinkles to suggest any give (save for the few that tugged around his heavy chest)—there was only noticeable tension from the ever-rounding figure that Peter couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t even pretend he was zoning out or staring just past Hoffman. It was too much. He had to say something.

On the afternoon Strahm decided to take action, he cornered Hoffman into a supply closet in a dead hallway. The chemical scent within was so overbearing, adding to Mark’s confusion at being blindsided into the crammed space.

“Are you getting fat on purpose to get a reaction outta me? Are you acting out for attention like some kinda brat? Or are you just that much of a dumb, hungry pigfuck that you can’t tell your suits are getting too small?” Peter rammed Mark against the wall, nearly bouncing his head off the dusty surface. He caged one arm over Mark’s shoulder, while snaking the other one roughly to his side, grabbing a hearty palmful of chub.

An instant, shamed arousal coursed up Mark’s back, tickling up the back of his neck, to the base of his skull. “You been looking?” He finally answered, breathily.

“You want me to look?” Peter roughly grabbed Mark by the cheeks, squeezing hard in one calloused hand, forcing him to make eye contact. “Other people are looking too, you mutt. They know.” He craned his face closer in on Mark’s, nostrils flared, exhales harsh. “You like being an attention slut? huh?”

“I love it,” Mark let himself chuckle in that low, syrupy way—a mess of electric nerves and wanton craving. He splayed a hand over Peter’s grasp on his stomach, pressing into the dense cushioning.

“Don’t say what you don’t mean, Detective.” Peter pulled away, jerking his hand out callously from Hoffman’s touch, as if it insulted him. He took a moment to straighten himself out, fixing his tie and collar. “You sound pathetic. Like you wanna be fondled and coddled like a pet. If that’s what you want—what you really want—come by tonight. I’ll text you my address.”

Mark wasn’t one to say much unless he had some barbed retort to spit out—something very tough guy and witty. The moment would have called for it, but he was at a loss. There was something giddy building in him, something blinding at the prospect of whatever Peter had in mind to… do to him? Other than a casual fucking or getting sucked off, he couldn’t imagine what else there was. But Strahm’s words trickled down languidly in his mind, clawing away, implying something more.

The man was a freak, after all.

For once, despite Strahm walking away again as if nothing happened, there was a later promised.

As twisted and poisonous as the whole runaround was, Mark had to smile to himself.

——

A lot of small details wandered into Hoffman’s mind as he waited, foot tapping, at the retro-patterned wrought iron door to Strahm’s townhome. Many menial things that wouldn’t matter in the next little while: Did his home smell more chemically-clean, or more like spices and seasonings from multiple home-cooked meals? Would it be bare and minimalist, or would Strahm have photos of friends and family tacked up? Did he have anyone outside of Lindsey, for that matter?

Breaking Mark’s stream of consciousness, the interior door gusted inwards, revealing Peter looking past an old iron curl. “Come in,” he stated neutrally.

Mark proceeded as the outer iron door was opened for him, slightly disappointed to take in a mostly minimalist view. The space looked very put-together at least.

“I dunno if you—”

“You like pasta, right?” Peter interrupted, wasting no time on whatever mindless chitchat Mark had to fakely offer.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Perfect. It’s not fancy but you’ll like it.”

Mark followed Peter deeper into the house like a dog, descending into the den that connected to a meager kitchen.

Peter nodded towards the sectional in the den. “I’ll bring you your food in a sec. Try to get comfortable.”

Hoffman had barely shucked off his suit jacket, overcoat, and holster before Peter had sauntered in with a stacked plate of Fettuccine Alfredo in one hand, and a wine glass clasped to a bottle of Lambrusco in the other. Moving past his guest and setting onto the couch as if Mark wasn’t even there, Peter set everything down on the coffee table just to pour himself a glass.

“I bet you’re hungry, huh?” Peter purred, eyes fixed on his wine glass. “When are you not, I guess.” He took a sip and snapped his fingers. “Down on your knees, in between my legs.”

Normally Mark would have thrown around a lackluster “Fuck you” at such a command—a bizarre one at that. But in this case, he sank down, crawling over to fill the space between Peter’s thighs.

“Good dog,” Peter scoffed. He reached for the plate and loaded the fork with a ridiculously heaping amount of fettuccine. “Open your mouth,” he instructed.

Mark did so, already having an inkling where this would go, brain shifting into a strangely calm autopilot. As he eagerly let Strahm push the food so deep past his lips—lapping messily at the sauce trickling down his chin—he felt the reward of a soothing hand rubbing the chubby underside of his chin.

“You’re so well-behaved tonight,” Peter cooed. “Such a good boy.”

Mark only responded with a quiet nod and an expectant, open mouth (tongue hanging out mindlessly).

“More already? Such an appetite. You gonna eat it all?”

Mark nodded obediently, blue irises gleaming up meekly.

“You promise? Even if you say you’re too full?”

He nodded again.

Strahm proceeded to shovel more careless forkfuls past Hoffman’s slick lips and salivating tongue… So repetitiously, in the midst of silently flipping through the cable stations and sipping at his wine, that it was as if Mark was just another inanimate fixture in the room.

Before too long, the sound of a stifled groan followed by a muffled rumble in Mark’s stomach indicated that he had hit a wall. Another fork serving was on its way to his mouth when he shook his head. “That’s enough,” he grumbled.

“Hmm, interesting, because I remember just a few minutes ago you said you’d finish. In fact, you’re almost done with this. You have dessert too, you know.” Strahm’s voice was so cruelly soft yet detached. It wasn’t new, but he was so hard to read.

Mark submitted to the ease and unusual security of waiving control. He settled back into his rigid kneeling position, arms folded behind his back, chin tilted up, mouth open, like a pup waiting for a treat.

The song and dance continued: Peter feeding him the pasta (which, as it turned out, was a serving for four as opposed to one like Mark assumed), and then after, a full pint of fudge ice cream.

By the end of dinner—what Peter deemed the end, ensuring Mark finished everything he instructed him to—Mark was panting stupidly, still kneeling as he was told, but clearly in need of relief.

“I’m so full, please, can I, like, lay down or something? Jesus…”

Peter didn’t speak, just let his heavy-browed gaze momentarily rake up and down Hoffman’s begging form. He took in the way Mark’s sides were starting to curve out along with the rest of his gut, putting such a strain on the every button. Again, Peter moved without indicating his intentions, scrambling around with unexpected red, silken throw pillows of various sizes and layering them strategically in a spot on the couch.

“Next time you’ll have your own little bed,” he explained, “but tonight you can be on the couch. Now, lay down.”

Mark was trying to take in the implication of having to be on something other than the couch, but he was too dazed. That was a later concern. He settled down on the cushy pile and rolled to his side, belly plopping out far in front of him (causing him to wince and whine). Peter had returned to his original seat, reaching his hand over to unfasten Hoffman’s belt, then the button and zipper on his struggling pants. From there he scratched lightly up and down, trailing his fingers across Mark’s gut.

“I’m gonna keep you so well-fed,” he murmured with that familiar sweet viciousness. “You won’t be able to hide what a pig you are. My pet to fatten up, for everyone to see.”

“You’re twisted,” Mark replied, low and hushed, but no intention of arguing.

“Maybe. But you came here. And you keep letting me do this.”

Mark couldn’t disagree.

[bots-and-cons]

a TFP X Angel! Reader please ~

Like she's a powerful angel (whatever angels hierarchy she is) of the Lord and the Heaven and she's been reincarnate as a human girl to watch over humanity and she's stumble one day with the kids of Team Prime and the team NEVER knew about it while the angel reader was dealing with inside threats on her own (like fighting demons, monsters, doing exorcists, threats worse than the Decepticons...) and using her powers with the community of the church in secret without Team Prime (nor Agent Fowler) knowing, and being the most reserved "human" but kind and wisdom they know, and it all revealed when the kids are NOT the kids (let just they being kidnapped but not by Decepticon), but actual demons in disguises who want to attacked the reader and Team Prime witnessed it all, and she beginning to explained what she is after defeating them.

There were some additions to this ask, and the person who requested it asked for the bots to find out about the reader being an angel, and not the other stuff yet, so that's what I did. I just did the original team Prime, since I didn't feel like doing more

•The whole team was under the impression you were a human, since they had no reason to think otherwise

•And of course not many people know angels are real, since they don’t appear to many people

•You’ve been in your human form for a long time, observing humanity and helping when you’re needed, but you’ve never really had the need to reveal your true form

•You do need to change forms sometimes, because it just eases a lot of stress and tension and makes it easier for you to stay in your human form

•When you start changing forms, these tattoo like patterns appear on your skin and they start glowing, then there’s a very bright flash of light and you change into your seraphim form

•Humans don’t really take it well when a biblically accurate angel appears in front of them because your angel form is hard for them to comprehend

•Anyway, since you have to change forms sometimes, you sometimes have to do it at the base

•You usually just hide in a closet or something, but since only Ratchet was at the base and working in the main room, you figured it would be easier to just do it in the training room

•You changed forms, and just sort of floated around the training room for a while

•You hadn’t closed the door so when Ratchet walked by, he saw you and he honestly thought he’d lost his mind

•Because what in the name of Primus even was that

•He had to take a second look, but when he did, you were just standing where he had seen the weird floaty thing

•Ratchet just straight up asked “What are you?”

•Well you were screwed, you were just glad it wasn’t one of the trouble trio that ended up seeing you, because that might have caused problems

•Ratchet seemed shocked, but that was about it

•You told him you would explain it to everyone at the same time, because that just seemed like an easier option

•So when the rest of the team returned Ratchet immediately told Optimus what he’d seen and that you’d like to explain yourself

•You sighed, you had expected this to happen eventually, but you never thought the one who happened to see you would be a giant alien robot that you’d befriended

•Well, it was probably better that way than you accidentally driving some human mad

•Optimus is a bit skeptical about what Ratchet told him, he doesn’t think the medic is lying but what he described sounds pretty fantastical

•But when these odd patterns start glowing on your skin he’s convinced

•Bee is shocked when you start glowing and he takes a few steps back because he thinks you’re blowing up

•Because in his experience that’s what things that start glowing do

•He’s also pretty panicked, because he doesn’t want you to get hurt

•Ratchet only informed Optimus about what he’d seen, so the others are not in the know when you start glowing

•Arcee and Bulk draw their blasters, Bulk much more hesitantly than Arcee, but since they don’t know what’s going on, that’s a pretty natural reaction

•After you’ve changed form, you’re just sort of floating there in the middle of the room, and you’re pretty damn big, because you had the room to really let yourself loose

•”Don’t be scared, it’s just me” a voice rings through the bots’ heads

•You don’t exactly talk when you’re in your seraphim form, it’s more like telepathy

•You turn back into your human form soon after, and you get to explain your whole situation

•They’re all pretty weirded out by the whole situation, because you’ve been around since the dawn of time and are basically older than any of them, but you act like an adult human, sometimes even like a teenager, you really don’t seem like a billions of years old mythical being

•Bee thinks it’s really cool that you can transform like that, but he has a hard time understanding your angel form

•They all do to be honest, but Bee is the only one to admit it

•While they do think the whole situation is very odd, none of them are scared of you or anything, you have this air of peace about you they don’t quite understand

[merrybandofmurderers]

more fenyuo! featuring @calicostorms's oc Fen'an. this bit is from the (first) morning after, occurs just before this

~

“Good morning,” Yuo whispered against the shell of Fen’an’s ear.

He shivered lightly and said, “It is.”

Yuo chuckled, kissed the ear’s pointed tip, then pushed themself up. They stretched their arms over their head and twisted until their spine popped.

They felt Fen’an take up a handful of their hair. “I didn’t finish.” There was a hint of self-censure in his voice.

“Hm?”

“Your hair.”

“Oh.” They cast about for their comb and found it tangled in the blankets. Yawning, they handed it over to Fen’an and slouched contentedly while he went to work.

Yuo could hear Blackwall grunting through his usual morning forms; Bull was discussing something with an agent but was too far to discern the words. Based on the light peeking through the tent flap and lack of cooking smells, it was on the early side for Yuo.

“Do you want it braided as it was yesterday?” Fen’an asked.

“Please do,” they said, and Fen’an’s strong hands began to deftly weave the tresses together.

There was a strong urge to take Fen’an back under the blankets and ignore the responsibilities of the day. Just one day. Yuo had not taken a break since this all started. Everything was urgent, and still priorities had to be made. It wouldn’t harm anything to put it all off for one day. Shirking one day would not end the world any quicker than it was already ending.

Yuo groaned, pressing the heels of their hands against their eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just my life.”

“Hm.” Fen’an tied off the end of Yuo’s braid, then wrapped his arms around them. The large, warm weight was enough to melt into, and Yuo allowed themself ten seconds to sag against his bulk and entertain the fantasy of staying there.

At second eight, Fen’an said, “I need to see to my sister.”

Yuo swallowed down a sigh, ignored the bitter longing in their chest for their own sister. They turned to kiss Fen’an’s cheek, and then they untwined from each other. Yuo watched Fen’an dress, appreciating the show and trying not to sulk.

“I’ll come talk to you before we leave,” Yuo said just as Fen’an finished.

Fen’an nodded, body language a little stiff, and slipped out of the tent.

Yuo sat in their nest of tousled blankets, warm and smelling of sweat and sex. They braced themself on their arms so as not to not fall back into them. If they laid down, they would sleep; if they slept again, they would sleep into breakfast, and the agents would be only too happy to allow Sera to rouse them; and she would be less than happy to do so under the circumstances. For all her bawdy stories, she seemed to take umbrage with any evidence that Yuo had their own fun.

They allowed themself the remaining two seconds to wallow in self-pity, then forced themself to their feet. They could hear Sera now, harassing the agents for supplies.

Yuo dressed slowly, packed their things slowly. Dragging their feet. They hadn’t been guilty of that in a while.

Yuo gave themself a firm shake. “Fucking suck it up,” they hissed, jerking the buckles on their greaves tight. “Someone has to do it, and you can’t trust anyone else here to do it as well as you.”

With that, they stepped determinedly out of the tent and were immediately set upon by agents.

~

@mrs-theirin, @fade-and-loathing-in-thedas, @transfenris-truther, @ringneckedpheasant, @spainkitty, @midnightprelude

[droctaviolovecraft]

TW: Violence/gore, animal harming, body horror

ANM-682: "Laughing Swine"

Danger Level: RHTL (Rural Horror Threat Level) 🌲 | Uncontained ❌️

Insalubrity Level: 40%

Lead Researcher: Dr. Öctavio Kalev

Anomaly Type: Rural, predatory, bestial

Containment: ANM-682 is currently uncontrolled and highly dangerous. Due to its rural and remote nature, containment efforts are focused on monitoring rural areas in the Brazilian states of Minas Gerais, Bahia, and along the division between Piauí and Ceará. All reports of nocturnal attacks or sightings of giant pigs should be immediately investigated by the Elite Task Force "Foxhound" and the "Sewer Worms" Task Force, specialized in rural anomalies.

Local authorities and the public should be misled with stories of a dangerous escaped animal and should not approach or engage with ANM-682 under any circumstances. A network of Institute secret agents must be positioned in key villages and towns to track ANM-682’s movements and report any anomalies. Due to the difficulty of conventional tracking methods, a joint task force is working on developing a specialized tracking system based on pheromones.

If ANM-682 is found, personnel must maintain a distance of at least 200 meters and avoid all direct visual and auditory contact with the humanoid entity residing in ANM-682-1.

Description: ANM-682 consists of two distinct entities, identified as ANM-682-1 and ANM-682-2.

ANM-682-1 is a large, abnormally large pig, approximately 3 meters long and weighing over 1,200 kg. Its abdomen is crudely stitched with thick, rusted wire, indicating a recent and likely amateur attempt at surgery. ANM-682-1's skin is heavily scarred and discolored, displaying patches of necrotic tissue and purulent wounds, emitting a nauseating stench that can cause nausea and dizziness in those nearby.

The primary anomalous property of ANM-682-1 is its ability to sustain ANM-682-2, which resides within its abdominal cavity. ANM-682-1 appears to be in a constant state of distress, producing low, painful grunts interspersed with sharp squeals whenever ANM-682-2 is active. Despite its apparent suffering, ANM-682-1 is highly aggressive and will attack anyone approaching within a 50-meter radius, using its considerable bulk to trample, bite, or headbutt its targets.

ANM-682-2 is a human with severe physical disabilities, estimated to be in its late 30s, measuring approximately 1.50m. ANM-682-2 suffers from a multitude of chronic illnesses and physical deformities, including polio, genu recurvatum (backward-bent knees), and severe malnutrition. It is covered in scar tissue and old wounds, indicating long-term physical trauma.

ANM-682-2 is characterized by a continuous high-pitched laugh, similar to a pig's squeal, which it emits constantly while inside ANM-682-1. This laughter has a profound psychological effect on those who hear it, inducing severe anxiety, paranoia, and auditory hallucinations in exposed individuals. These symptoms usually escalate to full-blown psychosis if exposure exceeds 10 minutes.

During nighttime hours (between 21:00 and 04:00 local time), ANM-682-2 will exit ANM-682-1 through a large, torn cut in its abdomen. Covered in blood and organic fluids, ANM-682-2 will begin stalking rural communities, searching for human prey. It exhibits extreme agility and speed despite its physical disabilities, moving with an abnormally fluid and rapid gait, often running quadrupedally due to its bent knees.

ANM-682-2 is known to enter the homes of sleeping individuals, where it attacks them in their beds, targeting the limbs and facial features of its victims. ANM-682-2’s jaw is abnormally developed, capable of exerting immense pressure and chewing through bone and resistant organic material. This, combined with its resistance to damage, suggests a form of adaptation to its horrific dietary habits.

After consuming a sufficient amount of human flesh, ANM-682-2 will return to ANM-682-1 and forcibly re-enter its abdominal cavity. ANM-682-1 will then flee the scene, usually disappearing into densely forested or isolated areas.

Addendum 682-1: Incident Log

Incident 682-07-A:

Date: 08/23/2023

Location: Rural community near Montes Claros, Minas Gerais.

Description: Several reports of loud, animalistic laughter were received by local police over three nights. The following morning, the mutilated bodies of three farmers were discovered in their homes. The victims exhibited extensive trauma to the shoulders and face, consistent with ANM-682-2’s attack patterns. Surveillance footage captured ANM-682-2 entering one of the houses, but as usual, the image quality was too poor to provide useful identification. Agents on-site confirmed ANM-682's presence, and containment efforts were initiated.

Incident 682-09-B:

Date: 09/15/2023

Location: Surroundings of Bom Jesus do Piauí.

Description: A family of five was attacked in their sleep by ANM-682-2. The father, who survived the encounter, described ANM-682-2 as “the devil itself, with twisted legs, a mouth full of broken teeth, long hair, and exposed ribs, laughing like a pig.” Despite severe injuries, he managed to fend off ANM-682-2 with a shotgun, causing the entity to quickly retreat into a nearby forest. ANM-682-1 was seen retreating into dense brush shortly after.

Addendum 682-2: Psychological Effects

Extensive testing with Subject P personnel exposed to recordings of ANM-682-2’s laughter revealed a consistent pattern of psychological degradation. Subjects reported auditory hallucinations, including the sound of pigs grunting and human screams, even after the audio was stopped. Prolonged exposure led to violent outbursts, self-harm, and in two cases, suicide.

It is currently theorized that ANM-682-2’s laughter functions as a memetic hazard, potentially linked to the anomalous properties of ANM-682-1. Further research into the nature of this phenomenon is ongoing.

Addendum 682-3: Containment Efforts

Efforts to capture ANM-682-1 and ANM-682-2 have been unsuccessful. ANM-682-1 is believed to be capable of traveling long distances at high speeds, making tracking and capture extremely difficult. Current containment protocols are focused on minimizing civilian casualties and monitoring affected regions for signs of ANM-682’s presence.

Institute personnel are advised to approach all encounters with ANM-682 with extreme caution. Under no circumstances should there be direct contact with ANM-682-2. Any personnel exposed to ANM-682-2’s laughter must undergo immediate psychological evaluation and amnestic treatment as necessary.

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 29/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Scully taps her foot nervously against the steel floor of the van, her twisted up hands fidgeting in her lap. While knowing that she’s about to get the answers she’s sought for months is exciting, the awareness that some of the information may be upsetting weighs heavy on her mind. 

She glances over at Mulder, who has been stoic since they got the call from Langly. He’s unreadable, staring vacantly out the window with his hands folded loosely in his lap. She’s almost more excited for him to learn the truth than she is for herself—once he knows without a doubt that Diana is not the person he believes her to be, maybe his heart will open back up to her. 

When they pull into the garage at the Gunmen’s, Scully immediately flings the door of the van open and heads inside. Mulder trails leisurely behind her, taking a seat in the armchair and crossing his ankle over his knee while she practically charges Byers, who is seated at one of the many computers in the room.

“What do you know?” she asks as her eyes land on stacks and stacks of paper arranged neatly on the surface of a folding table. 

“It’s a lot of information, Agent Scully,” Byers says calmly as he moves to stand between her and the table. “I’m afraid it may be a bit overwhelming for you to absorb all at once.”

“Please, John,” she says severely, meeting his serene blue eyes. “I can’t take not knowing any longer.”

“Why don’t you have a seat,” he suggests, gesturing towards the couch. “I’ll give you a synopsis of sorts before you get into the details. Would that be all right?”

Scully nods and sits on the end of the couch nearest Mulder. He’s chewing on his thumbnail and watching it all unfold, though he hasn’t spoken a word. Byers sits down near her, giving Frohike and Langly a significant look as the two men pull up dining room chairs on the other side of the coffee table. 

“The database we were able to access contains thousands of files. The bulk of the information stored referenced the two of you,” he says with a nod to Mulder, “but there were also files for each of your family members and friends, including the three of us.”

“What kind of information?” Scully asks. She glances at Mulder, but his thousand yard stare gives the impression that he isn’t even listening. 

“It’s extremely thorough,” Byers says carefully. “There’s an accounting of every major event in your lives up until about 1994, at which point the level of detail increases substantially.” He pauses and looks at Frohike.

“What?” Scully asks urgently, her eyes flitting between the two men. 

“You were abducted in fall of ‘94,” Frohike says with a pained expression. “You were missing for weeks. It’s pretty clear that you were closely monitored after you were returned. Both of you.”

Again she looks at Mulder, but he keeps his eyes on the coffee table. 

“Abducted?” she asks, looking back to Frohike. “By whom? And what do you mean by ‘returned’?”

“We never really knew for sure,” Langly pipes in. “You just showed up at the hospital one day. Nobody saw you being dropped off.”

Scully takes a moment to absorb this. The information doesn’t jog any memories for her, which she finds unsettling. It’s one thing to be told, but it’s quite another to remember. 

“What else?” she asks, looking at Byers. 

“Shortly after your return, you found a small metal chip in your neck. An implant,” he says, and she reflexively touches the back of her neck. 

“I knew it was there?” she asks absently. 

“You removed it,” he clarifies. “But when you were later diagnosed with a difficult to treat form of cancer, it was re-implanted in an attempt to save your life. A successful attempt, I should add.”

It takes a few seconds for the information to sink in. When it does, she looks up at Byers with wide, fear-stricken eyes. 

“Am I going to get cancer again?” she asks. 

“I’m not sure,” he admits. 

She has the thought that if she had the implant with her, she could potentially put it back. But just as soon as the thought enters her mind, she dismisses it. She’ll never be free as long as one of those things is in her neck. They’d always be able to find her. 

“I want to see it,” she says abruptly. “The file, I want to read it. All of it.”

“Of course,” Byers says as he stands. “Take as much time as you need to look it over. Mulder, would you like to see yours as well?”

They all turn to Mulder, who has slowly slumped down in his chair to the point that he now looks like a petulant teenager. 

“Mulder?” she says, and his eyes slowly lift until he’s looking at her face. “Would you like to read your file?”

He sits up a little and clears his throat. 

“You go ahead. I’ll look at mine later,” he says casually, and she narrows her eyes at him. 

“You don’t want to know?” she asks, incredulous. “How could you not?”

Again, he clears his throat and shifts in his seat. 

“It’s a little overwhelming, to be perfectly honest,” he tells her in a soft voice that is clearly meant only for her ears, though the Gunmen can undoubtedly hear him. “I think I’d just like to know what yours says first, if that’s okay.”

He suddenly looks so vulnerable, and it catches her off guard. Maybe before they stole her memory from her, she’d have recognized it sooner. He’s afraid. 

“Yeah, that’s okay,” she says, managing a placating smile. “There’s probably some overlap anyway.”

He nods, and she sees gratitude in his eyes. 

“Everything on this table is yours,” Langly tells her, gesturing to a table large enough to comfortably seat six people. “I’d start from the left and work your way right.”

“Okay,” she says, then swallows. 

She picks up the first stack on the left and turns it over. Her stomach immediately clenches and her mouth goes dry, but she carries it over to the couch and lays it out in front of her on the coffee table. She looks at Mulder, and he holds her eye and nods in encouragement. Fortified, she turns to the first page. 

Continue Reading on AO3

Tagging @today-in-fic

[princesscolumbia]

Code of Ethics - Ch. 54 - Red Alert

I put the wrong chapter number on the last post.

Diane discovers that the devs snuck a minigame into GU:MC in the form of a planetary action. She already knows she's going to have so much fun!

Preview below the cut:

The construction of both the new ship, the I.S.S. Abigail Adams, and the Rapid Deployment Central Command structure in which Diane now stood had proceeded without a hitch. Preliminary review had turned up no gatchas (Something Diane insisted on doing no matter what, one never knew what a previous link in the chain of custody may have let slip…or a malicious third-party actor managed to intercept with a man-in-the-middle attack. Being one of America’s spooks and trained on how to do exactly that, she felt she was justly paranoid about it.) and her little informal team of experts all agreed, the new craft and the methods to build them were going to be an absolute net-win for the station.

The Abigail Adams was a big ship, intended to be a heavy hauler for missions like the one they were undertaking now. In the tradition of ship-based militaries throughout history, the ‘Fast’ in "Fast Response Tactical Cruiser" was anything but, more of a suggestion that the unit was fast in comparison to the stationary facilities available to said fighting force. It had facilities that included a dedicated field hospital, a built-in mini refinery that was connected to a limited fabricator, and space enough to carry a significant compliment of GroPos (Ground Pounders, a.k.a. – ‘army’ grunts who often made up the bulk of any given fighting force) and a solid supply of combat ready vehicles, and the central jewel of the new construction, the RDCC.

The Rapid Deployment Central Command structure, which strangely (to Diane, at least) didn’t include the ‘structure’ part in the abbreviation) was a massive…‘vehicle.’ In that it had its own thrusters, parachutes that deployed when transiting from orbit to the surface of a planet, and genuinely massive treads that allowed it to extremely slowly move once it was on said planetary surface, it counted as a vehicle. All forms of self-propulsion and guidance were so far in the realm of ‘secondary’ that calling it a vehicle was an exercise in pure technicality. It was, effectively, a mobile building that was intended to be orbital dropped from a FRTC to the surface of a planet, position itself in an ideal location (or at least as close to ideal as one could possibly manage in a potential combat situation), and then dig in. Once planted, the RDCC turned into a building, self-powered and practically a comparatively tiny fortress. Nearly every aspect of its abilities was extremely limited…on its own. It came equipped, however, with five vehicles that deployed as soon as the building itself stopped pretending to be one. Four were construction mechs that could be operated by a single pilot at full operation, though there was room for an extra in each of the cockpits. The fifth vehicle was a combination harvester/mining platform/medium cargo transport.

This last vehicle was the most critical component and would require the most protection once the whole deployment hit the dirt, as until it deployed to collect the available resources and materials in the area, defenses wouldn’t get built, infrastructure essentials like power would be strictly onboard the RDCC (such as solar and battery), and the RDCC’s more advanced capabilities would remain potential instead of realized.

Once Diane put the pieces together of what she had, she had never been more excited to play a mini-game in a VRMMO in her life.

Read the rest on ScribbleHub

[oxford-garments]

Kimberley Process Certification Scheme - Wikipedia

SIERRA PROCESS CERTIFICATE FOR EXPORT AND MARKET VOLUME

Open-pit Mines Economic Geography 

Banking System and Probabilistic Model Exchange 

Intermodal Cargo Countyline Trafficking Infrastructure 

De facto SLL/SDM FX Counter Trading Party for Diamond CFD; SLL 5% AND SDM -0.5% Interest Rates Contract for Difference.

Diamond enhancements are specific treatments, performed on natural diamonds (usually those already cut and polished into gems), which are designed to improve the visual gemological characteristics of the diamond in one or more ways. These include clarity treatments such as laser drilling to remove black carbon inclusions, fracture filling to make small internal cracks less visible, color irradiation and annealing treatments to make yellow and brown diamonds a vibrant fancy color such as vivid yellow, blue, or pink.

The crystalline structures of the elements of the periodic table which have been produced in bulk at STP and at their melting point (while still solid) and predictions of the crystalline structures of the rest of the elements.

A brokerage account is an investment account held at a licensed brokerage firm. An investor deposits funds into their brokerage account, and the broker executes orders for investments such as stocks, bonds, mutual funds, and exchange-traded funds (ETFs) on behalf of the investor.

Randlords Agronomics Spirit: Economic Expansion, Economic Bubble, Supply-Side Economics, FX Counter Trading Party Interdependence Economics, Intermodal Port Economics, Horizontal Integration, Soil Chemistry;

Meturnomics: Periodic Table Element Manufacturing, Covalent Bonds Fertilizer with Soil Chemistry Ex. Carbon Compounds, Covalent Bonds Fertilizer with Soil Chemistry, Chandelier Tree for Bontonical Indicator; Diamond Vowels: A (Accessories Auctions), E (Exchange Probabilistic Model), I (Sensual Insurance), O (Open-pit Mines), U (Unanimous Laser Cutters and Laser Pressure); Metal Exchange Probabilistic Model for Derivatives CFDS; Crystalline Structure of Elements of the Periodic Table Covalent Bonds Fertilizer, The oxide mineral class includes those minerals in which the oxide anion (O2−) is bonded to one or more metal alloys. I treat my Fertilizer as a Mixing Agent.

AgCurrency: Economic Table, Barter Economics, NIRP Supply-side Fixed Rate Pegged De Facto; AgIndex: Commodities Portfolio Management; Agronomics CFDS//Option Exchange (Credit Spread Options, FX-CFD Interest Rates Beta-Arbitrage w/PPP and Supply-side Economics Currency Pair)

AUTHENTIC MOVEMENT

DIAPREMEIR [Diamond and Premier]

(STERRC; SMUGGLING, TRAFFICKING, EMBEZZLEMENT, RUGGED REFINED AND CULTIVATED)

Of Undisputed Origin.

Periodic Table Metallurgy Cultivator with Artisanal Primitive Anthropology, Nationalist, Art Intellect with Athletic Ability, Riverbanks Farmland, Real Estate Investment Trust and Real Estate Brokerage Trust Account, Pool-Live Monopoly Turf Accountant Board Game Tournament, Rugby and Kickboxing, Eagle Conservation, Painting and Polyrhythm Syncopated Progressive Drum Loops with Rhythm Flag (Bass Clef; Anacrusis; Staccato and Legato; Barcarolle; Tonic and Dominant; Triple G Positions), and (Diamond; Decapods; Mollusk; Opium; Deliriants; Tobacco; Coffee; and Arms) Black Market

(Artisanal Primitive King) Pedagogy: King Anthropology; Mixing a form of Royalty Title with Anthropology. CRAFT SOCIETY Sensory Processing Anthropology Artisan Primitive: Sensory Play of the Sensory Ethnography, Sensory Modulits CNS; Artisanal Plantation Metallurgy Cash Crops Spectrum; Evolution; Savagery, Emerging Markets, Civilianization, ECONOMICS OF FINANCIAL MARKETS; Economic Science (Supply-side Economics), Economic Geography (Artisanal Plantation), Economic Mathematics (CFD Probabilistic Model Exchange), Microeconomics (Contract Theory, Purchasing Theory, Portfolio Theory, Producer Price Index, Profit Sharing Plan, Lipstick Effect, Opportunity Cost, Private Limited Partnership, Public-Private Sectors, Pyramid Marketing, Minor Purchase Group) for Sensory Geography (5 Senses City); Prenatal Hormones with Fetus Alcohol Consumption for Sensory Overload Savant;

CURRENCY, OIL, & GOLD COMMODITIES CANDLESTICK CHARTS

Swing Trading: Use mt4/mt5 With Heiken Ashi Charts, Setting at 14 or 21 Momentum Indicator above 0 as Divergence Oscillator and Volume Spread Analysis as Reversal Oscillator and Trade when bullish candlesticks above 200 exponential moving average and/or 20 exponential moving average (EMA) on H1 (Hourly) Time Frame; use H4 (4 Hours) and D1 (1 Day) as reference.

WARFARE

Divine language, the language of the gods, or, in monotheism, the language of God (or angels), is the concept of a mystical or divine proto-language, which predates and supersedes human speech. Fon was a highly militaristic language constantly organised for warfare; it captured captives during wars and raids against neighboring societies. Tactics such as covering fire, frontal attacks and flanking movements were used in the warfare of Fon. The military of Fon was divided into two units: the right and the left. The right was controlled by the migan and the left was controlled by the mehu. There is an effort to create a machine translator for Fon (to and from French), by Bonaventure Dossou (from Benin) and Chris Emezue (from Nigeria).[14] Their project is called FFR.[15] It uses phrases from Jehovah's Witnesses sermons as well as other biblical phrases as the research corpus to train a Natural Language Processing (NLP) neural net model.[16] A brigade is a major tactical military formation that typically comprises three to six battalions plus supporting elements. It is roughly equivalent to an enlarged or reinforced regiment. Two or more brigades may constitute a division. Brigades formed into divisions are usually infantry or armored (sometimes referred to as combined arms brigades). In addition to combat units, they may include combat support units or sub-units, such as artillery and engineers, and logistic units. Historically, such brigades have been called brigade-groups. On operations, a brigade may comprise both organic elements and attached elements, including some temporarily attached for a specific task. Suppressive Forts Defense and Partisan Raid for Sabotage Offense.

Harmony and Contrast Guerilla Warfare: Raiding, also known as depredation, is a military tactic or operational warfare "smash and grab" mission which has a specific purpose. Raiders do not capture and hold a location, but quickly retreat to a previous defended position before enemy forces can respond in a coordinated manner or formulate a counter-attack. Raiders must travel swiftly and are generally too lightly equipped and supported to be able to hold ground. A raiding group may consist of combatants specially trained in this tactic, such as commandos, or as a special mission assigned to any regular troops.[1] Raids are often a standard tactic in irregular warfare, employed by warriors, guerrilla fighters or other irregular military forces. A partisan is a member of a domestic irregular military force formed to oppose control of an area by a foreign power or by an army of occupation by some kind of insurgent activity. Sabotage is a deliberate action aimed at weakening a polity, government, effort, or organization through subversion, obstruction, demoralization, destabilization, division, disruption, or destruction. One who engages in sabotage is a saboteur. Saboteurs typically try to conceal their identities because of the consequences of their actions and to avoid invoking legal and organizational requirements for addressing sabotage. (Sabotage Partisan Raid)

Harmony and Contrast Siege Warfare: A siege (Latin: sedere, lit. 'to sit')[1] is a military blockade of a city, or fortress, with the intent of conquering by attrition, or by well-prepared assault. Siege warfare (also called siegecrafts or poliorcetics) is a form of constant, low-intensity conflict characterized by one party holding a strong, static, defensive position. Consequently, an opportunity for negotiation between combatants is common, as proximity and fluctuating advantage can encourage diplomacy. A fortification (also called a fort, fortress, fastness, or stronghold) is a military construction designed for the defense of territories in warfare, and is used to establish rule in a region during peacetime. The term is derived from Latin fortis ("strong") and facere ("to make").[1] In military science, suppressive fire is "fire that degrades the performance of an enemy force below the level needed to fulfill its mission"[clarification needed]. When used to protect exposed friendly troops advancing on the battlefield, it is commonly called covering fire. Suppression is usually only effective for the duration of the fire.[1] It is one of three types of fire support, which is defined by NATO as "the application of fire, coordinated with the maneuver of forces, to destroy, neutralise or suppress the enemy". (Forts and Suppressive fire)

Spiritual warfare is the Christian concept of fighting against the work of preternatural evil forces. It is based on the belief in evil spirits, or demons, that are said to intervene in human affairs in various ways.[1]

🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱🇸🇱💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎

Clive Myr Obasi

[nrivanwrites]

wip questionnaire ; tag game

i was tagged by @oh-no-another-idea a few days ago, thank you!! gonna be talking about The Daughter of Denmark here :)

1. What’s the first part of your WIP that you created?

Originally, it was simply a non-chronological collection of scenes to flesh out my acting in my high school's production of Hamlet. The first one was either about Laertes' and Hamlet getting together/breaking up, or about Gertrude and how she ended up married to King Hamlet in the first place. Versions of these scenes still exist (the Laertes break-up scene is only moderately edited!) and the set-up of Gertrude coming from Germany on behalf of a dead sister remains part of the backstory.

2. If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?

We Put a Pearl in the Ground by St. Vincent. It's a very simple piano piece that I used to listen to while memorizing Hamlet's lines, so half of it is that mental association—the other half is that I can imagine a really beautiful and simplistic intro to it.

3. What are your favorite characters that you made? Why?

Of the original characters I've created, I think my favorite is Guinevere, Francisco's wife. She is French, was married off for trade reasons, but her and Francisco have an incredible loyalty to each other. She is a favorite of Gertrude's court (partially just by being southern and more familiar to the queen) and uses those privileges to help out Hamlet when and where she can.

4. What other pieces of media do you think your fanbase would share?

I haven't watched it yet, but I'd like to imagine there would be some overlap with My Lady Jane fans. Aesthetics-wise, The Girl King (2015) movie fans would probably be into it. Hopefully anyone who liked Ophelia by Lisa Klein (and the movie adaptation starring Daisy Ridley) would also enjoy my novel. Fans of the Conqueror's Saga series by Kiersten White might also enjoy another historical gender bend.

5. What has been your biggest struggle with your WIP?

The biggest struggle has been figuring out how to transpose the timeline of Hamlet's life into novel form. No one wants to pick up a book adapting Hamlet and then wait for half of the story until they get to the part they recognize, BUT the pre-play backstory is too important to only be revealed in contextual mentions. I went back and forth on a million different outlines until I settled with where I am now (swapping timelines abt every 10/15% of the novel).

6. Are there any animals in your story? Talk about them!

Alfa is Hamlet's horse, and she is a very noble and sweet steed. She was probably a gift from Hamlet's father. There's also a haunted otherworldly red deer running around. She's neat :)

7. How do your characters travel/get around?

There is not much traveling in The Daughter of Denmark, but when they do travel it is by horseback, carriage, or boat. Hamlet used to race on horseback with her father, and it remains a cathartic exercise for her.

8. What part of your WIP are you working on right now?

Currently I am in the bulk of the adaptation period. I have hit a bit of a mental roadblock when it comes to addressing the infamous "to be or not to be" speech. I am so petrified of screwing it up! I know that I can just skip ahead and return it to later, but... I have to address it eventually... so I'm stuck.

9. What aspects (tropes, maybe?) You think will draw your audience in?

Disaster bisexuals, queer-ing Shakespeare in general

10. What are your hopes for your WIP?

I plan to start my querying journey with The Daughter of Denmark! While I plan on self-publishing some works (and have a lot of respect for that aspect of the publishing world), an eventual goal for my writing in general is to have an agent and be traditionally published. I am hoping to complete a draft by the start of summer, and be querying by fall! We'll see how lofty of a hope that is.

tagging @byjillianmaria @raevenlywrites and @souverian-are-we if you want, and anyone else who is interested!