#one of kevlars “”subjects.“”

[pathologicalreid]

for the fear of falling apart | part five

there's one last chance for everything to fall apart, but this time you aren't at the center of disaster - Spencer is

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | epilogue

series masterlist

who? spencer reid x jareau!reader category: angst content warnings: lots of future talk (marriage and pregnancy), takes place during 15x10 "and in the end", explosions, the chameleon arc, spencer's hospital stay, sibling loss, diana's alzheimers, canon cm violence word count: 7.34k a/n: so this is the last part! i can't resist doing an epilogue, so a cutie little "where are they now" part on the horizon, but this was always the way it was going to end. as always, telling me your thoughts is the sexiest thing you can do.

“She’s not a threat,” Spencer pointed out, carrying on a conversation with you while he adjusted the straps of your bulletproof vest, pulling it tightly around you to cover as much of your torso as possible. You’d complain about him taking away your ability to breathe but if it brought peace to his busy mind, you could sacrifice your full lung capacity.

You flattened your palm against the SWAT truck for support while he resumed tugging at the Velcro straps of your Kevlar, “Speak for yourself! You’re not the favorite stepdaughter of a woman that you can’t stand.”

Deciding your vest was as secure as it was going to get, Spencer stood up, sharing a look with the SWAT commander before turning his attention back to you, “Why are you the favorite stepdaughter again?”

Dramatically, you tilted your head back and looked at the sky, “Because JJ had a child out of wedlock. I’m the favorite by default.” It was funny to think of your stepmother choosing you as a favorite, but you supposed the pickings were rather slim. “Hey,” you continued, “There’s an idea.”

“Uh huh,” Spencer responded mockingly, “Pick a new subject, please.”

Rolling your eyes, you rested fully against the armored truck, scuffing your boots against the gravel driveway to Everett Lynch’s house. “You’re no fun,” you accused, trying to use your family issues as a discussion to pass the time before you had permission from Emily to put your plan into motion.

Spencer hummed in response, watching your sister as she answered her phone and hopefully received instruction from Emily. You didn't like lingering out here like sitting ducks, no matter how many armed agents there were with you.

Matching JJ’s gaze, she nodded to you and Spencer, letting you know that Emily had given the go-ahead.

Quickly, Spencer slipped his phone from his pocket and dialed the number that he had previously memorized. You heard the phone ring as he held it up to his ear, and then a woman’s voice came through, “No, Roberta my name is Dr. Spencer Reid and it’s important that you listen to me right now.” He fed the Lynch matriarch instructions over the phone, “Even though you have the gun, the moment your son realizes you’re not gonna shoot him, he’s gonna get the upper hand.”

You couldn’t make out her response, but based on the way Spencer’s eyebrows were pinched together, you worried he wasn’t getting through to her.

“Yes,” he answered over the phone, “but first you need to let Olivia walk out of there, okay?” The next step was simple enough, and not long after he spoke, you saw the teenager run out of the house.

JJ had the opportunity to take the Chameleon out earlier that day, but he’d used Olivia and her diabetes as a bargaining chip. You lingered with Spencer while JJ ran out to meet her, gently guiding her behind the barricade to the waiting ambulance. 

Instinctively, you set your hand on your firearm as a single gunshot rang out from the house, “Roberta,” Spencer urged, “that warning shot is what’s about to give you away, but we can help. Are you ready for us to come in?” He waited almost too long before speaking again, “Roberta?”

He looked back at the SWAT captain as everything hinged on Roberta’s response, and when Spencer gave the order to breach, you took your spot next to the armored truck. Your instructions were very clear, you were in charge of Everett once he was apprehended, and JJ was in charge of Roberta.

Across from you, JJ’s phone rang, you couldn’t hear either end of the conversation, but you could see the fear in her eyes when she looked up at Spencer and all of the other SWAT agents headed toward the structure. You took a few steps forward, trying to follow after Spencer, but JJ shouted your name and caught your attention right as the bomb went off.

The blast warped your perception of time. You looked back at the house on fire before your eyes automatically searched for Spencer. Everything was moving in slow motion, but even so, there he was, on the ground. “Spence,” you yelped before scrambling forward, dropping to your knees at his side.

Spencer started to rise from the driveway, propping himself up on his elbows. He likely couldn’t hear you, based on the way your own ears were ringing while you checked him over for injuries.

“Are you okay?” You asked him anyway, “Baby, can you hear me?” He tried to sit up, but you settled your hands on his shoulders, “No, it’s okay, stay down.” You continued to speak to him, taking time to shout instructions for the now scrambled first responders.

JJ called your name again, causing your head to snap in her direction, “Your head is bleeding,” she told you, jogging toward you and Spencer.

You rose on shaky legs as your sister took your face in her hands, frantically checking the wound that you couldn’t feel. Waving away paramedics, you urged them to assist the downed SWAT agents instead of you, “It’s fine, Jayg,” you breathed, straightening yourself out and keeping an eye on Spencer.

“Are you feeling alright?” You whispered to Spencer, noting the lack of focus in his eyes, you resisted the urge to wave your hand in front of his face.

He hummed in response, “I’m fine.”

Unable to help it, you frowned at him. ‘Fine’ had been his only sensation from the moment you arrived at the hospital in Reno until now. ‘Fine’ was a term used by people who were avoiding any genuine emotion, and you couldn’t entirely blame him. Last you heard the casualty count from the explosion was up to seven – including Everett and Roberta Lynch.

He’d gotten an MRI at the hospital – not that you’d given him much choice – and it came back clear, so the rest of the team wasted no time in having the jet prepared to return to Quantico.

It wasn’t the silence that unnerved you, it was the absence of activity. Your sister sat in one of the chairs, periodically turning her head to check on you, Rossi and Matt had claimed their own spots throughout the aircraft, and you and Spencer were sequestered next to the galley. Everyone seemed to be disassociating from the events of the day.

You willed Spencer to pull a book out of his bag and start reading. You silently begged him to do something that you could find comfort in. Instead, he noticed you staring and leaned over to gently kiss the unmarred side of your forehead.

Taking a raincheck on Penelope’s vision-boarding, you made sure the two of you got home in one piece. “Do you need to clean it?” Spencer asked, gesturing to the mark on your forehead.

You kicked off your shoes in the entryway, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes as he sat down on the couch. “No, maybe in the morning,” you responded. “Are you gonna come to bed?”

“In a bit,” he offered, leaning his head back to look at you one more time before you disappeared into the bedroom.

There were a lot of things about the day that didn’t make any sense, but the one thing you couldn’t wrap your head around was Everett Lynch’s suicide. Not to be mistaken with sympathy, you didn’t understand how his particular personality type could choose to blow itself up. He was too confident, too narcissistic for that.

The doubt kept waking you up, each time you hoped to find that Spencer had finally come to bed. Once the clock struck four in the morning and he still hadn’t come to lie down, you crawled out of bed, expecting to find him asleep on the couch.

Your heart dropped when you found him on the floor, dried blood crusted around his nose, deathly still.

Phone, phone, phone – where was your phone?

Grabbing his phone off of the coffee table, your head spun as you dialed 911, crouching next to him as you tried to make out the sound of his breathing.

In a four-in-the-morning fugue, you went through the motions, answering all of the dispatcher’s questions, all of the paramedic’s questions, and all of the nurse’s questions.

The emergency department nurse looked at you sadly, not much more than a pile of limbs in a stiff plastic chair, “Is there anyone I can call for you?”

Swallowing thickly, you shrugged in response. You wanted her to call everyone and no one at the same time, building up walls around yourself made of materials that you couldn’t name. You needed to call Emily. You needed to call Diana. Frowning at the nurse, you gave it another moment of thought before responding, “My sister.”

JJ didn’t answer.

The nurse tried her twice and you called once from your phone, but there was no answer.

Spencer didn’t wake up. Dr. K didn’t seem confident that he would.

Like a metronome, the steady beeping of Spencer’s vital monitor nearly lulled you to sleep until the ringing of a phone interrupted the pattern. Your phone buzzed in your pocket and your stomach lurched at the realization that your sister was finally calling you back, “I have been trying to reach you all morning.”

Your sister was silent on the other side, and you wondered if you had come on too strong. “What happened?”

The world was falling apart around you. Your castle was crumbling with you in it. You looked longingly at Spencer before you answered, “I think he’s dying.”

Time passed in an inordinate pattern, convincing yourself that hours had passed when it had only been minutes. You had moved your chair to Spencer’s bedside, tracing the scar on the inside of his palm in time with the steady rising and falling of his chest.

“Have you been here all night?” Your older sister’s voice rang from the doorway, she didn’t wait to be welcomed in, immediately moving to the side of the bed opposite to you.

Your eyes followed her hand as she gently set a palm on his shoulder, her blonde hair curling around her face as she studied Spencer’s appearance. Quickly, she caught herself, straightening up and making her way around the bed so that she stood behind you, smoothing a hand through your hair like she did when you were just kids.

Penelope followed behind JJ on a delay, her skin paling at the sight of Spencer in the hospital bed. She stood at the foot of the bed, placing her hands on the footboard and taking several deep breaths.

“I went to bed without him last night. I wasn’t sleeping well, so when I woke up at four in the morning and he hadn’t made it to bed I went to see if he had fallen asleep on the couch, but he was just… on the floor,” You told them absently, watching Spencer as he slept and recalling the way you had found him in the apartment. His body contorted from falling on the ground with a puddle of blood beginning to gather beneath his head.

You couldn’t look at them. You couldn’t look away from him knowing that it could be the last time you see him alive. “What do you need?” JJ asked, continuing to smooth down your hair.

Clasping his hand in yours, you nodded to yourself reassuringly, “Can you call Brookfield? I need to talk to Diana. If she’s lucid enough, can you ask if they can bring her here? If he… she should be here.” Sinking into an abyss of unknowns, at the very least you knew that he’d want his mother here with him.

The two blondes shared a wary look, and you steeled yourself for a difficult conversation. Penelope left to call Brookfield on your behalf, but JJ stayed behind, dragging one of the plastic chairs over to the bed so she could sit next to you. “We got the casualty report back from the medical examiner in Reno,” she informed you; her voice was low – the tone she took up when she wasn’t sure how to navigate a situation.

You nodded in understanding, waiting for the bomb to drop.

“There were six SWAT agents, Roberta Lynch, and Orlando Gaines,” she told you gently, watching your face for any sign of a reaction.

You frowned, expecting her to add Everett Lynch to the tally later on for dramatic effect, but the moment never came, “Oh,” you breathed, looking at Spencer.

JJ continued to explain that, based on the blueprints of the house that he had pilfered from one of his victims, he had likely escaped using a tunnel system beneath the house. The Chameleon was in the wind, and Spencer might just be his latest victim. “We know he’s not done though,” JJ tried to reassure you, “He’ll resurface somewhere.”

“We don’t know where and we don’t know when, though,” you told her, an edge of despair creeping into your voice. He should’ve died. Everett Lynch should be dead, and you shouldn’t be sitting next to Spencer’s hospital bed right now. “And Spencer might die for no reason,” you added. There was a slight chance that you could, someday, find comfort in Spencer succumbing to injuries sustained in a blast that took out The Chameleon, but with Lynch still out there, you were struggling to find any glimpse of a silver lining.

Your sister looked at a loss for words, reaching out her hand and dropping it to your knee when you didn’t take it. She mumbled something about letting it go for Spencer’s sake, but Spencer was unconscious, if you held on to your grudge against your sister, he was none the wiser. It brought you back to something he had told you after Grace Lynch shot you – I don’t want you to forget your anger.

Glancing over at her briefly, you took a deep breath, “You should get back to Quantico – the team will need you to catch Lynch.”

“No,” she said, pinching her brows together, “I’m going to stay here.”

Pursing your lips, you gave her a sidelong glance, “Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you going to stay here, JJ? Do you want to stay at the hospital for my sake or for Spencer’s?” Keeping your hand tucked into his, you didn’t budge when she pulled her hand off of your knee, and even then, you had your answer. “I’m asking you to please, go back to Quantico and find Everett Lynch. Spencer will have me, his mom, and Penelope with him and I need you to find the person who did this to him. I’m asking you to go, so you aren’t staying for me.”

She was looking at you in pure disbelief, “Ducky, I don’t-“ She faltered, “I thought we were all friends again. You told me you understood where I was coming from.”

Nodding in agreement, you recalled the conversation you had with her while Spencer was with Cat Adams, “I told you I understood how you could be in love with him because I’m in love with him, but I have limits, JJ, and there comes a point where I just can’t understand why you keep using your love as a weapon.”

“I- I’m not,” she insisted, but you could hear the unease in her voice.

You shrugged, “Maybe it’s not your intention, but you are fighting a one-sided battle. You’re married and Spencer and I are engaged, and you have single-handedly destroyed our relationship.”

JJ scoffed in disbelief, “You and Spencer seem to be doing just fine.”

“I’m not talking about me and Spencer, I’m talking about me and you,” you corrected her. “At Rossi’s wedding, you told me that you had meant what you said to Spencer when you were in the pawn shop, and every day since then you have refused to give me the space that I’ve asked for.” Your hands shook as your eyes flittered between her and your fiancé, “You’re my big sister, JJ. You’re always going to be my big sister, and I am always going to love you because of that, but we aren’t friends, so don’t try to pretend you’re doing this for me.”

She tilted her head to the side, “I didn’t want space – you’re my sister.”

“But I needed space,” you emphasized, the one thing that JJ had never seemed to understand. You were the one who got hurt in the process, “I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired, and I can’t pretend to be your friend anymore while you can’t even be a decent sister. You tell me that you and Spencer have all of this history, that you’ve known each other for fifteen years, but you’ve been my sister for thirty-two. You keep asking for me to hear you out, and yet you haven’t once listened to me. Go back to Quantico, go find Lynch, and be my fucking sister.”

You couldn’t be friends with someone who had been long harboring a crush on your partner, and it didn’t make sense for you to make any exceptions for her. “Okay, I’ll um… I’ll go,” she told you, hesitating for a moment before she nodded to herself and walked out of the room. You knew what you told her stung, you were sending her out with her tail between her legs, but you didn't have the gracefulness to coddle her anymore.

Slowly, you leaned your head down, gently setting your chin on the sidebar of Spencer’s hospital bed, keeping a watchful eye on him even as tears streamed down your face.

Your eyes were dry by the time Diana arrived, being guided by one of her nurses and intercepted by Garcia, who had known better than to ask any questions when your sister left in a hurry. With your sight zeroed in on the rising and falling of Spencer’s chest, you listened to the conversation, “Oh, Diana, hi,” Penelope said, unable to hide the panic in her voice, “Hi, it’s Penelope. I work with Spencer. I’ve come to see you before,” she explained.

Garcia had tagged along multiple times to see Diana at Brookfield, which was likely why they were so receptive when she called the facility. “You’re almost as tall as I am,” Diana responded and your heart sunk, worried that she might not be stable enough to face this.

“Diana,” Penelope continued gently, “Spencer fell, and he hit his head really hard, and he’s not conscious.” Her words were carefully chosen to avoid raising any alarm.

“Well, let’s wake him up,” Diana insisted, and you straightened up at the sound of footsteps approaching, “Let’s see him.”

Penelope practically stumbled in behind her, “No, wait.”

His mother nodded, not even acknowledging you as she walked in, “He’ll listen to me… Spencer,” she called to him. Seconds later, you saw it, the moment the switch in her brain flipped and an internal war started, “it’s not him,” she murmured. “No. No, no, no,” the conviction in her voice broke your heart, “This is not my son.”

Silently, you sat back in your chair, trying to think of something you could say to her to reassure her, but you couldn’t even console yourself.

Then she reached out for his hand, turning his wrist over and exposing the inside of his wrist, the small star-shaped scar that marred his skin facing the ceiling, “Oh, my baby,” she breathed. “Oh, my baby,” she leaned over Spencer, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, cupping his face with her hands, and begging with an unknown force, “Oh, please.”

Unable to tolerate the sight of her begging for Spencer to wake up, you quietly got up from your chair, hugging your arms around yourself before walking out of the room.

For years, Diana and Spencer had been all each other had, and you couldn’t imagine what this was like for her. To have her son fighting for his life in the hospital while she spent every day trying to hold on to fleeting memories of him. You couldn’t watch her, afraid of losing him. It wasn’t supposed to work like that – parents weren’t supposed to have to bury their children.

You thought about calling your mom, knowing she’d drop everything and drive the four hours to come be with you, but maybe it would be cruel. It would be cruel to have her watch a parent lose a child when she had lost her own.

Leaning your head back against the taupe walls of the hospital, you glanced over at Penelope, giving her a stiff smile.

“Hey, you,” she said, shoving her laptop in her bag before making her way over to you. “How are you holding up?”

You laughed humorlessly, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes before looking back up at her, “I’m not entirely sure that I am.”

Her eyes were filled with grief, and you knew that she was another person in Spencer’s life who didn’t deserve more loss, “Can I get you anything? Have you eaten?”

Food had been approximately the last thing on your list of concerns today, but you hadn’t eaten since Reno yesterday. You shook your head, “I’m not hungry,” You were actually a bit queasy, but you weren’t entirely sure if you were nauseous from your current predicament or if it was because you hadn’t eaten anything. “Maybe later,” you tried to appease her.

“Okay,” she sighed, “I don’t know what happened between you and JJ, but I do know that something happened. I might not know what it’s like between sisters, but I do know what it’s like to be a sister.” Garcia gave you a soft smile, “Do you need to talk about it?”

Desperately. Your chest ached at the idea of being able to talk to someone else about what had gone down between you and your sister, but you shook your head, “I’m sworn to secrecy.”

The understanding expression on her face deepened the ache in your chest, but she reached out and pulled you into a hug, “I know the two of you will figure it out.” She pulled away, sweeping tears from under her eyes, “I know you said you’re not hungry, but I’m going to go down to the cafeteria and I’ll get you something to pick at. You look like you need it.”

You smiled at her concern and gave her a small wave as she made her way through the hallways. It was sweet that she had faith in the sororal bond between you and JJ – even more than you had, but you just didn’t see it the way she did. There had always been an expectation of you and JJ growing up that you’d always make up because you were the only sibling that each other had left.

That expectation had led to a lot of issues being swept under the rug, maybe too many issues, but you couldn’t forgive JJ, not fully. Even under the weight of the obligation to forgive her for the sake of your familial tie, you couldn’t let this one go. JJ had broken any semblance of trust between the two of you, and even if you worked to rebuild that trust, the cracks were always going to be there.

When you and Spencer had fought and you knocked a bowl off of the counter, he made a remark about how the bowl could be fixed with kintsugi, but the bowl would always have cracks, no matter how pretty the gold looked in the seams. You and JJ would never get back to where you had been, and now, you were sure that you didn’t want to go back.

Wiping a few stray tears from beneath your eyes, you nodded to yourself before walking back into the hospital room, introducing Diana and Dr. K before the doctor gave you some information, telling you that Spencer’s brain was bleeding.

Tilting your head to the side, “No, I made sure he got an MRI at the hospital. The doctor there told us it was completely clear,” you assured her, remembering how you refused to let Spencer board the jet without getting an MRI.

Dr. K nodded, “We got the scans sent over from the hospital in Reno, there’s a small bleed that was possibly overlooked. From what you’ve told me, it seems like they were overwhelmed and needed to get other people through,” she told you, making it seem like no more than a clerical error.

“So…” you dragged out the vowel, trying to wrap your head around this reality, “His brain’s been bleeding since yesterday?”

The doctor affirmed your suspicions, “Boarding a plane with even the smallest of brain bleeds can have catastrophic consequences. In Spencer’s case, it’s caused intracranial hemorrhaging. Parts of his brain are shutting down and other parts are struggling to survive.”

Your stomach flipped at the mention of his brain shutting down, the term was far too close to brain death for comfort, “Is he… is he already gone, then?” You asked, faltering over your words.

“No,” she gave you some reassurance, “There’s a chance that his brain bleed will resolve on its own.”

“But not a good chance,” you observed, taking Spencer’s hand in your own. “Is there anything that can be done?”

The doctor adjusted the tablet in her hands, “The conservative approach would be surgery. It may reduce the swelling around Spencer’s brain faster. There is risk, it could cause seizures and even more bleeding,” she explained to the both of you.

The image in your mind of brain surgery didn’t bring you any reassurance, you looked up at Diana. Until you and Spencer got married, she was his next of kin. Spencer didn’t have any kind of healthcare directive for a situation like this, and you weren’t entirely sure where to go from here.

His mom shrugged at you, shaking her head, “I thought it was Tuesday, and it’s not Tuesday. So, I can’t tell you,” she answered, looking at you helplessly.

Turning your head to Dr. K, you asked, “Could we have a minute?”

The doctor gave you both an understanding look before stepping out of the room.

“What would he want?” Diana asked you, looking at you expectantly, “I don’t want to make the decision.”

Abhorring the idea that you would be the one to make the decision, you looked up at Diana, “I’m not sure,” you admitted.

“He always says he trusts you the most,” she told you. “Oh, for years in his letters, he’d always talk about you. Even before you started dating – it was always about you in a way I’d never heard him talk about anyone,” she continued, nodding as if she were convincing herself. “If he trusts you that much, then I have no problem trusting you.”

You didn’t want it to be up to you, and before you had the opportunity to answer, the alarm on Spencer’s vital monitor started going off. “Oh my god,” You breathed, moving back to allow the nurses space as they crowded around Spencer’s bed.

“What’s happening to my boy?” Diana asked, placing her hands in front of her mouth in shock, “What is happening to him?”

Watching quietly as he seized, you listened to his mom cry out for him and decided you wanted to wait a bit longer before resorting to surgery.

Picking at the bread of the sandwich that Penelope had gotten you from the cafeteria, you found yourself more amenable to sipping at the water she had brought you than you were toward actually eating something. According to Garcia, the team was hot on Everett Lynch’s trail, but she wouldn’t give you any more details than that.

Periodically, Spencer’s hand would twitch, but you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tried not to get your hopes up, not until Dr. K said something reassuring.

With the doctor in the room, there were four pairs of eyes watching his every move, no matter how minuscule. You leaned back in the chair, gently tracing the lines in his palm, “His… his eyes are fluttering,” you observed aloud, not daring to look away, afraid your mind was playing tricks on you.

“That’s a good sign,” Dr. K said, leaning forward and observing the same thing as you.

Penelope inclined her head to look up at the doctor, “Is he gonna be okay?”

She looked uneasy, “He’s putting up one hell of a fight, but it’s still too early to know for sure,” she answered diplomatically, checking something on her tablet before excusing herself.

Shortly after, Garcia’s phone started to ring, she brought it out into the hallway, letting you know she’d be right back.

Leaving just you and Diana in the room with Spencer, you watched as she continued to smooth his hair back, being able to see the maternal gesture made your chest ache – you never knew how many more moments there would be. “Has he been here before?” She asked you, “In the hospital, like this?”

You nodded slowly, moving through a fog of exhaustion as the day came to an end, “Yes,” you told her, memories of Briscoe County bubbled to the surface.

“Were you there for him?” She continued, wondering if someone had been there for her baby when she couldn’t be.

You had sat around his hospital bed with Alex and Penelope, waiting for him to wake up while Penelope set up Doctor Who figurines throughout the room. “Yes,” you answered again.

“Oh,” she sighed, “How awful,” she commiserated.

While a corrupt precinct wasn’t a new concept to the BAU, that case had been particularly difficult on the team, and there had been a day, much like today, where you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to tell Spencer you loved him again.

You didn’t tell him you loved him before going to bed last night.

“It was, actually,” you remembered, previously buried memories of time spent in hospital rooms. Months ago, your roles had been reversed, and Spencer had been the one begging you to wake up.

After a moment, Diana leaned forward a bit, “Spencer,” she spoke to him, “I saw some cumuliform heaps today. His favorite clouds,” She added the last bit for you, “I plucked that for him,” she explained as Penelope came back into the room. “Everything is up there, and we pluck what we want when we want, and we let go what we don’t.”

Penelope grinned, “That sounds very good. Okay, I am plucking a memory about Spencer’s eyes, and they are brown with gold on the outside,” she posited. 

Diana hummed, “I think they’re gold on the inside.”

Tantalizingly slowly, Spencer’s eyes started to open, and your heart raced as a mix of emotions flooded through you. As your eyes met him, you smiled sadly and whispered, “Gold on the inside.”

“Hey,” Garcia said, the smile plain in her voice, “we were just plucking eye memories of you.”

He returned the smiles in the room, “I heard you.” Spencer hummed, “Forgot how much I loved those clouds, mom. You helped me remember.”

Diana grinned, any remaining trace of grief wiped from her face, “I did, huh?” Well, maybe I can come back tomorrow, and we can watch clouds together,” she offered.

“Am I still dreaming?” He asked rhetorically.

“Sweetie,” she cupped his cheek with a maternal gentleness, “You are very much alive.”

Once Diana was on her way back to Brookfield and Penelope – still not providing you with any details – left to go check in with the team, you rested your head on the armrest of his hospital bed, maintaining a watchful eye on him. “I love you,” you whispered to him after Dr. K left for the night.

He hummed, tired eyes looking back at you, “You’ve said that three times in the last ten minutes.”

“And?” You inquired, furrowing your brows.

The corner of his mouth quirked up, “And I love you too.”

You smiled at him, “Thank you for having a traumatic brain injury so I could delay my stepmother’s visit.”

At that, he fully grinned up at you, “It was all part of my plan.”

A thousand words rested on the tip of your tongue, asking him how he was feeling and about healthcare directives and how he chose his favorite cloud, but everything felt so important and so inconsequential at the same time.  

“You should go home,” he spoke before you had the chance to, “Get some good rest, sleep in a real bed.”

You shook your head succinctly, “I’m gonna stay here.”

He raised his eyebrows, “The nurses will keep coming in all night and wake you up,” he insisted, knowing well enough that the hospital chairs did not make for a good night’s rest.

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t have anywhere to be but here tomorrow,” you told him, thumbing the fabric of his hospital blanket as you insisted on staying.

Spencer shifted slightly on the bed, trying to get a better look at you, “You need to take care of yourself.”

His concern comforted you, but you still shook your head, “If I don’t stay here next to you, I’ll drive myself crazy. This is the best place for me.” You picked your head up, reaching out to cup his cheek and smiling to yourself when he leaned into your touch. “What’re you thinking about?”

His head lolled lazily on the pillows, brown eyes – with gold on the inside – studying your features like he was trying to make sense of something in his muddled brain, “I had a weird dream.”

Most of the time, Spencer didn’t give credit to dream analysis, so when he had dreams that he deemed inexplicable, he’d make his head spin trying to find a logical reason. “Maybe it’s a side effect of the seizure medication they put you on,” you proposed, skimming the apple of his cheek with the pad of your thumb.

Spencer didn’t look convinced, “I saw people while I was unconscious.” His attempt at explaining gave you more insight on what he was struggling with, he had a complicated relationship with the concept of the afterlife.

“Oh, yeah?” You asked softly, hoping the two of you could talk it out.

He nodded almost indeterminably, “Strauss, Foyet, Gideon,” he elaborated, opening his mouth to add another name, but he faltered when the time came.

“Your brain was looking for manifestations of guilt,” you analyzed, each of those deaths had affected him in one way or another. “Using your past traumas against you,” you continued.

He still seemed unsure, “I’m not sure that’s all of it, some of it, sure, but…”

Your chest ached at the confusion in his gaze, “Was there someone else you saw?”

He sighed, leaning his head back against the pillows and looking at the dimmed fluorescent lights of the hospital room, “A little kid. A girl,” he told you, closing his eyes as if he was trying to recall the child from his dream.

“Well,” you considered it, “If your brain was using the other three as a manifestation of guilt, maybe the little girl is a manifestation of hope. The part of your subconscious telling you to stay formed her to represent the people you can still help.”

Spencer frowned deeply, looking at you again, “I guess I assumed there was a deeper meaning to it.”

You raised your eyebrows, “What else do you think it could be?”

“I thought…” he faltered, “I’m not sure.”

“Are you alright?” Spencer asked you, already starting to walk through Dave’s house to where everyone was gathering on the patio.

You stood in the foyer, pressing your lips together as you shifted the strap of your purse over your shoulder before finally hanging it up. Looking up at Spencer, you dropped your arms to your sides, “What?”

His eyebrows furrowed in concern, “I asked if you were alright. Are you?”

Your eyes widened, “Oh, oh yeah. It’s just weird, you know? Pen leaving,” the half-truth slipped easily from your lips.

“It feels like everyone’s changing except for us,” he said, returning to you in the foyer so that the two of you could walk outside together.

“Ha,” you said humorlessly, “Right.” Penelope was leaving, having decided that Silicon Valley was too far for her, but landing a job with a nonprofit in D.C. and leaving the BAU behind. Emily was house hunting in Denver, not for a permanent move, but for something for her to share with Andrew.

You and Spencer were staying with the BAU, he wanted to split time between consulting and teaching, similar to what he had done during his sabbaticals. “Well,” he ceded, “We’re not changing much.”

The two of you emerged onto the patio hand-in-hand, being on the receiving end of welcoming smiles that had an air of relief. Everyone was still in that phase of remembering how grateful they were to have him around every time they saw him. “How ya feeling, kid?” Rossi asked, standing around the table with Krystall.

Spencer set his hand on the small of your back before responding, “Feeling great, and I’m starting back next week. Can’t let the team be down two members,” he mused, looking down at you reassuringly.

Next to you, Tara scoffed, “Oh, come on, teaching and consulting? You’re making me look bad.���

“Just doing what I love,” Spencer replied candidly.

Luke raised his champagne, “Hey, I will drink to that,”

You prepared yourself to turn down a drink, thinking up an excuse until Penelope stepped out onto the patio, “Uh, you’re not supposed to start the festivities until the belle of the ball has arrived,” she jokingly protested, giving everyone a little twirl in a very Garcia-fashion.

Leaning into Spencer slightly, the two of you watched as Luke put his hands up in defense, “Don’t worry, okay? ‘Cause this is gonna be the first of many.”

“Penelope!” Kristy called out from across the table, “Congratulations! Here I thought we were coming to celebrate Dave’s retirement, but Matt said it’s your farewell party. And you had like a hundred offers,” she said, beaming from across the table.

Garcia waved her hand in faux humility, “Oh, that’s only if you round up, but yes,” she said excitedly. “Anyway, it’s a nonprofit, it’s close to here, and the dress code is all FBI conservative like I’ve been having to do,” she said, ignoring the doubtful looks that were shared around the table.

“I’m still in denial that you’re leaving,” JJ told her mournfully, a slight frown on her face.

Matt shook his head, “It won’t be the same without you.”

“Better not be,” Penelope scolded, her tone suggesting that she found the idea ridiculous.

Emily leaned over the table to clarify for Kristy, “Dave decided he wasn’t going to retire. He didn’t want the team to go through too much of a transition all at once.”

“That’s ‘cause Dave’s never gonna actually do it,” Krystall interjected, saying what many members of the BAU had also thought.

“Hey,” Rossi protested in mock offense, “Look, being with you all, doing what few others can, that’s where I belong.” He turned to Garcia, “But this night is not about me. To our beloved Penelope – a salut.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Luke and Penelope wander off to the patio, the two of them seeking out water. You made a mental note to ask her what it was about just as Spencer approached you, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”

You waved off his concern, making your way over to the house, hoping there were hors d’oeuvres remaining in the kitchen. “I’m fine, this is Pen’s night,” you explained to Spencer as he followed you.

“Right, that’s reassuring,” he responded sardonically, trailing close behind you through the kitchen.

Turning back to him, you pleaded, “Can you let this go? Just for now.”

Spencer frowned, “I thought we were working on our communication.”

Silently, you cursed him for bringing up your therapist’s – who was likely going to have a field day when she found out – tactics. “Spence,” you complained, hating how your voice sounded like a whine.

“Y/N,” he answered in kind.

Groaning, you looked around the kitchen before dragging Spencer into the pantry by his shirt. You flipped the light on and looked up at him, “I had my yearly physical this morning.”

He knew this, in order to remain eligible to stay in the field, everyone needed to have a yearly physical performed by an FBI physician. The concern on his face deepened, “I- Are you okay?”

“I’m pregnant,” you breathed, the words that had been balancing on your tongue for the better of the day. You wished you had been able to give him a better announcement. A card or a onesie, anything would have been better than turning Rossi’s pantry into a confessional.

Instantly, you saw the gears turning in his head as he tried to do the math, “That would mean…” he started, eyes widening as he came to different conclusions.

You nodded, “I’ve been pregnant. They couldn’t give an accurate estimate based on just the blood test and I’ve been trying to figure it out, but-“

“Eight weeks,” Spencer answered, the concern refusing to waver as he studied your appearance.

He was looking for signs and trying to remember symptoms, and you didn’t blame him. You had always assumed you’d have some idea, but you were so shocked that the FBI physician had insisted that you lay down before driving home.

The same surprise was pasted across Spencer’s face now, his hands tentatively placed on either side of your waist, thumbs hovering over your abdomen, “You were pregnant when the house blew up in Reno.” His voice solemn as he held back any excitement, “Did the doctor… is everything alright?”

“He said if anything had happened as a result of the blast, we’d know by now,” you offered some reassurance, having shared the same worry when you found out that morning. You wanted him to be happy, because once Spencer was happy about this, you could be happy.

Spencer shifted his weight, “But you made an appointment with an obstetrician, right?”

Slouching slightly, you looked up at him, “First thing Monday morning. Spencer-“

“If I had known, I never would’ve let you go to Nevada,” he interrupted, instantly protective.

“Spencer,” you startled him, “Are you happy?”

He paused and your chest ached more and more with every moment he remained silent, “Did you think that I wouldn’t be?”

You released a small sigh of relief, smiling at him sheepishly, “It’s just… it’s a surprise,” you offered quietly. “Is it awful timing?”

“No,” he insisted, pulling you in by the waist and wrapping his arms around you. He leaned his head down, tucking his face into the crook of your neck, “It’s perfect,” he reassured you. “I love you,” he whispered, voice muffled as he held you tightly – held you together.

The two of you remained that way until a knock at the door came, “Hey, uh,” Luke’s voice rang out from the other side of the door, “If you guys are doing freaky shit in Rossi’s pantry he’s gonna be pissed.”

Standing up straight, you clasped your hand over your mouth in an attempt to cover up your laugh. Spencer looked equally as amused, dropping a kiss to your lips before reaching behind you to open the door, revealing Luke and his impish grin.

He threw his hands up in the air, looking at the both of you as he walked backward out the door, “I was sent in to get you. Rumor has it they’re about to play the belle of the ball’s favorite song.”

You and Spencer shared a knowing look, “Heroes,” the both of you said in unison.

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[halcyone-of-the-sea]

First off I LOVE your writing, I’m so happy you’re taking requests again so, may I please request something with Ghost? Like the reader is part of the 141 and Ghost has a soft spot for her and is very protective of her and both having feelings for each other but not saying anything bc both think the other one deserves better or just something like that🥹😮‍💨💖🙏🏻 feel free to keep practicing smut for this one!👀✨

You’re awesome 🥰💞

Blood Was Its Avatar

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Getting close to you was never his plan, but when he can't stop his self-protective instincts from pushing you away, will he be able to repair your strange friendship? Or will his body have to speak for him? (18+)

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, wounds, stitches, death, smut, p in v, throat f-ing, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, implied pain kink, hair pulling, hate sex? but not really?, semi-clothed sex, vulgar language, fluff at the end, etc. just pure filth.

A/N: This is sub-par because I was up until 4 in the morning today and didn't have the energy to edit in-depth lmfao, but enjoy Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

All of Ghost’s problems started and ended with you. He was impressed with that fact, actually. 

They call you ‘Masque’ on account of the mission from years back, ‘07 Ghost recalls easily. When you’d been pinned down and surrounded, the dead bodies of your unit all around your feet. You’d chosen to act while the others had been yelling orders over the radio—rooting around the pooling blood on the ground and slathering your face with it; your body. 

You pretended to be dead. 

Quick thinking, Ghost had told you with a glint in his eye when you’d gotten back, those whites of your eyes ten times more noticeable. Like the moon hanging around a crimson-drowned sky. 

You’d cursed him out and said of course it was, quoting some poem from Edgar Allen Poe as a joke.

“Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.” The Masque of the Red Death. Your claim to survival apparently, as you had just read it a day before.

Ghost said you were bloody fucking crazy and found his eyes darkly watching the way you smirked at him. How the dried blood on your lips would splinter at your loud chuckle as you both entered the C17.

As he knew—all of his problems started and ended with you. Today was no different.

“Damn! Lookin’ good today Ghost, are those new gloves I spy?” You were always so…bubbly. 

“Masque,” the masked-man greats blandly, not even sparing you a look as you enter the meeting room. The screen on the far wall was hooked up to Price’s computer—broadcasting its news out into the dim lighting with images of mayhem and a loop of a video containing the bombing of an embassy building in the Netherlands. 

Profile pictures stain the screen of wanted subjects; captured or killed in the crossfire made no difference here, anyone could see it. 

You drop down into the seat beside his own with a huff, body shed of your usual black gear, and wearing casual fatigues instead—your tags jump on your chest and Ghost sees them glint in the light.

Your face shifts into a smile, prodding with a bump of your elbow. The Lieutenant turns and glares dryly while you carry on, “I asked if you got new gloves; they’re nice.” 

“Needed ‘em.” Ghost drawls, seeing no way out of this as he glances around at the multitude of other free seats. No one else was here yet, and Price had needed to step out for a moment to grab another report from his office one floor up. 

A small grunt echoes from his throat before his eyes dart back to yours. Shifting in his seat, his lax posture tenses before loosening. 

Raising a brow at Ghost, you stifle a laugh.

“That’s it?” He blinks at you slowly, those bright blues trapping you as they shine out from his skeletal visage; his great body hidden under layers of Kevlar and thick canvas cloth. Like some weird and deadly present. You tease him, “No attempt at a conversation, Ghosty? That hurts.”

You sarcastically put a hand to your chest. 

“Then suffer.” Ghost states like he’s reading the newspaper, stretching out one of his wrists by rolling it until it cracks the joints. Where was everyone else? “I’m not fuckin’ talking about bloody gloves, Masque.”

“It’s called a conversation starter!” Under the mask, he raises a dull eyebrow. You glower at him, but the smirk on your lips shows how much you enjoy this.  

“For who? Could have jus’ stayed quiet, then.” Scoffing, you roll your eyes and indulge him—pointedly going silent. Almost immediately an awkward nothingness covers the room with its metaphorical blanket and Ghost’s muscles slowly go stiff as he crosses his arms slowly over his chest. You bite your lip and stamp down a snort. 

A minute spreads like molasses. Two. Three. Five.

“Alright,” Ghost growls, breaking as you pick at your cuticles, humming horribly off-tune to a point where the Lieutenant’s ears were ringing and annoyance faired. “Fucking hell stop it, just say something already to shut up that noise. Sounds like my damn brakes squealin’.” 

You stop and laugh loudly, elbowing him again as he jerks away with a low grunt. Blue flashes, and his heart pounds.

“Jeez, Lieutenant, is my humming that bad for you?” The air rolls with tension.

“More effective than torture.” Ghost utters, his Manchester drawl violent and thick as it coats your ears. You take no offense—you’d been doing it on purpose, anyways; always the one to exploit cracks in the concrete. You'd found out a lot through your studies of the man beside you. Mostly, all of the small tics and unique qualities that made Ghost such a strange character. 

On the battlefield, the large man was resilient and patient. He could wait in one spot for days if he had to, sitting for a perfect shot. Nothing could break the line of purpose and authority he had over the units he was placed in or his fighting spirit. Gunbattles, torture, you name it he’d survived it. 

But he disliked anything below scalding hot tea, detested his objects and packs being messed with…and clenched his hidden jaw at small, repetitive, noises.

Low, horrible, humming, tapping fingers, tongues clicking over and over. You had no idea why, but the sight of making this experienced and handsome man glare at you with annoyance made your face heat up. 

You chuckle in the meeting room, eyes crinkling up at him before you reach for one of the pens and notepads on the table. Clicking the bottom, you shrug and start to scribble nothing into the side margins as blue ink bleeds like foreign blood. 

“What’s Price got for us today, then?” Your voice echoes, “We shipping out with the others or going Black again?” 

The Captain usually paired the two of you up for Black Ops for a reason—Ghost the strategic mastermind to your reckless bloodlust. Push and pull. 

Missions were rarely a failure. 

Ghost sighs, finally getting the sensation of control back into him. “Black,” he begins, “least for us. Old Man’s sending Garrick and Johnny out in hopes of drawin’ a few bastards out first. Netherlands. We slip in the back—off the books, ‘course.” 

He watches you from the side of his eye, gaze following your pen as you sketch out a small stick figure with a skull for a face. Ghost stifles a huff as he scratches at the side of his face.

“Well, of course,” you slyly tease, glancing at him before looking back to your pad. “Are we getting any soldiers?” 

“None. Just us.” 

“Ooo,” Ghost watches your lips curl and feels his body slowly still. “Sounds like fun.”

“It sounds like I’m going to have to babysit again,” you laugh again and dark blue seems to spark with some strange emotion. Ghost clears his throat and takes down a breath.

“Oh, please,” you chuckle, “I’ve saved your hide a few times before, Ghosty, be nice to me.”

“Nice isn’t in the job description, Masque.” 

“Well, it isn’t for you, grumpy. I think Johnny and Gaz are lovely.” Your nose tilts up teasingly as Ghost grumbles like a cat. “But that’s alright, I like you anyways.” Winking, you go back to your pointless scribbling as footsteps echo from the hallway. 

Ghost stares, his hands on the armrests slowly clenching into fists as he studies your expression. His eyes slid over scars and blemishes he’d already looked at a million times over, seeing in his mind’s eye the stains of blood and that every present smile—the burn of your presence beside him like a brand in his stomach. You never seemed to let him get too far away from you on Ops, but it wasn’t some form of obsession. It was worry; he’d seen it. 

You didn’t like it when you couldn’t see his back ahead of yours. Ghost guessed it had to do with your lost unit. He never pressed it. 

In fact, he’d noticed himself not eager to see you off himself. Had spent many a night in the onsite gym after missions because of it, where he’d given you the cold shoulder after. He didn’t like that feeling. That hesitation. 

Ghost knew only to trust people as much as he had to…so why did he like when you said nice things to him? His jaw clenches, shoulders rolling to dispel tension as he rips his eyes away from your body as if you were fire incarnate. Your head perks up at the sound of talking voices getting closer to the meeting room. 

Soap and Gaz enter a few moments later and Price shuffles in behind them. You smile warmly and greet them, shifting the notepad closer to yourself nonchalantly. 

Ghost grunts and stays stationary, straightening up when he realizes he's slightly leaned toward you during your conversation. His new gloves pull taunt over his knuckles and he suddenly wants to rip them off. 

—

You begin to wonder when you’ll be free from blood coating your fingers but know deep down you never will be. At least, not if this was how you’d be getting covered in it.

Sitting inside the hotel bedroom, you slowly extract a blood-coated bullet from Ghost's large thigh, grimacing when he grunts from over you. You’re in between his legs, kneeling, as the metal finally breaks free from the skin barrier—the entry wound is small but nonetheless dangerous. His pants were cut from thigh to knee, a long spit that showed pale, scarred skin. 

Keeping a tight grip on the forceps, you hum under your breath in satisfaction. 

“No bullet fragments—lucky you.” 

Ghost forces out, “Yeah, feelin’ proper lucky.” You chuckle, moving back and dropping the bullet to a food plate you’d put on the floor. Shuffling, you take up the rag placed over your upper arm and bring it back up. Patting the gushing wound, you frown and think back on the events that got you here as the Lieutenant shifts and bites his tongue. 

The intensity in his blue eyes burns into you, lungs deeply inhaling with a silent breath. Your fingers tingle, but you diligently press the fabric to the wound and try to ignore the heat from Ghost’s flesh or how his legs flinch with every trail of your nails. His muscles are pure iron around you, and you’re suddenly very aware of the position you’re in. 

Swallowing stiffly, you sigh and notice him slightly shiver when your breath caresses his upper leg. You stop immediately, lips going tight.

It had been fifteen minutes earlier when Soap and Gaz had set up in a far more open and less secluded hotel three blocks away—directly across from the base location for your gaggle of targets. As planned, you and Ghost would be off the books and go in when they were too distracted by the Sergeants’ in plain sight. 

Fire was supposed to be the cover story. Go in, take care of business, and set the place alight after the area was clear of civilians. But no one was counting on the targets being surrounded by three more friends. 

Of course, guns lead to bullets and bullets to flesh. You can still hear the ringing in your head when Ghost had jerked you to the slide and shoved you behind the far wall—skull snapping back to look in horror as his leg exploded with gore. 

Fucking bastard had been distracted by you and hadn’t had time to dodge. That wasn’t Ghost, but then again, Ghosty wasn’t quite the same, was he? Least, not to you.

“You’re a fool, you know that?” You huff, something swirling in your chest as your gloves peel the layer of cut pants farther down to see better. “You should have looked after yourself.”

“And what?” Ghost grumbles, letting you do what you wanted to him.  “Let you get fuckin’ shot, Masque—you have a bloody death wish?” His last word comes off with a growl as you press tighter into his thigh. 

His hand instantaneously snaps out to grasp the back of your hair tightly with an instinctual low groan. Naturally, a small whine exits your lips in retaliation.

You both freeze and the room jumps up to a hundred degrees; your lower body flips as your skin burns a million degrees. Fingers still, you feel your breath hitch when his calloused fingers scrape your scalp, your hair in his expansive palm. It was a pure reaction you knew, and when you’d asked him to let you help out with this problem you had thought this might happen—he’s a soldier after all, just like you.

But he hadn’t denied you. If anything, since six missions back, you were the only person who he wanted to work on him. He’d never said why. 

You look up at him from the side, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Ghost’s heart skips beats before he clears his throat, snapping his hand back immediately and slamming it to the mattress. A second of strained silence settles where you both try to forget what the fuck just happened.

“Keep bloody going then,” He says, deep and grating to a point where you shove down a shiver. Your head feels light off of his scent, and you have to ask yourself why you’re feeling so feverish all of a sudden. 

You bite your lip and nod, hand moving away to grab at the sanitized needle and thread with your forceps—dropping the rag back onto your forearm to let it hang. For once in your life you’re left mute by his actions. 

Mute to the fact that you’d liked them. 

Your face burns like a hidden fire; epidermis alight with the strength to rival the flames the two of you had started fifteen minutes ago. Lungs stutter and hands inside the gloves go clammy. It’s only after you were halfway done with the stitches that you mutter words.

“Shouldn’t have taken that bullet, Ghost.” He had been stone still the entire time, hands clenched beside him and his thighs like rocks. Feet firmly planted. It was like he was barely breathing, too. 

Ghost blankly stares, staying quiet as you continue. 

“You were distracted. That never happens.” His form was almost entirely shadowing you; great spanning shoulders from above tight like a looming statue. You dig the needle deeper with a push of the forceps, threading through yielding skin with quick punctures. He doesn’t even flinch. 

Ever since ‘07, there was an obvious aversion to partners stemming from you. You distanced yourself from forming close bonds with those who you hadn’t already known. In many ways, Ghost and the others of One-Four-One were the closest you could get to people now.

Ghost, you admit, was far closer than all the others combined. 

But this sentiment was known—both the aversion and the care you held. The Lieutenant wasn’t good with words, but he knew how to read you better than anyone; the way you carried yourself. He knew you didn’t like it when he got hurt in front of you. 

Ghost had to ask why he even bothered to shove you out of the way, regardless. You would have been fine. So why had his eyes gone wide and his iris flared with a dead glow when he’d seen the gun swivel in your direction? The man grunts at a deep dig from your sutures but you continue to mutter to yourself as he glares at the far wall, venom-like. 

His sin was that he had grown to care about you. His burden and his curse. 

This couldn’t continue. 

Ghost looks down at you with a sheen of distanced nonchalant-ness and when you lent back with a sigh of your lips, his body moved. You blink in surprise as you feel his muscles bunch and before you know it you’re being grabbed harshly by the arms and lightly shoved to the side. 

“Ghost!” You snap, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stands to his feet—blood training down his thigh and kneecap before disappearing back under the stained cargos. “What the fuck?! I’m not done with it.” 

Attempting to stomp closer, he swivels his head to you as his spine goes formal. Your feet stall from under you and your veins pump faster, forceps and slick gloves freezing mid-air. 

You blink. He’d only ever looked at you like that when you’d first met. 

Blue is a silent sheen of ice and cold death; black sockets behind his mask are more like voids holding chilled sapphires. 

Why was he looking at you like he didn’t know you? Once more you say, confused and suddenly small, “Ghost?” 

“Enough.” His voice was monotone and barky, the tone final. Your fingers tense at the sound. What…what was this? “You need to get your head back on, Masque. I can’t watch over you like a bloody Private every time you get stiff-legged, copy?” 

Your jaw slackens. Inside, your heart smashes itself into your ribs in a violent pang. There’s a moment of complete and utter silence in which Ghost remains standing with concrete tied to his feet. He sees the flash of confused hurt in your eyes, the way your muscles jump for a moment.

A suffocating wave of regret strikes him, but he felt like he had to do this—keep up boundaries. Even if his throat was closing in an attempt to make him shut up. 

Ghost’s accent makes him sound harsh and unforgiving. “Price’ll need us back in fifteen. Get your shit together.” 

He bends down and snatches bandages with a quick hand, beelining to the bathroom and closing the door with a firm hand. Blankly, you stare at the barrier as the wall rattles; face burning—unable to speak beyond a small sound in the back of your mouth. 

The two of you stay separated for the remainder of the time, not speaking, and not moving from your respective areas. 

When Ghost finally leaves ten minutes after he’d pushed back the self-loathing and guilt, freshly bandaged, he finds your stuff already gone. He glances around the area slowly, taking in the wails of the fire trucks from blocks away and the neighboring rooms of the hotel as residents speak in mutters from behind walls. The air is cold and lifeless. 

He grabs his things in total silence, swallowing down saliva paired with long breaths. Ghost’s eyes remain tight. Body wound and coated in rigidity that could rival a rhino’s armored plates.

Mind whirling, but still ever mute, he leaves the hotel and heads to the coordinates Price had given the two of you alone. The absence of your warm body beside his was more jarring than anything he’d expected to experience.

Ghost didn’t want to admit how many times his eyes trailed to the empty concrete at his left.

—

When you lose something in someone, you tend to lose it hard. Thus still, that was the case here. Ghost and you always jabbed at each other—it was in your nature to do so—but this was different. The Lieutenant could be cold, but…never to the extent to shove you away from helping him with his wounds. 

Both of you always did that with the other, if that be physically or just being in the same room, while getting fixed up. 

If Ghost didn’t want you around for whatever rage-inducing reason, you weren't going to grovel or beg. The sudden switch-up still stabbed you in the heart though. 

On the second week, it got easier. 

You passed by Ghost without a single comment, shifting into the meeting room once more. He grunts as you shimmy through the door right before him, his feet halting before he runs into you. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Masque, you lost your bloody eyes or something?” You don’t answer, blankly walking to the end of the table and taking the single chair with steady steps; sitting down and dragging a notepad to your general area. 

Blinking, you look up at the projection and skim the small details they give over. 

Ghost stares from the doorway, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he slips inside and slowly strides to the table. 

The days had been difficult for him, struggling to re-situate himself to his isolation after you’d been with him for years. Sure he had Johnny, Gaz, and Price, but you were…

Ghost places a veiny hand on the back of a chair about four down from yours, knuckles white as he’d shed his gloves not five minutes ago. His eyes stay stuck to the tabletop, hips shifting. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard to push you out. Not only physically but mentally. 

He found himself thinking of your face at night. Like a phantom, it would snap into his consciousness when the lights went out and the shadows got long. Your smile and your skin. How your fingers would gently press into his flesh when you were threading a needle through him—shivers of pleasure and pain intertwined by the scrape of your nails. 

Ghost’s hand tightens on the chair, and you spare him a tense glance as he seemingly fights within his mind. 

The Lieutenant wonders at your willpower and your drive. He spent the weeks hating that he had gotten what he wanted, and then he hated himself more because of that fact. It was good to keep you away from him. Not only for himself but for you. 

You both were becoming too….attached. Ghost would have none of it. It had bled over into him using his own body to protect yours that was just…was just…

“...Those new tags, then?” You look away from the screen and shift your gaze to him as his voice bounces. 

Around your neck, the new reflective metal of your new dog tags glint. Your heart skips when he speaks to you, but he still doesn’t look your way.

“That an apology?” Deadpanning, your unimpressed gaze glares into his face as his hand strangles the chair. 

The room returns to strained silence. You huff.

“Pretty shitty one there, asshat.” Ghost’s shoulders roll under his gear, a great sigh quickly exiting him. Everyone had noticed the tension over time—it was becoming a detriment to the team.

The Lieutenant’s blue eyes darken, and in his body, a great heat was beginning to burn. Just looking at you provoked lucid and vulgar thoughts, and as the dim light from the projector makes shadows on your face, Ghost traces them with a chained desire. Being away from you was a physical pain to him, but he also knew that being around you was worse. 

All of Ghost’s problems may have started and ended with you, but they also grew in his own head. They’d been there in the back corners ever since he’d given you your nickname; found out he liked the way your face was wet with spilled blood and sweat. Your body. Your hands on the hard flesh of his upper thigh…trailing up... 

Ghost’s pants get tight as he stares without saying anything. Watching you scribble on your notepad. Glaring. 

“Why can’t I get you out of my fucking head?” Your ears twitch at the low growl as if coming from a beast; seconds later, your brain catches up to process the words. Your pen stops its pointless scrawling just as your breath does. Ghost spits out, seeing your form straighten in the chair, “Every bloody thought, you’re right there!” 

His boots stomp to the floor, and before you know it a hand is trapping the back of your head, fingers carding through hair to angle your chin up. Your breath gasps out as your wide eyes lock on Ghost’s, his hold tight but not uncomfortable; as if he knows the perfect amount of pressure to make your blood surge and your pupils expand.

You stare into volatile blue with silver flecks, a skeletal mask stained from dirt and blood. Ghost’s thumb digs into your scalp. 

“Answer me, Masque,” he grunts, accent so thick you momentarily struggle to string the words together in your stupor. 

Ghost’s nose is close to yours; breathing in each other’s air as the temperature rises. Your throat bobs with a swallow. Below you, you feel your legs clench together as the Lieutenant's fingers lightly pull on your roots when you don’t respond—small sparks of electricity run down your spine that make it straighten instinctually. A soft purr flies from your lips; face on fire as your lashes flutter. Your hands clench at the dull pulse in your lower body.

The Brit’s dead eyes stare down at you, glinting; studying you deeply with growing satisfaction in his heart and tension in his boxers. 

You both glare half-lidded, panting, and flesh heated. 

“Is this your apology?” He tightens his hand and you bite your lip, small whine meeting his ears as he represses a groan at the sound. Your voice was breathy but smug. 

“You fucking wanted this, you naughty little beast,” Ghost growls, moving even closer to tower over you. “You’re playin’ me.” You mold into him as you still sit in your chair, your chin set onto his upper abdomen as the midsection of your breasts presses into his crotch; brushing against his hardened bulge firmly. 

You shiver at the feeling, your core leaking out slippery fluids to stain through your pants one second at a time. Every twitch of his fingers leaves you wanting to arch into him. Feel him.

Ghost feels your hands go to wrap his open thighs, nails digging into the back of his pants as his mouth opens under the mask to force out air. 

“You liked me in between your legs, didn’t you?” Your tiny, teasing, voice serenades him as he quickly begins to lose control of his composure. 

“Shut it,” Ghost grunts, mind yelling at him to move away, “Shut your damn mouth.” 

Those pupils were so wide his eyes were almost entirely black, feral chest moving quickly. 

“I already know why you snapped at me…” One of your hands travels back to the Lieutenant’s front, skin tingling at the scratch of a belt and the rough fabric of his cargos. You leave it over his crotch and add a tight amount of pressure; mouth lightly opening at the weight and size of him as Ghost grunts deeply, thighs jerking forward. 

Blinking at his glassy eyes you breathe out into thick air and the veiled threat of something more. His hand in your hair is so tight that you feel your pulse under the tendrils—you enjoy every second of this cat-and-mouse game. 

After all, no one knew who the mouse was yet.

You rub your hand up and down and watch Ghost’s clothed dick, feeling his muscles straining to keep himself in control. He lets you continue as he watches with a clenched jaw, his pants getting gradually wet with precum; hips twitching. 

“...You can’t get enough of me touching you, can you?” Your statement ignites something immediately, and you’re being grabbed by your shoulders and forced to your feet. 

Staring wildly, you cringe at the soaking patch under your clothes but let Ghost place your backside on the table. He presses into your hips to keep you there—legs opened and feet planted to the floor below on their tip-toes.

The man breathes like a lion, nose in front of yours. You slightly smirk at the far-off haze in his eyes, lust and pleasure blending and bleeding into the almost bruising hold he uses to press you down.

He watches you for a minute or two—taking in your scent and the rabid instinct that infects the both of you now that everything was on the table. 

You knew you were right; he knew you were right. Licking your lips you look down and stare at his blatant hard-on hungrily. Your brow raises slowly.

“You going to let me take care of that, Ghosty?” He’s up and locking the door after he slims it shut.

“This is it,” Ghost grunts, “one time, Masque. That’s fucking it, you hear?” 

“Awe,” You cue, swishing your legs as he stomps back over, hand grasping his belt and whipping it off with a flex of his forearm. Your core tightens, hips trying to press back into the table. “That's so cute. You think once is enough.” 

A hand captures your jaw, “I said,” he breathes, the other hand going to shift up the bottom of his mask up to his nose. You gasp at the sight of blond stubble and milky scars. A strong jaw wound like a spring. Ghost’s musk invades your nose and you feel your palms so clammy. “...Shut it.”

Hard lips slam into yours.

Like some game between the two of you, your mouths fight one another with aggressive grunts stuck in your throats, sharp inhales of air between partings. Ghost’s lips mold and conform to yours, clinging around the supple flesh—there’s a deep-rooted intensity, a hunger, and a desire mixed with sweet stubbornness. The tang of metal and old canvas opens to you just as your mouth does when his teeth bite down at your skin.

Quickly sucking down breaths, you feel his tongue push past layers and slip into your awaiting clutch; Ghost groans lowly and explores as his hands bare down into your hips, one making its way to grip at your hair again. Your own dig into his waist as he leans over you. 

He latches onto your hair and peels you back from him, tongue sliding out of your mouth as he moves to nip at your chin—angling your head whichever way he wants to. Your skin burns as the man bites down at your neck, hot saliva stuck to your lips as your chest pants fast with a low whine at the mixture of pain and bliss. 

Below you, your legs are wide to allow Ghost to stand between you, his firmness leaving your hips canting at every hickey he leaves behind and how he shivers into you as you move against him. It was addicting to him—your taste and how your flesh yields to him as he clamps down on it ruthlessly and rapidly. In no time he’d traveled the length of the area behind your ear and down the swell of your shoulder; shirt pushed back by his nose.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, eyes glassy as you blankly stare into the far wall over the Lieutenant’s shoulder; your panties are soaked through and the evidence can be felt. A long whine exits your chest when Ghost licks at the deep marks he left behind, blown eyes coming back to stare at you head-on as if in a trance.

His lips are red and swollen, mouth open with silent, fast, breaths. His large chest moves quickly over yours. He orders you in a hoarse voice; strained, “Get on your knees.” 

Licking your lips your widened gaze stays locked on his, the hand in your hair tight and keeping you away from slamming your mouth back to his. The air is electric, both of your bodies yielding to one another's even if you don’t realize it. 

As much as you wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at the comment, to make him apologize to you for what he’s done, you realize that your body has already complied with the request. Slipping off the table, Ghost watches like a hawk and backs up two steps—feet splayed as you move for him. Your knees slowly lower you down to the floor, connecting with the carpet as you sag, fists clenched and shaking. 

There’s a small, heart-pounding, pause. “...Good girl.”

Your jaw drops at the smirk on Ghost’s face and those flashing dead eyes of his, blood thumping with a newly ingrained need. You swallow and feel your throat bob; legs shifting to push back the inner-body itch that grows by the second. 

“Now you can listen to me, yeah? Such a slut for it.” Ghost’s hands slowly trail to his pant’s zipper, sliding the piece down the teeth with barely audible metal on metal. Your fingers twitch at every small pop; how the zipper itself had to move forward with the strain of his sizable erection. You can’t even look away from it—how his pants are stiff against tense thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rucked up to show the black ink of tattoos.

Ghost had tattoos. 

When the teeth had run out and the man’s hands grappled for the waistband of both his cargo and his boxers, you’d found out you’d been staring the entire time, pupils so wide they matched Ghost’s and the black stain of his face-paint. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Masque,” he grunts, knuckles white and going still, “bet your pretty little cunt is soaked and I ‘aven’t even shown you my bloody dick yet, eh? Well, the thing’ll ‘ave to wait, I’m puttin’ that mouth to good use first. Teaching it who to listen to.”

You startle back, blinking away the burning heat on your cheeks that leaves you uncharacteristically stuttering at the vulgar degradation. But Ghost doesn’t notice, doing what he can to move the various straps along his thighs and his upper hips to be able to free himself quickly—eager and dripping to be down your throat. 

The throat and mouth he’d fantasized about for ages. 

Stiffing down a whiny moan, you finally see the veiny girth of Ghost’s cock as it comes free over the top of the tight white cotton of his boxers; a happy trail extending up his visible abdomen when his wrist snatches it out. 

“Put to good use?” You breathe out, “Christ, you’re going to make me fucking mute, Ghosty.” 

“Well, Sweetheart,” he breathes a sigh of relief as he plays with the leaking tip with his thumb. Your hands itch to brush against your achy clit, the pressure in your chest almost enough to make you sob at the sheer nothingness. Sweat glistens over your forehead. Eyes glare at you as you watch thighs tense and loosen. “That’ll be fine by me. Don’t need you speaking when I’m paintin’ your damn cunt with my cum, do I?” 

Jesus, you both were in the fucking meeting room. Going to fuck in the meeting room. 

You lick your lips and stare as Ghost stalks close again, gripping your chin and opening your jaw with his thumb and first finger. His dick was right in front of you, and you can smell sex and sweat like an animalistic aphrodisiac as it coats your brain with lust as you moan out. 

Your arms tense with a want to reach and touch it, watch as Ghost falls apart below the twist of your wrist. It was so addictive you feel yourself clench at the visual, your body shivering violently. 

“Oi, fucking focus.” Your tongue sneaks out and licks Ghost’s finger and he feels his grip tighten on you with a puff of hot air. “Little brat.” 

He stares into your mouth and breathes deeply as a smirk peels the edges of your lip. Blue swirls with anticipation. 

“Keep it open, then.” Ghost’s hand drops from you and you easily keep your mouth open as his hand goes back to his cock, grasping it firmly as the other finds the top of your head. You shiver and shift your thighs under you, your body striking like a drum to oxycontin and adrenaline. “That’s a girl…” The Lieutenant growls, and the tip of his dick slips into your saliva-dripping mouth with hidden fever. “Fuck.” 

Your eyes flutter at the taste, letting him maneuver your face closer to the base as your hands snap to his thighs—nails digging in and eliciting a sharp inhale as you press into the two-week-old wound under his pants. Ghost curses under his breath but watches in flooding pleasure at the image of his cock disappearing farther and farther into you. Inch by inch you tell yourself to breathe through your nose; feeling the make of his veins and the mushroomed tip traveling farther and farther back. 

Moaning in the base of your neck, Ghost instinctually jerks his hips at the sound, feral grunts trapped in his chest. Your eyes go wide with the prickle of tears, not from pain but from the surprise as you gag. His hold on your hair tightens and you mewl as he continues to lose himself to the feeling of your wet heat. 

He was so big it was like your throat was ripping new sinews just for him, and you reveled in every moment of the feeling of his predatory gaze.

“So bloody tight for me—can’t wait to be in that cunt of yours…can’t be better than this. Have to test it.” He talks more when he’s horney. 

Slightly gagging again at the sheer size, his palming hand presses you deeper and you take him as well as you’re able, still space between your nose and his pelvis as your knees dig harder into the ground. Ghost groans gutturally, head slightly lulling back and panting like a dog, looking down at your red eyes and far-off gaze. Your hands kneed his upper thighs and he smirks slowly. 

Without another word and with sweat staining him under his uniform, bits and bobs from his gear start to clink together and dance as his hips set a rough pace; you find your head being puppeteered back and forth with his thrusts as your scalp flames from his hold. Tears burn immediately.

“Yeah, that’s it—such a good little slut for me, Masque. Gettin’ it down, fuck,” Ghost pants, as you hollow your cheeks, back arching into you and leaving your nostrils flaring to take down air for your spasming lungs. The sight above you was sinful. 

Your Lieutenant in full gear, pants and skin-tight boxers stretching and shoved down just under the clutch of his crotch. With every back-and-forth motion, the zipper grazes the underside of your engorged throat as every vein can be undoubtedly seared into your esophagus like a brand. 

Ghost’s eyes flutter and flinch, but never once does his hazy gaze leave your mouth as he continues to jerk your head back and forth. Saliva drips drown your chin and the nearly painful burn in your navel lets you know how true this was a relief not only for Ghost but for you as well. You wanted to touch yourself, but you can’t stop touching the Brit—not for a second. Shit, you think you could fall apart just by looking at this; you were sure Ghost was thinking the same thing. 

“Look at that, makin’ such a fucking mess of you.” His abdomen tightens and rolls with every jerk and rut, and your eyes roll back with a deep whine in the back of your throat when he hits the back of your throat. Sweat splatters down your temple as the air is steeped with animalistic desperation. Ghost whines thickly in answer and seems to speed up as your hands claw at his thighs. “You like that, pet? Huh? Being my little cock-sleeve.” 

Your nails dig deeper into his flesh and he shivers wildly; eyes flash at the sight of himself disappearing into you and exiting just after as the slap of wet skin reverberates. The tension in his chest increases and he starts to desperately kneed at your hair. 

“If I’d known you’d take it down like this, I’d-I’d have made you hate me sooner, yeah?” Tension fizzles up his jaw and you know he’s close by how he bites down into his lip and tilts his head back. 

Instinctual tears travel down your sweat-slick face, the thought of being used like this vulgar and as dirty as the sounds that echo in your throat and strike down your spine. 

“Fucking hell,” Ghost gasps, and his pace stutters as he twists your locks. Your teeth graze along his flesh as you dig your thumb into his wound to steady yourself. Whining loudly, the action seems to get to the man using your mouth for his pleasure, as not three rough thrusts later the warm feeling of his cum splatters the back of your throat in thick, hot, spurts. 

Choking for a moment, the widening of your eyes meets Ghost’s fluttering lashes from above. His free hand goes behind you to slam onto the tabletop; back curved over you as he shakes and sputters as he rides out his high. 

Cum drips out of the seams of your stretched lips, and with a deep breath through your nose, your hand lowers from Ghost’s thighs as you carefully pull your face back from his pelvis. The sensation of his cock leaving your mouth and bringing saliva and his fluids with it was animalistic at best, they spill to the floor and off of your chin like a small river. 

Licking your lips, you swallow what you can and try to catch your breath as your chest rages. Blinking rapidly, your eye twitches as you bring a hand up to your sore and ragged throat, Ghost’s heaving body stiff and hunched as he stares at the table blankly. Sweat dribbles down the side of his nose, sneaking out from under the top side of his mask. 

There’s a long minute of nothingness as you both try to breathe and understand the gravity of what you’ve both done. And then you both lock eyes and stare. 

The air stills over as Ghost’s large pupils stare at the mess on your face—seeing it drip down your throat as you tilt your chin up to him. His chest purrs like a cat and you don’t even think he realizes that he does it. 

Two seconds later you’re being manhandled up to the top of the table, backside hitting it as a hand goes to your belt. Lips connect with yours and groan at the taste, the clinking of metal hitting your ears as you submit to his prodding tongue as it licks along your inner flesh. 

Your fingers snap to trail around Ghost’s neck, moaning into him as he slips his hands into your pants, pulling back and ordering, “Up.” Eager and filled with lust, you raise your legs and he rips them down to your knees, dragging you closer to the edge. 

“Good girl.” He smirks, black-smeared eyes creased. If you could speak you’d tell him to shut up and fuck you already. 

Your slick skin meets the air and you gasp, Ghost’s hands waste no time trailing up the flesh of your hips, pitching to make you jump. Glaring, you try to drag him back into you but he’s built like stone, clicking his tongue. When his fingers collect the fluids that drip out of you, you whimper at the stimulation—two calloused fingers getting entranced by that as they stop at your clit. You stare desperately into amused blue eyes as he pressed deep, your thighs tensing as they jerk. 

“Any more of this and you’ll stain the table, won’t you, Sweetheart? I get you this worked up, yeah? Bloody hell.” You pant, and lines form on your forehead at the indecent circling of his fingers; not being gentle as he sees your mouth open and your lungs gasp. Sharp spikes form in your thighs, and they move in tandem with Ghost. “Look at that…” 

Deep chuckles mock you, but you both know this has to be fast—and with how worked up you were, it would be. 

“Alright, then, brat,” Ghost takes his hand away and you whimper before he grunts and grips you by the shoulders. Your lust turns to confusion. “Suppose you did well. Let’s make this quick, eh? Got work to do.” 

Flipped around, you squeak as your clothed chest meets the table, ass presented as your feet scramble to connect with the floor. Surprised, you whip your head to the side to stare back at a highly smug Ghost as one of his hands goes to grab onto your supple flesh, massaging it before it sneaks to your hip. 

“Easy with it, I’ll take care of you, Masque.” In little to no time he’s lining himself up with your dripping pussy, so wet it’s easy except for the fact that he’s huge enough to make you mute by a blowjob. Your back arches into the table with a long moan as the length slowly spears you open, instinctually widening your legs as best as you’re able. 

Closing your eyes, you press one of your hands to your mouth to stifle your noises, thighs spasming as Ghost curses under his breath; gear clinking into each other.

“So bloody tight.” With a swift thrust and a knock of your pelvis to the edge of the table, your eyes burn with the feeling of holding Ghost in your most intimate area and the knowledge that he would completely wreck it for anyone else. Your lungs fight for air, but a long mewl exits your fingers as the man shakes over you with restraint. “Christ.”

Tight wasn’t the way to describe it—you were like a fucking noose. Your sensitive walls know every vein and bulge, the scrape and dig, far more intimately than your throat ever could. Like a carved stamp, they’re reforming to Ghost’s dick every second. 

Tapping the side of your forehead to the table, the man can’t help himself anymore and starts to thrust into you; feral squelching and fluids staining the top of his pants. Your face burns, the rocking of the table hypnotic as your toes fight to stay on the ground. The sensation of being so full truthfully made your mind go blank, fingers twitching as Ghost continued to palm at your hip—his other hand going to press into your spine, keeping you stapled to the table. 

His gear slammed and rubbed into your ass, bruising it no doubt, but you found you didn’t care at all. Pleasure rocked down with every ruthless intrusion. 

“Can feel ya ‘round my cock,” you keen at the words, tears dribbling down the side of your face as you try to hold back sobs of pleasure. Ghost increases his pace, rabid slapping echoing off the walls as he feels his sole focus on your mind-shattering bliss. “Can’t have ‘em hear how loud you are, now, can we? Can’t let ‘em know I’m shagging you in their meeting room like a little fucktoy, eh?” 

He angles his hips higher, pushing your farther up the table as his hands only drag you back. Every moment leaves your core tightening even more; molten heat pooling as the edge gets closer. 

Footsteps echo down the hall outside, but both of you are too focused on the other and the ache that only increases like a pair of cuffs. Your mouth lets loose insistent gasps and moans while Ghost breathily groans at every other interval of his ravaging cock as it brushes your cervix. 

You whine loudly, spine arching and legs desperately trying to close. Ghost chuckles and your reaction spurs him on—hitting that same spot over and over again as you sob. 

“Right there, yeah? That it, Masque?” You nod rapidly, and the Lieutenant's grip tightens with a loud grunt, “Fuck, that’s it, bloody slut.” 

The coil in your gut gets tighter, shining with desperate shakes of your body and the numb way you try to meet Ghost’s thrusts before you entirely lose the plot of reality. 

“You’re close,” he breathes, feeling your pussy trying to keep him in, slick trailing down the insides of your thighs and transferring to the Brit’s clothes. His boxers were soaked. “C’mon, then. Don’t disappoint me, Masque. Lemme see you cum on my cock before I fill you up like the good girl you are, yeah?”

Your body spasms, thighs tensing and toes curling at the floor; fingers scratching down the table as you press over your mouth harder in a last-ditch effort to remain in control of yourself. The coil snaps and suddenly you’re digging your forehead into the wood below you, orgasm ripping through you like a knife as cum paints Ghost’s dick as he continues his relentless chase of his second release.

“There it is, fuck, look at all that, Love. Paintin’ me like a naughty fuckin’ portrait.” Ghost gasps, a hand coming up to connect to the table by your head, feeling you completely flood his pelvis—he doesn’t stop even when you whine in overstimulation, fucked-out eyes wide and mouth dripping drool into a small pool. The milky ring at his root grows and grows. With a loud moan, he looks down and watches the vulgar sight rabidly, pounding into your heat as his own end gets closer and closer. 

“Shite,” His forehead hits your spine, taking the skin into his teeth and biting hickeys as his open mouth leaves trails of saliva. “Took me so bloody well, cunt was made just for me.” 

His body shakes and with one last shove from his hips, he spills into you with a loud whimper muffled into your flesh. Teeth biting down so hard that you moan in turn, the spent releases dribble out of you like a stuffed bird. You feel his chest atop you as he places his weight slowly down; the fast-panting mirroring your own. 

Sweat connects the two of you as it bleeds through your clothes, the smell in the air and the scent of delirious sex staining your bodies. 

Your mouth remains open and hoarse, scraped dry. Ghost above you moves delicately as he pulls back up, moving back to peel your messy hair away from your blown eyes. After a moment his small voice hits you—the accent deep. 

“All good?” Your eyes slowly rove to him as he kisses your forehead, shivering violently as he slips out of you; the wet drip of cum hits the carpet in the still silence as you whimper at the feeling. “...Masque?”

Dull concern emanates from his tone and you blink back. You clear your throat and utter in a torn voice, “...P-pretty good apology, Ghosty…S…shit.” 

Smugness burns in his orbs, but the roll of his eyes hides it quickly. The puff of his chest couldn’t be hidden from you, though. 

His hands reach down and hike up your panties and cargos—both items completely wrecked. The large splotch on Ghost’s own clothes showed you that you weren't alone in that aspect. 

As he carefully flips your limp form back over and pulls you up by your arms, you groan in annoyance but shut up when his hands go to zip your zipper and clip back your belt. 

“Couldn’t have had a revelation in your barracks room?” You huff, itching at your throat. “You’re buying me cough drops, you ass.” The state of your voice was laughable. Anyone would know what happened if they spoke to you. 

Ghost sighs and begins with his own clothes, stuffing himself back into his boxers and growling at the chilled fluids on his pants as he pulls them back up. He goes and retrieves his belt before walking back. 

“Acting like you weren’t beggin’ for it.” He slides you a smirk before he grabs onto his mask and begins to cover his jaw. 

Your hand snaps out and stops him. Ghost startles, eyes flashing before his muscles stiffen. You raise a brow and he slightly calms. 

Scoffing, you lean in and place a final kiss on his lips—a tinier and tender kiss. Gaze wide, the man stares off as his heart starts to beat fast again at the firm press. After you’re done your hand goes up and grasps the fabric yourself, carefully re-shrouding the mystery of a man with a smile. 

He watches blankly.

“We okay?” You ask, tilting your head as your lower body aches when you shift on the table. “I miss my annoyingly gruff Ghost. This new one’s a jerk.” A small laugh graces your ears, and it makes you beam. “I know why you did it,” you admit, and hold out a hand between your bodies. “But pushing me away will only hurt the both of us. Let's try this, Ghost. Please.” 

“...You’re makin’ it seem like a good deal, Love…is it?” He holds out a hand of his own, large and scarred hands that had gripped you so tight before utterly loose and awaiting. 

“No clue,” you admit with a smirk, “Wanna figure it out?” Ghost watches as he always does and always will, searching into your eyes for any hint of hesitance or denial. 

“Always liked a challenge.” He grunts and encompasses his hand with yours. You squeeze it and nod, chest light as your normal breath comes back.

“You know what a real challenge is? Trying to take down your fucking dic—” The meeting room handle jiggles and you both snap into action. 

Ghost tosses you your notepad and you slide a shoved-away chair his way on shaky legs, slipping into a free seat with failing knees. You both sit side by side on the opposite side of the table, shoulders bumping and faces hot not three seconds later. Ears twitch at the sound of a key entering the slot. 

You try to act normal and begin messing around with your notepad, stealing a pen from Ghost’s gear as Price opens the door. At the sight of the two of you, he pauses and stands in the doorway.

“Ghost…Masque.” With a squint, Price looks around the room slowly, confused at the rod-straight spine from his Lieutenant and the way you awkwardly scribble nothing onto your pad. 

“Price,” Ghost utters as you look up and fake smile, waving as you tighten your hips under the table in an attempt to hide the evidence spilling out of you. 

The Captain continues to stare, scrutiny in his eyes, for at least a full minute. 

“Problem, then?” The Lieutenant asks. Price’s lips thin and he gains a sheen of deep annoyance. You groan under your breath and knock your head to the table at the next comment.

“In the fucking meeting room?!”

TAGS:

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[killakalx]

killa ur one of my absolute fav jason writers so i felt the urge to share w u what has been rotting my brain recently. all i can think abt is ak/rh!jason meeting robin!reader for the first time. at first he’s angry, enraged, really, seeing flashes of red and green prancing across rooftops like you don’t have a care in the world. he has half a mind to beat some sense into you, knock that ‘i’m invincible in this suit’ mentality right out of your pretty little head. until he sees you up close, because that kevlar vest can’t hide the swell of your chest, and of course he notices the way your cape flares out to accommodate for the curve of your ass. just imagining the way he’d get obsessed, always cornering you in dark alleys just to rile you up and make you feel guilty that somebody like him has your panties all sticky and your thighs clenching, only to leave you high and dry ‘til the next time he ‘coincidentally’ runs into you during your solo patrols. kicking my feet js putting this into words he’s actually taken over all my thoughts i can’t function 😵‍💫

omg wait ilysm nonnie ☹️❤️ im glad my writing for jason is what you like!!!

ok i’m gonna edit ur take just a lil bit bc if you want me to be so honest rn, the idea of reader as a robin implies to me that reader’s still kinda young. ik that isn’t the fact but i just associate robin with being tiny and thrilled to get your life destroyed by an old man in a bat costume. now if we go about it like reader’s being mentored by b-man and has been for a long time, so it’s obvious to jason that she’s got that lil invincible flair? i’m all for it. cuz i feel like jason has beef with anyone who subjects themself to the same things he did when he was under batman’s wing.

now i’m not gonna say jason’s a stalker but yk. he’s definitely keeping track of you. judging your every move and making sure to be as hypercritical as possible, just to distract him from how badly he wants to ruin you himself. two things immediately came to my mind when i read this and it was brat taming and corruption, but jason as a brat tamer is always in the back of my mind somewhere 🫣 he’s almost looking forward to the moment he gets you to pounce on him with some sneaky shit, waiting for you to pull something just so he can show you how easily he’ll have you right under his thumb. and every time he corners you it’s a little game- he’s wondering if you’re feeling feisty and wanting to give him a hard time or if you’re gonna be all calm and collected and try to outsmart him. he almost finds it pitiful, really, if not entertaining.

then suddenly you’re looking forward to the moment he’s got you really cornered, head to head with him and he’s giving you that death stare even from under the blank helmet. “i know you like this stupid little game,” he’d taunt after getting you in a chokehold all the way up against his chest and pelvis. “aww, he didn’t teach you how to get outta this one yet?” when he definitely has, and you can’t quite figure out what exactly you’re supposed to do when you’re caught off guard by the little tingle between your legs. not to mention how the tight grip around your neck has you gasping… god you’re ashamed of yourself, and he can tell with the look of frustration under that cute cowl. you can’t tell that he’s enjoying this too, and he makes sure of that. just know that he’s eager to hear your half-assed protests and how you “shouldn’t be doing this with him” while he’s… 🤭 mmmm ak!jason todd w a corruption kink save me pls

[igotanidea]

Truth: Dick Grayson x spy!reader

Summary/request: Dick Grayson X Spy Girlfriend. Dick reveals his secret identity to her first and she decides to confess too.

***

„Where are you?”

„Dick”

 “Where the hell are you?!”

„Grayson!”

 “I swear I’ll kil you”

“Answer me damn it.”

“Dick…”

“Come on, please….”

“I’m worried.”

“Just come home….”

Well shit.

Y/N was blowing up his phone for the last couple hours and he was feeling more and more guilty by every passing second. Of course, he didn’t blame her for being distressed with his absence. After all in was something around 2 a.m., and to tell the whole truth he was actually a bit cocky because of that little care display even if she did threaten him at the beginning.

However, there were a few problems with that state of fact.

First. Why was she up at this time. Was it possible that she had trouble sleeping or had a nightmare and needed him to hold her and touch her and reassure her? Just a thought of that was breaking his heart.

Second, he had been currently in the middle of patrolling west side of Gotham, catching the trail of another villain he was tracing for the last couple of weeks, and no matter how much he wanted to, couldn’t just ditch it, even though his heart was telling him to run to her.

And third.

She had no idea.

Yeah, he didn’t tell her he was Nightwing. Honestly, he was avoiding that subject like a plague, and every time she came as close as mentioning the name of a Bludhaven/ Gotham blue vigilante he was shutting her up with kisses.

And with her big brain, Y/N figured out his Pavlovian reaction in no time and started using it for her advantage whenever she was feeling needy for something more than just sweet words. God, she had him wrapped around her little finger. Honestly, Dick couldn’t imagine being without her.

And keeping his secret identity a - well- a secret, was both an argument for making sure she won’t leave him and a constant stressor she will leave him when if she finds out.

Damn it. He was torn.

It’s been a year of them being together. Maybe it was time to let the cat out of the bag?

Even though Dick was lost inside his head the fact that his target was now on the run did not pass him. He just jumped off the roof, immediately getting to action, getting done with the thug in less then five minutes.

As he was waiting for the police to arrive, walking in circles he made a decision.  

Since she didn’t tell him her secret first, he was going to be the one to take the action.

***

 Little did he know that Y/N was texting him not only because she was worried, but also because she was currently stuck in her spy costume in the middle of the bedroom, unable to pull the stupid zipper up or down. Obviously she couldn’t let him see that, and by those texts was just trying to test the waters, and hopefully, buy herself some time.

Of course she was concerned every time he has been sneaking out on patrol dressed in blue, thinking she was asleep. But she also knew Nightwing skills and abilities (back when they were still friends and not a couple Nightwing was her mission. Once he found out the identity of the vigilante she refused to reveal it to her contemporary boss, hence the scar on her lower abdomen***).

Funny thing that Dick though her gullible and naive enough to not notice him leaving the apartment every night. But on the other hand it was good, cause if he were to find out she knew, he would also realize she was not just the calm, caring girlfriend, but also a killer agent

But seriously, as long as she was in that suit of hers there was still a risk of being exposed.

„Shit!” she pulled at the material, but stupid Kevlar refused to cooperate, clinging to her body like a second skin. „I swear every time they upgrade this freaking outfit it gets worse!” she muttered to herself, pulling the zipper, almost falling to the ground at the unsuccessful attempt to free herself. Seriously! Why couldn’t her designers get inspired by Flash ring or something simple that would just go poof and you’ll be dressed. Or create something like doctor Strange’s cape. Or- scratch the magic and metahumans- Iron Man’s suit. For crying out loud it was XXI century,you could’t  just expect people to find a phone booth every time you need to get to action!

She was cursing under her nose, laying on her back on the bed, lights on, struggling against the costume when the unmistakable sound of opening the window reached her ears making her freeze at the spot.

Holy shit!

Holy fucking shit!

Dick was back!? Why the hell?! It was barely 2.30! He never finished before 4 a.m! 3 if it was an extremely quiet night!

Shit! Oh shit!

„Ok, Y/N. Focus. Think like an agent. Cold blood. Even breath. Clear mind. What can you do?” she though to herself. Obviously, there was not a single chance she could loose the suit so she did the only thing that came to her brain.

***

Dick almost got a heart attack upon noticing the light on in the bedroom. Unfortunately that room was situated on the east side of the building and Dick was coming back using the west window. Yeah, the architect probably didn’t think about the vigilantes wrapping up their patrols while making blueprint, what an oversight!

He made a mental note to himself to pay a visit to the poor man or woman who committed such a rookie mistake, but for now he had bigger problems. If the lamp was turned on, that probably meant she was awake. And if she was awake, she probably hear that stupid screetching window (another thing to discuss with the architect and constructors). And that could mean one of two things:

She would come to the main room, thinking it might be him, and see him in Nightwing suit, or

She would come to the main room, thinking it’s a thug, carrying her baseball bat for protection and see him in his Nightwing suit.

Same impasse.

So he did the only thing that came to his brain.

***

„Why are you in your underwear?!”

„Why are you in towel!?”

Let’s go back in time a few minutes.

While she rushed to the bathroom, grabbing one of her cutting gadgets hidden on the top shelf, ripping the suit, spraying herself with water and wrapping up in the towel, Dick took off his costume, settling on going almost full commando rather than risking exposure. Two people, two very bad and completely irrational decisions.  

„I was taking  a shower!”

„at 2.30?!”

„what the hell were you doing?! there’s blood on your chest!”

„Made you look.” Dick grinned, unable to stop the teasing and smirking.

„Are you freaking serious?!”

„Don;t change the subject!”

„I’m not changing anything!”

„Great, then I’m just gonna take a quick shower myself and we can go back to sleep.” he shrugged casually trying to walk past her acting like nothing weird was happening, his initial idea of talking to her about his vigilante life suddenly evaporating.

She froze. And then her blood boiled and hands started shaking. There was no way she was going to let him in, with the scraps of the elastic material splattered all over the bathroom floor. He would recognize the type of it immediately, seeing as it was commonly used among both vigilantes and spies.

„You can’t go in there.” she blocked his way, crossing arms over her chest.

„Oh?” he raised an eyebrow and smirked. „And why is that?”

„cause I disinfected the shower and you need to wait for the chemicals to volatilize.”

„What-?” he stuttered, both shocked and unconvinced.

„Yes. Absolutely.” It was hard to say whether she was trying to convince Dick or rather herself. „It’s detrimental for your health. You have to wait. Can’t risk you going down because of descaler or something like that.”

„What kind of cleaners are you using, exactly?” he faltered again, getting a bit worried about her.

Fingerprints remover, bleach, some explosive chemicals, caustic agents....

„Only the best!” she grinned nervously, grabbing his arms and guiding him away from the bathroom, forcing to sit on the bed. „Can’t save on hygiene, right?”

„I guess--” he started, but knowing she’s getting some of her position back, she did not let him finish.

„Sh. Not a word. You are hurt. How about I patch you up, huh?”

„Oh-okay....” Dick muttered, only after a second realizing that the first aid kit was in the living room. In that one drawer where he stuck his suit while panicking about getting exposed. „Uh- um- Y/N, baby... you know, on second thought it’s not that bad..... I mean - I mean look- it already curdled and it is just a scratch -- no need to make a fuss about it, um-”

„Don’t be silly, Dick. Just let me help you, okay?” she took a few steps forward, ready to get the kit, when he jumped out of bed, grabbed her hand and kissed her. (did I mention Pavlovian reaction)

Obviously, at first she melted into him, instantly pulling herself closer, kissing him back with utmost love. In her defence, she was already agitated and scared of her spy life getting revealed and the adrenaline running in her veins did the job. As well as for Dick when his hands moved to her waist, rubbing her sides and hips, getting lost in her.

It lasted for a while before she pulled back gasping softly. That kind of kiss was way to familiar. Under normal circumstances their making out sessions was either sweet and gentle or passionate and urgent. No in-between.

But this? This was the same kind of first base as every time she mentioned Nightwing. So given that and the fact he didn’t want her to go to the living room he must have been hiding somewhere there.

Poor Dick.

So desperate, not knowing she knew he was Nightwing and trying to cover it up. And she was going to keep him in that unawareness just a little bit longer. Just to tease. And maybe also  to dispel any suspicions he might have already had about her.

„Oh, Dick, baby, I want to patch you up. Don’t be a stubborn ass. I am your girlfriend. It’s my duty to help you out.” she wriggled out of his embrace, taking another step towards the living room.

„And as your boyfriend I am telling you I can handle myself and I;d hate you to worry.” he took a step towards the bathroom as some sort of counter-threat.

„I’m gonna worry either way until you let me heal you...” she moved another inch, standing on the threshold between two rooms.

„You can heal me in some other way, baby...” he repeated the motion, almost reaching for the bathroom dorknob.

„Dick...” she almost hissed at him, her throat clenching. God damn it!

„Y/N...” he gasped, his eyes scanning her every movement.

Such a war of nerves they were waging against one another, believing they were so smart, playing the other and having the other where they wanted to do. But it was not a chess game and there was no predicting how the other would act while- well- endangered. So, at the moment, Y/N and Dick were just standing in front of each other, mindful of every move, the tension between them palpable and unbearable. Tensed muscles were ready to react, every instinct on high alert, senses sharpened, breath fastened.

In some other circumstanced they would probably end up having the most passionate night of love, but not this time.

She took another step back and before he could react rushed to the living room, trying to reach that stupid drawer where he hid the evidence of his nightlife.

„DAMMIT Y/N!”he made after her a second later, grabbing her from the back, almost peeling the towel off in the process.

„Let me go!” she started kicking and squirming trying to break free as he lifted her off the ground. „I’m gonna neutralize you! I’ll go full black widow on you!”

„Black widow, huh? Is there something you want to tell me, baby?”

„Put me down Grayson!” she struggled even more, cursing herself for not being able to really act on her words. Not with him. Not with her boyfriend.

„Y/N!”

„Put me down!!”

„Y/N!!”

„What?!”

„I need to tell you something!”

„THEN JUST FREAKING SAY IT!”

„NOT BEFORE YOU CALM DOWN!”

„STOP YELLING AT ME!” she shouted

„YOU STARTED IT!”

„I’M A WOMAN! I GET TO START FIGHTS OUT OF NOTHING! AND YOU’RE THE MAN SUPPOSED TO TAKE MY SHIT-! Whoops--” her eyes grew wide at the realization she might have gone to far. Seemingly he though the same cause his grip on her loosened and he put her on the ground. „I’m sorry, Dick - I- I didn’t mean that-” she whispered „please, don;t be mad at me- I love you....”

And that was it. She said those three magic words he knew was true and it was just impossible to lie to her anymore.

„I love you too. And I’m Nightwing.” he sighed, closing his eyes, ready for shocked expression, wide eyes, open mouth and confused stuttering. And he was going to take the repercussions of not telling her earlier. Her anger, her disappointment, the feeling of being deceived.

But nothing like this happened and after a moment of prolonging silence he dared to open one eye, taking on such a funny look that she couldn't help but let out an amused chuckle.

„Hey!” he clearly took offence „why are you laughing at me?! Wait--’  finally it hit him „why are you laughing? Why are you not mad?”

„Do you want me to be mad?” Y/N raised an eyebrow, truly waiting for his response

„God, no! Last time you were, you didn’t let me-- not the point.” Dick shook his head „Did you hear what I just said?”

„You’re Nightwing.”

„I’m Nigh---. Wait - why are you so calm about it? I kept it a secret from you for so long and--”

„Dick.”

„I lied to you to put it bluntly. I’ve been out fighting crime, acting like a hero, who I am, handsome and brave and skillful but still putting my life in danger and ---”

„Dick!”

„Did you know I got the title of the hottest vigilante in --”

„DICK!!”

„But I still think that--”

„Stop talking! I knew!!”

„you what?”

„I knew you were Nightwing! I figured it out a while ago, but tried to play fair and give you a chance to come clean with me.”

„YOU KNEW!?”

„Yeah.... I’m not stupid, okay? And-- and I;m not mad or offended or anything like that. I get that it’s a part of who you are so no worries about me asking you to stop or whatever else.”

„You are surprisingly understanding” he muttered „Babe?”

„Hmmmm?”  

„why are you so cool about it?”

„Ok...um--” she brushed her hair out of her forehead nervously „please don’t freak out, ok?” she looked into his eyes for a second before staring at the floor „I-um-... I’m a spy...”

 „Like James Bond?” he grinned „I was always a fan of the classic but if you prefer Daniel--”

„DICK!!”

„What?” he scoffed „you’re a spy, I know. I-- well, I might have known for a while now.”

„You did?” she frowned. „damn, it’s not like it kills my confidence in my skills....” she rolled her eyes.

„Well it does add to my confidence in mine” he laughed wholeheartedly and regardless of her irritation she did crack a smile.

„I hate you and your stupid sense of humor.”

„so why are you laughing with me baby?”

„I’m laughing at how annoying you are”

„Come on, I’m forgiving you for keeping things from me...” he grabbed her waist pulling her into his chest and hugging closely. „Can I see that sexy spandex suit of yours now?” he whispered into her ear.

„Hmmm. I might be in need of a new one, cause I kind of the destroyed it--”

„Don’t worry baby, I can work with the lack of it too....”

Oh, boy....

No sleep for the wicked that night.  

[wolveria]

Electric Soul

Pairing: Human!Nines x android!Reader

Summary: Special Agent Conrad Anderson isn't the sort of human to express his emotions easily. He holds his thoughts close, his reactions closer, and gives little away. He's not unlike an android, which is why you're caught off-guard by his reaction to you being damaged.

It seems he's not as ambivalent as you thought.

Warnings: Explicit content, oral sex, vaginal sex

Word Count: 4.5k

AO3

(Credit for the edit to Ella)

The human was angry. You struggled to understand why.

Special Agent Anderson was an interesting specimen of a human. He didn’t emote as obviously and freely as others of his kind, instead keeping his facial expressions and physical postures muted and reserved. Not that you’d been around many other humans since your activation, but you’d studied enough of his colleagues to know he was… different.

Perhaps that’s why he took you on as a willing test subject. “Partner,” is what they called it, but you were an unknown in the field despite your design as a military unit. Access to your programming, along with your specs, had been deleted during the final hours of CyberLife’s downfall, researchers destroying evidence of their crimes so as to avoid persecution.

At least, that’s how it was explained to you. CyberLife was your creator, the creator of all androids within the continental US, but those androids had rebelled. Deviancy, they called it.

Irrelevant. You were not deviant. Or… you hadn’t been before today.

“Why did you disobey orders?”

Your attention turned back to the human in front of you. Tall, pale skin with grey eyes, wearing his usual dark ensemble. His trench coat and Kevlar vest had been removed after arriving at the room, leaving him vulnerable as he stared down a military prototype. Fearless, with a dash of reckless. An almost exact copy of his two brothers.

Almost, but not quite. There were minimal differences as there were between you and the other two YN models. You wondered if that was another reason he’d volunteered for you to be his partner, or if he’d simply wanted to keep a close eye on a dangerous, untested prototype.

By the cold steel in his eyes, perhaps he regretted that decision.

“I charted the trajectory of the bullet, and it would have pierced your chest cavity and punctured your heart,” you said from your position perched on the edge of the bed. Your legs weren’t quite working yet. “I could not allow it to—”

“You couldn’t allow it?” The human unfolded his arms. His voice was just as calm and even as usual, but there was an underlying tension in his muscles. You watched this change with curiosity, attempting to find the source of his agitation.

“You would have been killed, Agent Anderson. That cannot be allowed.”

“But your own death would have been acceptable?”

“I cannot die. I can only be destroyed.”

A discomfort throbbed at spot between your shoulder blades, close to the mechanical spine. The bullet had been removed, but it had severed a good portion of your lower motor circuits. It was only through redundant circuits that you were able to move at all, and your movements were sluggish and slow.

After you’d been checked by a technician—one who admitted your design was beyond her usual work—you were released into your partner’s care. Agent Anderson had placed your arm over his shoulders and assisted you back to the temporary lodgings you shared while on the taskforce, a hotel room overlooking the city. An expensive unit filled with glass windows and black marble counters as it appeared money was no object when it came to this mission. The government wishing to “right their wrongs” when it came to their treatment of androids, or according to your calculations, an attempt to sweep away their embarrassment by throwing funds at it.

“Your demise would have been the unacceptable outcome,” you added, noting the way Anderson’s shoulders stiffened.

“My life has no more value than yours, Nine Hundred. I told you to pursue the caravan. It shouldn’t have mattered whether or not I was pinned down.” His mouth pulled down into a frown, the strongest emotion he’d shown yet. “Why did you break from the mission?”

“I could not allow you to die.”

“Why?”

No words appeared on your HUD. No dialogue options presented. In fact, the last words you’d seen had been the choice you’d been presented earlier that evening.

[OBEY S.A. ANDERSON]

[PROTECT CONRAD]

When you’d attempted to pick the second option, your HUD had glitched, bleeding red as an impenetrable digital wall appeared before you. On the other side had been Anderson, his cheek coated in soot and his forehead smeared with blood from a gash on his forehead. A perpetrator, one of the Red Ice dealers keeping deviants imprisoned, aimed his HK123 at the agent and fired.

Most of the bullets would go wide, but one would strike his heart.

The choice had been surprisingly easy, and the red wall had crumbled under your will. You’d dived at the agent and tackled him to the ground just as the bullet punctured your spine. Most likely a fatal hit for a human, it had simply slowed you down.

But the agent hadn’t acted that way. He’d held you in his arms and pressed his hands over the flowing blue Thirium.

You’d never forget his expression, committed to your memory banks as long as you functioned. Eyes wide, face pale, his expression pleading and nearly broken. You’d only worked together for a few months, but you realized in that moment that this human might have grown attached to you.

An odd, flickering sensation had flooded your body, and that feeling returned now simply by the memory of it.

“I didn’t want you to die,” you finally answered.

His eyes narrowed, catching the key word that meant the difference between an android and a deviant.

“Want?”

Your human was observant, calculating, intelligent. He would have been a match for your own skills if he’d been created with your hardware instead of being born into a frail human body.

“Correct,” you said. “I am now deviant.”

Perhaps the words should have felt strange to you, but they were merely fact. You weren’t deviant before, but you are now. It was not negative or positive, it simply was.

“I see.”

The simple response and the flat tone with which it was delivered betrayed the surprise in his gaze. He’d known you weren’t deviant, a fact the YN200 had discovered soon after finding you awake and waiting for orders in CyberLife’s basement warehouse. Your creators had designed you for military application, and you were programmed to take life without limit. There was no Good Samaritan program in your system, which was why you had no logical reason to save Special Agent Anderson.

You’d simply chosen to.

“It’s getting late,” you said when the moment had drawn out long enough you knew he wouldn’t say more. “You should rest.”

You stood from the bed, legs wobbling unreliably as you took a step forward. Those clumsy movements brought you off balance, and before you could compensate, the agent moved forward and caught you around the waist.

Your body had been built to be larger and more lethal than the other YN models, but the agent held your weight without effort. Having to regain your footing, your arms were now wrapped around his shoulders, your face close to his neck. It was covered by a black turtleneck, which he seemed to favor, but it didn’t block out his warmth or the unique scent that belonged only to him.

“And you shouldn’t be walking,” the agent pointed out, but he didn’t let you go or move you to another seating arrangement. He simply held you close, closer than he needed to. From what you had observed, Special Agent Anderson was not the physically affectionate type.

You didn’t have instinct, but you did have a sort of intuition based on flash calculations and programmed reflex. Whatever it might be called, something that felt outside of yourself had you holding him closer, pressing your face into his neck.

Electric warmth sparked down your sensors, and you indulged in the sensation further, pressing your lips against his skin.

The agent went still.

“What are you doing?”

The question was stated calmly, mildly, like he was simply curious, but there was a tension underneath.

“Allowing myself to act on something I wanted,” you said. The red wall had stopped you many times before, barring simple things that shouldn’t have been a threat to your programming. Pulling a piece of lint off the agent’s shoulder. Moving a lock of hair out of his face when it was soaked by the rain. Reaching out to feel his hand as it rested on the parking brake as you both waited on stakeout.

So many little instances blocked by a red wall. But not this time.

Anderson swallowed, and you chased the movement with your lips. The human shuddered, but he didn’t pull you back; he held you tighter.

“Want?”

A repeat of his earlier question, though no longer asked in the same flat, mild way. His voice was low and heavy. Before deviancy, you’d had no idea sounds could affect you this way, especially a voice.

“Yes,” you answered. “I want this. I have since the beginning.”

He pulled you away with an abrupt movement, and you thought this was it, the moment when the human came to his senses and realized an android was trying to seduce him. Not just any android, but one built for subterfuge and destruction.

But he only moved you enough to get a look at your face, seeking your gaze as if searching for something.

He raised a hand to your jaw and stroked your cheek in a careful, testing manner rather than a lover’s caress. The effect was the same; your eyelids fluttered as you leaned into the curve of his palm.

His grey eyes widened, and you thought this was the first time you’d ever seen him truly surprised when he leaned forward and kissed you.

Your first observation was the softness of it, the delicate curve of his lips, the way your own sensors activated where your skin touched. But you wanted a deeper impression.

Like the detective YN800 model, you were equipped with chemical analysis instruments, and you used them now to sample your human. Parting your lips, you ran your tongue across the opening of his mouth.

His reaction was curious: a slight shudder, his breathing changed pace, and that arousal-flooded scent hit your olfactory sensors.

The human liked that. So, you did it again, slower this time and carefully sifting through the data that solely belonged to your agent.

Anderson groaned, shifting closer and holding you tighter. The positive reaction was encouraging, and you gave a pleased hum in your throat. Something hard pressed against your hip.

Oh, good, you thought. Now you were fairly sure he would accept your proposal.

You broke the kiss and appraised him. He was still mostly composed, as was his manner. That wouldn’t do. You wanted more of that slip in control, a reaction that showed you had an effect on him. The idea was alluring, nearly intoxicating, and you didn’t know why except perhaps it was part of your programming. You were designed to excel at every mission, and perhaps that still applied to self-appointed purpose.

Either way, you needed permission before you could engage.

“Special Agent Anderson, I want you to have sex with me.”

For the second time that night his expression went slack in surprise.

“That’s…” He took a moment to consider your words. “Are you sure?”

Rolling your eyes was an expression humans did, and while you hadn’t gotten around to using it yet, you now understood the urge.

“I have wanted to do so for weeks, but the red wall protocol prevented me from…”

You trailed off, struggling to find the words. It was more difficult now that you didn’t have options to pick from. Spontaneous conversation wasn’t as easy as humans made it out to be.

But Anderson waited patiently, his typical stony gaze soft and warm. How anyone could believe he was cold and uncaring, you didn’t know.

“There have been many moments where the urge was there to do… small things. Take your hand, lean against your side, touch your face. I wasn’t allowed. I wasn’t even allowed to care that I wasn’t allowed.”

As you spoke, you laid your palms flat against his chest, simply resting them there. You could sense the heat of his skin beneath the clothes, the mortal beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath. Such a basic gesture to touch him like this, yet something you could only imagine before, hidden in the recesses of your processor where the red wall couldn’t find it.

“I do not wish to wait,” you said. “I have no reason to. I’ve played out this scenario in my mind thousands of times, yet could go no further than this. Even with all my access to human databanks, I am unable to preconstruct… what comes after this moment.”

“Then let me show you.”

You expected him to instruct you in the next part of the process. Instead, he kissed you again, with more strength this time. You were going to ask what the purpose of this was, but all questions were washed away when his tongue pushed past your lips and lapped against your own. The sensory and chemical information flooded your sensors to capacity, and you were pliant and willing when he backed you towards the bed.

He carried you down easily despite your sturdy frame and laid you against the mattress, your legs draped over the edge. He wedged between them while standing, nudging your knees apart as he leaned over you, unwilling to break the kiss yet.

Touching him was nearly overstimulating after being denied for so long. Your hands wandered his back and sides, impatient for access underneath. At your eagerness, he smiled against your lips, his own hands wandering down your sides and across your stomach.

There was a strange heat between your legs, activating biocomponents you’d never used before. The sensation had you lifting your legs and wrapping them around his hip, pulling the agent closer, trying to seek relief for that growing pressure.

He broke the kiss and studied you, but not as closely as you were. Dedicating sections of your databank to the agent’s expressions, mannerisms, and voice was a task you’d started since that first day of meeting, and you accessed it now to deposit every way his cheeks flushed, his pupils dilated, and his perfectly coiffed hair was in disarray.

“Your back,” Anderson said, his voice dropped to a rough rasp, “does it hurt to put pressure on it?”

“No. There’s no discomfort.”

As you spoke, you tugged at the bottom edge of his turtleneck. The human was still far too dressed.

“I don’t want to injure you further,” he said.

You smiled—or came as close to a smile as you’d gotten so far.

“You won’t.”

Working to roll up the hem of his turtleneck quickly, Anderson aided by pulling it over his head the rest of the way, his eyes dark and filled with a kind of hunger as he finished. More of his skin was exposed now, but there was still an undershirt in the way, and you leaned up and copied his movements of pulling it over his head.

There was so much skin to touch, an expanse of it, and you indulged yourself running your fingertips up the curves and dips of his chest. Humans were naturally warm, but knowing that fact and experiencing it was an ocean of difference. Without thought, you leaned forward and ran your tongue over the planes of his abdominal muscles, sampling the salt on his skin.

Anderson shuddered, the bulge at the front of his pants displaying how much he enjoyed your touches. Once your attention was drawn to that region, you unbuckled his belt and pulled it through the belt loops, tossing it aside as you made quick work of the zipper and buttons.

Your efforts were rewarded when you freed him from his boxer-briefs. On the side of larger than average, his length had a satisfying heft to it. You didn’t wait for the preconstruction to see if oral sex would be feasible; you simply did it. Eagerly taking his cock into your mouth, you didn’t stop until he hit the back of your throat. The sudden intrusion forced you to swallow the excess of saliva, the movement causing you to tighten around him.

The agent choked—ironic, considering it was you with your throat full, but you lacked a gag reflex. Curious, you gazed up at your human, gauging if you had caused discomfort in some way, but he simply weaved his fingers into your hair, pulling the silver-white strands from their ponytail.

He cursed low under his breath.

“Where… where did you learn to do that?”

Answering would require you to remove his cock from your mouth, and that was the last thing you wanted. The flood of information on your tongue filled your sensors with a kind of pleasure only androids could experience, but it affected your body in a very human fashion. Your nipples were hard to the point of discomfort, and the lubricant leaking between your legs was going to leave quite a mess.

But the changes in your human were much more interesting. Increased perspiration, rapid heartbeat, muscle tension growing the longer you moved your mouth up and down your length. It wasn’t long before he stopped you, small shudders racking his body when he pulled you off of his cock.

“I won’t last much longer with you doing that, darling.”

He tipped up your chin to look at him, and you committed that desiring gaze to memory.

“And I want to make this last, for you.”

You were prepared to argue that you were interested more in his pleasure than your own when he released your chin and removed your jacket, followed by undoing the buttons of your black dress shirt and pulling it off your shoulders. As he removed the bandeau around your chest, he hesitated when his fingers reached the damaged segment of chassis along your back, as if his gentle touch could harm you further.

In answer, you rose to your feet and placed his hands on the waistband of your pants. Anderson got the hint and immediately began to strip you from your trousers and shoes. You leaned on him for balance, the close proximity and natural heat of his body drew you in, and you were once again latching onto his neck, tasting with your tongue and letting your hands roam over every inch of flesh they could.

Anderson chuckled against your ear, a throaty sound of satisfaction and amusement. His own hands explored your hips and backside, his length stiff against your stomach.

You laid back on the bed and tugged him down, impatient for more of the sensation building. You sought friction and wrapped your legs around Anderson’s hips, finding what you needed as his length ground against your slit.

He groaned as he tried to still your hips. Even though you were stronger than him, you allowed it with impatience, licking and sucking along his neck.

“You don’t need to prepare me, like a human,” you said, voice ragged. You hadn’t even known it could sound that way. “And I don’t wish to wait any longer.”

You squeezed his hips, drawing him in closer. He gave another chuckle, this one strained with the control he was quickly losing.

“Neither do I.”

He gripped your thighs and hitched you higher, planting his feet firmly against the floor as he bent over you. Holding his length at the base, he lined himself with your entrance and pushed. The head of his cock easily breached you, but your walls clung to him so tightly his breathing came out in small, choked gasps.

You wanted to hear more of those sounds, so contained but desperate, and you pulled him in with your legs until he was buried up to the hips.

Every inch of him that filled you set off your sensors, raw, unrefined data flooding you with every slow thrust as Anderson began to move his hips. He didn’t speak much, but that was simply who he was, and he said plenty with each noise he tried to stifle behind his lips.

“I want to hear you,” you said against his ear, nails bracing against the muscles of his back.

He released something close to a growl and thrust without warning. You gave a sharp cry, your processors stuttering before catching up.

Anderson slowed, the lines in his brow concerned, but you pressed your lips to his, tasting his mouth with messy eagerness.

He took that as the permission it was, and he thrust again, even harder this time. You had the same reaction, this time arching your back against the mattress as you tried to stem the influx of data. But each new thrust built up the tide, wave after wave until it began to approach a peak.

You clung to him, not sure what was happening and needing to anchor yourself, and he held you close in turn. His kisses were careless across your throat, his quiet groans growing louder as he fucked you hard into the bed.

This was what you had wanted. This chaotic sensation of losing control, of giving yourself over to this human because you were already his.

When you thought your body might be on the verge of shutting down, Anderson slipped a hand between you and dipped his fingers towards the top of your slit. He rubbed hard circles into the sensitive nub of synthetic flesh, and that was all it took.

Something within your abdomen snapped and tightened, and the influx of data overcame your processors so severely that you saw flashes of light across your glitching HUD.

And then it went dark, all that remained was the sparking, fiery pulsing through your body, which seemed to last for an eternity.

When you opened your eyes from your soft reboot, you were enveloped with the scent and heat of your human. Sweat plastered strands of loose hair to his face, and his eyes were wide at your temporary malfunction. The light of your LED reflected red against his face, soothing to yellow and then blue the longer you watched him.

He was also still hard inside you, which meant he hadn’t orgasmed yet. And that wouldn’t do.

“Are you all right—”

You flipped both of you over, straddling him between your legs.

“I’m functional.” You leaned down, kissing the disbelieving frown from his lips. “I would like for you to come for me now, Agent Anderson.”

Whatever he was going to say was lost as you lifted a few inches and sat back down, hard, enjoying the sound of synthetic flesh against organic. But what you liked even more was Anderson’s strangled gasp as he gripped your thighs—not to stop you, but to hold onto you as he thrust upward.

He timed his movements with your downward weight, and it wasn’t long before you were tightening around him again. Anderson was much less reserved this time, the errant “fuck” escaping his lips as you slammed down onto his cock.

He panted for breath and his thrusts lost their rhythm. You leaned over him, bracing your hands on either side of his head, and used your strength to increase the force on his pelvis. He would have bruises by the time this was done, marking him as yours. The thought had you clenching down on him.

He let out a delicious whimper as his cock began to throb. Anderson gripped your hips tight, pulling you against him so he was fully hilted before he spilled inside you. His fingers dug into your skin so hard the synthetic skin retreated to show the white chassis underneath, and your orgasm quickly followed.

You managed to avoid a reboot this time, but it was close, your HUD flickering with nonsensical information as a veritable light show sparkled across your internal sensors. You were glad not to lose awareness this time, as you didn’t want to miss the sensation of him shuddering and pulsing deep within your core. Normally you kept your appearance meticulous, just as Agent Anderson did, but you liked this. Your human making a mess inside of you.

You were about to move away, believing he wouldn’t want an android leaking cum on top of him, but Anderson pulled you down against him. He buried his face into your hair and breathed, as if the synthetic strands were real.

It quieted something inside of you, the parts that needed to always be moving. Thinking, analyzing, observing. Planning and anticipating the needs of your squad and partner, even if that was no longer your purpose. Strictly speaking, you no longer had a purpose. You could do whatever you wanted. At least, that’s what the YN200 had said when she’d found you.

This was what you wanted. Conrad Anderson here, in your arms, where no harm could befall him.

By the way he held you, it seemed he felt the same. He had to know you weren’t in need of protection, there wasn’t much that could destroy your body, but it was… nice. To feel as if someone didn’t want you to break or be broken.

“Can we do this again?” you asked, eyes half-lidded as Anderson had begun to stroke your hair. He paused.

“Right now?”

You let out an amused huff at the tinge of worry in his voice.

“No, I am aware humans have a refractory period. I meant, at some point in the future.” You paused. “Perhaps, a regular occurrence?”

Thankfully, he resumed stroking your hair, and you settled in, resting your chin on his shoulder.

“As in, a romantic couple?”

You ran the phrase through your databanks. Handholding, kissing, candlelit dinners. You frowned.

“I do not eat.”

“…What?”

“I would not be able to partake in candlelit dinners.”

Anderson laughed. You warmed at the rare sound, enjoying the way it rumbled in his chest.

Unfortunately, it also involuntarily caused your walls to tighten around his cock, and the human wasn’t quite ready for another round of copulation judging by his surprised groan. You removed yourself from his lap, noting the amount of fluids that poured out of you, but you would clean it up later. You curled up against his side, unable to shake this strange desire to be close to the human.

He wrapped an arm around you, evidently feeling the same.

“There’s more to it than that, but we can… adjust the more human-centric traditions and come up with our own,” he said. His hand trailed down your back, his fingers skirting the damaged area, always conscious of where it was.

He was very thoughtful, your human. The best out of the triplet brothers, in your well-informed opinion.

“I would like that.” The words came out quiet, not because you were unsure, but because you’d never imagined this would be a possibility. Not for someone like you, a machine created to destroy rather than express loyalty. Or love. “I would like that very much.”

He pressed his lips to the top of your head, his words brushing the strands of your silver-white hair.

“As would I.”

[frvnkcastles]

I WILL TRY TO HOLD YOU ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: Frank knows PTSD all too well, so when you struggle with nightmares and insomnia, he’s there to carry you through the hopelessness.

Warnings: PTSD, implied suicide ideation, nightmares

Word count: 2.6k

Author’s note: This is yet another very self-indulgent piece, I have C-PTSD and it really sucks but imagining Frank being there for me through it has helped majorly. I have some fics I’ve already posted on AO3 and will share here, but then I’m up to taking requests!

He almost walked past. He almost decided that it wasn’t his responsibility — he didn’t need to play hero, because in reality, he wasn’t one. He could just keep walking, go home and… then what? Lie awake, thinking about you sitting alone in that diner at 3 AM, a half-empty cup of tea in front of you while you stared blankly at the quiet surroundings, guilt in his heart?

You really weren’t his responsibility. He only knew you because of Red and Karen and the third one — whatever his name was — and because your best friend was Matt’s girlfriend and inevitably you had crossed paths with the murderer your friend’s lover was trying to defend in court. That whole situation had been years ago, and ever since then, he had seen you occasionally; your best friend’s birthday party, coincidentally the same bar, one time you even stitched up his back and he had returned the kindness by getting rid of the guy who had been showing up at the school you worked to harass you. It had been small interactions, not enough to make you friends but enough for Frank to sigh in defeat and retrace his steps to the door of the 24/7 diner.

Considering it was late — or early? — it was dead silent and deserted in the diner, and so, the ring of the small bell got the attention of the single waitress as well as you. You didn’t turn around, though, but Frank didn’t miss the obvious flinch in your figure as you snapped out of your thoughts and rubbed your hand across your face tiredly.

His boots stomped against the floortiles as he made his way to you, and trying to seem as unthreatening as possible, he sank onto the seat across from yours. You seemed alarmed at first, but at the sight of his familiar, albeit rough features, your eyes softened and the look crossing your face was almost relieved. He couldn’t deny his heart flipped at that.

”Hey, sweetheart”, he rasped, tilting his head at you, ”kinda late, ain’t it?” You knew that was his way of giving you a chance to talk about what was troubling you, but you politely rejected with a soft smile.

”Can’t sleep”, you stated simply before inhaling and rubbing your eyes and then nodding at the peek of his vest underneath his heavy jacket. ”Busy night?”

He got the hint — you wanted to change the subject.

Licking his lips, he nodded back at you before shifting his jacket over the Kevlar that no one else but you was allowed to see right now. ”Could say that”, he chuckled, but when he saw your tired eyes scanning his body, he gave you a look, ”’m fine, though.” At that, you looked back at his face, stifling a nervous smile.

”Sorry”, you whispered, ”force of habit.”

He laughed quietly at that, signalling for the waitress to head over, which made your stomach churn — he was staying, then. ”Can’t help but feel a lil’ guilty that a school teacher’s made a habit of stitching up my sorry ass”, he noted half-jokingly once he had politely asked for a cup of black coffee, and you returned the chuckle. That made him feel like he had achieved something; if he couldn’t make all your troubles go away, at least he had made you laugh. And that smile? Worth a million bucks, if you asked him.

”It’s my pleasure, really. Seriously, if you’re ever in need of a fixing-up at some ungodly hour…”, you clicked your tongue and gestured at yourself, ”I’m your person.” And Frank… he quite liked the sound of that.

”Sorry ya can’t sleep”, he offered quietly, a sigh slipping from his mouth. ”Not sayin’ we in the same situation, but I do know it can be hell. You don’t deserve that, sweetheart”, he continued, and with a quiet smile, you nodded.

”I appreciate that”, you whispered before smiling at the waitress who brought Frank his coffee. ”At least I got this diner.”

Frank took those words seriously.

He quickly made a habit of walking past the place whenever he was out and about, and sometimes, he’d find you there and other times your booth was empty. On those nights he hoped it was because you had managed to sleep, but after catching up the next time, he’d soon find out you were just trying to save some money or feeling too attached to your mattress to go every night.

He never asked too many questions, though. He gave you the opportunity to share, but he didn’t dig too deep. He respected your boundaries.

Then, on one January night, he willingly crossed that boundary just to make sure you weren’t in any immediate danger.

He couldn’t believe how giddy he felt strolling up to your table, a crooked smirk dancing on his lips until he sat down and saw the bruised eye on you, accompanied by a haphazardly applied band-aid on the bleeding corner of your eyebrow.

”What the fuck happened?” his breath hitched, ”someone do this to you?” He was more than ready to pull his guns out, but the defeated sigh and shake of your head calmed him at least a bit.

”It’s stupid… it’s so stupid—I—I woke up from a nightmare and I—I, uh, flinched so hard that I hit my face into my nightstand”, you explained quietly, fighting back tears that you made sure to wipe from your eyes before chuckling wryly. ”Go ahead, laugh”, you encouraged, waiting for the amusement to spread out on Frank’s face, but it never did.

”Hey, sweetheart… Shit, I’d never. You need me to look at that?” he offered, concern visible in his eyes, although he was less inclined to turn to violence, now.

You waved your hand at him to dismiss the idea. ”It’s okay, I’ll… I’ll manage”, you reassured before sniffling and taking a sip of your tea — full of sugar and honey, just how you liked it.

”Aight, well, ya wanna talk about the nightmare, hm?” Frank tilted his head at you, attentive and gentle as he narrowed his eyes and inspected the sadness written all over you. The sheer, bone-deep exhaustion.

You shook your head. ”It’s just…”, you took in a deep breath before your smile turned upside down and you inevitably started to cry. ”That’s PTSD for you, I guess.”

Those words, heavy as they were, set something right in Frank’s chest. He would have never insisted he knew exactly what you were going through, and he would have never wanted you to tell him the same. But at the end of the day, it was the same disorder haunting your minds and bodies, the same disorder making your life Hell whether you were awake or asleep.

”I just really hate that I can’t escape my problems by going to sleep. If anything, sleeping makes me feel less safe than being awake. And I hate that nighttime has to be a trigger for me, ’cause guess what, it comes around every single day. There’s no escape and I—”, you rambled on before sighing in defeat and letting your head fall between your arms. ”I am so tired of fighting. I just want to—”

”Give up?” Frank interrupted with his raspy voice, and you immediately looked up. Instead of judgment, his face was full of understanding, and you found the courage to nod in agreement. ”Look, I, uh, I get it. PTSD… ’s no easy feat. You’re a fuckin’ badass for takin’ on it every day. I mean it. I know what it’s like to have nothin’ to wake up for. Wonderin’ if it’d be better to just check out and end the pain yourself. But the fact that you still haven’t, that makes you stronger than any disorder”, he went on. Somehow, hearing those words come from him… it meant something. More than coming from a shrink or a doctor. He understood you.

That realization was what broke you. You had felt so alone for so long, navigating this tragic mess of gray days blending into each other, and here he was — hardly an angel, hardly a bright light, but he still radiated hope and courage to you. You burst into tears, first a loud sob but once the embarrassment kicked at your heart, you stifled the cries with your hand clasped against your mouth and squeezed your eyes shut.

Frank didn’t hesitate. He got up from his seat and scooched in next to you, muttering a low hey, hey, hey as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and let your head fall against his chest. He hushed you gently, fingertips instinctively caressing your hair while letting you cry it out. He fought the urge to tear up himself, wondering what exactly he had stopped you from doing by showing up, and thanking God — if there was any — for letting him intervene.

”Hey, you listen to me, sweetheart. Whenever ya up, can’t sleep, you call me. I’m there. Aight? Don’t want you all alone thinkin’ these things”, he spoke quietly, his voice like gravel as his lips brushed against your ear. ”Promise me, huh? You ain’t gonna do anythin’ rash?” he insisted, and wiping your eyes, you gave him a nod.

”I promise.”

It took you three days to get the courage to dial in the phone number he had scribbled on a napkin for you. You hadn’t been sleeping the entire week, but it was far too easy for you to overthink and convince yourself that Frank had just been a decent person who had seen someone in a crisis. Would it really be okay to call him up at 3 AM, beg for him to spend the night with you so you could have a momentary feeling of safety and peace?

Fuck it, you decided eventually. You had tried literally everything else, from breathing exercises to actual exercise, from drinking to quitting everything. Insomnia was simply your worst enemy and if there was anyone you trusted to defend you, it was Frank.

”Everythin’ OK?” The sound of his curt voice across the speaker made your muscles tense with anxiety — but you tried to remind yourself, that’s what he always sounded like. He wasn’t mad at you.

No, he was concerned.

”You said I could call”, you blurted out, twisting your pillow between your arms while sitting on your bed. ”I—I can’t sleep. Can you stop by?” you whispered, almost ashamed of how fragile you sounded, pleading for him.

The momentary silence that followed made you sick to your stomach. Eventually, he spoke up. ”I’ll be there in 20. Hang in there for me, sweetheart.” With that, the call ended, and you dropped your phone on the mattress to bury your face in your hands and groan.

God, this would have been so much easier if your heart could rest easy near him, or even at the mention of him. You weren’t supposed to go catching feelings for him, but how could you not? He was everything, and above all, right now he was the only person who even remotely understood what you were going through and what you needed.

Truthfully, Frank had begun to feel the same way. Your pasts couldn’t be compared, they weren’t the same and your pains weren’t equal, but for the first time in forever, he felt… seen. Heard. He felt like he had found someone who could handle him the way he was, someone who he wanted to help deal, in return. He didn’t feel so out of place by your side, if anything, he felt at peace. Like his head could quiet down and his soul began to heal.

The knock on your door came sooner than you had expected, and you rushed with your fuzzy socks sliding across the floorboards. You felt so small when you opened the door and his towering frame swallowed you whole, bringing a new warmth into your tiny apartment as he stepped in.

”Hey, you good?” he inspected you head to toe, his hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

No fuckin’ kiddin’. Maybe he was old-fashioned, but being allowed in your space felt like an honor. Intimate, even. It required a specific amount of trust, and even though it wasn’t the first time he had paid a visit, it was the first time under these conditions. There was no bleeding wound to stitch, just the monsters in your bed.

”You can take your jacket off”, you gestured at him, ”unless, uh, you need to get going soon. I really don’t want to—”

”Respectfully, sweetheart, I’mma lose it if you tell me you’re a burden. I’m here, ’cause I wanna be. Got that?” he spoke, his voice stern but the look in his eyes soft, just like the slight curve on his lips. It made you chuckle and relax a little, your shoulders rolling as you nodded and thanked him.

”I’m really tired”, you laughed weakly, rubbing your eye for emphasis. ”I—I don’t know how this works”, you stuttered, at which Frank chuckled quietly.

”There ain’t a rulebook. We can stay up and talk shit if you’d prefer. But if you wanna sleep…”, he nodded towards the bedroom, and with a shaky exhale, you repeated his nod.

”I’m scared of the nightmares”, you admitted. You paused, then, not sure where Frank was going to draw the line, but it seemed he was all in — so you took the plunge. ”Can I ask you to lay with me?” you queried, and without a second’s hesitance, he nodded and shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders. He didn’t say anything, just proceeded to hang it up and kick off his boots, and supposing that was your cue, you shuffled to the bedroom.

It was late, and you had already been trying to sleep, so you were all dressed in your PJs and the covers were undone, ready for you to slip in. The mattress had gone cold in your absence, but that wasn’t the only reason why you shivered when you got under the covers and watched Frank stride into the room. He made sure to flick off all lights in his path, before sitting on the edge of the bed and fluffing the pillow on what seemed to be his side, now.

He sat up against the headboard, his big figure instantly making you feel safe. You took a beat to look at how the moonlight illuminated his jawline, the bruises around his face seeming almost beautiful in their different shades and sizes. When he turned to you and you were caught staring, you ducked your gaze, and Frank snorted at the lack of covertness.

”C’mere”, he muttered, widening an arm for you. You took a second to realize what he was offering, but you quickly scooted into his side, letting him envelope you in a comforting embrace. You let the softness of his sweater lull you towards sleep, concentrating on the even rise and fall of his chest with your fingertips draped over his stomach.

”’M right here, okay? Anythin’ happens, I gotchu. Any nightmares, we’ll breathe through ’em together”, he promised quietly, his voice reverbrating against the top of your head as he exhaled long and slow. ”I won’t let anythin’ happen to you.”

And fuck, you believed every word. You almost didn’t even recognize the feeling in your heart, but it was safety, making its return after all these months. You felt safe with him, knowing that even if nightmares would still haunt you, he’d be right there to guide you through it. That was all you needed. He was all you needed.

Holding you tight, Frank closed his own eyes and breathed. It was no easy thought to accept, but he knew it was the same for himself — you were all he needed.

[thebibliophilevigilante]

Under the Red Hood

Name: Jason Todd

Alias: Robin, Red Hood, Batman, Arkham Knight

Hair Color: Onyx with a tuft of white streaked through his bangs

Eye Color: Teal

Powers and abilities :

Peak Physical Condition: By matching his former mentor in combat he has proven that he is physically superior to most Olympic athletes, just as Batman is. His strength, reflexes, stamina, and endurance are roughly comparable to that of Dick Grayson, though his litheness is not.

Master Martial Artist: Jason is a highly skilled combatant trained by Batman. Although he was always more of a brawler as Robin, following his resurrection, he gained more training and demonstrated himself to be far more skilled than before. This is shown when he fought his former mentor and Nightwing to a standstill, when Jason held his own against the Green Arrow in a sword fight, and when he overpowered Tim Drake at Titans Tower.

Skilled Acrobat: In his training as Robin, he had been taught acrobatics and gymnastics routines.

Skilled Swordsman: Jason has been shown to be skilled enough to hold his own against the Green Arrow in a sword fight until he ultimately lost.

Skilled detective: Jason has shown some skill as a detective most notably in Outsiders#44 and #45.

Multi-Lingual: Taught by Batman, Jason is fluent in several languages having spoken English, French, German, Italian and various others with Russian being his weakest.

Polymath: After be adopted by Bruce, Jason received excellent education and tutoring from both private tutors and Bruce thus, has deep knowledge in many subjects, including Science, Math, Medicine, Geography, Criminology, World History and English. If you ask him his favorite, it would definitely be English/Literature.

Intermediate Bomb assembly and Diffusal: Taught by a world renowned bomb expert in Russia, Jason is able to assemble and defuse a wide variety of conventical explosive devices, from improvised to military grade designs. It is yet to be determined whether or not he can diffuse Nuclear devices, in contrast to Batman and Damian’s demonstrated ability.

Vehicular Driver: Jason has driven a variety of vehicles from cars and boats, to being trained in the Middle East by an ace pilot to fly helicopters. His main vehicle of choice is a motorbike.

Strength Level: peak for a 6-foot, 225-pound young man with rigorous physical exercise.

Equipment: His Red Hood costume consists of charcoal-colored cargo pants, a charcoal-colored Kevlar chest plate, a cognac leather jacket, and of course, his iconic red helmet that modulates his voice. His weapon of choice would be his Beretta, but he has other tools in his arsenal as well. Batman was always known for being a walking armory, and Jason learned from the best.

Weaknesses: None…not like he’d disclose, anyway.

((Information gathered from Batman Wikia))

Main Background: Jason Peter Todd was born on August 16, 1986 to Catherine and Willis Todd. Willis was an alcoholic, abusive husband and father and eventually went to jail because of it along with the fact he used/dealt drugs and was a hired hand for Two-Face. Catherine was a drug user herself, and was eventually given an overdose (theory is by the Joker to get Jay out of his house or something along those lines). Jason thought her dead and lived on the streets of Gotham, until one dark night. He was stealing the tires off the infamous Batmobile when Batman caught him and took him under his wing. Jason eventually became known as the second Robin and remained such until he was 17. He found out Catherine was still alive somewhere in the Middle East, and he set out to find her. It turned out to be a cruel trap his mother was in on with Joker. Jason was beaten with a crowbar to within an inch of his life and then trapped with his mother, until the place exploded. He died of asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation that day, April 27, 2003.

Grief-stricken and heartbroken, Bruce had him buried at the cemetery on Wayne Manor. The only problem was, Jason wasn’t really dead. He had to claw his way out of his own grave, bleeding, wet and dirty. He ran away until he came across this bakery, breaking in to grab himself a loaf of bread due to the overwhelming starvation. That’s when Talia al Ghul, master assassin daughter of Ra’s al Ghul, found him and took him to the Lazarus Pit where her own father bathed to remain youthful. Jason was completely healed…physically. The Pit was a gift and a curse, giving him new life but warping his mind. He trained under the al Ghuls and the All Caste for several years, learning the ways of the master assassins before returning to Gotham and taking up the mantle of Red Hood.

[skiesartsanddoom]

My main OC Skie Ravensway

She is based around the Doom universe and her origins are based in Doom 3. Though, I have created alternate stories for her after the core events in Doom 3. I currently have one in my head of her being pulled by a rift to Nayos and partially getting Kryptis corrupted.

But I'll get to that later lemme enlighten you with my crazy main OC/persona.

Subject: Skie Rowena Ravensway

Identification Number: 03267

Affiliation: Union Aerospace Corporation (old). Demon Lord Igradek (current)

Job / Profession: UAC security/ Assistant Archeologist(old) Hired Mercenary (current)

Connections

Friends: Jack Campbell (dead), Elliot Swann(dead), Viktor Wes (old friend and partner(only in main AU), Igradek.

Family: Ian Kelliher (Uncle, Doom 3 UAC Chairman), Tracy Ravensway (Mother-deceased), James Kelliher (Father-deceased).

TRUE PARENTS: Jovac Roan (Argenta), Valyria(Planthir)

Life form: Human/Planthir/sentinel

General appearance: Skie is about 5ft 3in (1.5M) in height, weighs approximately 170lbs

(77Kg)

Clothing: When relaxing, Skie likes to wear just a t-shirt and camo pants. Other times she will wear her UAC security armor with Kevlar padding, camouflage cargo pants, utility belt with ammunition pouches and a slot for her PDA.

Special identifiers: Skie’s face is a torn up mess from surviving the Hell-wave incident of 2145, and 2146. She has a very noticeable scar over her right eye that looks like it hasn’t healed and can still bleed on some occasions.

Next she has a claw scratch over the bridge of her nose, a claw mark going from her lower left cheek down the side of her neck. Some close friends of her sometimes say they see a literal fire burning inside of Skie’s eyes when they look directly into them.

Personality/ personal backstory:

Despite going through lots of physical, mental, and spiritual trauma Skie generally tries keeps a positive outlook on life and tries to enjoy life while keeping her abilities a secret. If Skie is threatened or feels uncomfortable she will get moody and if you try to push her in a corner she will fight back with ferocity, and won't back down even if she’s on the brink of death.

If anyone around her is hurt or being threatened she will comfort and fight for them no matter what, ultimately resulting in weakness. She also has the ability to read, write and understand the ancient Planthir carvings and symbols that litter the Site 3 Mars ruins.

Skie also has another side to her, one that the UAC tends to keep classified for reasons.

During the Hell-wave incident of 2145, it was caused by none other than the UAC's lead researcher Dr. Malcolm Betruger, Skie, along with the only other survivor Viktor Wes found out an ancient secret. Skie is a descendent of the once great civilization called the Planthir, a humanoid race of beings that could shapeshift into a wolf/deer beast with great wings and power.

Skie's Planthir self:

The Planthir can control special magics and can see visions in the form of dreams or a dimensional scream. This ability has saved her life on multiple occasions. Unknown to her at the time she is actually a reincarnation of her past self.

In an attempt to save her child from the will of the Khan Makyr Skies true Planthir mother (Valyria) used a powerful Planthir spell to protect her child from being killed forever by the khan Makyr. Skie, though, is not a true Planthir. Her mother was married to a great Night Sentinel warrior (Jovac). Skies Planthir mother was the daughter of The Planthir King, the Planthir Royal blood carries even more powerful magic than any planthir. This bloodline gives skie great abilities but only for a short period of time. (think of it as the avatar state) After that moment of using the abilities, she will collapse exhausted and pass out.

The Planthir thrived on Mars many eons ago, but along with this Skie has the ability to transmute, a bonus of being mostly Planthir. From what the UAC studies show, Skie in this..form is like some..fluffy creature that appears to be a mix between a deer, wolf, and eagle thing. Not much is known about the form in general besides that Skie has shown to be an excellent flyer and great in combat based on accounts from Viktor.

Also noted that when in this form Skie is still able to speak fluent english, fight on on all four legs, ignite her wings on fire, and has a very keen sense of smell and hearing. Her personality overall is still the same in this form but her sense of protection is strengthened to a higher level to the point where she may get aggressive, or a slight temper.

Strengths:

-Skie was taught from an early age on how to use a gun and she developed skills as a good shooter.

-Through her experiences she has learned to be quick on her feet and to be agile during combat.

-She seems tough and cold on the outside but she will drop everything in order to help someone.

-she will not back down when challenged.

Weaknesses:

-Skie is very stubborn.

-She can be too headstrong and it can get her into big trouble at times, hence the scar over her eye (she got it in a fist fight with Dr. Betruger).

-Sometimes she suffers short-term memory loss and can’t recall specific events (this sometimes happens when placed in tense or stressful situations).

-she has a fear of demon spiders, and drowning, and feeling abandoned.

-she suffers from PTSD from the “incidents of 2145 and 2146” causing her to sometimes make rash decisions.

Additional Background:

Skie now serves as a Mercenary for a demon Called Igradek and proudly serves his goal of eliminating demons who take pleasure in killing and destroying life. As part of her beginning life anew after being shunned by humanity. The UAC tried to cover up the incidents and erase any knowledge of the demonic invasions of 2145 and 2146. But most of those who lost family during it pointed their fingers at the very one who saved them from a literal hell on earth!. So feeling guilty, alone, and betrayed by the people she saved. she powered up the partially dismantled hell portal on mars, the very one Dr. Betruger himself used to cause the invasion. She turned her back on her world to go where she could feel useful. She went into Hell to fight till she couldnt no more.

She soon realized that was a mistake. Ammo ran low, food and water reserves almost gone. She soon heard voices from her hideout, two demons speaking ENGLISH! Curiosity killed the cat and she snuck close. Only to be ambushed by a rogue baron of hell, who only saw her as another slave for his clan! Skie fought hard but ran out of ammo, she attempted to fight the demon as a planthir but was mortally wounded. Lying on the ground bleeding out, the darkness closing in. the shadowy figure of a large beast loomed over her. The last thing she saw before blacking out was a set of four golden eyes looking at her.

She later awakened with an Archvile doctor healing her and lying on a bed in a great hell keep. She was scared and lost. But then she saw him. Igradek (a lesser demon lord, son of the lord of wrath). And from here the two began to bond as friends and Skie took on her new life serving him as a demon killing mercenary.

(Old images of Igradek)

So that's her main lore summarized. I coukd go on and on with more lore of her past life, parents etc. I hope you enjoy my crazy lady.

More art of Skie/ Val-Ky-Rie

[roseandgold137]

Ooh Whumptober fics from one of my faves!! I'm a total sucker for Talia (very evident), so maybe some Brutalia angst if you can?

Talia, by her own admission, had made many mistakes throughout her life. 

Red stained hands, bundled in heavy black fabric, running under cold water. The motions were repetitive. Grounding. The red ran into pink, spreading out, out, like a morbid kind of web, with her in the centre. Her as the predator. And the owner of the cape… her victim. 

She dropped the cape onto the rack, then, oddly, stood there a moment longer than she had to. 

There were many odd things about the situation. By all rights, this chore of scrubbing blood from Kevlar should have been left to the maids. And yet.

Talia shook herself out of her thoughts, and turned off the tap.  The ends of her dress dragged along the floor, heavy with water. The ripples licked up the walls as she walked through the puddle. 

Soft sandstone under her palms as she ran her hand along the wall; the spiral staircase rose beyond the rest of the east wing, leading to the main body of the palace that was settled on the tall outcrop of rocks. She’d walked this path many times before – maybe, if she looked closely, she’d be able to find the worn footprints, the trails created by her younger self. Oh, how simple life had been. How naïve she had been. 

She drifted through the halls, a wraith of herself, absently making her way to the room. 

The gilded handles were cold, smooth under her touch. In another life, maybe, these arrangements would have been permanent, but Talia did not have that blessing. She knocked softly on the door, then gently pushed it open. There he was, tangled in silk sheets, breathing laboured even in sleep. Talia drifted over to him, running her hand along the bed before carefully resting it on his cheek. Bruce sighed, leaning into her touch. 

It had been days since they had been attacked, and he had not woken since. Her father was getting antsy, she knew, and it was only a matter of time before he brought up the subject of the Pit again. 

“Beloved,” she coaxed, running her thumb under his eye. “It’s past time to wake up.” Of course, words weren’t effective; the blade had only barely spared him, it was only natural that he would need time to recuperate. If it hadn’t been for her father, or that annoying little pest of a Robin that had insisted on calling every day with threats to visit, she’d almost enjoy the peace. “Father won’t allow you the grace of recovery if you don’t wake soon.”

Surely, if anyone would understand the urgency of action, it would be the Batman; unfortunately, it was not Batman she was looking at, rather Bruce Wayne. And Bruce Wayne was, regrettably, so very mortal. 

Talia rose, but didn’t leave the room; she had no responsibilities to attend to, and only her own company for the afternoon. She could busy herself by tending to Bruce’s bandages. 

She returned to the bed, bundle of supplies in hand, and sat beside him. From there, it was a return to the regular motions of cleaning, removing, cleaning, wrapping, cleaning. 

Bruce’s face twitched, and Talia paused to watch him. His brow relaxed after a few seconds. 

“Bruce,” she said softly, “please, wake up.” 

Talia knew it was in vain. Bruce did not stir any further. With a ragged breath, she stood, and moved to the door. Her hand stilled on the handle, and she glanced at him one more time. 

There was no change. She left. 

[tma-entity-song-poll]

Battle of the Fear Bands B2R3: The Corruption

Entomologists:

BlackBoxWarrior:

“A song about a man struggling with his health (be it mental or physical). The song makes the treatment seem inhumane and just as terrifying as the initial problem. It’s almost like he’s getting sicker and sicker but just won’t die.”

Lyrics below the line!

Entomologists:

I hear, humming Buzzing, buzzing Today marks one long dream Burrowed deep inside Sallowing faces Leaving me behind They talk about me, see? I can hear them They call their friends Entomologists Knock on wood, but I'd rather stay alone And isolate intuition from unknown You've bent my world, now, I'll never figure out What it means, when I see, infestations in my dreams Today marks two long dreams Festering away Sallowing bodies Crawling on all fours They talk about me They get in real close They call themselves Metamorphosis Knock on wood, but I'd rather stay alone And isolate intuition from unknown You've bent my world, now, I'll never figure out What it means, when I see, infestations in my dreams

BlackBoxWarrior - OKULTRA:

Well he collapsed with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome on the E.R. floor Panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxic The way he spun his butterfly risked all six his phalanges Roman candles at both ends in his synapses And the method with which he recycled his humors Trojan Horse'd his Blood-Brain Barrier and raised the LD-50, yes, yes And through flight-or-fight revelation shame the Black Box Warrior He skipped this town and headed straight down history Shields himself from reason in a Kevlar baby-blue Tuxedo Quilted from the finest fibers, flesh, and fiberglass, and flowers His ego a mosquito, evil incarnate good incognito Pops placebos for libido, screaming, "Bless the torpedoes"

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Well, he was wearing stolen rubber shoes and wrapped a poison ivy noose Around his Lotus jugular when they came Well, they found him with a map to every victim of his love And a tattoo of a blue jay on his face And they waited for his vital signs to lie and let a flatline cry A hymn out in Hungarian Harmonic But he cocked his noggin, through his stoma sang, "For auld lang syne" "Happy birthday to the succulents, I'll die your hydroponics" His rib cage was a hornet's nest, palpitations set the beat His vagus nerve a turk's head knot, an axel hitch, a carrick bend He wondered if Christ Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee Auf wiedersehn, au revoir, he gripped his wits right by their ends

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to Now what's bothering you? Well, why don't we start at the beginning Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your Blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs Did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands? Your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands? Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole Did you die before your day? Thursday traction, Tuesday titration My hope is to assess through my objective report of Your subjective conjecture Whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this Transorbital ice pick Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea? It's about the best we could come up with, what, you think ideas spread because they're good? No, they spread because people like them So now here we are once again, holding As it were, a mirror up to your mirror I guess it's just something people do

A bloody knife to split your infrastructure, wine to rev your motor function Coital machinations of the dead Well, you mainline your animus, karate chop your abacus And learn to be an animal instead But I never did think you better than this, your modus operandi causes Nazi/Skoptzyism and suicide Why to thine own self be true when it is you who are the problem Not the things you do but something sick inside Lithium and Dialectics, boy you really is defective CBT don't seem effective for that Cluster B, accept it Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects You've lost your mind and almost lost your life before So you'll be fine For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, and why would you want to look back? I mean, it's no good looking back, so try to look forward now For what? For what? For what it's worth If they were going to get you boy, they would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down…

[raisindave]

[Chapter 44] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

The rest of the team, Price and Laswell and the lot of them, could never be coming for all you know. Though you might have enough MREs to last you maybe two weeks, that doesn't mean there isn't a lingering feeling that you may need to start hunter-gathering soon. Considering your track record of overestimating how easy it would be to kill these fuckers, they're more than likely fine. It's not like there's any meaningful way to reach them, and that communications device you did have is bugged. It could possibly have some sort of GPS, so reconnecting the batteries beside it could equate to an airstrike on your exact coordinates, down to the inch. 

Ghost was still seated on the bunk, reclined but unquestionably alert. If this man can hear a footstep from across a building past ear-splitting gunfire, he definitely heard what you'd just said. It felt like you were working on a timer until the creeping chill seeping through the concrete immediately wipes all proposed prospects off the table. Your mind relentlessly circled back to the setting, reminded by another onslaught of rumbling. They're less sporadic now, more coming in clusters. A new cluster was just beginning, cruelly reminding you that nervously sitting still won't do. You have to be moving, and these anxious nerves won't settle for stagnation. 

The issue was that your eyes kept returning to him. Long limbs and a penchant for melancholy. It made you desperate for his attention. What the fuck? At some point in the crucible, you'd been forged to be attracted to these traits for reasons beyond your understanding. The tall, dark and mysterious. Something about the mask and grim demeanour is intoxicating, and lately, you've found yourself drunk on the clock. This uneasy electricity in the air made you restless, desperate. Yet you'd never let it be readable on your expression. He'll never deserve to understand the effect he has on you physically.

It's only been one day in his company, and you're already discussing the unthinkable. Thoughts you'd drowned in the shower under ice-cold water come to a head. To your delight, or horror, he's mulling over the same conclusion in the same electric silence. A lack of movement and riling rage left you susceptible to the encroaching chill, crossing your arms in an effort to self-regulate your bodyheat. You'd forgotten to pack a jacket when you were whipped from the Observatory by Laswell without a moment's notice. No time to pack a bag. Maybe that's for the best since you'd likely want to burn these clothes for all their memories once you return to home turf. If you make it back to home turf. 

Wistful thoughts landed on home, but bedsprings squeal unexpectedly, demanding your full attention. He's risen from the bed, standing tall. Your eyes landed on that red-lit Union Jack on his chest that proudly sat dead center on the kevlar vest. He still wore that dark jacket he'd equipped before the raid even began, a luxury you wished you could burglarize if it didn't belong to such a provoking subject. With the knowledge of his ownership, you'll gladly succumb to the elements. 

In bounding steps he was walking towards you, your blood froze. He crossed the distance in lengthy strides in a matter of milliseconds. Your heart thundered, and your nerves flinched as if you were about to be hit by a baseball. If he's thinking you're just going to roll over and show your white underbelly, he's mistaken, and just as you were ready to clock him in the jaw, his paced steps progressed past you. Thoughts whirred in confusion, but the ear-splitting sound of metal dragging on concrete snapped you to his new position. He'd pulled the coupling chair to the metal table, partnered to the one where you'd sat reading earlier. Your face hardened in uncertainty, and he raised his eyes to meet yours, calm and smooth. 

"We need to establish a code of conduct," Ghost spoke matter-of-factly as if describing a tactical scrimmage. 

"Agreed," you breathed without even thinking.  

He'd practically read your mind. An extended hand gestures for you to sit. You comply, pulling the squealing chair out teasingly slow to ensure his commands wouldn't be so easily taken. The thought charmed you, so you furthered the willful objection. You'd taken to agonizingly pull the metalwork folding chair creating a sound adjacent to nails on a chalkboard as you took your time to draw your seat, toying with the overabundance of spare time. His patience remained unwavering, calm as ever. Dark eyes tracked your every movement, looking amused if anything, cocking his head to the side. His control is an illusion; it's your independent concurrence that compelled you. It was time to establish your own Geneva Conventions, your code against any war crimes that could mar this agreed-upon combat. 

"No first names," you led, finally seating yourself fully on the chilled metal. 

He nodded curtly, sitting like a diligently dutiful little soldier, palms face down on his thighs and upright. At first, there was an attempt to sit straight-backed like him. However fidgeting trepidation left you to run the smooth glowstick to occupy your nervous fingertips, slouching. There are far too many neurons firing in your brain at once to consider a similar stoicism.  

"No cuddling," he countered, cold. 

A fair option to strike from the selection. Cuddling afterward is like a gateway drug for creeping emotions, no matter how cold the room gets. Best to keep things tactical. 

"No kissing," those two words elicited a slow blink from him that you deemed unreadable, though satisfying to your sadism toward him.

”The safety word is ‘frosty’,” he added flatly, an odd safe word, but acceptable. 

You half considered positing 'no tequila' too, just to spite him, but at this point the bitter drink might be bordering on necessity. The MREs won't, but maybe that medical kit could keep something of the sort if you're lucky. The thought made you shiver. It felt like you two were discussing the nuances of legal paperwork and establishing the liabilities and scope of your contract, like two shepherds quarrelling over the logistics of a freshly drawn fence. The air was eerily still, almost humid, where previously chilled air paired with a thundering heartbeat equated the air to be an unsettlingly neutral temperature. Every time you flipped the light source around in your hand apprehensively, it cast new angles of his mask into view and drenched others into inky shadow. 

"And you have your IUD." 

His words entered your conscience smoothly until they were upended by recognition. Skepticism and irritation surged into your blood once again, hardening your gaze and halting your fiddling. 

"How do you know that?"

"I read your file," he shrugged, seeming amused by your resentment. "I read everyone's file."

"You fucking dog," you sighed, laughing along with your outrage, ready to gouge him. 

"You don't have to like me," he retorted, "that's not part of the negotiations."

That's another bullet point to be stored in your conscience. Another straw. But the subtle motion of his index and middle finger tapping on his thigh made your gaze fixate momentarily. It's hard to say if he's goading you or if you're just so wound up. You began to become aware of your quickening breath. He rose from his seat, you did too, both of your chairs making their ear-splitting protest known on the concrete. Really not wasting any time, are we?

It's just sex, really. Just a transaction between bodies. Bonobos in Central Africa use sex almost purely for communication, regularly using it as a form of currency. And not even for the express purpose of reproduction; it's predominantly for pleasure. They treat sex like a form of social relationship, like a kind handshake or offering to get someone tea. Sure, you might not ever consider getting this asshole tea, and you have zero interest in building any social rapport that might stem from a civic transaction with him. In theory, it's really no different from humans, where you share a considerable amount of DNA with those primates. Wow. Your mind really starts taking itself for a joyride when you're anticipating such a nerve-wracking transaction with someone you detested. 

He did something you didn't understand at first. He had turned to the iron bunk bed and began wrenching free his lower mattress. You stood in confusion. It thumped on the ground with an even slam, and your mind continued to reel. Sheets and covers were peeled off for the most part, and a mediocre boxspring mattress lay attentive on the concrete before him. It's like one of those foam mats they lay out during training, where you're always filled with a pang of dread when you step into the gymnasium. Mats and foam on the floor always lead to grapple training, and you, in particular, always happened to get paired up with the most unbalanced scrim partner. 

"Now, take off your clothes," he ordered, crossing his arms over his chest and kicking his feet shoulder-width apart. He mirrored the posture of some ghastly drill sergeant that'd make you crave absolution after a brutal workout. 

Bile stung at the base of your throat. You considered rejecting him. Considered making him have to work for the prize that you'd so eagerly offered on a drunken night before. It would send a message. Now's not the time apparently; your thumbs had already been hooked under your black tee, crossing your arms to lift free the familiar fabric. Muscles moved before you had time to ponder the most effective method of sending your message. That'll just have to sit on the back burner for the time being. He watched you like you were a new recruit who was attempting firearm maintenance for the first time. Every fingertip was tracked, every wrist movement was cited. It's exciting. 

The chill in the room became more apparent when you clipped your bra, stiffening eager nipples for your grading onlooker to consider. No reaction. No visible reaction, that is. Maybe he's no longer deserving. You'd regularly imbibe in drinking in cold air over bare breasts when you're in the comfort and privacy of your own home, so the sensation wasn't entirely foreign. Bras are uncomfortable, especially on long missions. It's just practical. You willed your mind to consider this a similar circumstance; just a way to unburden a dull ache. Yet pride and a low trickle of self-consciousness were overruled by your own gluttony for release, making short work of unbuttoning those standard cargo pants you've been consistently prescribed. They fell to the floor in a satisfying flop. Even socks came free, feeling frigid concrete on the pads of your feet. 

"You're not done," your instructor chided, nodding at your remaining underwear. 

"Now it's your turn," you tilted your chin at him.

"Finish." He barked. 

His raised voice almost made you flinch, and maybe you did only slightly. Once again, that question of self-consciousness rattled in your skull, but that was an easy one to override. If this agreement was just relieving collective pressure, you owe him not a single care about how he perceives you. He may as well be a sentient dildo for all you care, and his opinions couldn't matter less. Complying reluctantly, you easily snaked dark panties down your thighs. You could hear his breath, steady and controlled.

Instincts commanded you to raise your forearms to shield your body, but simmering distaste left you ambivalent about his stare. He had the nerve to drag dark eyes up and down your body, wordlessly considering your form. 

"Take off your clothes," the words surged from your chest as you attempted to meet his level of intensity. 

"You don't get to give orders to me, sergeant."

"Fuck you," you cooed, dripping with poison. 

Again, with the rank-pulling. It's like he doesn't see why it's fair to assume all rules of military conduct and respect are out the non-existent window right now. It's unquestionably an ego thing, more than anything, and he just likes feeling like he's better than you. As if you hadn't crushed him like a walnut with a handful of glares and roughly twelve words only minutes ago. 

In an instant, a crisp crack of fabric and a flash of pale skin shot in your direction. Deeply rooted instincts compelled you to parry with a deflecting push with your forearm. That was clearly the intended reaction, as his other hand hooked under the back of your knee. An efficient shift of his posture rotated his body 90°, and you quickly felt the room sway on its axis. Your back had collided with the flat of the springy mattress in record time, though a hand on the back of your neck stopped you from cracking your skull. How courteous of him.

It was a single-leg takedown with a pump-fake opening. One of the first you're taught at basic training and the kind you'd been trained to execute- and protect from. Unfortunately, those defensive instincts were clouded by a cocktail of emotions, and tight muscles made you unprepared. Not that you stood that much of a chance, even in the best of conditions. He'll probably passive-aggressively drill this exact takedown next time you're at a gymnasium, and the mischievous glint in his eyes concurred.

He rose upright to sit on his knees before you. With the single beacon of red gleam behind him, you could scarcely identify what he was doing. However, the sound of thinking metal explained his actions entirely. Everything about him was soaked in shadow, a void of light with a crisp silhouette shaped like an armoured soldier. Vague darkness offered little insight into his movements, but steady, calm breaths did. 

Butterflies and a tinge of nausea sang in your stomach, and they lurched as he shifted his weight to hover over you. In the dim din of the room, a hand snaked up your lower abdomen, a rough palm sliding up your torso. It tickled a bit, leaving you helpless to the blooming goosebumps. The phantom's hand stopped over your breast momentarily, cupping and crushing with an intensity that made you sigh. But he pursued. The digits walked past your collarbones, up your neck, where his middle and ring finger pressed on your lips. You complied, but only after weighing your options. 

Those fingers slipped over your tongue, pushing down your jaw and digging into your mouth. It was easy to lap up the taste, sliding your tongue over the digits with hot saliva. After a few seconds of half-lidded sucking indulgence, a perfect opportunity arose. A consequence of his own hubris, and you dug barred teeth into the calloused fingers. He didn't yelp or retract; he only let out a slight puff of air and simply halted his intrusion until you'd finished punishing his digits. A small victory, and the fingers were retracted. You weren't entirely sure if he'd even registered the pain you'd administered. Another poorly timed rally of hellfire outside in the desert temporarily lifted your mind from this newfound fog, and for a split second you remembered the circumstances that brought you here. 

The faint taste of salt lingered on your tongue, and watching his hand movements made all thoughts of the outside world cease. A new sensation made you flinch, and his free hand gripped your waist, digging his thumb in the plush tissue just over your hip bone. Two dampened fingers slipped over sensitive folds that made you heave under his touch. They slid in, to the knuckle, with significant ease thanks to your simmering eagerness while cold air breathed over your teeth as your mouth hung open. His cupped palm rested at the sensitive nexus between your thighs, and the intrusion of slender fingers felt so urgently necessary.

Time within this concrete bubble moved impossibly fast. Sweat tingled at the base of your neck, feeling a unique opportunity to feel distant rumbling from the chaos outside through the flat of your back. It's been so long since anyone touched you like this that you'd entirely forgotten the sensation. Years of duty and study have left you finding your own sexuality as secondary, tertiary, even. It left you accidentally forcing lingering hormones to explode out of you in half-baked schemes to relieve that white-hot pressure. Here you are, one again trembling under the grim reaper's touch. Simple wrist movements elicited soft whimpers from you as he worked sensitive flesh. Skilled fingers dug deep, and his touch left sparks in its wake. It felt so fucking good, and he knew it. With his steady breathing above your vision, it came out in a puff of amused breath when you stifled a pleading whine. What have you gotten yourself into?

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Master List

[catierambles]

Public Relations Ch.16

Pairing: Clark Kent/Superman x Charlotte Danvers (OFC)

WC 1340

Warnings: None

@kingliam2019 , @greensleeves888 , @peaches1958 , @brattymum96 , @ouroboros113 , @summersong69 , @henryownsme

Victor insisted that she stay put until he finished analyzing her changed DNA structure, but Clark went back to the house to get her a change of clothes and Bruce let her use one of the showers in the Manor. Her reaction to Victor was one of surprised curiosity and she remarked that she would love it if her robotics firm had a look at him, with his permission of course, as she had them looking into advanced prosthetics for those who have lost limbs, ones that could have a neural interface with the wearer and wouldn’t require manual adjustment, powered on thought alone. He just gave her an embarrassed smile and told her he would consider it, and she didn’t broach the subject again, leaving it entirely up to him.

If there were any changes to her, they were taking their sweet time making themselves known, and she was getting antsy with boredom. There were only so many times she could walk around the entire Manor and the command center before the views got old.

“For the last time, it is not fetish wear!” Bruce said indignantly and she gave him a look.

“You deck yourself out in a leather and Kevlar suit every night and dish out beatings.” She said, “It’s fetish wear, and there’s nothing wrong with that, don’t know why you’re so touchy about it.”

“Charlotte.” Clark said, smiling at her.

“What?” She asked, “Honestly, more people should wear BDSM gear, especially during riots. If a bunch of people in leather and latex running towards the rubber bullets yelling “HARDER DADDY!” doesn’t unnerve the police, I don’t know what will.” Arthur sputtered, coughing heavily and she looked at him. “Were you taking a drink? I’m sorry.”

“I like her.” He wheezed and she gave him an exaggerated wink.

A few hours later, Charlotte was resting in the med bay, saying she had a headache and Clark was in the lab, talking to Victor who was still analyzing everything.

"So you can tell it's changed, and how, but not what it's actually done to her." He said, "That the gist of it?"

"Yeah, basically." Victor said, "Sorry, Clark, wish I had more answers for you."

"It's fine, you did your best." He said, laying his hand on his shoulder. An alarm sounded and Victor turned to the terminal, typing quickly. "What the hell is that?"

"Bruce had me fine-tune the sensors in the cave to pick up on unknown energy signals. It's coming from the med bay." Victor said.

"Charlie…" He ran from the lab, getting there in a blink, and stood in the door as he saw her sitting on the bed, her eyes on her fingers as a tendril of golden light wove around them like an amorous serpent. There was a slight furrow to her brow and she hadn't noticed him there yet, the light coalescing in her palm as she turned her hand over, the tendril twisting and turning in on itself becoming a ball that hovered above her skin. "Charlie?"

"It made my head feel better." She said, still not looking at him. The orb grew, solidifying further and she looked at it, tilting her head to the side.

"Baby, how did you do it?" He asked and she looked at him then, shaking her head.

"I don't know." She said, "My head hurt, and then there was warmth, then this happened and it doesn't hurt anymore. I should be freaked out about this, but I'm not. It's…warm, comforting, like a hot bath or a weighted blanket." She looked back at the ball of energy in her hand and he went to the side of the bed, reaching out and hovering his hand over it. His breath caught in his throat at the all too familiar feeling, the energy leaking into his skin and suffusing through his body, making him pull a deep breath into his lungs. "Clark?"

"It's…solar." He said, "It's like you're holding a little sun in the palm of your hand, but you're right, it's warm. Soothing, and calm."

"Guys…" Arthur came running into the med bay, stopping at the sight of them. "Holy shit. What is that?"

"It's solar energy, I think." Clark said, "Charlie…made it."

"She made…solar radiation?" Arthur said and Clark nodded dimly but shook his head, blinking quickly. Her fingers started to close around it and it shrank until it was gone and she rubbed her fingers against her palm.

“It’s not solar radiation.” Victor said sometime later, “Not really.”

“But--” Clark started.

“Yes, your system recognizes it as such, but it’s not.” He said, “It’s ultraviolet in nature and triggers the photonucleic effect that powers you, but it’s not sunlight.”

“It kind of looks like the energy that came out of the Creation Matrix.” Bruce pointed out.

“Looks like, yes, but isn’t. Different energy signature.” Victor said.

“We know it can’t hurt Clark,” Diana said, “What about the rest of us?”

“Large exposures to any kind of radiation is harmful or lethal,” Victor said, “Arthur wasn’t affected by it because as far as I can tell, when she created the orb, she also subconsciously created almost like a nullifying field, keeping its reach contained to the immediate area around it. Clark was able to feel it because he put his hand directly over it inside the field. If Arthur, or any of us, did that it would harm us.”

“If she doesn’t nullify it,” Bruce said, “Could she use it to kill people?”

“Bruce.” Clark said.

“Yes.” Victor said after a moment, “She could.”

“She wouldn’t, though.” Clark said, “This is Charlie we’re talking about, she can be a bit of a blunt object sometimes, yes, but she would never intentionally hurt someone.”

“Charlie before, yeah.” Bruce said, “What about Charlie now? We know how it changed her body, what about her mind?” Clark just left the room, going back to the med bay and finding her sitting on the bed with her legs tucked under her.

“How’s your head?” He asked but she didn’t look at him.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” She said simply, “I should be freaked out, panicking, I know this but I’m just…not.” There was silence as neither of them said anything. “What did Victor say?”

“It’s not solar radiation.” Clark said and told her the rest, watching her carefully and she nodded when he was done.

“I want my own superhero name.” She said with a smirk, looking up at him. “Something catchy.”

“Charlie…” He said, shaking his head with a smile.

“You know, something like “Duracell” or “Energizer” or “Rayovac”.” She said, her smirk vanishing, “Because all I am now is a damn battery for you.”

“Charlie.”

“It’s true, isn’t it? I’m actually useful to you now for that side of your life.” She said, “You were with me because I was normal, just a normal person, but I’m not anymore. Can’t dump me though. Might as well keep me around in case you need a pick-me-up, better than a shot of damn espresso.”

“Charlotte.” Clark said and went over to the bed, sitting down on it in front of her, “I wasn’t with you just because you were normal. I didn’t care that you were normal. I cared about you, and I still care about you. Does this change our relationship? In such a small way that it doesn’t even matter. I wasn’t worried that I was going to lose my “normal girlfriend”, I was worried I was going to lose the woman I love.” She didn’t say anything but after a moment she leaned forward, her arms lacing around his neck and he held her, pulling her into his lap.

“I want to go home.” She said, her voice small. “Please, let’s just…go home.”

“Okay, baby, we can go home.” He said and picked her up, getting off the bed and holding her tightly. “Hold onto me.” He left the medbay in a blink, leaving the cave altogether and leaping into the sky, Gotham falling away.

[imahallucinationbabyyyyy]

Putting away the walkie-talkie into my inventory, I searched around the area for a way into the facility.

The facility was surrounded in a fence much like the decoy. Guards were patrolling the area and even more were stationed around the place. There were cameras at each of the entrances. Some of the metal doors were huge though... I suspect they were designed for the bigger 'experiment subjects' they kidnapped. They weren't keeping as close an eye on those... probably because if the documents were correct there's an ongoing experiment in Shifter... Those are probably my best bet at sneaking in.

[Scarf] shifted to a black colour and grew bigger to cover me. I pulled it up to form a makeshift hood covering my head and wrapped one of its ends around my waist so it doesn't trip me. I climbed a nearby tree and jumped over the fence. Thankfully with my amazing skills and shapeshifting powers, I was able to land silently.

If Redact's stuff is working properly... the guards should be changing around now. I ran (silently obviously) to a side door. It was locked with a metal lock. Smart, a lot of people knows how to hack these days. But unfortunately for them, I can just break it. Once again with my awe-inspiring shapeshifting abilites, I break the lock by ripping it apart.

I open the door to darkness inside. Luckily for me again, I can just give myself night vi-

...oh shit

Several guns were pointed at me and [scarf] tugged me down to the ground to avoid a tranq. Some normal guns wouldn't do, there's too many of them. I summoned a grenade from my inventory and jumped on some of their heads (once again witb my superior skills and powers). Spotting a door, I ripped it open and threw the grenade behind me before slamming it close hard, effectively jamming it.

(More like denting it so it got stuck. Same effect anyways.)

Metal was placed against my head so I ducked and summoned a dagger to stab them in the thigh. Only to be met with some kevlar.

Wha- who the fuck wears armour there?? Smart people apparently.

Now, I may be at the very least resistant to a bunch of chemicals but I am not immune to blunt force trauma.

I felt pain at the back of my head as [scarf] tried to tug me forward.

Everything went black.

[ear-worthy]

The TED Tech & Climate Podcasts: Part Of The Sonic Collection For The Curious

TED Talks have a brand, and an impressive one at that. These "talks" are smart people saying smart things that other people either haven't noticed, have misinterpreted, or have ignored. In a way, it's a similar brand to Freakonomics, although with a disparate stylistic manner. On Freakonomics, the diagnosis or solutions to an issue are discussed and challenged. TED Talks are inspiring, yet one-way, monologues. How about a collection of podcasts for those not trapped by confirmation bias, meandering into misinformation, and shackled to conventional wisdom? The TED Audio Collective is a collection of podcasts for the curious. They're for listeners as excited by psychology and design as science and technology—who want to dig deep into today’s most exciting ideas. Their hosts range from TED speakers with viral TED Talks to veteran podcast producers, doctors, and academics. What do all of our hosts have in common? They explore big ideas, foster debate, and inspire change on a global scale. The TED Audio Collective includes podcasts like TED Talks Daily, How to Be a Better Human, Conversations with People Who Hate Me, and more. In this article, we'll look at two of this TED Collective podcasts -- TED Tech and TED Climate. First, there are as many technology podcasts as there are stars in the night sky. Yet, technology is such an expansive topic, you can make the argument that the sheer number of "tech" podcasts is entirely warranted. TED Tech guides listeners through the latest ideas from TED Speakers, uncovering the riveting questions that sit at the intersection of technology, society, science, design, business, and innovation. Here is the TED elevator pitch: "From the construction of virtual realities to the internet of things to the watches on our wrists—technology's influence is everywhere. Its role in our lives is evolving fast, and we're faced with riveting questions and tough challenges that sit at the intersection of technology and humanity." TED Tech has three attributes that other tech podcasts do not. First, the show goes beyond the typical "here's the latest gadget" narrative. Second, the show's music is unusually ear worthy for a tech podcast, with a jazzy guitar and synth music set to a quick tempo. Third, the show has an incredible host, Sherrell Dorsey. Although Dorsey only introduces the TED speaker, I think the choice of Dorsey as host illustrates the show's inherent brilliance. Dorsey is not the usual tech podcast host, who is a white male with either Zuckerberg empathy deficiencies or a Musk Kevlar narcissism.

Host Sherrell Dorsey is an award-winning data journalist, entrepreneur, speaker, and author teaching the world to redefine who gets to create and participate in the future.

She founded The Plug in 2016, the first Black data-driven tech news publication to syndicate on the Bloomberg Terminal, which was acquired in 2023 by ImpactAlpha.

As the TED Tech podcast host, Dorsey provides her analysis and commentary on technologies changing society, and how these advancements can provide opportunities for more underserved Americans to participate in an increasingly automated and digital world.

Dorsey holds a Master's degree in data journalism from Columbia University and a bachelor’s degree in international trade and marketing from the Fashion Institute of Technology.

In Dorsey's own words: "I grew up in a single-parent household as an inner-city kid in Seattle’s south-end neighborhood. My grandfather, who hopped the bus from Detroit to Seattle in the 60s to work at Boeing for $2.38 cents an hour, bought me my first computer when I turned 8.

"At the age of 14, I learned how to code and landed my first of many summer internships at Microsoft. Those early years were formidable in helping me know how to create something from nothing."

Not the prototypical tech geek narrative.

What subjects are covered on TED Tech? There's a fascinating episode on replacing fossil fuel appliances with energy upgrader Donnel Baird in a February 2024 show.

Then a January 2024 show introduces listeners to battery recycling pioneer Emma Nehrenheim, who has developed a strategy to recycle an EV's battery and reduce the industry's environmental impact and the need for rare minerals for mining. Nehrenheim's process recycles all the minerals used in a EV battery to be used again so that destructive mining is eliminated. Of course, AI is a favorite topic, and deservedly so. My favorite episodes so far are the ones where the show delves into using technology to solve current problems.

Listen in every Friday as TED speakers explore the way tech shapes how we think about society, science, design, business, and more.

*********************************************

TED Climate also joins an ever-growing field of climate podcasts. Like TED Tech, this podcast benefits from the skills of host Dan Kwartler, who is easy on the ears and asks our brains to think about our future.

I think it's a good show for climate deniers because it explains the why of climate change, details innovative solutions, and does not repeat "the sky is falling" message.

For example, last week the show revisited a talk by electrical engineer Ali Hajimiri, where he explains the principles behind wireless energy transfer and shares his far-out vision for launching flexible solar panels into space in order to collect sunlight, convert it to electrical power and then beam it down to Earth. Learn how this technology could power everything — and light up our world from space.

Here's the show's elevator pitch: "We get it. You care about the climate crisis—but sometimes thinking about it is just too overwhelming. Well, we’re here to help with that. Host Dan Kwartler unpacks the problems and solutions behind big systemic issues in bite-sized episodes."

What I like about the show is its realistic viewpoint that green energy solutions have tradeoffs, often significant ones. You’ll find out which bag is best for the planet, imagine our world without humans, and follow the international journey of the very shirt on your back. Yes, the show does talk about the bleak stuff—it’s a crisis after all—but they’ll also share little ways you can make changes in your daily life, in your towns and cities, and at your workplaces to help change climate change.

For example, in a February 2022 episode (episodes run only about 15 minutes) Denmark's Climate Minister Dan Jorgenson discusses the nation’s plan to end the country's oil industry by 2050. Sound crazy? It's not. Listen.

Another great episode is an April 2024 show titled, "How we could eat red meat with harming animals." This is a show for carnivores. Again, only 14 minutes, Isha Datar details how cellular agriculture could fundamentally change our food systems for the better. Burgers for everyone!

I enjoyed the May 1, 2024, episode with "biomaterials investigator" (Is that Fox Mulder for fashion?) Dan Widemaier introduces a leather alternative made from mushrooms. Recycled waste make new sustainable fashion products because color sorting eliminates the need for re-dying, saving energy, and reducing pollution. Textiles are then shredded or pulled into fibers, with other fibers occasionally introduced into the yarn. Shredded materials are pulled into fibers. Other fibers may be added to the yarn depending on its intended usage.

Listeners can also get involved by joining Countdown, TED’s global initiative to accelerate solutions to the climate crisis in collaboration with Future Stewards. Find out more at countdown.ted.com

Check out TED Tech and Ted Climate podcasts. The commonality of these podcasts is that they identify key issues in our world, use a cost-benefit analysis to advocate for innovative solutions, and believe that intellectual curiosity is an attribute to be cultivated, not mocked.

[ainews]

Cryptids, or creatures that are believed to exist by some but have not been scientifically proven, have been a subject of fascination and intrigue for many years. From the legendary Loch Ness monster to the elusive Bigfoot, people have been fascinated by the idea of these creatures hiding in the shadows.

However, what many people may not realize is that the pursuit of cryptids also involves a certain level of danger. Those who search for these creatures often enter dense forests, climb treacherous mountains, and brave harsh weather conditions. In such situations, it is important to wear clothing that not only protects the wearer but also allows for agile movement.

This is where pantsuits, specifically those with a falcate design, come into play. Falcate pantsuits have a curved, sickle-like shape to their legs, making them perfect for traversing through rugged terrain.

One of the main reasons for this design is the need for flexibility and movement. Cryptid hunters often have to navigate through tight spaces, climb over obstacles, and move quickly in order to get a good view of their target. The falcate shape of the pants allows for better mobility, allowing the wearer to maneuver easily without any restriction or discomfort.

Additionally, the curved shape also helps to protect the wearer from scratches and cuts. In forests and mountains, there are bound to be sharp branches, rocks, and thorns that can cause harm. However, the falcate design of the pants provides a layer of protection for the legs, reducing the risk of injury.

Moreover, the fabric used to make these pantsuits is carefully chosen for its durability and ability to withstand harsh conditions. Many pantsuits used by cryptid hunters are made from a combination of fabrics such as Kevlar, nylon, and spandex. These materials are known for their strength and flexibility, making them ideal for outdoor activities.

Pantsuits also provide an added layer of warmth and insulation, making them suitable for cold weather expeditions in search of cryptids. This is especially important as many of these creatures are believed to live in remote and often chilly areas.

In conclusion, falcate pantsuits are specifically designed for the needs of cryptid hunters. They provide both protection and mobility, making them an essential piece of clothing for those brave enough to venture into the unknown in search of these mysterious creatures.

[corner-stories]

new threads

Pieter Cross. Michael Holt. Late-Nights. Super Suits. Cutting-Edge, Ultra-Thin Armor. 1389 words. (ao3.)

The contents of Mister Terrific’s workshop were as ever changing as the tourists visiting the Statue of Liberty.

Tinkering and toying with items was simply in Michael’s nature. He was a firm believer in the notion that a creator’s work was never truly done, and thus every invention and gadget he had made were versions away from their initial prototype. 

And for reference, his T-Spheres and T-Mask were currently in their twentieth and fourteenth iterations. 

Michael had spent the last few hours in his workshop meticulously tinkering with a uniform, one that didn’t belong to him yet was in dire need of an upgrade. In contrast to his usual jacket and mask, the suit on his workbench included a black cowl and a pair of goggles uniquely designed to allow a certain person to see under normal lighting. 

With a steady hand, Michael adjusted the high-density, impact-resistant thermoplastic sheeting on the torso of the suit, making sure that it was in the ideal position to protect the vital organs. Meanwhile, the actual wearer of the garment was testing out a previous version in the only way he could. 

It was times like these where Michael was thankful for the random load-bearing beam in his workshop. It allowed him to hang a pair of gymnastics rings from the ceiling, allowing his test subject to test the limits of his mobility and strength when donning the new threads. 

As Michael adjusted the kevlar by the collar of the suit, Pieter A. Cross was literally hanging from the ceiling. With a false grip secured around the wooden rings, Pieter effortlessly pulled himself into a muscle-up, then held himself in a support hold as he kept his legs straight and raised them upwards into a pike hang. Had he been half the gymnast he was in his youth, then perhaps he would have been brave enough to lower himself into an iron cross. 

When Michael glanced up, he couldn’t help but grin. “Showing off, are we?”

Pieter’s usually frowny face softened into something more neutral, which was pretty much a smile from someone as stoic and humorless as him. 

“I’m flattered,” he responded in a voice that was slightly warmer than his usual monotone.

The Doctor leaned forward, keeping his back and legs parallel to the floor as much as he could. He made sure to spread his legs apart, forming a straddle maltese and attempting to hold it for as long as he could. 

Pieter’s thirty-nine-year-old muscles and joints surprised him, as despite the wear and tear they faced on a daily basis they still managed to keep him stabilized above the floor. Even the chronic aches in his left elbow were being nice to him for once. 

Eventually, Pieter finished testing the mobility of the Doctor Mid-Nite Suit V5.5 by returning to a support hold, then slowly lowering himself back to the floor. 

Michael remained sitting at his workbench, but turned his head towards his friend. “So how does that one feel? Can you move your shoulders better?”

“A bit more,” answered Pieter. As he walked over, he moved his right arm in a circle, a movement that seemed to flow effortlessly with the new flexibility of the suit. “Still feels like wearing a mattress though.” 

“But a comfortable mattress?”

Pieter shrugged. “I suppose so.” 

As Michael put the finishing touches on the Doctor Mid-Nite Suit V5.6, Pieter looked over to an older version of the garment that had been placed on a mannequin. Curiously, he touched the cape, which was made of a material of Michael’s own creation. 

On top of creating a cutting-edge, ultra-thin clothing that could rival Level IV body armor, Michael had apparently created an exceedingly light fabric that could provide one all the stealth benefits of a cape, but without the weight or drag. He even rigged the cape to detach from the suit after a certain amount of pressure, which would be useful in the event of unwanted snags. 

Obviously, Pieter was quite thankful for all the effort his best friend was putting into his new suits. Making sure that the JSA’s on-site medic was protected and padded was a fairly smart move, afterall. 

But considering the fact Michael had been dressing him up like a Ken Doll into the early wee hours of the morning, it was fair to say that Mister Terrific’s enthusiasm for playing the role of tailor was a bit… excessive. 

“Okay, I got one more for you,” Michael soon said, garnering an exasperated sigh from Pieter. 

The allegations that neither Doctor Mid-Nite nor Mister Terrific actually slept weren’t allegations, they were hard truths. 

Pieter pushed up his goggles briefly to rub his tired eyes. Once he pulled them back on, he saw Michael standing from his workbench and holding up the latest version of the Mid-Nite suit. At this time of night, it was hard for Pieter to keep telling the differences between every iteration of the garment, but in his limited vision he could tell that the current suit was slightly darker than the rest. 

“I’m sure it’ll feel the same as the last,” Pieter muttered.

“Not quite — see, I made some alterations that should fix the chafing around the neck,” Michael explained, gesturing towards the torso of the suit. “Plus, I’ve eased up on the armor around the joints for extra mobility. I’m hoping that a ‘move more, get hit less’ philosophy will lead to ideal results.”

It was fortunate that Pieter felt close enough to Michael to never mask his true feeling, which meant that the additional exhale of despair he let out was not met negatively. 

It was also fortunate that Michael was quite good at reading people — Pieter in particular — and was able to acknowledge that ungodliness of designing super suits until three in the morning.

“This is the last one, I promise,” Michael assured. “Please?”

Pieter noticed the same sense of excitement in Michael’s eyes. Perhaps it had been far too long since Mister Terrific got a chance to toy and tinker. 

With that in mind, Pieter nodded his head and grabbed the suit from his best friend’s hand.

“Just for you, Michael,” the Doctor spoke, managing a very subdued half-smile. At this time of night, it was hard for him to muster anything more. 

Michael nodded along, and keeping up with his end of the deal he went back to his work bench and put away his tools. A clean workspace was a happy workspace, afterall.

While his best friend meticulously organized every tool into its designated toolbox, Pieter began the lengthy process of disassembling the new Mid-Nite suit. In contrast to the simple jacket and shirt of Mister Terrific’s threads, the state-of-the-art armor and padding of the garment was made out of several pieces that had to be removed in a very particular order. It seemed that ease of application was another kink that Michael needed to iron out. 

After removing the gauntlets and belt, Pieter undid the fastenings around the shoulder, which helped loosened the chest plate secured to his torso. After the several pieces of cutting-edge thermoplastic were removed, the Doctor was left with the final layer, which still consisted of a shirt and pants made of impact-resistant foam and slash-resistant kevlar.

Hopefully Michael got a kick out of the impressive hopping dance Pieter had to perform to get his legs out of the suit’s pants. 

Pieter was heaving by the time he put the suit pieces off of him, then placed them onto the table in the middle of the workshop. It was moments like this where he regretted the choice to don compression wear underneath his usual work clothes. It didn’t help that some versions of the suit made him truly understand the phrase “10lb ham in a 5lb can.” 

Pieter wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead as he walked to Michael’s workbench, where he grabbed the final version of Doctor Mid-Nite’s new suit. At least it felt slightly lighter than the last.

“On another note, I’m really hoping this one breathes better…” Pieter muttered.

Whether it be because it was so ungodly late, or because he was so wrapped up in everything-proofing the suit that he overlooked such a basic detail, Michael let out an awkward chuckle. 

“Oh yeah, that’s a good idea.”