#suspension tube

[denismilovanovworkshop]

Wallpaper in Paris Inspiration for a mid-sized contemporary master bedroom remodel with beige walls, a light wood floor, and wallpaper

[unfortunatelyilikebnha]

This has been haunting me since forever. How tf does Kourin’s hair work.

Like yes I know she’s not the only person in cfv with Anime Hair but at least Aichi’s lil swoopy bang thing and Kai’s hairstyle and even Chrono’s fucking spiral could happen with enough hairspray and patience but how does Kourin’s ponytail hold her hair up??? The ponytail only seems to be connected to the hair in the loop, by all logic it should fall off the top of her head but it doesn’t how does it work 😭

[dioptasesystem]

This is how me and my bitch wife decide what to watch

[qwimblenorrisstan]

(back again, passed all my midterms and finally getting antidepressants😝, this is a VERY Johnny centric chapter)

tw: depression, lotta angst but aftercare this time, mentions of neglect, courting, mentions of bullets, being shot, medical treatment, rehabilitation, forced cuddles (but needed), hitting head against stuff, lots of whining, biting, scratching

It was wrong, he knew it.

He hadn’t been there originally, too cooped up in a sterile medical room, the harsh, stinging scent of a scent blocking spray burning his nostrils till he couldn’t smell anything at all. Mushy food he could barely shove down his throat, only tolerating it so they didn’t shove a feeding tube down his throat. Lukewarm water that tasted suspiciously like painkillers.

His head throbbed, the bullet having already been pulled out as soon as he was wheeled into the emergency room, doctors crowding around, yelling, ordering. Too much noise, in his opinion.

Especially when there was already so much going on in his head.

Everything had been fine, until it hadn’t been. He’d heard of a replacement on his team for him, temporary, they’d said, because of his medical suspension. He only had to get through a few months of physical therapy and a few medical tests before being thrown back onto the field.

He originally hadn’t known what to think. Simon had come visited him, told him of the strange alpha there, how quiet they were, how meek. The Ghost seemed to see it as a weakness, but Simon almost talked like he appreciated it, regardless of his annoyance.

“Tryin’ to replace you, well it isn’t working.”

He’d grumbled, making sure not to say anything the camera would pick up. Any mention of something potentially “triggering” could set Soap off, he’d been told. If he said anything toeing the line, he could be removed or banned.

Johnny had been intrigued at first, at the thought of a new alpha, seeing as there weren’t many in the SAS program. Especially not an American, on a British team. His thoughts were filled with the Southern twangy accent, “soda”, “chips” instead of crisps, arguments over soccer and football and which was which.

But now, months after the initial incident with Makarov, he’d recovered just in time to watch everything crumble and to try and help clean up the mess. You didn’t know him. Maybe that would give him a fresh start with you, maybe you’d like it.

He was still fucked in the head, voices whispering until he’d hush them, snappier, a bit angry at how much space he took up, but he supposed that you might be a bit fucked in the head too, just in the opposite way than him.

But as he’d crept up to your room in the middle of the night, slowly cracking the door open, he still felt it was wrong. There was no medical expert here if something went wrong. This was his riskiest bomb defusing yet, it felt like an all or nothing situation.

The room was practically dripping with a sour and pungent smell of distress and the unmistakable scent of depression, the feeling seeming to press down on him like a heavy weight, as if he was hundreds of miles underneath the sea, nearly being crushed by the pure atmosphere.

As he closed the door behind him with a small click, he heard rustling, the sound of those uncomfortable paper textured blankets the military provided, and a little sniff, before it stopped. He stood still as could be, trying not to wake you just yet, hoping he would be able to make more out of you when his eyesight adjusted.

Only the tiniest sliver of moonlight snuck through the small window in the room, though it was covered by a blanket. Gaz had updated him on the syndrome, how it meant no bright lights.

Soap didn’t consider himself a genius, but he didn’t think it was a great idea to just submerge you into complete darkness and sight deprivation with no warning. Especially not while you were struggling.

He rolled from the ball of his feet to the sides, heavy boots not even on, only his red and green socks that his sister-in-law had bought him for secret Santa one year donning his feet as he moved quietly. Carefully grasping the blanket covering the window, he brushed it aside a little more, more gentle light flooding the room as a beam landed on near the side of the bed, allowing him a bit more vision of you.

And when he finally turned and managed to see you?

His heart dropped.

Your eyes were puffy from crying, corners red and eyelids tightly shut as if to block everything out. Your lips were downturned, almost as if whining even in sleep as you seemed to pant somehow quietly. As if not to alarm or alert anyone despite your own suffering.

What really got him was the way you were curled up, arms and legs wrapped tightly around in a ball as if to protect your vital organs, your paper thin blanket maneuvered around as if to resemble a nest. He could barely see you, considering you were underneath the bed. Hidden.

The blanket seemed to resemble the nest you’d been kept from entering, and shunned from by his own pack.

He couldn’t help the whine that slipped out of him at his own distress of seeing you, you clearly distraught, hair greasy and tangled, clothes dirty, not even having enough energy to care for yourself. If only the scent of your emotions in this room alone had been enough to almost crush him, how close were you to being smashed between the weight pressing in on you?

Or had you already been crushed, and none of them had even cared enough to notice?

A flood of anger burner through his veins hotter than any pain he’d experienced on the job as he saw the clear signs of his pack’s neglect of you. Simon had visited him multiple times a week, but hadn’t even tried with you. Price had pulled the strings to get him better food in the med wing (even if it had still been bad), but he hadn’t cared enough to even provide proper materials for you to make a faux nest? Gaz had brought him sketchbooks and helped him feel comfortable in physical therapy, but hadn’t even tried to court you with any of the special gifts he had done with Price when first joining?

It was unfair. Unbelievable, to think the grown men who had done so much, saved so many lives, sacrificed everything to save the world, wouldn’t even give up their pride if it meant welcoming a new member to the team.

It was discriminatory, to dislike you purely because you were an alpha. It was unfair to dislike you purely because you were a replacement.

He watched you squirm a bit, maybe reacting to his scent unconsciously. He knew he couldn’t smell the best, not when he had been around a sterile hospital for months. Maybe the cocoa butter Vaseline that the physical therapist had used on him would cover it a bit, though.

He crept closer, hand reaching out, before pulling back again as he hesitated, shifting onto his knees in front of your bed, before just laying down on his side to see you under it. His breathing grew a bit shaky due to anxiety as he reached out, brushing his hand against yours, watching your brows furrow unconsciously as you mumbled something.

It was only when he slipped his full hand into your surprisingly calloused palm that your eyelids fluttered, and you jolted awake, yanking away from him with your teeth bared back, a wild animalistic fear in your eyes. A low growl that reverberated through his bones came out, and he understood in that moment that you weren’t just a bomb he had to defuse.

You were a high value target that wasn’t afraid to fight back, not just some stationary object he wanted to fix. This wasn’t a defusing mission, it was more a complicated stakeout, where all he could do was make careful moves, waiting for you to take the initiative.

However, as you pulled harshly away from him, your head reared back and slammed into the metal frame above you. A pained whining groan slipped out, and Soap couldn’t take it anymore.

Mission be damned, stakeout be damned, his instincts got the better of him yet again. The exact reason he’d taken a bullet to the head. But he found that he would risk taking another bullet to the head if he could just comfort you, let you know that you weren’t alone, that he understood.

It was a worthy risk, in his opinion.

He grabbed part of your shoulder, putting his foot against the bed frame and lifting up, and pulled you right out from under.

His arms wrapped around you, even as you struggled and hissed, desperately trying to mask the pain in your scent with what he could tell was poorly produced anger. The littlest hint of comfort he could smell, that seemed to lighten the atmosphere just a bit.

He held on, even as you clawed at him, and bit his arms (which he might’ve enjoyed, just a little bit), he held on. He held on because he’d always had people holding onto him, Price, Gaz, and Ghost, with their vice grip that held him and their pack together.

They had failed to hold onto you, so he would.

And eventually, you stopped struggling. You went a little bit limp, whined a bit more as your head must’ve been throbbing (he knew how that felt), before finally, finally leaning the slightest bit into him.

Johnny didn’t need to be told that the next few months would be difficult. That the pack would struggle and go through hardships they hadn’t yet faced before. Hell, it had already been strained since his injury. He had gone through months of rehabilitation, and still wasn’t the exact same.

But as he lied on the cold floor with you in his arms, leaning just the tiniest bit into him, he knew that the both of you could heal together, even if from completely different things.

At least he was drowning with you, instead of being alone.

(idk how to feel about this tbh, I think I put too much symbolism since I wrote it in one take while in a mood, but I wanna play roblox so just gonna post this and dip)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

[weskie]

Forgiveness (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

2.9k words | giving wesker his first injection, minor hurt/comfort, pining, mutual pining, fluff, part of the lover, leader, liar series | Fic Directory

'With Love - Albert Wesker'

The side effects of his newfound abilities come in waves.

For a time, Wesker was… himself, really.  Something in him had changed after the mansion.  Your former Captain was certainly still the stoic man you’d worked for.  The same one that wriggled his way into your heart in all those special ways. He was just a little more angry now.  Some days were worse than others, but god help you if he dwelled too long on Chris’s disruption of his plans.  It seemed like a lifetime ago…

But now you get to watch him seemingly deteriorate.  “Unstable,” he’d told you.  Whatever it was that granted him superhuman abilities wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.  It comes in waves.  First he’s simply irritable, lashing out at you and others for even the smallest of perceived slights.  Sweat would bead at his brow, trickling over the bump of a vein in his temple.  Those red, cat-like eyes you’d come to find less uncanny would grow brighter too, as if his fury were fueled by hot coals that lit them just as easily.

Next he’s sluggish– weak, even.  He reminds you of someone stricken with the flu with the way he sweats and tosses and turns uncomfortably in his bed.  Only once has he ever let it slip that his body aches terribly during such times.  You do what you can for him in those moments, patting cool cloths to his brow, fetching medicine to relieve his fevers, bringing him meals that he typically turns away, and even drawing blood samples to be analyzed later… It’s difficult to watch him suffer, even after everything he’d done to you and your comrades. 

Between such spells, he found a solution.  An injection synthesized from the very strain of virus that brought him back from death’s door.  A stabilizing agent to keep him right in the sweet spot.  On the night everything was finalized, he’d staggered down the hallways of the compound to your shared living quarters, knocking at your bedroom door with shaking hands.  

You can see the pain of his wounded pride as he rasps his request.  “I require your assistance…” he all but mumbles, feet dragging as he walks to plop gracelessly onto the edge of your bed.  He runs a trembling hand through his hair and the other extends to offer a syringe, an alcohol wipe, and a pad of gauze.  His head drops into his palm.  

Your heart tugs at the sight before you.  Despite everything, it’s still him.  Still Wesker, still the man you’d grown so fond of in your time as a S.T.A.R.S. officer.  You reach for the syringe, taking a seat on his right side, thighs just shy of flush to each other.  Wesker extends his forearm to you and you ready it with the wipe.

“In a vein?” You ask, nodding to acknowledge his weak hum of approval.  It isn’t at all difficult to find a good one and you slip the needle in with ease.  With a gentle draw of the plunger, a trickle of blood floods the suspension and you inject slowly.  You thumb gently at his skin, an act meant to soothe him in his fragile state.  He watches with hooded eyes as the black flecks pushing through the tube disappear into the needle, breaths a little heavier than his normal decorum would permit.  A glance to his face reveals deep-set exhaustion.

“Captain?”  You announce, peeking into his office.  You find him hunched over a case file, sunglasses tossed aside on the desk.  

Wesker acknowledges you with that signature hum of his, though it carries none of its usual firmness.  You’ve never seen him so tired before.  Even the icy blue of his eyes seems dimmed.  He motions for you to enter and you close the door behind you.  “Blinds,” he instructs.

Once they’re shut, you make your way to his side.  Your eyes fall to the document at his desk, recognizing it as the most recent missing child case that had cast a sorrowful shadow over the city. Your lips quirk into a smile when he yawns, unable to find the display anything less than precious.  You bring a hand to rest at his shoulder, rubbing softly.

“It never ends.” He sighs.  Such an act was rarer than rare from him.  Anything less than perfect composure from the great Captain Wesker was unheard of, but not for you.  Not anymore.

“Can I do anything?”  You ask softly, increasing the area of your ministrations to his upper back, further testing those boundaries that seemed to be falling away more and more with every private interaction.  You swear he pushes into your touch.  

Wesker’s gaze flickers to you briefly, almost as if he was considering even asking whatever was on his mind.  “Coffee would not be unappreciated.”  

You smile at him, turning to fetch a cup from the break room when he snags you by the wrist.

“Bring… two.  And some of your own work.”  He murmurs.  “I could use the company to keep me awake.”

His head rests against your shoulder as you press a tiny piece of gauze to the puncture wound.  For a time you simply stay there, thumb caressing the firmness of his forearm in your lap.  You’re unsure of whether or not he’s watching, but you imagine he’s probably got his eyes shut.  At least you hope he does, anyway.  

You signal to him to lift his head and kneel to the ground, untying the laces of his dress shoes.  You hear him hum above, whether in curiosity or complaint is unclear, but you continue anyway.  “Probably best if you get some sleep.”  You tell him as you tug his shoes free.  He relents without any grief, stopping his descent to the bed only to place his sunglasses atop your nightstand and free himself of his black dress shirt, leaving him in a black tank top.

He regards you with another hum as you stand, arms wrapping around your waist.  Your hand falls to his hair, gently pushing strands back in their perfectly styled place while he buries his face against your abdomen.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Leaves crunch under Wesker’s determined footsteps.  You two must have been walking for an hour now with no sight of, well, anything really.  The Arklay Mountains are huge but not overly populated.  It would take a while before you found a home with a vehicle to ‘borrow.’ 

His arms beneath your knees only tighten, signaling to you that your piggyback ride was far from over.

“C’mon, lay down.” You murmur, fingers scritching at his nape, occasionally trailing down to dance over the curve of his back.

He’s never slept in your bed before.  It’s strange to have him here, but you wager it’s no different than that night you’d fallen asleep on the couch with him.  Still, you feel no apprehension about crawling in on the other side.

Wesker turns to face you and you scoot the littlest bit closer, just until your knees bump his.  You can’t help but smile at him.  After everything, he still has that effect on you.  “So,” you say, “do you feel any different?”

He answers you with a slight nod, looking away briefly as if to contemplate his answer.  He holds his hand in the air for a moment.  You lift yours to entwine your fingers with his.

“That was to show you that the shaking had settled.” He says, pulling your hand closer.  His lips press to your knuckles and you can feel the burn in your cheeks at such a gesture.  “But this is not unwelcome.”

He’s never done that before.  In fact, for all of the times you’ve both danced near the line of such acts, neither of you has ever crossed it.

Wesker holds a hand over your mouth, pressing you into the peeling wallpaper of whatever dark room he’d tugged you into.  He removes it only once he’s sure you won’t make a peep, hand falling to grip your shoulder.  Outside, the sound of snarling growls and the rattle of chains war with one another.  The shriek of a girl, nearly inhuman, follows every loud thud until whatever monstrous beast opposes her becomes little more than fleshy splats.

Your heart hammers in your chest as if it meant to break free.  You wish you’d never set foot in this cursed place.  Had you known such horrors existed in this mansion, you’d have never stayed in Raccoon City to begin with.  To know something like this was in the mountains…  

You want to cry.  The only thing keeping you from giving up entirely was your Captain.  He’s pressed so close to you, practically nose to nose.  His eyes are locked on the doorway, completely focused on the sound of whatever creature slaughtered her way through the hallway.  As petrified as you are, he somehow makes it all less frightening.  His presence has always made you feel protected, whether at scenes of heinous crimes or in a mansion from hell.

“We’re clear.” 

His whispered words ghost over your lips.  Despite all of the fear coursing through your veins, you still find it in yourself to imagine bridging the gap.  But now is neither the time or place

You wonder if you’ll live long enough to see such a moment…

You two stay like that for a while, shifting only to come closer.  He watches you with those inhuman eyes of his, though you can’t help but grin when you see how wide his pupils have gotten.  That was one thing in particular you’d found quite enjoyable about his ocular mutation.  Though perfectly composed in every way, he couldn’t stop his eyes from dilating and giving away how he truly felt.  Well, unless he had his glasses on.  But that was different.

As your mind wanders back to the most traumatic night of your life, you can’t help but settle on that one question that had never quite been answered.  It slips from your lips faster than you can stop it.

“Why did you save me?”

Wesker’s eyes shut and a small sigh escapes him. You briefly wonder if he’s frustrated with you having asked.  After all, the small handful of times you’ve brought it up had been brushed off or the subject changed entirely.  His hand leaves yours and for a split second you think he’s going to throw the covers off, grab his clothes, and leave.  But he doesn’t.  Instead, he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, eyes unfocused but still somehow locked on you.  

“I meant to fire you,” he murmurs, voice low as if the confession were a sin.  “Before the mansion.  Before any harm could befall you.”  His thumb catches your lower lip.  “I…  You weren’t meant to be there.”

But that only leaves you with more questions.

“Do you remember the first time you ever brought lunch to my office?”  

You nod, though you fear he must be changing the subject again.

Knocking makes you exceptionally nervous, though not for the same reasons the rest of the crew feel.  Normally knocking on Captain Wesker’s door means you’re in trouble, but you’re far from it.

He looks almost surprised when you enter with cups of coffee and a bag of sandwiches.  Rumor was that he enjoys the ones from a shop a few blocks over.  Gossip was all the S.T.A.R.S. teams had to occupy themselves sometimes, and seeing the elusive Captain in public was akin to seeing a shaved bear.  The grapevine quickly spread the word that Captain Wesker had stayed overnight at the precinct on two separate occasions this week alone, so you figured you’d do something kind.

He seems almost taken aback that you would do such a thing.

“I had to uh… guess what you might like.  I hope this is okay.” 

Your fingers brush against his as you hand off the wrapped food.  This, as usual, makes your cheeks burn.  For as often as such a thing happens, you’ve never really gotten better at keeping that particular reaction at bay.  In fact, you almost suspect he does it on purpose.  Ever since the first time it happened when you’d handed him a heavy stack of paper, it seemed like every time you gave him something resulted in the same graze of skin.

“I appreciate you.” He says, which sends a wave of warmth right to your chest.  Wesker’s always had such a unique way of thanking you.  Not once have you heard him utter those words to another.

“You seldom left my mind after that.”  That edge to his voice is nowhere to be found in the softness of his confession.  “Even when you should have.”

You chuckle through a wave of emotion that you can’t quite name.  Your hand grips gently at his forearm, thumb rubbing softly just beneath the band of his watch.

“I had planned to find you afterward, though I imagine you would not have been pleased to see me.”  He continues, eyes still locked on you despite how distant they seemed. “Earning your trust back would have been difficult, but I would have done anything.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He confirms, grip growing a little more firm on your chin.  “You mean a great deal to me.  Far more than I ever imagined you would.”

How you wish you could’ve heard those very words back then.  Maybe instead of being hunkered down in some random facility owned by one of Umbrella’s rivals, you would be walking beside him in the park while he tells you all that you’ve longed to hear.  Or maybe you would have been out at some restaurant, or even having dinner at either your place or his.  But no.  Here he is coming down from one of his episodes, courtesy of whatever virus had brought him back from death’s door, confirming that he feels the same for you.

It’s not at all how you imagined it.  You used to lie awake at night picturing the moment one of you confessed and something more than longing gazes and tender touches could finally come to be.  Your heart doesn’t explode and fill your chest with confetti.  Your knees don’t wobble– not that they could, given that you were laying down.  It’s nothing like you imagined, but it’s so much more.

With bravery and joy in your heart, you finally lean forward and press your lips to his.  There’s none of the fanfare or romantic music you used to daydream of, just the occasional sighed breath from him and the gentle pecking of kiss after kiss.  It feels so natural.  It’s as if you’d done this a thousand times without having ever known it.  It’s slow and soft, precise in a way that could only make sense for him.  

The fingers gripping your chin leave.  Instead, Wesker moves his arm to wrap around your midsection and pulls you closer.  Between the intoxication of kisses and your hand smoothing up to his bicep, your mind becomes foggy.  It’s only when he breaks the act that you realize you’d foregone breathing in exchange for losing yourself in him.

You tangle a leg between his and nuzzle against his chest, pressing one more kiss to the exposed skin of his collarbone before letting your eyes flutter shut.  You feel his chin come down to rest against the top of your head and the arm around your waist tightens.

You thumb gently at the bent corners of the card.  On the night before Alpha Team deployed to the mountains, you decided it would be your good luck charm to get you through the mission.  You weren’t entirely sure if it had brought you any luck, but those words meant so very much to you.

‘With Love  - Albert Wesker’

He’s at the other side of the room, picking through a shelf of medical supplies while you sit on a makeshift bed.  You’re so lost in thought that you hardly notice when he’s in front of you again. He kneels before you, thumb slowly rubbing a sticky gel across the cut on your cheek.

“You’ll want to get that cleaned properly once we’re out of here,” he instructs.  “But this will be good enough for now.”

You huff a weak laugh.  “Think we’ll actually make it that long?”

“We will.”  Wesker says matter-of-factly.  He begins to rise, nearly turning from you once more before he halts.  In a rare act, he slowly removes his sunglasses.  It’s then that you see his line of sight.

The card.

“I– Call it dumb, but I brought it for luck.”  You stammer.  “Sorry…”

His hand falls to your shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze.  There’s a pained look in his eyes, one you’ve never seen before.  “You and I have got plenty of a future beyond these walls.”  

You pray he’s right.

[sm-baby]

Funny how people keep asking about the seventh close like

Bro

Suspense yk

Also stories where there’s seven kinds of things are amusing to me since I have six siblings so like… now even though I know all the clones are evil, I sorta try and characterize them as my siblings and I if we were at our worst and such, so I am patiently waiting for the seventh so I can see that

Sneak peak... Ehehe.. im cooking, chat :3

not quite the 7th clone yet, but... background stuff... Fun...

Nah these are the clones like a day after being made... Fresh out of the test tubes...

[denial-permanente]

ok I occasionally see the posts about implanting a permanent chastity cage and I think to myself. Interesting idea, but how could actually be done?

Is it like a big piercing? Screwed into the pelvic bone? Permanently secured normal cage?

Of course it's just a fantasy, but I think taking it a bit further, sorting out the technical issues could be interesting and maybe make some good content/captions. (I'm very obviously from stem background)

🔏 I'm from a manufacturing background, so I understand trying to work out puzzles such as these.

The idea of some kind of medically installed device came about after I had had several dreams of @mrs--edge taking me to some clinic, usually ending with me waking up in a cold sweat 😅. I didn't know how they worked; it was just a recurring dream.

I guess after thinking about it, I have a vague concept of a titanium tube, attached to rings that have been grafted or implanted inside my body to keep them from being removed.

However, knowing what I do about medical implants, this is one of those concepts that needs at least some "willing suspension of disbelief" for the sake of the narrative.

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2024: October 19th

Day 19: Suspension // Fisting // Mirror Sex

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: Fisting, fingering, lubrication, sexual exploration, sexual safety, use of color system

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“You’re doing so good, baby.” He coos, licking his lips as he pushes his hand forward just a little more. Pushing until you whine and then he lets up, pulling back the four fingers that are currently buried as far as he can get them inside your cunt. “You can take it. You’re gonna take it.” 

It’s hot and annoying at the same time. That smug confidence in his tone, low and sexy as he growls out praise and encouragement. Making your hips roll down on their own even though you need a small break. Maybe some more lube. 

“Fuck, you have a big goddamn hand, Morales.” You grumble, throwing your head back against the soft pillow behind your head and try to slow down the rapid beating of your heart. The ache of your cunt isn’t nearly as bad as it can be when Frankie gets rough and fucks you within an inch of your life, but it’s close. 

He hums, tone amused and he crooks the edges of the two fingers still inside you and makes you whine again. “You’re the one that wanted to do this, baby.” He reminds you, like you didn’t have to completely talk him into this. 

“I know.” You huff, biting your lip and clenching down around his fingers before you feel him start to add more of the water based KY to his hand, especially around that damn thumb of his. “It sounded sexy in my book and your hands are always so good.” 

It had started with one of those BookTok books you had been obsessed with. Venturing over into your day dreams while you had watched Frankie under the kitchen sink while he replaced the garbage disposal. You had damn near made him knock himself out when you had blurted out that you wanted him to fist you. 

Now, here you are, wondering why the hell you had decided this man’s fist would feel good inside you. Although the small sting is worth the way your cunt gushes. Your core burns at the mere thought of having him completely inside you. 

He had trimmed his nails short, making sure that nothing could possibly hurt you. Making sure that he had every single tube of lube that you owned in the house right here, within reach. The towel underneath you will absorb most of the excess and your slick as it manages to pour out of you. 

“Do you want to stop?” Frankie pulls his fingers completely out and holds them up, pulling the fingers apart. Your juices web between them, stretching out like thing strings between the digits and the sight of it makes you moan. 

“Fuck,” you huff, shaking your head. “No, no baby, I need more.” You know that Frankie isn’t getting anything out of this physically right now, but he shoots you a proud grin, slipping two of his wet fingers into his mouth and groaning in approval. 

The process starts all over again. Two fingers, then three. Having to pull his fingers nearly out of you so he can press his thick pinkie into that same space as well. Watching you with dark, expressive eyes while he twists his wrist and pumps those fingers deep into your tight walls. 

He’s into it. You can tell that from the way his cock hangs heavy, precum dribbling off the head and smearing against your thigh when he shifts to change the angle and press just a little deeper. 

“FUCK!” You gasp out, feeling that sharp sting of pain when he twists his wrist, trying to ease it inside you so that his entire fist will push in. 

“Color.” The word comes out automatically, Frankie almost pausing, but he watches you closely. 

“Green, fuck- it’s almost there.” You whine, toes curling and despite the pain, it feels really good too. It’s a paradox and you now understand really what they mean by ‘hurts so good’. You don’t want him to stop, your fingers twist in the sheets and pull at them while your hips tilt down. Adding more pressure to the action. “So fucking green.” 

He grunts in approval, shuffling closer again. “Almost there, baby, fuck, your pretty pussy is squeezing my hand like a fucking vice.” He growls, biting his lip as he imagines how this would feel around a cock. “Maybe we should have the guys over.” 

It’s not like you haven’t talked about all kinds of crazy shit over the years, including letting his former Delta team all come and stuff you full like a Thanksgiving Turkey. It’s all been just talk, you would never do it, but your walls clench around him again and another hot gush of your juices coats his hand at the hot thought. 

He smirks, twisting his hand just slightly and with a tiny sucking sound, his hand pops past the resistance of your pelvic bones and slides inside you. 

“Oh my fucking godddddddd.” Your moan matches Frankie’s, although his own is completely wordless. His fucking fist is inside you. You can feel his wrist against your lips and it’s more erotic than you had fucking imagined. He pushes a little deeper and you whine breathlessly. 

You enjoy this. That alone makes Frankie smirk and he shifts close, leaning down and changing the angle of his hand inside you to see if you like that as well. “Well now you’re my personal little puppet.” He teases against your lips, making a laugh puff out of you that is followed up by another moan. “Let’s see how hard you cum like this.” 

“Fuck- fuck, I love you.” You pant, feeling him start to move ever so slightly inside you, not trying to do too much right now, just seeing what has you gasping and clenching around his fist. 

“I love you too.” He promises, kissing you again and leaning back to watch as he plays with your body. You had asked him to fist you, now both of you know that he can. It’s time to discover how much fun the two of you can have with this now. 

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

This 1953 Muntz Jet convertible underwent a three-year custom build under previous ownership, and it was purchased by the seller in 2021. The car is powered by a fuel-injected 5.7-liter LT1 V8 engine paired with a four-speed automatic transmission and a Ford 9″ rear end, and it is finished in Apple Pearl with a white Carson-style removable top over gray snakeskin-style Naugahyde upholstery. Features include custom bodywork, an Art Morrison frame, power-assisted steering, four-wheel disc brakes, airbag suspension, Painless Performance wiring, and more modified and fabricated details. This custom-built Muntz is now offered with a copy of Rodder’s Journal magazine featuring a story on the build and a clean California title in the name of the seller’s business.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

The steel, aluminum, and fiberglass body is mounted on an Art Morrison ladder frame that was boxed and finished in semi-gloss black, and the floor was raised 3″. The exterior was repainted in a Sherwin Williams two-stage Apple Pearl mixed by the late Stan Betz. Features include a chopped Duvall-style windshield, 1950 Chevrolet headlights, dual Appleton spotlights, 1951 Ford Victoria side windows, and a white removable Carson-style top fabricated to match the height of the chopped windshield. Additional equipment includes color-matched rear fender skirts and chrome bumpers. Wear from fitting the top is noted on the rear deck.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

Steel wheels sourced from a 1976 Dodge measure 15″ and are mounted with Cadillac Sombrero-style covers and whitewall tires. A matching spare fitted with a BFGoodrich Silvertown tire is mounted within a rear-mounted Continental-style chrome carrier. A Mustang II front end accommodates power rack-and-pinion steering , and the car rides on an electronically-adjustable Air Ride Technologies airbag suspension system along with 2” lowered front spindles, Strange Engineering tube shocks, a rear Panhard bar, and front and rear sway bars. The seller reports that the front control arm bushings were recently replaced.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

Braking is handled by GM G-body-sourced calipers matched with Ford Granada discs up front and Ford SVO-specification calipers and discs at the rear.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

The cabin was customized by Jim’s Auto Trim of San Diego, California, and features Glide bucket seats and a rear bench trimmed in gray snakeskin-style Naugahyde upholstery, along with matching treatments for the dash trim, headliner, and door panels. Additional equipment includes a 1952 Lincoln steering wheel mounted to a shortened Lincoln steering column, gray cut-pile carpet, and a Pioneer stereo housed within a custom center cubby.

The engine-turned “Hollywood” instrument cluster houses Stewart Warner gauges consisting of an 8k-rpm tachometer, a 160-mph speedometer, and auxiliary readings for fuel level, battery charge, oil pressure, and water temperature. The five-digit odometer displays 25k miles, though total chassis mileage is unknown. A Lokar pedal assembly was fitted during the build.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

The Corvette-sourced 5.7-liter LT1 V8 features a polished fuel intake manifold along with billet aluminum valve covers, and additional features include an Opti-Spark distributor, a Griffin aluminum radiator, and a wiring loom sourced from Painless Performance Wiring. A set of long-tube headers are connected to a 2.5″ exhaust system equipped with dual Dynaflow mufflers. The seller reports that the oil was recently changed.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

Power is routed to the rear wheels via a four-speed 4L60E automatic transmission and a Ford 9″ rear end with with 3.55:1 gears and Strange Engineering 31-spline axles. Additional photos of the underside, drivetrain, and suspension components are presented in the gallery below.

Custom 1953 Muntz Jet Convertible

The car was featured in issue #36 of Rodders Journal magazine

[courtofparrots]

A list of equipment in Luis Serra's lab and what he might use them for

My beloved mutual @geddy-leesbian put in a ton of effort and got these incredibly detailed screenshots of Luis's island lab, featured in this post, and I thought I would follow that up by comparing what he uses to what I use in my own lab. This was fun for me to do and I also thought it could be used as a resource for any writers that aren't as familiar with Luis's profession.

(for context if you don't know me, I am a microbiologist, bacterial geneticist if you want to be specific. I'll be earning my PhD hopefully this year, and I have been studying biology for 10 years, and actively working in various labs for 7)

Obviously this is a science fiction video game, so while I may be a scientist, I am still using some level of guesswork! This is just meant to be a fun little thing for my fellow resi nerds.

1. Liquid Nitrogen tank

These are used for flash-freezing biological samples for long-term storage. In the context of Luis’s research, he might flash-freeze plaga cells or dead plaga bodies in order to store them (typically at -80 Celsius) without them decaying or being damaged

2. Microcentrifuge

This is a veryyyyy common piece of equipment. You use them to spin samples so you can collect cells out of suspension. It’s like how they spin blood to separate it from plasma at blood donation centers

3. Light microscope

I’m sure everyone recognizes this one but still wanted to add the picture from my lab because I appreciate how detailed and accurate his equipment is

4. Shaking incubator

Used to grow tubes of cells! They are typically kept at 37C (body temperature) and they shake at like 200rpm to keep oxygen flowing through the culture so they stay healthy. You would do this to grow samples of whatever organism you desired so you could run experiments on it the next day (we call it making overnights or overnight cultures).

5. Maybe an anaerobic chamber?

These are slightly less common pieces of lab equipment so I was surprised to see it! We have one in our lab because we do some work on gut-dwelling bacteria that have to be grown without oxygen. As you can see, ours looks a little different so it might have some different uses, but generally the little cube on the right side is where you would place a sample (it’s an airlock) and then transfer it into the chamber. Seeing as Luis has it, I’m thinking maybe las plagas might need to be grown anaerobically at certain stages, I’d guess in early life when it’s really dependent on being in the human body.

I've got some other pictures to compare that I'll also be posting about in the coming days, about things like chemical management plus some other weird equipment things Luis has, but in the meantime if you have specific questions feel free to DM me! I hope this is helpful!

[universitypenguin]

Chapter 29

The Princess & the Lawyer

Summary: In the aftermath of the incident, Lloyd grapples with his emotions and begins to wonder about their future.

Word Count: 4,605  

Warnings: Mention of adult content such as sex and drug use. Non-explicit references to child abuse, which is made clear by a character’s reactions and implied by their internal reflection, but not discussed in specific or graphic terms.

Author’s Note: Thank you for coming back to read this, despite my long absence! Full Author’s Note can be found here.

Masterlist 

Lloyd wasn’t where he should be. 

He should be sitting at your bedside, like men did when the women they loved were injured. Instead, he stood by the window. His gaze was fixed on the leafless silhouettes of the tree branches outside, drawn there because if he was looking at them he wasn’t looking at you, swathed in bandages and draped in sheets that bore an unsettling resemblance to a shroud. 

Injured felt like too plain of a word to describe your condition. You’d rammed a car head-on into a concrete barrier at high speed and a moment later, Westin Tafferty had shot you in the head at close range. The doctors said the bullet had grazed your parietal bone and fractured your skull, triggering internal bleeding. Within minutes of arriving at the hospital you’d been rushed into the operating room for an emergent craniotomy.

Now, you were sedated in a coma and no one could say if the surgery had been successful or not. The carefully titrated medications flowing through your I.V. masked any sign of improvement or deterioration. As long as the sedatives infused, you remained trapped in a stasis where no one could tell if you were healing or slipping away. Until they dialed back the drugs the state of suspension would persist. He’d asked, but no one was willing to estimate when they’d begin tapering off the medication–or if that was even part of the plan. 

Behind him, the ventilator hissed. Lloyd twisted his neck, trying to ease the tension as his eyes drifted over the landscape. Your room overlooked the courtyard, which wasn’t much to see, especially after the weekend’s turn in the weather. Skeletal tree branches stretched toward the sky, stripped bare by last night’s windstorm, which had brought in an unexpected cold front that settled into a hard frost. Just yesterday, the leaves had been turning yellow. Today they were scattered in a thick carpet over the grass. Your day nurse had told him it was the earliest frost since 1979. Lloyd hadn’t offered a response. 

In fact, he’d barely registered her remark at all. Information hadn’t been sticking in his mind lately. Between the car accident, the shooting, and the discovery that Westin Tafferty had been stalking you all along, his brain had short-circuited. The machinery in his head was broken. Synapses fired sluggishly, like a circuit board trying to transmit a signal through frayed wires. His thoughts flickered, dimmed, then disappeared.

He twisted his neck and scanned to the left, his gaze colliding with a reflection in the glass. The image was distorted but he could make out your form lying in the hospital bed directly behind him. Monitors were packed around your bed. A screen displayed your vitals, another showed wavy lines related to breathing, and one monitored intracranial pressure. A drain connected to your skull through a thin tube—that was a left over from the operation. He’d been curious about it but hadn’t asked. After two days in the ICU, he’d learned it was sometimes better not to know. On the other side of the bed, an infusion pump was hooked to the I.V. in your forearm, along with a ventilator.

The machine noisily breathed for you. He’d grown so used to its rhythmic—whoosh, thump…pause… hiss—that the sounds faded into the background. Looking at your reflection in the glass was easier than actually looking at you. It softened the bruises that had deformed your features and hid the traction splint on your left lower leg. But the ventilator’s whir was a constant reminder that a machine was all that stood between you and death. Lloyd inhaled sharply, closing his eyes. He took a long breath, drawing the air in deep to ease the sudden wave of nausea. His phone buzzed.

Expecting it was your mother or Vivian, Lloyd fished the device out of his pocket. The message was from an unsaved number.

I’m at the nurse’s station. Which hallway should I take?

Lloyd frowned and scrolled through the messages. He’d exchanged about a dozen texts with this number over the weekend, the details of which were fuzzy in his memory. It took some scrolling to realize the number belonged to Jen Kyzansky. Right. He remembered now. Jen had promised she’d stop by after work and it was five o’clock. He’d asked her to visit after an exchange with your day nurse, who confirmed that coma patients could sometimes hear people. Not always—but in some cases. 

He could barely stand to look at you in this condition, let alone speak, so he’d called in reinforcements. For all his personal dislike of the woman he was supremely confident in her ability to carry on a one-sided conversation. She would keep it positive and upbeat and talk about things you’d enjoy. You needed Jen right now, not him. 

He sent instructions to guide her through the maze of hallways and stepped outside the glass booth the ICU considered a “room” to wait for her arrival. A moment later, someone carrying a giant vase of flowers rounded the corner. Though he couldn’t see the person’s upper half, he recognized the tailored oxblood trousers. Jen shifted the flowers to her hip to read the room placards. Before he could call out, she spotted him and picked up the pace. When she was an arm’s length away she stopped, her gaze sweeping up and down his form. 

“You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

She didn’t smirk, as he’d expected. “When was the last time you slept?”

Lloyd shrugged. He tried to sneer–after all, it was the customary greeting between him and Jen–but his features wouldn’t cooperate. To his dismay, her expression softened into something that looked suspiciously like sympathy.

“Go home. Take a hot shower and a couple Benadryl. Once you’ve slept, you’ll feel better.”

“Will I?” He’d been aiming for sarcasm but a waver of apprehension snuck into his voice instead. 

Her chin lifted. “Yes, you will. Call someone to drive you home, or at least drink some coffee. Driving tired is as bad as driving drunk.” 

Lloyd obeyed. At the end of the hall, he glanced back to see Jen sitting beside your bed. Jealousy cut through him. It was irrational, given that he had all afternoon to do what Jen was doing now, but unfortunately he couldn’t look at you for more than thirty seconds without wanting to throw himself off the roof. 

At the elevator bank his gaze drifted to the window as he waited for the car. It offered a different perspective on the same barren trees he’d stared at from your room. In a few months they’d be reborn, sprouting new buds and leafing out. Nature healed itself, even after the most brutal storms. He had no such ability. His wounds didn’t heal; they stayed with him, out of sight, but always festering under the surface. Lloyd scrubbed a hand over his face. Wallowing in self-pity didn’t do you any good. It wasn’t good for him, either, as painful emotions tended to corrode his self-control. He could feel the chaos welling up and worried that he wouldn’t be able to contain it much longer. The stitches of his composure were straining, threatening to tear apart. 

How could he ever support you if he couldn’t control his own emotions? He’d sent Jen in as his substitute for a task as basic as sitting by your bed and talking. He was useless—he couldn’t even look at you! You needed him right now, and he couldn't even look at you. He was a coward, and not because of the fear, but because he was letting it dictate his actions.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The elevator took him down to the lobby. As Jen suggested, he stopped by the coffee shop and ordered a London Fog. It was late afternoon, and aside from him and the barista, the shop was empty. That made sense. At five o’clock on a Monday most people were still at work, stuck in traffic, or picking up their kids.

Nothing played over the speakers and the weight of the silence pressed down on him. Lloyd sat down at a table to wait. He listened to the hum of the espresso machine, the soft clatter of metal instruments as the barista stirred his tea. His thoughts drifted back upstairs, comparing the quiet sounds of the coffee shop to the symphony of whirling, hissing, and beeping that filled your room. If you were here, you’d have ordered something so sugary and caffeinated that it ought to come with a Surgeon General’s warning. 

“Lloyd, your London Fog,” the barista called.

He collected his drink and turned to face a jarring sight—a group of nurses gathered in a loose semi-circle on the other side of the glass partition separating the shop from the hallway. They all wore the same unmistakable shade of green. Over the past few days, he’d learned the color coding system of the hospital’s scrubs: navy blue for ICU nurses, burgundy for lab techs, pale blue for surgical staff, and a garish shade of sea-foam green that identified this group as trauma nurses. His grip tightened around the cup, the heat seeping through the paper doing nothing to thaw the sudden chill in his fingers. The sight of the trauma nurses triggered a flood of memories, sharp and uninvited. 

The drive into the city. Detective Roth’s hands tight on the steering wheel as he wove through traffic. The flashing dash lights in the silent car, no wail of sirens overhead because those were only for official emergencies…Walking past the destroyed trauma bay, its floor littered with the debris of plastic packaging and soiled gauze, as a gray scrubbed man mopped blood off linoleum tiles. Meeting your parents in the waiting room of the surgical suite. The doctor entering, asking if anyone was ready to see you. Your mother, crying, too distraught to accompany your father to the post-anesthesia unit… Vivian suggesting Lloyd go with him instead…

Dishes clattered in the sink, snapping him back to the present. Lloyd pulled his gaze from the nurses and moved to a table, deliberately facing away from them, but the image of those green scrubs lingered in his mind.

For the past seventy-two hours, he’d clung to the hope that you would wake up, that somehow you’d shake off a traumatic brain injury as if it were nothing more than a common cold. The sheer absurdity of such magical thinking grated on his nerves, but he couldn’t stop the optimistic thought from creeping in. Being irrational didn’t change the facts, though, and two days later your diagnosis remained unchanged: critical but stable.

The word “stable” circled in his mind. He rolled the word silently over his tongue, as if repeating it would make it easier to accept. Stable meant things weren’t getting worse, but it didn’t mean they were getting better either. It was a fragile reassurance, one that only made him more anxious the longer he sat with it. The fact that you were stable didn’t offer any hint of what came next, whether you’d recover or languish in this state forever. Instead of easing his fears, the thought of your impending recovery opened up an uncomfortable set of questions, chief among them: where did your relationship go from here? 

Recent events had solidified one fact—whatever this relationship was, it wasn’t casual. Not anymore. He couldn’t deny it, not when he’d spent days by your bedside, received updates from your family, and been added to your list of emergency contacts. The lack of questioning about his presence from either of your parents symbolized how entrenched your relationship had become. Vivian likely played a role in that, but it reinforced the same point: he was more than just your friend. What exactly he was remained unexamined as of yet, but it was only a matter of time.

There was an eighteen year age gap between you. While he’d packed for college, you’d turned two weeks old. Your future was filled with hope and potential, any path was open and ready to be explored whenever you craved something more. He’d wasted his future already, thrown it away on bad decisions, mental instability, and addiction. The gap between you wasn’t just measured in years but also by directions; your lives were moving along different paths. You had spent this spring considering your options for law school and Lloyd had mapped out a tax-efficient withdrawal plan for his retirement funds. 

He wasn’t blind to the fact that the age gap was part of what had drawn you to him. You’d wanted sexual experience, and he had plenty to offer. His sophistication and confidence were traits you appreciated in him, even as a friend. Sometimes he wondered if it was him you were drawn to, or the feeling of security he provided. You’d had too many responsibilities handed to you too early. He was good at taking charge. It didn’t take a genius to figure out where the attraction stemmed from. Doubt gnawed at him. Did you want him, or did you just want someone competent, who made you feel safe? He wasn’t the only man who could meet those needs. Lloyd wished he could pretend otherwise, but he couldn’t see how both your futures could coexist in the long term.

The chime of the door announced the admission of two new patrons to the coffee shop. A pair of nurses in pink scrubs entered, giggling at some private joke as they formed a queue at the counter. Labor and delivery nurses, Lloyd guessed, judging by their uniforms. Their conversation quickly confirmed his assumption and in the tight confines of the shop, he couldn’t help but overhear them. 

“I almost called him her dad,” the brunette said. “He’s like three times her age, it's the obvious way to go!”

“Melanie flagged the chart with a note.” 

“Yeah, but by the time I saw it the word ‘dad’ was already halfway out of my mouth.” 

“You really called him her Dad?!”

“I tried to change it to Dale. The transition was not smooth. Not at all. They stared at me like I was crazy. Then I made up some B.S. about how he looks like a Dale—”

Her friend snickered. “Girl…”

“Shut up! The man has white hair! He’s lucky I didn’t call him Grandpa.”

The other shook her head. “Can you imagine having a kid with a guy that old?”

“No thanks. You?”

“Pfft, absolutely not.” She wrinkled her nose. 

“Neither of them thought this through. The risk isn’t worth it.” 

“Hell no,” her friend agreed. “The odds of all that scary genetic crap is like six times as high with fathers over forty.”

“What about fathers over eighty?” the brunette giggled. 

“You know it’s harder for guys to get someone pregnant once they’re over forty?”

“It’s like nature’s way of cutting the old timers off.” 

“Not if they’re persistent!”

They both laughed. 

Lloyd pulled out his phone and pretended to be occupied. The nurses quickly exited the shop after their orders were filled, but they’d given his thoughts a new path to wander down. There was a good chance that you’d want a family someday, given how healthy and tight-knit yours was. You were good with children. The idea of you not being a mother was somehow unfathomable to him. A chill ran down his spine. He could easily imagine the same story he’d just overheard being told about him. 

It wasn’t wise to become a father after a certain age, Lloyd mused. He cringed and shook himself, disturbed by the seriousness of the thought. There was no reason to consider such things. He had decided long ago that he didn’t want children. The Hansen line would end with him, and there would be no heir to carry on the family curse.

His mind drifted to Zach’s comment about vasectomies and his insinuation that Lloyd was keeping his options open by not getting snipped. Suddenly, that accusation hit too close to home. Being in a relationship with a much younger woman opened the door to that possibility, and you’d both been complacent by relying on only one form of birth control for the past few months.

What if you asked him for a baby? Would he be able to deny you what you wanted, even knowing the risks? He winced. No. He couldn’t be a father. He didn’t have the temperament for it, nor the energy it demanded.

You deserved to be with someone who could give you the full experience of parenthood—someone younger, willing to endure sleepless nights, with the stamina to chase after a toddler. He couldn’t picture himself running after a child at his current age, let alone keeping up with a teenager. By the time your child graduated high school, he’d be at least sixty, if not older. You needed someone with more life ahead of them than he had to offer.

Maybe you didn’t want children. For a moment, the thought sparked a flood of relief. But guilt came fast on its heels, crushing the tiny flicker of hope. How could he even think that? It wasn’t his decision to make. He had no right to wish you’d give up something as fundamental as motherhood just to accommodate his shortcomings. You might be willing to accept the limitations brought on by his age and past, but he couldn’t ask that of you. Your future didn’t need to be burdened by his realities. 

He wished he didn’t have to think of these unpleasant things, that time could freeze everything as it was and your relationship could stay vague and undefined forever, but time marched on and there was no escaping the truth. Being with him came at a cost, and you’d already paid the price. If not for your friendship with him, Court Gentry never would have known your name. If Lloyd hadn’t turned down Court’s request for help—not once, but twice—you wouldn’t have been drawn into his reckless scheme to expose the spy at Bishop & Howard. 

Then there was Westin Tafferty. His grudge against Lloyd had made you a target. Without that connection, Tafferty wouldn’t have spent months harassing and stalking you. He wouldn’t have tried to kill you. The worst part was that Lloyd still couldn’t remember meeting him; whether Tafferty hadn’t made much of an impression or Lloyd had been too high to recall their introduction was up for debate. But Zach had confirmed the truth: Tafferty had spent twenty years working for the NSA and he’d crossed paths with Lloyd on more than one occasion. Detective Diskant had recovered the flash drive you’d hidden and spent the weekend piecing things together. There was plenty of evidence, enough for three life sentences, but Tafferty had vanished.

Even forgotten memories from his past haunted him—and by extension, you. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t untangle the past from the present. You’d had a brush with his past in Singapore, then again in Qatar. Apparently, those close calls hadn’t been warning enough, because this time the consequences had really caught up and now there was a machine breathing for you. 

Lloyd’s tea had gone cold, but he was still deep in thought when Zach entered the coffee shop. His leather jacket creaked, stiff from the cold, as he sat down in the opposite chair. 

“I thought I’d find you here,” Zach said, unzipping his jacket. He regarded Lloyd with a knowing gaze. “You look like you’re plotting something. Care to share?”

“I’m not plotting anything.” 

Zach’s eyebrow twitched, and Lloyd sighed, amending his statement. 

“Not now at least.” 

Zach leaned back in his seat, lacing his hands behind his head. “Alright.” 

Lloyd grunted, picked up his tea and sipped, wincing at the bitter taste. 

“Is that tea?”

“Yes.”

“Disgusting.”

“It’s one less addiction to manage,” Lloyd said. 

“Mmmhhh.” 

Silence fell. Zach didn’t speak. He maintained the same relaxed posture but his eyes watched Lloyd with the intensity of a hawk watching a mouse. It was a pressure tactic that worked wonders in the interrogation room. Lloyd disliked having it used on him and felt ridiculous for wanting to fill the lingering silence, yet the thoughts bouncing around in his head had to go somewhere. He weighed the risks and decided that Zach was the safest option.

“Do you ever think about…kids?”  

Zach braced his elbows on the table. “No. I settled that issue a long time ago.” 

Lloyd rubbed his jaw, scowling at the itchiness of the three-day stubble he hadn’t found time to shave off. 

“Nurses were just in here talking about congenital issues with older fathers, the odds of it and such, that’s all.” 

Zach waved his hand. “You’re borrowing trouble.” 

“I’m not saying I want kids,” Lloyd rushed to clarify. 

“Spare me the bullshit. Let’s talk about it. You’re twisting yourself up over statistics without considering the rest of the picture.”

“What do you mean?”

“How many Gulf War vets, who were exposed to God-knows-what in Kuwait, had kids? And most of them were fine, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“They’ve researched it for decades and still can’t find a strong link. Genetic problems depend on a lot of factors.” 

He must not have looked persuaded because Zach continued. 

“How many twenty-five-year olds vape? Eat a diet of pure junk food? You’re healthier right now than most younger men could dream of being. Hell, you’re drinking tea.” 

Lloyd scoffed. “I don’t drink coffee so I’m off the hook?”

“And you eat turkey bacon, which is pathetic and un-American, but to each their own. Seriously, if it’s bothering you, get your sperm tested.”

“Do what?”

“Get your sperm tested,” Zach said, as casually as if he were reminding Lloyd to check his tire pressure. 

“Sperm testing? They do that?”

“Yeah. I had mine tested before and after my vasectomy.”

“Checking it right now wouldn’t matter much. Princess and I are in different places in life. By the time she’s ready to have kids…” Lloyd trailed off. 

“Deposit it at a sperm bank, they’ll put it on ice for later. Of course that’d take all the fun out of things, but it heads off the worst-case scenario.” 

Lloyd let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as Zach’s logic cut through his spiraling. 

“Get your head on straight and focus on what you can control,” Zach said. 

“Which would be?”

The blond man’s face turned serious. “I have news.” 

Lloyd arched his brow. 

“Westin is dead.” 

“Since when?” 

“His body was found this afternoon—a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”

Disgust hit first, followed by a surge of regret that twisted into concern. The disgust came from the fact that he hadn’t brought about Westin’s death by his own hand. Regret came from knowing, intuitively, how Westin’s death had played out. His eyes locked with Zach’s who read the unspoken assumption in them.. 

“I didn’t do it.”

“The others?” 

“No.”

“What about…”

“Possible,” Zach said. “No one knows where Gentry disappeared to, but I have a source that thinks he’s still in the city.”

“I might have something on that.”

“Care to share?”

“No.” 

“I take it you’re going to try and talk to him one-on-one?”

“Maybe.”

Zach snorted. “Because that went so well last time around.”

“Has anyone claimed the body?”

“No. They asked Bishop to identify him. Diskant said the scene was clean. There were no fingerprints other than Westin’s on the gun.” 

“There are still loose threads,” Lloyd said. 

“If you mean Aiden, he’s been arrested. Bishop has a friend at the district attorneys’ who says he’s going to be charged with espionage tomorrow.”

“Not the loose thread I was thinking of, but that’s good to hear.” 

“Tell me where the other loose thread is and I’ll take care of it,” Zach offered. 

“No. He’s worth more to us alive than dead.”

”Are you up to talking to him? Because you look like shit.” 

Lloyd rolled his eyes. “Screw you.” 

He shoved back from the table, snagged his empty cup and headed for the trash can. At the counter, he was about to toss it when something in the gleaming back panel of the espresso machine caught his eye. His blood froze at the sight of a familiar face staring back at him.

Joe. 

Somehow, Joe Hansen had crawled out of the grave and back up to the land of the living. There was no mistaking that face. The deep purple circles under his eyes, the dry, reddened skin partially hidden by a heavy five o’clock shadow, and bloodshot eyes from too much whiskey left Lloyd paralyzed for a moment. When his mind kicked back into gear, his first thought was almost smug: I knew you were too mean to die. But when he looked over his shoulder, there was no one behind him. Zach had stepped out to take a phone call. The shop was empty. His gaze turned back to the reflection. The eyes weren’t brown. They were crystal blue. 

It wasn’t Joe. It was him. 

He hadn’t shaved since Friday and had the scruff to prove it. A sleepless weekend explained the bloodshot eyes and dark circles. The wind and cold, combined with neglect of his skincare routine, had stripped his skin raw, leaving it cracked and red like a drunk’s. He looked as if he’d gone on a three-day bender instead of spending the weekend in a hospital room. He looked like Joe Hansen—even more so than usual. 

Lloyd stared at the reflection until his eyes couldn’t focus anymore. It didn’t make a difference. The image was burned into his brain. It wasn’t just their physical resemblance, it went deeper. The need for control, the volcanic temper. The chaos he’d spent his whole life trying to keep at bay. He crumpled up his cup and tossed it into the canister with more force than he’d meant to. A heavy weight settled in his chest. No matter how hard he tried to outrun it, Joe’s blood still ran in his veins. He’d rather die than admit it, but the truth, that he and Joe were fruit of the same tree, was inescapable. 

He stepped out of the coffee shop into the cold. Its icy bite was nothing compared to the pain of the knowledge that was sinking into his bones. He couldn’t keep you in his life, not in good conscience, not knowing the evil that lurked inside of him. The leaves crunched under his feet and the sound was like a physical reminder: nothing lasts forever. Your relationship had already stretched long beyond its season. No matter how much he wished otherwise, soon the pieces of your lives would no longer fit together. You’d outgrow him. Once that happened, any attempt he made to patch up the seams would cause it to unravel further.

The revelation cleared his mind, though his heart felt ten degrees colder. His chest throbbed, but at least the mental storm that had raged for days finally broke, leaving a hollow stillness in its wake. There wasn’t a choice for him to make, only a truth for him to accept. Your relationship was temporary and it would soon draw to a close. He couldn’t risk holding you back or allowing his past to endanger you again. The facts were clear cut, black-and-white. There was a wrong decision and a right one.  If he wanted you to have the future that you deserved he had to do the right thing.

He had to break things off. Whether it broke his own heart didn’t matter.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Next - Chapter XXX

Masterlist 

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Taglist: @denisemarieangelina @before-we-get-started @buckysteveloki-me @patzammit @badassbaker @meetmeatyourworst @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @thiskindahotkindamusic @jesgisborne @charmingprincess

@amiets2 @seitmai @elle14-blog1 @chaoticsteverogers @kaleidoscopepov @fangirl-and-doctor-help @terry2227 @jesevans @mjey12 @openup-yourmind @kandierteveilchen @adoreyouusugar @awkwardgiraffe726 @pono-pura-vida

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[deltaromeo3]

ᴛʀᴜᴇ ᴏʀ ꜰᴀʟꜱᴇ? - Mason Mount

pairing: mason mount x footballer!reader

summary: what happens when the reader and mason are together for a youtube video- Truth Asylum?

✿ A/N: i love chunkz & i love footy asylum! pls give the series a watch if you have not😂 anyways, i hope you love this!! ps. if you don’t know what truth asylum is, it’s basically a lie detector test.

“…I’m gonna put their friendship to the test! Today we have the lovely Y/N L/N and Mason Mount!”

The both of you waved at the camera.

★ ★ ★

Finally they strapped you up- placing sensors on your chest and fingers, the blood pressure cuff on your arm and the goddamn rubber tube over your chest.

Chunkz was to your left and Mason was seated across you. You smiled at Mason and he laughs, finding the whole situation funny.

“I’m nervous,” You said as your heart beat quickens, shaking the jitters off.

“That’s true,” Chunkz points out, looking at the polygraph in front of him.

“Oh shut up Chunkz,” You rolled your eyes, the reaction earning a laugh from both Mason and Chunkz.

“Okay so Mason, she’s all strapped up and ready! Go ahead and ask her some questions.”

Mason rubs his hands together, a mischievous grin plastered on his face.

You laughed at his antics.

“So,” He pauses, building up suspense. “Do you think you’re a better footballer than me?”

“No.” You answered confidently.

“That’s true! Wow, you didn’t even think twice,” Chunkz points out.

“Yeah yeah, cause Mason has been at this football thing for much longer than I am. I have a lot to learn from him,”

Mason was in awe. “Aww Y/N, don’t say that!”

“I mean it!”

Next question…

“Y/N,” Mason calls out. “If if wasn’t for football,”

“Oh god,” You muttered, earning a chuckle from Chunkz and Mason.

“Do you think we would still be friends?”

You gulped, batting your eyelashes. “Yea?”

“That’s a lie!” Mason gasps, covering his mouth.

“Wait wait let me explain! Let me explain!!” You quickly interject. Mason and Chunkz chuckles at your quickness to get your word out.

“Alright then, go on,” Mason says, allowing you to explain yourself.

“You see, if you all didn’t already know,” You said as you waved to the camera, indicating ‘all’ as the audience.

“We met through football. Our team had a joint training and that’s how we became friends. Of course I knew of Mason before I even joined, who doesn’t? And prior to this I was quite a lowkey footballer. I don’t think anyone would’ve known me if I didn’t join the club or whatever. It’s just.. we were in very different social circles. He was winning awards left and right at the same age I was playing for a mediocre team back home.”

“So aren’t you glad you met me then?” He adds on, cheekily smiling.

“Is that allowed Chunkz? He’s asking me another question,” You try to sway away from the question, hoping Chunkz says no.

“Answer him,” Chunkz smirks.

“Yeah yeah… I’m glad I met you.”

“And that folks, is the TRUTH!” Chunkz shouts.

You saw Mason smile grow wider.

“Okay, last question before we hand it over to Y/N. Go on Mase,”

He pauses, thinking of a question.

“Y/N Y/M/N L/N…” He leans forward.

“Yes Mason Tony Mount? Go on,” You could feel your heart racing.

“You know the recent interview you did with Wired?”

Oh god. You already know what he’s about to ask. You just nodded in response.

“Remember when they asked about your football crush?”

You nodded again.

“You said it was Hector Bellerin, yeah? Now, can I ask, is that true?”

You gulped, covering your face with your hand. You side-eyed the camera before answering “Y-yes.”

“That’s a LIE! So, who is it Y/N? Is he in the room with us?” Chunkz says, adding fuel to the fire as he smirks at you.

“Ah- Eh! That’s- Okay, so Mason next huh?” You signalled to the producer and quickly avoided the question.

★ ★ ★

Mason’s turn

“Mason!” You called out.

“Y/N!” He returns your energy.

“Oh I’m nervous. I don’t like this!” He shuffles in his seat.

You laugh. “Nerve wrecking innit?”

He nods.

“So, Mason…. have you ever lied to me?” You stare at him intently.

“What?” The question catches him off guard. “Never. On God.” He turns to Chunkz to validate his answer.

“And it’s true. We love an honest guy,” Chunkz says.

“Yes we do,” You agreed with Chunkz.

You pondered a bit for the next question.

“Ah yes,” You paused. “Would you miss me if you never saw me again?”

You saw Mason laugh, like the question would be hard to answer.

“Do you want me to be honest?”

“Well yeah? Duh. Even if you lied I could tell.” You pointed to Chunkz.

“Then..yeah of course. You know when you had international duty?”

You nodded.

“I was going on to Dec about how much I missed you. You can ask him if you don’t believe me.”

You looked over to Chunkz for the answer.

“And….It’s true.”

You tried to hide your blush by giggling. “Didn’t know you’d miss me. That’s kinda funny.”

“How’s that funny!” He laughs, “Don’t tell me you don’t miss me when I’m away? Remember when I went to NYC you’d-“

“That’s enough Mase, zip it!” You quickly ran over to him, covering his mouth before he exposes more of what he was about to say.

“Right, last question before we end it.”

“Easy,” You said. “We all know you’ve got a type. Would you date someone that isn’t though?” You smirked.

“God Y/N, cmon now.”

“Well?”

“Yeah…yeah I would. But just this one person though. I don’t even have to think twice. I’d make an exception for her.”

“Oh? Who’s she? A footballer?”

Mason squeezes his nose bridge, hiding his face. “Chunkz save me,” He looks over to Chunkz, hoping he would help him.

“You did the same to her, m’sorry Mase. Go on, is she?” Chunkz looks over to you, smiling. The both of you giggled.

“Err, yeah, she is.” He hesitantly answers.

“Ooh, what team does she play for?” Chunkz asks, even he is growing curious.

“Nah nah nah, that’s too much! Let’s call it a day Chunkz!”

Chunkz and you laugh.

He then proceeds to do his outro.

You knew you shouldn’t have asked that question but you were curious. And also now you were a little disappointed he already has eyes on someone.

★ ★ ★

The video publishes a week later, of course you watched it. You went to look at the comments. It was flooded with things like:

“We need Mason and Y/N to come back!!!”

“There’s obviously something going on between the two of them”

“Oh they’re each other crushes. I know it.”

“Look at how Mason looks at her! He’s smitten.”

“OH CMON MASE SHES RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU”

Your phone suddenly dings.

And so, the two of you began chatting about the video.

However, little did you know that Mason was talking to Ben. He too, saw the video.

[phantoms-planet]

Barred Protection Chapter 8

Tw: depression and inmate violence (not graphic)

Masterlist

Batman knew it had to have been Daelus to leak the story. The man had asked to send a letter and then the very next morning Vicki Vale had a story out about the scandal? There wasn’t a chance of it being anyone else at that point. Part of him was mad about it, given that they weren’t ready to handle the aftermath, but the other part of him understood the desperation. Men in bad situations did stupid things trying to fix them.

News outlets had leapt onto the story like savage wolves. It was only hours before the world knew of Dealus’s actions and the true nature of his medicines.

Just as Bruce thought, there was a savage fight over ethics and human rights. The two loudest sides were the people claiming that using the medicine was complacent in torture and child endangerment, and the people claiming it was ableist and classist of anyone who agreed with the former group.

Bruce couldn’t fully agree with either of the points. He could never condone the treatment Danny had gone through, but he wasn’t blind to the suffering Ameliorate had abated. Just like most things in life, there was no black and white answer.

He really wished there was.

“B?” Dick’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “How bad is it?”

“Hmm…”

“That bad?”

Bruce grunted again. It was worse than ‘that bad’. The Justice League was now being accused of not acting fast enough on a shady company, as if something like this was usually part of their duties.

Granted in hindsight they should have acted much sooner.

He let out a grumbling sigh before paging the League for an emergency meeting. They couldn’t go back and fix what happened but now they were going to mitigate the damage as much as possible. Though that ship might have sailed already.

With a swish of his cape, Batman went over to the zeta tube and in seconds he was up in the Watchtower.

Several of the others were right behind him. He led the way to one of the meeting rooms to wait for everyone. Thankfully, and promptly, everyone filed in and took their seats.

Batman pursed his lips before starting. “As you all are aware, the news of what happened regarding Danny has been leaked to the public. There has been great backlash against the League for how slow we were to respond to this, as the news had put it, dangerous precedent for business affairs.”

There was a wave of complaints that filled the room. Batman held his hand up, having to wait several minutes before everyone got their outrage under control. “I am aware that this may be unfair, but it may also not be. We need to have our best public speakers at the press conference. Superman? I want you front and center. I will have a list of topics that are confidential at the moment as well as a few pre-written answers if a question stumps you. Diana, I want you to help him.”

“The two of you are the favorites of the public, they will be easier on you. As for everyone else: Danny is fully confidential. If anyone tries to get you to speak about him, you will answer with ‘The league has already made their statements on the matter’, is this understood?”

A chorus of yesses followed. Flash held up his hand. “What are we going to do with Ameliorate? We can’t let them keep selling medicine, can we?”

“Not as freely.” Bruce stated. “For the time being they are going to be put under suspension. No medicine can be sold unless it is necessary for survival, no patients can be seen under the same conditions. In the wake of things, I think it best if we employ teams on site of dispensaries and clinics to protect the people who need the medication to live. I don’t want protests to get violent with those people as the targets.”

“I agree,” Diana was sitting up straight as a rod, anger barely hidden. “But I also believe there shouldn’t be any more collecting from Danny.”

Another chorus of agreement and Batman held his hand up again. “No, we will not collect more from the boy.”

“Then what of the people who rely on the medicine to live?” J’onn asked, brows furrowed.

Batman didn’t answer as fast this time. He’d been thinking about it and frankly, the only solution he could come up with was synthesizing something that resembled Danny’s tears. He could have his kids help with it to make it go faster.

He let out a sigh. “I will attempt to synthesize the tears. We can’t just let people die without at least attempting this.”

---

Danny floated in the expanse of space lazily. He didn’t need to breathe and the cold didn’t bother him so he could spend as much time as he wanted up here. With earth so tiny below him all that happened felt so far away-

Not-not that anything had happened to him. Everything was fine. He was just…relaxing after a hard day at school, yeah.

“Danny?” He whipped around at the voice. The green skinned man was back and this time he was holding his hands up placatingly. “My name is J’onn, but you may know me as Martian Manhunter.”

Martian Manhunter? The man who’d been harassing him was Martian Freaking Manhunter?! Of course one of the people he dreamed of meeting was being a massive jerk, that was just Fenton luck. Danny turned to fly away but was stopped by a hand to his shoulder.

“Would you like to see my home?” And just like that he was reeled in like a fish.

J’onn changed the dreamscape to an alien world with strange architecture and beautiful views. When Danny started asking questions about anything and everything, J’onn patiently answered them.

He learned about how the society ran, J’onn’s former job, his family (a clearly sore topic), how his planet was destroyed. J’onn needed a moment after that one, Danny let him compose himself as he explored a little more. This was a dream come true!

Danny asked even more questions until he wore himself out and he changed the surroundings back to empty space.

J’onn floated in silence with him for a while. It was nice. Maybe…maybe J’onn was nice too.

“Can I ask about your family?” J’onn gently nudged.

Danny stiffened. Was this a trap of some kind? He watched the alien in front of him for a moment before snorting. No, this was genuine. So…Dany told him. About his parents hunting ghosts, his sister who wanted to be a brain surgeon and wanted to grow up too fast, and when he was out of things to say about them he started talking about Sam and Tucker.

It was like a weight was lifting from his chest. Their surroundings changed with memories that he brought up; showing the Nastyburger, his home, school, and before he knew it Danny was starting to cry.

He didn’t want to cry, he’d done so much of it, but he couldn’t help it. J’onn held him as he broke down with body-wracking sobs.

---

Diana had noticed how relaxed their ward had become. It seemed J’onn’s new approach was working at first, until tears started slipping from Danny’s eyes again.

She quickly grabbed a tissue and began wiping them away. The poor boy had been through so much and he wasn’t even close to being done, the least she could do was wipe his tears for him.

Minutes after Danny started crying J’onn was taking his hand from the boy’s forehead. He met Diana’s eyes. “He wanted time alone. I believe I have reached him on some level though. He showed me his family and friends.” Diana nodded in relief.

After what had happened three tries ago, none of them were sure Danny would let them help. Showing his family was a huge improvement. A second chance.

“I’ll go tell Batman.” She swept to her feet and made her way to the monitors, where Batman was watching closely. “Batman?”

“Hnn?”

“J’onn says Danny showed him his loved ones.”

“Good progress. Have him come debrief with me when he can.”

Diana offered him a small smile. “I will. Do we have progress on the G.I.W?”

Batman let out a much more frustrated grunt. It took him a moment to compile his thoughts but Diana didn’t mind. She liked that he thought before speaking. “There’s…not good news. Researching them I found a set of acts, the Anti-Ecto acts, that make what they’ve done, what they’re doing, completely legal as long as they can prove their specimens are ghosts.”

“How have we not heard of these before?”

“I don’t know.” Bruce was clearly very frustrated. She understood, he liked having everything under control and no unknowns. This was a very important unknown.

Diana set a hand to his shoulder. They both seemed to be thinking the same thing; the public was going to be just as upset hearing about laws that allowed the torture of a young child.

---

Despite what people thought, Daelus was not the one to spill about his operations. He had wanted that to go quietly. As if he would sacrifice his whole company in an attempt to get the bat to listen to him. It was laughable.

No, the letter he had sent was to his assistant. He wanted Carter to re-start the synthesizing of P’s tears.

They had tried for years with no success, but if they could manage it now maybe the company, and the people who needed their medication to live, could be saved.

Unfortunately he had received a letter back saying that everyone who was working on that project had been put under various forms of arrest, and that his methods had been leaked. Who had leaked it? He wasn’t sure. Everyone was under iron tight NDAs.

Either way Daelus’s company was as good as dead.

Grief didn’t even begin to explain how he felt. His whole life’s ambition was gone, his good intentions marred, his reputation so sullied it might as well have been dragged lower than hell.

To say he was reacting poorly was an understatement. Most days he couldn’t get up to brush his teeth, let alone go to the cafeteria to eat.

Not that it would be safe for him anyway.

He had been moved to an isolation ward since the last time he’d been around the other inmates they had…very violent reactions to seeing him. Daelus shuddered at the memory.

Did he think he deserved it? Well…maybe? He hurt a child, sure, but he had also helped so many people. Surely that mitigated some of the harm. And really, how else would he have gotten tears from P, especially at the volume they needed to produce to keep up?

Surely the result had pardoned at least part of the means.

Though Daelus was put out about the fact that he had done those things to a child. Maybe he should have found a better method. Maybe he should have had his scientists work harder on the synthetic version of his tears.

Maybe he shouldn’t have bought a person in the first place.

Maybe his company shouldn’t have been the only thing he cared about for so long.

A puff of air escaped his lips. Daelus couldn’t change what he had done. He wanted to, yes, but he couldn’t.

He wished he could see P again.

He wished he could apologize.

[ask-fan-ii]

How have you and test tube been feeling since you’ve talked about egg and how’s it’s changed your relationship? Do you sense any tensions still?

It's definitely changed due to the... stress over the whole situation with the young shimmer. As stated on the show, things would be different- and while that frightened me before, it's been a fairly long time since then! I'm certain we'll always make it through whatever comes for us after that whole experience (which, while being rather traumatic, came with great understanding.) I think it all aided in bringing us even closer than before. Instead of focusing on protecting the egg, you could say we're protecting each other now, right?

There's no particular suspense regarding the previous... well, talk concerning egg. After all that we've been through, I have trust in Test Tube, and in her words that she also trusts me, if that's not enough trust for you! However... there are, of course, strong feelings over the shimmers from both of us. After holding onto something and caring about it for so long... you'd be missing it almost eternally, right?

[mensfactory]

1964 Ferrari 275 GTB/C Speciale bearing chassis no. 6701,

Just three of the 275 GTB/C Speciales were built, between 1964 and early '65.

Chassis no. 6701 is the only example that competed, including running at the 1965 24 Hours of Le Mans where it finished first in the GT class and third overall. In a race where mid-engined cars became increasingly dominant, that finish remains the best by a front-engined car to this day.

Like the more famous 250 GTO, the 275 GTB/C Speciale is both a work of art and a feat of engineering. Its tube-frame chassis is clothed in aluminum panels shaped by Scaglietti. The aluminum panels were about half as thick as those of the road cars, making them prone to denting. The Speciales also used thinner chassis tubes to reduce weight. All told, they weighed as much as 300 pounds less than the road cars.

They also packed more power. Under the long hood sits a 3.3-liter V-12 with six Weber carburetors and a 315-hp output, 69 horses more than the road-going 275 GTB. The car also features double-wishbone independent suspension at all four corners, and four-wheel disc brakes.

Photo credit: Mecum