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tgcg · 5 months

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argument

its a big one

TG: alright this is probably a bust

TG: more i think about it how the fuck do you even make a marinara

TG: can i even alchemise cheese or do i gotta like alchemise the milk and curdle it myself

TG: how do you even curdle

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TG: make a goddamn

TG: curgler

TG: whatever

TG: internet archive gonna pull through

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CG: ALRIGHT DAVE

TG: shit

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CG: YOU BETTER BACK THE FUCK OFF. I DON'T KNOW WHERE IN BULGEMUNCHING VIRULENT FUCK YOU GET THE IDEA YOU HAVE ANY RIGHT TO TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD THINK ABOUT MY OWN GODDAMN PLANET. SORRY TO HAVE TO DEAL A BLOW TO YOUR IMPOSSIBLY INFLATED FUCKING EGO, BUT HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED THAT YOUR SIDE-EYE SLACKJAW HOPELESS DEADPAN BULLSHIT BEHAVIOUR IS ACTUALLY INCREDIBLY FUCKING CONTEMPTIBLE AND DOESN'T PUT YOU ABOVE OTHER PEOPLE? HAVE YOU CONSIDERED THAT?

CG: OR DID YOU JUST ASSUME FROM THE MOMENT YOU FOUND OUT I'M A REVOLTING FUCKING MUTANT LOWBLOOD FREAK THAT I'M SUDDENLY NOT ALLOWED TO LIKE THE IDEA OF MY LIFE MEANING SOMETHING AT SOME POINT?

TG: okay you are wildly misquoting me where the fuck did that come from

TG: also you scared the hell out of me

TG: im just trying to science some pizza here

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CG: OKAY THEN, DAVE! EXPLAIN TO ME AS WELL AS YOUR AMBLING ONE-NOTE SMOOTH EXCUSE FOR A 'THOUGHT'SPONGE CAN

CG: IN SOMEWHAT COHERENT TERMS, ALTHOUGH I KNOW THAT'S A TALL ORDER:

CG: HOW YOU SAYING MY ADOLESCENT DREAMS OF BECOMING A THRESHECUTIONER ARE "FUCKED UP AND IRONIC IN A NASTY ASS WAY" DOESN'T QUALIFY AS UNDERHANDEDLY KICKING ME IN THE MANDIBLE PRONGS!

CG: YOUR AUDIENCE AWAITS YOU WITH BATED BREATH! TAKE IT AWAY, M.C. BRAIN HEMORRHAGE.

====================

TG: okay i dont

TG: know how you got a hold of that phrasing because i said that shit in confidence

TG: get out of my business bro

CG: NEWSFLASH, ASSHOLE: THIS METEOR IS A PHYSICAL, LITERAL LOCATION WE'RE BOTH IN. IT'S NOT A FUCKING PRIVATE CHATROOM. THIS MIGHT BLOW YOUR PITIFUL MIND BUT PEOPLE CAN ACTUALLY HEAR OTHER PEOPLE TALK WHEN THEY HAVE TO SHARE A SPACE! BRO!

TG: ugh

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CG: AND IT'S VERY INTERESTING YOU ACCUSE ME OF MISQUOTING YOU, AND THEN SUDDENLY TURN AND SPOUT FROM THAT SHITTY DRONING GROANSHAFT OF YOURS THAT I'M INVADING YOUR PRIVACY WHEN I DIRECTLY QUOTE YOUR SMARMY LITTLE SHAMEGLOBES!

CG: WOW! TURNS OUT KARKAT IS ACTUALLY BEING GENUINELY FUCKING UPSET ABOUT SOMETHING — WHO KNEW, RIGHT? WHO WOULD'VE GUESSED THAT I ACTUALLY HAVE GENUINE COMPLAINTS TO LEVEL AGAINST THE PEOPLE WHO GO SPOUTING HOOFBEASTSHIT ABOUT ME BEHIND MY BACK TO THEIR ECTOSIBLINGS?

TG: no dude can you shut up a second

CG: I MOST CERTAINLY FUCKING WILL, THANKS FOR THE OFFER! I'M NEVER TELLING YOU A GODDAMN THING AGAIN, SO I HOPE YOU MANAGE TO GAIN SOME WRINKLES TO THAT VESTIGIAL FLAWLESS ORB FLOATING AROUND IN YOUR CAVERNOUS NUGBONE FROM ALL THIS. I HOPE IT WAS WORTH ALL THE EFFORT ON YOUR END.

TG: listen!!!!

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CG: MHM! MY AURICULAR CHAMBERS ARE WIDE OPEN!

TG: jegus

TG: okay

TG: i have no defense for my literal phrasing but how expeditiously did you shadowstep the fuck away after i said that

TG: because that is some shrek tier "princess and ugly dont go together" level misrepresentation of my sweet self

TG: like if this wasnt obviously a heated platonic argument we were having i would probably be digging what the reference even if it was a shitty trope

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TG: i just

TG: have been thinking about some things and none of those things have got an iota of a thing to do with you or your blood

TG: thing

TG: man

TG: i dont know why you think id be so pressed about your vein juice its like

TG: a normal ass color for a normal ass guy

TG: and obviously it was a major fucking deal from how you talk about it but it doesnt need to be anymore

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TG: the thing is i just dont like have the same attitude as you about fighting and stuff and thats not something i am getting into right now but i am gonna make it expressly clear

TG: that its just kind of fucked up for me to sit my ass down and listen to someone spew gold and medals and confetti colored shit going googoo all over tall and loathsome ass bloodletters he never knew

TG: and have him tell me he wants to be the best guy at combat since samurai fuckin jack

TG: and thats my capital B business believe me the emphasis is there

====================

CG: SO IS THIS ABOUT ME WANTING TO BE PART OF SOMETHING YOU DON'T AGREE WITH? BECAUSE THRESHECUTIONERS DON'T EVEN FUCKING EXIST ANYMORE. I LITERALLY COULD NOT DO THIS IF I TRIED AT THIS POINT, SO YOU CAN UNKNOT YOUR “KNIGHTY WHITIES” ABOUT IT.

TG: being anti-military is not my point but damn if it isnt a thing thats probably true anyways so good job sleuthing that out

CG: WHAT IS YOUR POINT, DAVE.

TG: bluh

TG: i just said i dont wanna talk about it man

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CG: OKAY,

====================

CG: OKAY.

CG: I MEAN. IT FEELS KIND OF IMPORTANT TO THE CONTEXT OF THIS WHOLE UNAMBIGUOUSLY PLATONIC ARGUMENT WE'VE BEEN HAVING

CG: WHICH I'M RELIEVED WE AGREE ON BY THE WAY

CG: BUT IF YOU DON'T WANT ME TO KNOW I'M NOT GOING TO WRING IT OUT OF YOU. IT'S FINE.

====================

CG: …IF YOU DECIDE AT SOME POINT THAT YOU WANT TO TELL ME THOUGH, MY RUMBLE VESSELS ARE STILL OPEN.

TG: i swear youre making those up on the spot at this point

CG: I'M KEEPING MY LANGUAGE'S ART ALIVE, DAVE. IT'S BASIC DECENCY TO THE PLANET THAT RAISED ME.

TG: heh

====================

TG: yknow we got these things called anatomical snuffboxes

TG: its got that right amount of vague nose wrinklage to it that i feel like youd be right at home saying that

TG: snug as a grub even

CG: WHAT PART IS THAT???

TG: its that little weird bone bit that sticks out on the back of your palm when you flex your thumb right

====================

TG: look

CG: HUH. LOOKING AT THAT IS KIND OF WIGGING ME OUT.

TG: yeah its kinda gross rose told me about it

TG: but anyways

====================

TG: are we cool

CG: I MEAN… I GUESS SO. YOU WEREN'T ACTUALLY INSULTING ME, RIGHT?

TG: hell no dude never

CG: OKAY. I COMPLETELY RESCIND THE MYRIAD OF WAYS I JUST INSULTED YOU. AND I'M SORRY.

TG: nah i know its just fluff at this point

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CG: I STILL DON'T APPRECIATE YOU TELLING ROSE THINGS I SAY TO YOU IN CONFIDENCE. THAT WAS BETWEEN YOU, ME, AND MY NOW NON-EXISTENT HOME PLANET ROTTING AWAY TO A CRATERED GRAY HUSK IN ANOTHER DEAD UNIVERSE.

TG: i swear that was like the only thing its just that she gets it and i cant keep my mouth from going on about the gettable stuff

TG: they call me the babbling brook the way my flows so audible

TG: i wont do it again

CG: NO,

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CG: I GET IT HONESTLY.

CG: I'M BASICALLY THE NUMBER ONE PROPRIETOR OF AIRED GRIEVANCES IN ALL OF PARADOX SPACE AND THEN SOME, AND I'D ALSO BECOME ITS BIGGEST HYPOCRITE IF I HELD IT AGAINST YOU.

TG: thanks

TG: but i mean

TG: at the gigantic risk of sounding uh

====================

TG: ………..

CG: ?

====================

TG: well

TG: i kinda just think youre better at being a guy to chill out and watch movies with than a guy to tangle fists with

TG: and i dont think theres anything wrong with being that

TG: i think its cool

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CG: …THAT'S AN ALARMINGLY BRAZEN OBSERVATION TO MAKE OF SOMEONE YOU'VE KNOWN FOR ABOUT THE SPAN OF SEVEN SEASONAL EQUINOXES, DAVE.

TG: i dont know what that means but it sure is probably

CG: AM I ALLOWED TO ASK WHAT EVEN GIVES YOU THAT IMPRESSION????

TG: i just got that inkling about you man

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TG: and you can do whatever you want with that info

TG: throw it in the load gaper or whatever if you want i dont really care

TG: give it a swirly and slam it in a locker call it a nerd break its glasses whatever

TG: but beyond this whole lord english thing weve got going on i am pretty content to never aggress my fellow man slash alien slash monster again if i can help it

TG: i think thats pretty fair given what thats been like so far

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TG: and yknow its cool to have some company when im waxing emotional over the narrative depth of click starring adam sandler which we are watching next by the way

CG: UGH, FIIIIIIIIINE. JUST TO MAKE UP FOR CALLING YOUR THINKPAN SMOOTH AND SUPERFLUOUS.

====================

TG: score

TG: we should argue all the time

CG: SNRK

#davekat #dave strider #karkat vantas #homestuck #meteorstuck #comix #argument

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lurafita · 27 days

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CEO!Magnus and personal chef/bodyguard!Alec

(There is every chance that I have posted this before, I just can't remember. I tried to search through my archive, but.... there is a lot of posts there, did you know? 🤣😂 Anyway, in case I'm making you read this twice, sorry. 😅)

Magnus being like this really big shot CEO who has meetings 24/7 and charity events and social appearances and all that other busy stuff going on. So he gets a personal chef to keep an eye on his nutrition. And Alec is ruthless when it comes to making sure Magnus eats healthy. Magnus: "You know I love your cooking, Darling, but how about a good old fashioned fast food break?" Alec: "All that grease is bad for you. Eat your carrots. You look pale. How much sleep did you get last night?" Magnus, innocently: "Enough?" Alec: "Unlikely. No more caffeine for you today."

Magnus trying to sneak all kinds of unheathy Snacks, and Alec foiling him at every turn. Magnus had an energy drink hidden away in his desk, but as he opens the drawer, there is a bottle of water with a note attatched with "stay hydrated".

Alec even convinced the close by Cafe to not serve Magnus anything with Caffeine, after Magnus' last doctors appointment showed high blood pressure.

Maybe Alec is some kind of ex-agent or ex-military, who got into cooking for an undercover op, but really enjoyed it and wanted to pursue it further when he quite the force.

When one of Alec’s old colluegues comes visiting him, Alec is crouching behind the entertainment system to find Magnus' latest snack hidey-hole. Alec: "He gets more creative every time. Some of the drug dealers we busted could have learned from him."

Bet you Magnus is the type of CEO who has a loyal Twitter following and he tweets about everything Alec cooks for him (and the things he doesn't let him eat.) The Internet already ships them.

Possible tweet: The_Magnificent_Bane: Thank you for the suggestion @randomfollower, but unfortunately Alexander didn’t go for the argument that carrot cake counts as a vegetable.

Why am I know picturing a fight in the kitchen where Alec uses kitchen utensils and food to knock out people who have come to kidnap Magnus

Imagine someone broke into Magnus' place, and the police are called and as they arrive Magnus is like: "Thank you for coming. My chef has already apprehended and restrained the perpetrators, and is waiting for you to take them off his hands in the living room." Police: "... Your cook apprehended them?" Magnus: "Yes. Sadly, the confrontation did not result in the death of that cursed celery he bought earlier."

Magnus: "Tomatoes can't be trusted, my darling. Are they a fruit? Are they a vegetable? No one knows." Alec: "They are fruits." Magnus: "That's what they want you to believe."

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theclairvoyage · 1 month

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Centrifugation: Chapter 6

Series Masterlist

Warnings: gun violence, knife violence, character death, mentions of blood, brief smut, panic attack, fluff, emotional turmoil, hospital stuff, stitches.

WC: 4.1k

Banners courtesy of @cafekitsune and @saradika

Wednesday, October 20th | 0755

As you clock in for your first shift after some time off, you feel recharged and ready to tackle the day. The parking lot wasn’t too full, which was a good start—much easier than having to do cleanup as soon as you walk in the door. Keri came in later today, meaning you’d get to spend a little more time with her in the afternoon—she usually opened and was one of the first ones to leave. The morning rush was decent, and your trainee, Jayla, came in for a bit to make up for the lost hours last week. You showed her the basics of setting up a machine, sticking a donor, and disconnecting them once they were done. She seemed eager to learn and caught on quickly—by midday, she was doing setups and disconnects by herself. Keri rolled in around 1100 and sent the two of you to your lunch break.

“I need an update on your date,” she says as she throws on a lab coat, winking at you. You smile and feel your cheeks warm.

“You were right about him being great in bed,” you say, and her jaw drops. She punches your arm with a giggle.

“I knew it!! And he lives in West O? I didn’t realize he was rich rich,” she says, eyes widening. Her expression turns to confusion soon after, and she asks, “Wait, why does he donate, then?” You explain Sarah’s “fun money” situation, admitting that even if he didn’t donate, she’d probably still have plenty of fun money.

“You know, there are good people out there that donate just to be helpful,” Keri reminds you, half-sarcastically. Those people existed, but they were few and far between. Most people needed the money—Joel was not one of them.

“So, now that we both know he doesn’t need the money, really… it means if he keeps coming here, it’s just to see you,” she says with a snicker.

“I have a feeling those won’t be the only times he’ll see me during the week,” you say, giving her an exaggerated wink, mouth dropping open as you squeeze one eyelid shut. She laughs.

“Girl… how big is he?” she whispers, leaning in close to you so any donors nearby won’t hear. Your cheeks heat up at the memory of your escapades the last few days.

“Biggest I’ve ever had, swear,” you whisper, “He’s very… thick.” Her eyes widen.

“So, what you’re saying is that you’re sore right now?” she asks, a devilish smirk curling on her cheeks.

“It’s like I rode a horse,” you say, causing you both to bust out laughing. Keri pushes you toward the break room door as she giggles.

“Go to break before I waste all my time talking about your sex life!” You wink at her again and do just that.

Wednesday, October 20th | 1315

Your lunch break went by smoothly—you ate some of the food you had meal prepped yesterday and got to know Jayla a bit more. She was a freshman studying premed at the University of Nebraska-Omaha, not too far from the center. She admitted that this was her first real job, but she enjoyed it and looked forward to learning more—she even apologized for the call-ins last week. Feeling confident that she could take on some tasks independently, you let her man her own section for a bit. You remember now that you need to request some time off to see your grandma.

You hang up your coat and ask Keri to keep an eye on Jayla before making your way to the manager’s office, which is on the opposite side of the building. You walk past the reception area and back to the restricted area to find Trina’s office door open. She’s perched at her desk, searching through the camera footage. An officer is next to her, staring at the monitor as she clicks through the archived footage. Apprehensively, you knock on the door. Trina looks up and gives you a warm smile.

“Hey! We were just going through the footage of Cedric’s incident last week so they can finalize the police report,” Trina says, giving you a reassuring nod. “Officer Petrovski, this is my lead phlebotomist and the one who was threatened by him.” You offer your hand and shake his. He’s shorter than you and quite thin, bald with thick-rimmed glasses. He must be the cyber crimes type, you think.

“Excellent, send the footage to this email address and we’ll notify you once everything is complete,” he says, giving Trina a business card before shaking her hand. He gives you a short nod as he steps out of the office.

“So, what brings you in here, dear?” Trina asks, organizing some stacks of paper on her desk before looking up at you.

“I need to request some PTO next month—my Grandma isn’t doing too well,” you say, trying to keep the conversation light-hearted. She gives you a sympathetic look and pulls a calendar off the wall behind her.

“You have the most PTO of everyone, as you know,” she says with a chuckle, “So your options are pretty open.” You look down at the calendar and see a handful of people have requested Thanksgiving off, which is par for the course. There’s a week at the beginning of November that’s empty.

“How about the first week of November? Monday the 1st through the 8th,” you offer, pointing at the empty dates. She scribbles your name in each of the date boxes for that week.

“You’re all set. I’ll put in your PTO the week before then. And please—,” she stops to put a thoughtful hand on your arm, “Reach out if you need anything. You’re aware of our counseling resources, but also if you just need to talk.” You smile, blinking back tears. Trina has always been thoughtful—always puts her employees first.

“Thanks, Trina. I will,” you say, waving at her as you step out of the office. You pull your phone up to text Joel the dates, noticing that he’s already texted you.

Joel: Hope you have a great day, sweetheart.

Joel: Let me know when I need to take off work for our trip.

You smile. You two must have some telekinetic connection.

You: I literally just requested the time off not even 5 minutes ago. November 1st-8th. Does that work for you?

Joel: Yep. Helps to be the boss 😉

You: Sorry I missed your first text. It’s been a good morning! My trainee is doing really well and it’s not too busy here.

Joel: That’s great. I gotta get back to a client with Tommy, but I’ll talk to you later this evening. Miss you already.

You: You too 😊

You head back to the break room to drop your phone off, walking through the reception area first. The chairs are empty—unusual for this time of day. Usually, the late lunch rush starts and bleeds into the dinner rush. The front door swings open right as you’re about to head through the restricted employee-only area—the person that steps in makes you freeze.

It's Cedric. He looks like a cracked-out white Jesus—long, stringy blonde hair that probably hasn’t been brushed in days. Skinny figure, average height. His pupils are pinpointed, dark circles pooling underneath his eyes, fingers twitching, baring teeth that have an overdue need for dental work—very Smeagol-like. He’s high on something. He’s hunched over slightly and staring right at you, bloodthirsty. You’re still frozen in place, unsure of what to do. He speaks first.

“You got me deferred, and I’m short on cash,” he spits, teeth gritted. His hands curl into clenched fists. Your eyes narrow briefly as you stare at him, anger flashing through your system.

“You got yourself deferred by blowing something out of proportion and throwing your dirty arm wrap at me,” you remind him, taking a deep breath. One of the employees in reception has to be seeing this showdown and calling Trina—otherwise this could get ugly, fast. Your response pisses him off more.

“Bitch! Your shitty phleb wrapped my arm wrong and I spoke up about it!” he flares, voice raising with each word. He steps toward you, reaching in his rear waistband for something. Fuck. Your phone is in your pocket, and you need to pull it out to activate 911. You hold both hands up, palms facing him in a surrender-type gesture. Eyes still on him, you lean your head toward the reception and office area, prepared to scream. He steps closer, now 20 feet away from you, hand still glued to his rear waistband.

“Come closer and I’ll fucking scream,” you warn him. He smiles creepily, his disgusting yellow teeth on full display. He pulls a knife out of his rear waistband, the handle wrapped in camoflauge tape. It’s a drop-point blade, roughly six inches long. The blade is dirty and rusty.

The next few moments are a blur and propelled not by thought, but by instinct. Cedric lunges forward at you, slashing at you with the knife. A sharp pain lights up your arm. You kick his stomach after the slash, knocking him to the ground. You run back toward Trina’s office, warm liquid spilling down your arm. She’s not in here. You lock yourself in, comforted by the fact that he doesn’t know the door code. Plasma centers are built to keep donor access very limited—something you’re quite grateful for in this moment. Sirens are blaring, but you can’t remember when they started. The cops must’ve been called during your confrontation. You hear shouting, footsteps screeching and pounding on the vinyl composite tile floors, some terrified screams, a man yelling—must be one of the officers. Boom. Boom. Boom. Three gunshots. Oh god—what the fuck is happening out there? You remember Trina has access to the camera footage in here, but her screen is locked. You’re stuck in here. Now that you’re still, the adrenaline clouding your pain has subsided, and you look down to see a decently-sized gash on your left outer forearm—you must’ve raised your hands defensively when Cedric slashed at you. It’s deep. Frantically, you look for something to stop the bleeding—there’s a black jacket resting on Trina’s chair. You rip it off and wrap it around your wound, squeezing tight. There’s a heavy knock at the door.

“Police! Is anyone in here?” a man’s voice shouts. You open your mouth to reply, but your breath catches in your throat. Wobbily, you step forward to open the door. Two officers are behind the door, guns pointed at you.

“Ma’am, are you hurt?” one of them asks. You try to lift your arm, blood seeping out from under the jacket and onto the floor. Before you can respond verbally, the room turns black.

Wednesday, October 20th | 1857

Bright. Fuck, it’s bright in here. You try to open your eyes, but the fluorescent light stings them, forcing you to squeeze them shut. You groan in confusion. A cold hand comes up to grip your shoulder.

“Hon, you’re awake—you alright?” a familiar voice asks, frantic. It’s Keri. You open your eyes, vision blurry and eyes heavy. You’re in a hospital room, donned in one of those ugly printed gowns. Your left arm is wrapped with thick gauze, IV taped to your hand. You’re tired, sluggish—like each movement of your pupils is draining what little energy you have left. Blinking a few times, you finally focus on Keri’s face. She’s seated on your bed, hands holding your uninjured arm for dear life. Her face is red, and tear stained.

“Ker—wh-why are we in a hospital?” you ask, moving your bandaged arm up to block the bright light. Your arm aches, a dull throb pulsing down to your shoulder. You wince. She shushes you.

“Don’t try to move your arm, hon—relax. Cedric came back for revenge and stabbed you. Do you remember that?” she asks, rubbing your shoulder. You close your eyes and remember his nasty yellow teeth bared at you, the hunch of his figure, him reaching in his waistband for something—then clips of you on a stretcher, healthcare workers shouting as they push you through a hallway.

“Fuck,” you whisper, “Yeah, I remember—did they, did—,” you cut yourself off, remembering hearing gunshots at the center.

“Cedric’s dead. Tried to stab the cops, apparently. He was wigged out on heroin,” Keri says, voice calm, grounding. Your stomach drops, imagining his lifeless body on the vinyl floor in the main lobby of the center. Trina walks into the room, eyes red and swollen. She’s been crying, too. She sobs a sigh of relief seeing you awake and talking, albeit sluggishly. She comes up behind Keri and holds your right hand tightly.

“Jesus, I’m so glad you’re okay, I’m so sorry I wasn’t by the front when he came in,” she says, clearly racked with guilt. You shake your heavy head.

“S’not your fault, Trin—he just got lucky,” you say, smirking and forcing a laugh out of those two.

“Heard you kicked the shit outta him,” she says, smiling and wiping tears from her cheeks. Keri’s crying again, too, but also laughing.

“Felt like Street Fighter,” you mumble, clearly high on whatever painkillers are dripping through your IV, and they cackle. Suddenly, you remember wrapping your arm with the jacket on her chair. “Trin—I, your jacket, I had to—,” she cuts you off, squeezing your hand and closing her eyes as she shakes her head.

“Don’t even worry about it—I’m glad there was something in there that helped you,” she assures you.

“Stitches?” you ask them. They both nod.

“Fourteen,” Keri says, voice calm but apprehensive. Your eyes widen.

“He got me good,” you breathe, leaning your head back onto your pillow and clamping your eyes shut. There’s a knock at the open door of your room. A tall, dark, curly-haired handsome man is at the doorway. Joel. You smile as best you can in your current state. Keri leans into your ear.

“I called him,” she whispers, “I know you’re stubborn as hell, but I’m pretty certain he’s crazy about you and would want to help.” You’re not mad at her—you’re relieved to see him. Keri and Trina step out and shut the door behind them, giving you privacy. Joel rushes over to where Keri sat and replaces her. His face is stricken with worry, eyes wet and red—he’s been crying. Shit. He wraps his arms around you, careful not to squeeze too hard, and buries his face in your neck.

“I was so fuckin’ worried about you, I came as soon as I could—fuck, darlin’ I’m so sorry I wasn’t here faster, I shouldn’t have let h—,” you cut him off with a shush, running the fingers of your right hand through his hair and smoothing the back of his neck.

“It’s okay, Joel—not your fault. Please don’t blame yourself,” you whisper in his ear, holding him tightly. You want him to stay as close as possible. Pain and guilt curl around your lungs at the sight of your closest ones being upset. You know it’s not your fault, but it hurts to see them like this.

“God, I’m so fuckin’ glad you’re okay, baby, when I got the call, I was—,” he stops for a second, tears pooling in his beautiful amber eyes. He stares in your eyes and smiles, the sight of you calming him. You’re clearly loaded on morphine and exhausted out of your mind, dark circles under your eyes, hair a tangly mess—but you’re still gorgeous.

“Kiss me, Joel,” you plead quietly, tears forming in your eyes. One trickles down. He kisses it, the salt stinging his lips. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your chin, your jaw, before finally placing his lips on yours. The kiss is gentle at first, but your exhaustion and his despair at the thought of losing you take over, and it gets hot and heavy. Your mouths are frantic, teeth bumping and tongues twisting—it’s fast and messy, both of you pouring your relief into one another. His beard scratches your chin, and you moan, pulling him tighter to you. He cups your face in his hands and pulls away, panting heavily in your face.

“We’re alright, darlin’, let’s get you better before we do anything else,” he says, chuckling and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“S’just my arm, Joel—I don’t need it for that,” you say, slurring your words. You’re starting to succumb to morphine, eyelids heavy and drooping. He’s smiling at you softly, though eyes still veiled in worry.

“Get some sleep, my sweet girl. I’ll be right here, okay? I promise,” he says, giving you a chaste kiss before you drift off to sleep.

Thursday, October 21st | 0904

You slept all night, Joel in the chair by your side the entire time. You woke feeling fine, minus the sore sting of your arm. The charge nurse came in and changed your gauze and unhooked your IV, followed by the doctor, who cleared you to check out that morning. She advised you to take it easy and come back for a follow-up appointment in two weeks. She prescribed you some hefty pain pills, which worried you—the doctor stated that it’d be best to stay with someone while you were taking them. Joel assured the doctor that he’d be taking care of you—making you swoon. The doctor also scheduled you for a psychiatric consultation, which was the standard for patients experiencing traumatic events like yours–probably a good thing.

Keri and Trina stopped by before you left and gave you the lowdown on the center, which would be closed for an indefinite amount of time so the police could investigate, and the staff could take time to recover from the incident. Trina requested a medical leave of absence for you, which was approved by the corporate office quickly.

“I don’t wanna see you back at work until after your November trip—and take more time after that if you need it. You have a bank of PTO, remember,” she told you, wagging an index finger at you while smirking.

“Yes, ma’am,” you had said, saluting her and making everyone in the room giggle.

Now, you’re getting dressed and getting ready to leave the hospital with Joel. He unties your gown from the front and pulls it off you, covering you with a blanket while he finds clothes that Keri had brought for you. The room is cold, the frigid air making your nipples peak. You’re naked under this blanket, and Joel is aware—painfully, so—but respects you in your time of vulnerability. You’re mostly covered except the middle of your chest and abdomen, where the blanket doesn’t overlap, revealing a long triangle of skin from your sternum to underneath your belly button. He turns back to you with some clothes in hand and his eyes latch onto your bare skin. Sucking in a breath, he steps closer to you and hands you the clothes. You watch him with a smirk and drop the blanket, eyes holding his gaze the entire time. He can’t help but stare at your naked body—still mesmerized at your beauty.

“Sweetheart, not here,” he says, pained, dick tense against his denim, “As much as I want you and as fuckin’ beautiful as you are, we need to get you home first.” His eyes strain to stay locked with yours. You’re a mess, too—seeing him and his being there for you has been keeping you in a low, steady state of arousal the last 12 hours or so. You’re dripping but can wait until you’re back in a bedroom and not a bright, stuffy hospital room. For now, though, you want to tease him.

You reach down with your right hand and rub two fingers through your folds, eyes still locked on his. He gasps and holds his breath, eyes traveling down to watch. Rubbing slowly, you watch the desire flash over his face, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows tightly. You remove your fingers and step closer to him. You put your fingers up to his lips and he swallows again before opening his mouth to take them in. He sucks on them with a long, low moan, eyes closed in delight at the sweet taste of you—the sight makes your pussy tingle.

Once he’s sucked them clean, you pull them out of his mouth and resume getting dressed like nothing happened. He growls and comes up behind you, one arm snaked around your waist and the other hand draped around your throat loosely. He tightens the hand around your neck just slightly, forcing your head up. You gasp, the display of control and desire heightening your arousal.

“Baby… when we get home, I’m gonna make you come on my tongue as many times as I see fit, y’hear me?” he murmurs in your ear, facial hair close enough to brush your earlobe, “Doctor’s orders.” You nod, shivering. He lets go of you and smacks your ass lightly. You finish getting dressed and Joel walks you out of the room, one arm around your waist and the other hooked under the elbow of your injured arm. Both of you thank the nurses and doctor as he guides you to the elevator.

Once you’re outside, you’re relieved to see the sun shining. It feels odd, though—like the weather doesn’t match your current mental state. You realize now that you haven’t thought about what happened yesterday; rather, you haven’t had the opportunity to, given the fact that you’d been virtually unconscious until now. Your introspection has caused you to stop walking, concerning Joel. He steps in front of you and places both hands on your shoulders.

“Y’alright, sweetheart?” He blinks, clearly nervous about your current state. You snap back into the present and shift your gaze between each of his eyes. Your body is trembling, skin feeling clammy all the sudden—like a panic attack is on the verge.

“Y-yeah… I just realized I didn’t really have time to process yesterday—just kinda hit me all at once. I’m fine though,” you lie, plastering a forced, fake smile on your face. Joel sees right through it.

“Baby, I know you’re strong, but y’ain’t that strong—what happened to you was major, and it’s gonna take time to heal. I’m right here with ya, every step of the way, I promise,” he assures you, squeezing your shoulders. Tears spring from your eyes, a quiet sob escaping your throat. You feel pathetic—one moment you’re naked, teasing Joel, and the next, you’re in a catatonic state, bawling on the sidewalk of a hospital. He pulls you into a comforting hug, rubbing circles on your back and stroking your hair. He repeats you’re okay baby, it’s okay, I got you. You pull back, sniffling. Joel wipes the tears from your face. You let out a weak giggle. This man has known you for a blip and has seen so much of you already.

“This is pitiful, huh?” You ask him, wiping snot with the back of your good hand. He laughs at you.

“Darlin’, you’re anything but. Let’s get you home. D’you wanna stay with me, or want me to stay at your place for a while?” You consider the options: your small apartment that contains all your clothes, or Joel’s luxurious, spacious home.

“Both? If that’s okay… All my stuff is at my place, and I don’t wanna make you abandon your house,” you offer. He nods.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart—I’ll be doin’ some work remotely, though you’ll have to help me with my damn computer,” he gripes, making you chuckle. “I told Tommy what was goin’ on and he’s pullin’ a guy up from the Kansas City office to help for a few weeks, but I’ll still be takin’ care of the books and ordering things,” he says.

“Clerical duties,” you say, winking at him.

“Exactly, darlin’,” he winks back at you. “So, do y’mind stayin’ at my place the first few nights? We can stop and get some of your stuff,” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. He must not have slept well in that stiff hospital room chair. You nod and give him a warm smile.

“Let’s get goin’ then, we can stop by the grocery store and get whatever y’might want—snacks, all that,” he says, returning one arm to your waist as you both make your way to his truck.

“You’re such a dad, Joel,” you joke, poking his ribs lightly with your elbow.

“Don’t I know it, baby.”

Taglist: @burntheedges, @syd-djarin, @anoverwhelmingdin <3

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #centrifugation #pedro pascal fandom

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scarletsaphire · 7 months

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Wes has caught Danny Fenton using ghost powers in public more times than he can count, and yet no one ever notices. At long last, he confronts Danny to figure out why.

For Ectoberhaunt day 11: calm (im not late you're early also im sick so i have an excuse.)

Wes had heard a lot throughout his life that he was not good with emotions, to put it nicely. He agreed most of the time. Wes considered himself a logical person. Sure, photography and videography was a creative pursuit, and most people didn't consider cryptids logical, but that was just because people didn't like to see the hard truths. Now was a perfect example.

Wes had figured out that Danny Fenton was that new ghost child that had been flying around within a few weeks of the first spotting. It had been ridiculously easy. Wes had known Danny through a school project he'd done with Jasmine, and the two of them looked so similar there was no way they weren't connected somehow. Even if they had looked different, you'd have to be blind, deaf, and an idiot to not notice all of the ghost stuff Danny did on a regular basis. In just the past week, Wes had watched Danny grab pencils out of his own chest, float over the puddle the busted water fountain left, turn invisible in the middle of the hallway, fall through the floor after tripping on his shoelaces, and bend his arm with far more joints than any human arm should have. And yet, despite all of this being in plain view, not hidden at all, not a soul had noticed it.

It was fine. Wes was used to people ignoring clear evidence. Normally the evidence was a picture or a video, not clear evidence in front of someone, but he was still used to it. They were probably just seeing what they expected to see. Most people weren't able to recognize the signs of the supernatural until it busted down the side of a building. That had been what Amity Park needed to start believing in ghosts after all. In this type of situation, all Wes would need to do was bring attention to it. If he said that it was weird, it would give them the subconscious permission to recognize it as weird as well.

Except, when Wes had pointed out the discrepancy to one of his friends, they'd just shrugged. "It ain't none of my business dude," he'd said.

"What do you mean none of your business?" Wes sputtered. "You just watched him stick his hand into his locker without opening the door! How is that not your business?"

He shrugged. "Why should I care what the kid gets up to? Besides, he has chill vibes."

"Chill vibes?" Wes asked. "You don't even know him! How can you say he has chill vibes?"

"Just look at him."

Wes was, in fact. looking at him. Danny was talking animatedly about something. In this case, animatedly meant performing what could be a scene from some karate movie and miraculously not hitting anyone around him, despite the fact he definitely should. "What about that that says chill vibes to you?"

Wes's friend shrugged. "I don't know dude. People either got chill vibes or they don't, and he definitely has them. Maybe you broke your vibe meter with how rancid yours are. Anyway, I gotta get to class. See ya around!" He took off at a leisurely stroll down the hallway, leaving Wes to keep glaring at Danny.

Wes knew he was right. It was clear as day! But it didn’t matter what evidence he found, or who he presented it to, every last person always had the same reaction. “Why should I care when he’s such a calm guy?” They said it differently, of course, but that was the heart of all of their statements.

It only took three tries for the statement to end up on Wes’s cork board. He could recognize the influence of the supernatural when he saw it. Unfortunately, it looked like there was only one thing left to do.

"I need to talk to you, ghost boy," Wes said, slamming shut Danny's locker door in front of him.

He watched as Danny glanced nervously over at Tucker, who shrugged in response. The Manson girl wasn't here; Wes had chosen a time specifically to avoid her. She was far too good at talking her way out of things, and kicking her way out of things she couldn't talk her way out of. Also, she was scary, but Wes wouldn't admit that. "Because my parents are ghost hunters, very creative," Danny said with a fake laugh.

"No, because you're Phantom, and I have questions."

Danny froze completely, as if someone had hit the pause button. He didn't blink, didn't breathe, staying perfectly still as he stared up at Wes. It would have been freaky, if Wes hadn't been prepared. But he was prepared, so he didn't back down. "Fine. But can we make it quick? I have a test next period, and I'm really hoping to at least finish it."

Danny grabbed a hold of Wes's wrist, and dragged him through the wall. That was significantly weirder, and if Wes didn't have to worry about getting stuck in the wall, he'd probably fight against the grip. Since getting stuck halfway through the wall was a concern, Wes let it happen. Danny let go once they'd surfaced in an empty classroom, the window in the door blocked off with cardboard. Wes stumbled slightly, the shock of physically not existing and then existing again rushing over him.

"You could at least give a guy a warning," Tucker grumbled, straightening his hat.

"Don't you remember the standing warning I gave you?" Danny asked. "You should expect to be dragged through walls and/or the air at any time for as long as you're friends with me."

"I still don't think that's a proper warning, but whatever."

Danny rolled his eyes and turned back to Wes who had managed to stabilize himself. "So, what do you want?"

"I want to know why no one notices that you're a ghost when you're doing stuff like that every day," Wes started. "I have caught you on camera dozens of times, and pointed out you sticking your head through your locker in person to so many people, and they all ignore it. How are you doing it?"

"Oh, is that all?" Danny asked, his shoulders lowering slightly as he untensed. "I have a calming aura to most people. Makes it so they just don't see my weirdness as important. What did we call it again?"

"Capybara effect," Tucker said. "After those big cuddly guys."

"Yea, those things."

"If you have this so called Capybara effect, how come I've never noticed it?"

Danny shrugged. "No idea. Maybe you're resistant to ghostly mind manipulation, or maybe you're just so uptight that even it can't help. Jazz did say you could do with relaxing some, and if Jazz says that, you know it's bad."

Before Wes could respond, Tucker's PDA went off. "We have to be in class in t-minus thirty seconds, so if that's everything..."

Danny grabbed Tucker's hand. "Hopefully we won't be seeing you around again, but I feel like that's just wishful thinking." Danny said, giving a lazy salute and blinking the two of them into invisibility.

Wes took a deep breath through his nose. At least he got his answer.

#danny phantom #danny phantom fanfiction #danny fenton #wesley weston #tucker foley #ectoberhaunt23 #eh magic #day 11

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dumbmusclehypnojockboy · 1 year

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Odds & Ends: The Muscle Shirt, a Sk8ter Dreams story

9,900 Subscribers SPECIAL

Thank you everyone! In the lead up to the big 10,000 subs, I'm going to be posting some of my oldest original stuff. I used to be a tf writer known as LanceFan2001 or Ikaika. I frequented cyoc.net and the narcississ archive (i think it's the predecessor to the current GSS.com) and the original gay muscle story archives.

These were the days that we had to put warning lables before we posting gay stuff. It was a time before network admins or parental controls, It was a different world. But maybe not so different.

I was lucky to find a community, and someone important to me, whom I have lost contact with was O'Melissokomos: The Bee Keeper. He had his own site, that was part transformation stories part political news blog. It just worked. Anyway, he illustrated this story. I am so thankful that CYOC still has those images. So, I present,for the first time with illustrations , Odds & Ends: The Muscle Shirt.

Odds and Ends: the Muscle Shirt

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction depicting gay sex. If reading such material is offensive to you, or if you are under the legal age to read such material, please read something else.

Author's Note: This is a tale in the Sk8ter Dreams universe spin- off, "Odds and Ends". Special Thanks goes out to Reaver who started this universe.

Second Author's Note: This story is not meant to offend ANYONE. It is FANTASY, and should be taken as so. Thank you! >>>Ikaika<;<<

Trent Stephens dried his hair with a towel he had taken to storing in his school locker-yet again. This time, some freshman jocks had the pleasure of "flushing" him. You would think that as a high school senior, Trent would be the one administering that particular rite of passage, or at the very least would garner a little respect from the incoming freshmen. Sadly, he did neither.

Perhaps it was because of his appearance that he faired so poorly with his peers. Trent stood at 5'6", and weighed 235 pounds, most of it fat. He never wore any trendy clothing, instead, sticking to a wardrobe consisting of thrift store finds. Perhaps, adding to Trent's position on the bottom of the social ladder, was the combined fact that he was the new kid, who had no backbone.

Trent was also a nerd. Growing up, while the other boys were outside, playing tag or participating in sports, he preferred to sit in the library and read books, or sit in front of his custom-built computer, and play games. He really had no friends either. He obviously didn't fit in with the jocks or trend setters, and even the computer nerds felt that he was too geeky for their clique.

Trent slammed his locker shut, and with a clumsy, jerking movement, swung his book bag over his shoulder. Just as he was leaving the school, his backpack, filled to the brim with books for school, and "a little light reading", ripped at the seams, causing one of the straps to tear, and littering the deserted hallway with his books and folder paper. "Shit," he silently cursed, "What else can go wrong today?"

It took Trent about 15 minutes to pick up his things, and find a plastic bag to put his stuff in. He exited the school, and made his way to the bust stoop. As he approached the stop, he heard the bus approaching. He ran for it, only to be left behind in a cloud of dust, as the bus zoomed past.

"Great," he thought to himself, "looks like I'm walking home again."

Luckily for Trent, he only lived a mile from the school. He began his trek home, huffing and puffing in the hot and humid August sun.

He passed the many banks, stores and strip malls that were a common sight in suburbia, not paying too much attention to what he was seeing. He walked by a bakery, enjoying the smells waffing in the air. He pressed his face against the glass to see what treats were available for sale inside. As he glanced back towards the sidewalk, he noticed something unusual. The lot next to the bakery, that had been empty ever since Trent had moved to town, was now filled. In it, a store had appeared, almost overnight. Green awning lined the front and the sides of the store, and a sign reading "Odds & Ends", displayed the name of the establishment.

His curiosity piqued, Trent entered the store, and he heard the jingle of a bell ring overhead. Trent took a moment to look over the shop. It looked like a thrift store, with shelves piled high displaying miscellaneous artifacts. There were also a few racks, tables and bins of clothing, and a shoe rack in the corner. His eyes fell upon one item in particular... a sleeveless, Navy Blue, Abercrombie & Fitch shirt. Trent walked towards the rack, his palms sweating in anticipation. The shirt looked oversized... Really oversized! Just as eh was about to reach for the shirt, a voice called out to him, "Can I help you, sir?"

Trent jumped in surprise. "Where did he come from?" he wondered as he got a look at the person the voice belonged to. He was a teenager, looking both innocent and mature. The shopkeeper was dressed in a baggy green shirt, and had a backwards, sized, baseball cap on with a logo that was unfamiliar to Trent.

"Hi," Trent said, a little shakily.

"Hello," The shopkeeper said, "looking for anything in particular today?"

"Well, this shirt intrigued me," Trent answered. "I've never seen such a large A & F shirt before. Is it genuine?"

"Indeed it is, sir," the shopkeeper said, as he calmly walked to the rack, picked up the shirt, and showed Trent the sewed-in labels.

Trent looked at the labels, the shopkeeper presented. Stitched into the material of the shirt was an original label. It showed the size of the shirt as being a XXL. It also had a second tag sewed in above the main tag that read "muscle."

"I never knew A & F made shirts in a XXL size," Trent quasi-asked, quasi-stated.

"If I'm not mistaken," the merchant replied, "They tried it once, but found that it didn't fit in with their marketing campaign."

"Heh," Trent thought, "their marketing campaign. All those hot models in, but mostly out of their tightly fitted clothing. Those hot bodies... how I wished I had a body like that.

"How much?" Trent asked.

"Only $5.00," the storekeeper responded, "but, I think that it's a little too big for you. Why don't you try it on? The fitting room's right there," he added as he ushered Trent into what looked like a closet with a shower curtain in front of it.

Trent shrugged his shoulders, took the shirt the teen held out, and slid the curtain shut. Feeling a little strange, he shucked off his sweaty polo shirt, and put on the Abercrombie & Fitch tee. Trent looked into the mirror. He felt that the shirt fit him just fine. It wasn't baggy at all. In fact, the vertical white stripes down the sides of the shirt, actually helped Trent look a bit simmer. It was his slight paunch, however, which stretched the shirt out a little, that kind of ruined the effect.

"How does it look sir?" The storekeeper asked, breaking Trent from his train of thought.

"It's a little tight," Trent said.

"Nonsense!" The teen replied, opening the curtain and ushering Trent out of the room, and in front of a mirror mounted on a wall. "Let me take a look."

"It's a muscle shirt," the shopkeeper said, "so, it's supposed to be a little tight." He tugged the shirt in a few places, adjusting a few folds, and smoothing out the shirt. "Looks like a perfect fit to me," he said, admiring his work.

"How can you say that?" Trent asked, a little irritated.

"Look in the mirror."

Trent did as the shopkeeper asked, and was taken aback by what he saw. His stomach wasn't protruding as much as it was just a few moments ago... In fact, his belly seemed to be diminishing, the accumilated fat, just melting away.

"How did that happen?" Trent asked.

"What do you mean sir?"

"That," Trent said, as he pointed to his stomach in the mirror. Trent let out an audible gasp as he was in for another surprise. His once flabby stomach was now gone. He stood transfixed as ridges formed on the shirt, holding tight to his body, and revealing slight definition. The crevices deepened as a four-pack developed into a six-pack which then morphed into a highly defined, ripped eight-pack.

"Whoa... What was THAT?" Trent asked dumbfounded.

"I still don't know what you're talking about sir," the shop keeper said, ignorant to the fact that Trent was changing before his own eyes.

Trent realized that he was now looking down on his companion. He could have sworn that he was eye to eye with the shopkeeper when he had walked into the store.

"This is so fucking cool," Trent said.

"Sir," the shopkeeper responded, "I still don't know what you're talking about..."

But the shopkeeper's remarks were cut short, as Trent doubled over, and reached for his legs. They were cramping... BIG TIME! As he put his hands around his calves, he thought to himself, "They're growing!"

And he was correct in his analysis. Trent's claves were growing. In fact, his whole leg was expanding in both directions. Rock hard muscle developed on his calves and thighs, as they both lengthened. They were engulfed in pain, until finally, the growth stopped. The results were diamond shaped calves, the definition impeccable, and the size of a football. His thighs were so thick, they resembled the trunk of a coconut tree.

Trent then began to feel a pressure around his feet. They felt squeezed into his shoe all of a sudden... suffocating in the tight quarters in which they were contained. Quickly, Trent bent down to take off the shoes. When he did so, he found that his feet were also growing. Creeping past a size 11... slowly stretching, elongating past a 12 �... the bones crunching, crackling and reconstructing themselves, finally stopping at a size 15. His socks then reshaped, and readjusted themselves from knee high tube socks, a pair of Nike no-show socks.

"Are you okay sir," the shopkeeper asked, not really understanding what his customer was going on about.

"I don't kn..." Trent cried out, "But.. but... ARRGGGHHHHHH..."

Trent's comment was cut short by a new pain, this time centered in his chest. On the one hand, he felt like he was being massaged, yet on the other hand, he felt like his chest muscles were being pulled apart. He started sweating profusely, as he gawked in the mirror. His man-tits were disappearing! They were restructuring themselves, turning the once jiggly fat reserves, into solid plates of steel. His pectoral muscles (that's what they were now, not fat, but pure muscles) stretched his shirt to the limit. Trent realized that the shirt he was wearing began to shrink. The bottom hem creeping up, revealing the cobblestone bricks he now had for abs. Trent watched as his nipples shifted, now facing outwards, instead of the downward direction they once faced.

His pecs now pumped, the pain moved to his sides, back and shoulders. Trent's traps, lats and back muscles grew out, forcing his arms to hang at an angle, instead of straight down. His shoulders widened and broadened. The changes finally stopped when Trent's frame looked like a doorway: intimidatingly looming.

Trent didn't have time to comment on this, however, as the pain moved to his arms. Bones crackled and muscles elongated to keep up with his lengthening arms, which grew in proportion to his new physiology. Then, as they stopped their downward journey, his arms began to swell. Like a balloon inflates, Trent's arms blew up, but unlike a balloon, Trent's biceps and triceps were filling up with strong, hard, potent muscle tissue.

Trent's arms continued bulking up, finally reaching a point when his upper arms resembled basketballs. His skin was stretched tight, that it appeared his skin was no more than a sheet of paper. The feeling shot from the arms, down to the forearms. They pumped up, increasing in size, finally looking like miniature legs of lamb, but without any of the fat.

Next, Trent's hands expanded. Growing to mach the size of the rest of his body... HUGE! Joints popped, bones broke apart and reformed, and ligaments and tendons realigned themselves until Trent could more than easily palm a bowling ball... yes, a bowling ball!

At this point, Trent looked into the mirror, and realized what was happening. He saw his solid body, rippling with newly formed mass and muscle. He was turning into a jock. He was becoming one of those jocks he had always fantasized about being. One of those jocks that had always picked on him. The very jocks he detested, yet, subconsciously longed to be.

With that thought, an erotic rush came over Trent's body, centered in his groin. He accepted these changes... No... not accepted, he embraced them... welcomed them. Then, he felt movement on his thighs, and realized that his briefs were turning into boxer briefs... The underwear inched down his thighs, and fit tightly over the densely packed muscles of Trent's thighs and bubble butt. Then, he felt more movement, and an electric shock in his penis. "No, not my penis," Trent corrected himself, "My cock... my fuck stick."

He felt his cock snake down his thighs, and was surprised when the growth seemed to complete itself when it reached about three-quarters of the way down his thigh. Another erotic rush shook his body, as his balls swelled in size from the size of grapes to the size of golf balls, and even then, a little bit bigger. Trent's nutsack dropped, and met expanded to match the growth of its contents.

"UUUGGGH!" Trent grunted, his now deep voice, echoing with a bassy resonance. "Oh, fuck!" he exclaimed, a new sensation spreading across his face and neck.

"Sir," the shopkeeper said, "If you're going to be a while in front of that mirror, I'll just be doing a few things that need to get done. Just call me if I can help you with anything." And with that, he disappeared from Trent's view.

Trent watched in the mirror as his face rearranged itself. First, his eyes lightened, going from a dark brown, to hazel, passing pale green, and finally stopping at a bright, mesmerizing blue. His cheekbones and facial structure transfigured, giving Trent more angular features, raising his cheekbones higher, and squaring off his jaw. Then, his nose collapsed, and reconstructed itself, giving Trent a nose that appeared to have been broken a few times, yet still having a shape that perfectly matched his other facial features. The pieces of the puzzle coming together, Trent looked into the mirror, and marveled at the fact that the face looking back at him was a face that could be on billboards, magazine covers, and even in the Abercrombie and Fitch Quarterly!

Trent's hair lightened in color. Changing in a few seconds from black, to a sun-highlighted, bleached blond look. It filled in fuller, and thicker than ever before, and all of a sudden, his scalp started itching, as it all started receding back into his skull. All that was lift was a short crew cut, with the sides and back faded down, and his bangs up-turned and spiked out. Then, he watched as his sideburns filled out.

The itching exploded all over his body, as all the hair on his chest, legs, arms, abdomen, back, underarms and crotch, retracted back into his skin. The itching continued as fine blond hairs, started filling in creating just a very slight treasure trail that lead to a very well trimmed and maintained patch of hair. His balls still remained hairless, as did the rest of his body, which would forever remain so. Trent's skin then started darkening. It changed from the pasty white that he once was, and darkened into a rich, golden tan. His complexion was simply perfect, and his whole body just radiated a glowing aura.

All of a sudden, Trent clutched his chest. It felt like something was moving in his heart. He felt something crawling under his skin, and in a moment, he realized that the sensation was veins. Veins snaking their way across his body, down and across his chest and abdomen. Veins popped along his legs, and arms, forming obvious webs and patterns here and there. And then veins started popping along his newly muscled neck.

Trent was feeling pumped! He felt the strength that he now possessed welling inside of him. As he made a double bicep pose in the mirror, he froze. He wanted to stop posing, to go into a most muscular pose (something that he never knew about before), but was frozen in place. Something was wrong... something was tickling him? Trent looked into the mirror at his stomach, and saw that his clothing was now changing. The shirt he tried on remained the blue and white sleeveless Abercrombie and Fitch shirt that it was, however, bottom hem crept up, and took on the appearance of a cut-off tee-shirt.

His former jeans, which now looked like ridiculous high-waters, tied on with a cloth belt (which seemed to have tightened itself throughout the transformation) altered themselves. They grew longer to match Trent's new height. Then, they changed colors. In some places it got darker, turning into a dark brown or black. In other areas, the jeans lightened, turning olive or light green. Then, as a whole, the jeans began to fade, looking as if they had been washed many, many times. Rips and tears appeared randomly, and Trent's belt's excess length hung in front, perhaps hinting at the massive organ that Trent now possessed. The pants had become a pair of waist 28, vintage wash cammos from Abercrombie and Fitch.

The shoes that Trent had cast off earlier now faded out of reality. They disappeared from sight! A brand new pair of black and white Nike cross-trainers formed on his feet.

Trent's book bag then began to flicker. It elongated and widened, darkening to black. A logo appeared on it, finally revealing itself to be the Adidas logo. Trent's backpack had become a gym bag. The books that were in a plastic bag next to the backpack disappeared, gone from Trent's memory, and the memory of the world. The new gym bag filled itself with workout clothing, a pair of shoes, and a jock strap. Not to mention a few other items... condoms and lube!

Suddenly, a sharp, throbbing pain erupted in his head. Trent quickly reached for his temples. It was like a vise was pressing his head, squeezing tighter and tighter. "ARRRRGH," Trent screamed in anguish, "My fucking head! What the fuck is happening to m... ARRRGH!" The pain was incredible!

A new feeling was added to the torture he was enduring. From somewhere within his cranial cavity, it felt like his brains were being forced through a small sieve. Trent's natural ability to learn, and hold knowledge of the world decreased. His very IQ lowered, nearing 90. Things Trent learned from school and books seeped from his head, leaving an empty brain. "Fucking A man, make this stop," Trent cried out, still in pain.

As the torture continued, Trent's brain rewrote itself with information. It filled with knowledge about working out, nutrition, and sports. Trent could no longer tell you the state capitols, but he could tell you that he worked out everyday for two hours, doing bench presses, cable flies, and bicep curls. He could ramble of rosters from sports teams. He didn't know anything about foreign trade policies, but he now knew that the Camero was a bitchin' ride.

Trent's attitudes changed. He now had an aversion for geeks and nerds. His life revolved around, hot guys, hot cars, hot sex, and flexing his muscles on and off the sports field. His world now focused on keggers, and his vocabulary now only encompassed simple words and phrases. Trent no longer would be the sniveling coward who just took everything that came his way. He would now be a cocky jock, who had an air of arrogance and confidence in everything that he did. And his voice, no longer would Trent be confused for a woman on the phone. Instead, his testosterone charged voice boomed with a bassy resonance.

And, as suddenly as the pain started, it stopped in an instant.

"Whoa," Trent said, "That was one nasty trip. I wonder if that's the ephidra in Xenadrine or somethin'."

The sales person came back to the dressing area. Not having heard or seen Trent in a while, he was a little concerned about his customer. "You still doing okay, sir?" he asked.

"Yeah, dude," Trent replied, "I'm okay. That was one hell of a rush!"

"Sorry sir."

"Not your fault guy," Trent said, "what do I owe you for the shirt?"

"Let's see now," the shop keeper said, "Five dollars for the shirt."

Trent reached into his pocket, and retrieved his money, having a little difficulty counting out five ones.

"Thanks man, that's fucking cheap! Let me know if you get anymore in." Trent said after handing the kid his money. "I gotta go to the gym... There's a stud waiting for me, and he's gonna be in for the pounding of his life," he added, thinking about how the star quarterback was his own personal boy toy. Man, this shirt is gonna look awesome on me tomorrow when I start going to my new school `Trent Hall's School for Young Adults'."

"I'm sure it will sir," the shop keeper replied.

And with that, Trent Stephens picked up his gym bag, and walked out the door, the bell overhead jingling one last time, and headed out to his new life.

"Another satisfied customer," the mysterious shopkeeper said to no one in particular. •

Please let me know if you liked this retro post. I have some others that are in reserve, so if you would like to see me post more, like and comment!

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anxietycroissant · 6 months

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So this has stalled but in case anyone else lets stuff slip through the cracks like I do on Ao3, here’s the first chapter of my (so-far) #sydcarmy rambling story that never gets to the point. It’s four chapters so far and I’m hoping this will motivate me to keep it going.

It takes place immediately post season 2 as Carmy gets busted out of the walk-in. It’s a bit feel-good so far but that is unlikely to continue without a few bumps in the road. Enjoy! If you’re lazy I’ve literally pasted the entire first chapter into this post like an absolute champ.

Chapter 1: Mister Freeze

Late night after Friends and Family

The Bear BOH, Chicago, IL

Syd entered the kitchen quietly from the door that led outside, wiping her dry lips with the back of one shaking hand. They had actually pulled off the night, even with Carmy stuck in the walk-in. She pulled her eyes shut as she felt a low swooping sensation in her stomach as the memory of her coming so close to giving up while doing expo flashed in her mind. She never thought she’d be so thankful to Richie. He completely saved her ass. She had wanted to thank him profusely at the end of the night, but he was nowhere to be found as Tony (or was it Terry?), the fridge guy, was breaking Carmy out of the walk-in. Her fingers had begun to haltingly compose a text to Richie to see where the fuck he was, but she figured that she’d save this big conversation for another day. Her gratitude was too big for WhatsApp and that’s just how it was. Plus, what in the actual hell was making her phone so greasy? Olive oil?

Richie unexpectedly saved the day… what the fuck was that? A smile edged up the corners of her mouth until her face ached. It was funny how much she needed to remember that sometimes people can still surprise you in the best ways. She frowned, as a cousin of that thought entered her mind. People can also let you the fuck down.

Carmy was her partner, and she valued his experience and opinion above almost everything. But he really lost himself. It wasn’t so much that he broke his promise to her that he wouldn’t let her drown. It was more that he just totally broke down. She’d never known somebody who could be both so brilliant and yet so unable to cope when things got tough. Everyone had tried to talk him out of his anxiety spiral, but nothing anyone said had done any good in the end. The only person who could help Carmy was Carmy, and that sure as shit didn’t happen.

She had heard bits and pieces of things he had said to Tina from inside the walk-in as she zoomed around the kitchen trying to get things done. She didn’t find out the whole story until later. After the last tickets of the night came through and the stress level of the kitchen started to even out, she realized that until that moment she had forgotten all about Carmy. That’s the thing about working at such a high level: it’s good and bad to focus so completely on something that you totally forget any and everything else.

The moment her thoughts circles back to Carmy, she stopped checking up on everyone and walked back towards the walk-in. The familiar scent of clean, hot dishes and the lingering odor of hot oil hit her as she shuffled tiredly away. She saw the back of Nat's blonde head and could almost physically feel the worry she was directing towards the metal door of the walk-in. Nat must have felt Syd watching her and whispered, “I keep wondering why this is taking so long! Pete keeps circling the block in the car waiting for me. I just want to see if Carmy’s okay, but every time I try to talk to him through the door he won’t say anything. He’s being such a little bitch right now!” She sounded equal parts worried and disgruntled, like always. Syd smiled and cracked a yawn. “You go ahead, Nat. I promise I’ll check up on Carmy and get him home safe. You and Pete head home and rest up. You were amazing tonight, but you look a little bit like…,” her face froze as she saw Natalie’s raised eyebrows. ”Yeah. Um, what I actually meant to say was that I’ve like, got this. Yeah,” she fumbled awkwardly.

Nat just nodded, not even hearing that Syd had basically tiptoed really close to telling her that she looked like hammered shit. “Thanks, Syd. I don’t know what any of us would do without you. Text me if you need anything or if I should come back, OK? And let me know what he says, yeah? And this is a big ask, but… can you see if you can get him to eat something?” Nat rubbed her eyes, causing her mascara to smear ever so slightly. Syd wondered what her own mascara was doing at that moment. “And oh yeah,” Nat spat out with venom, “It would also be great if you could calm him the fuck down and get him to stop getting in his own freaking way all the time.” She did have the decency to grimace in apology after that last bit. Syd cocked her head to the side, already feeling defeated. “Should I be like, taking notes, Nat? Or is that all?” Nat let out a harsh laugh and squeezed Syd’s shoulder, practically racing out the door. ‘Fuck,’ thought Sydney , ‘She’s leaving before I can change my damn mind.’

Syd leaned her back against the wall, and slowly sank to the floor to wait for Carmy to get out. She waited a few minutes longer before the guy whose name probably began with a T finished with the door. Before he opened the door, he said, “Hey, no offense, Syd… but can I get paid before I open this door? Carm has been saying some weird shit and I just want to get the hell out of here.” Syd nodded distractedly, running a hand along her braids. She reminded him just to bill them. She was not going to call Nat back in right now to ask what the new process for paying contractors was. And honestly, she wasn’t dying to know how much money it was going to set them back to have this emergency work done. Mystery Man just shrugged, his gesture seeming to mean that he didn’t trust her promises but that he was too tired to care. “Thanks so much for helping, have a great night!” Syd called out as Terry or Tim or Tony made a beeline for the exit.

‘Well, shit’ , Syd thought. 'He didn’t even open the door all the way.' She hoped she could. As she pushed, the door swung cleanly on its hinges until it was all the way open. She stepped in, the cool air a welcome change from the warm kitchen against her flushed skin. Carmy was just sitting there staring at the floor, seemingly unaware that he was free. With his arms wrapped around himself, he had his head down in between his knees. His blonde curls obscured his eyes, so she couldn't tell what he was thinking. Syd let herself sink down next to him. She cautiously put an arm around him and wrapped her palm around his shoulder. The cold of his shoulder reached up and bit her. He tensed up immediately but relaxed a bit when he realized it was her arm and not someone else’s.

“Syd,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’m so sorry, Chef. I’m so, so sorry.” He either didn’t have the energy or the will to look at her. “I broke my promise to you already.” He seemed so bereft, so adrift, that Syd couldn’t even voice her anger or disappointment at that moment. “Carmy,” she said softly, “Let’s get you out of here and then talk about it.” She kept her arm around his freezing shoulder but got onto her knees so she could leverage her weight to help him stand up. She thought he would put up more of a fight, but he got up willingly enough. She dragged him over to his locker and then helped him into his wool jacket, and had to physically pull his feet out of his Birkenstocks and put them into his sneakers. It was a bit worrying, the way he was accepting her help without question. She got her bag out and changed her own clothes and shoes, and then they walked out to his car. He just stood there, so she told him she was driving him home. He didn’t argue, didn't smoke a cigarette, didn't give her shit. It all kind of worried her.

The atmosphere in the car was tense and quiet as soon as the doors shut. Syd turned on the radio to fill the silence. She was thankful that at least they weren’t listening to any of his fucking depressing music. Syd, under the guise of running a hand through her hair to tuck a loose braid behind her ear, was really sneaking multiple sidelong glances at Carmy as she drove to his place. To his credit, he wasn’t giving anything away. His blue eyes just stared straight ahead, devoid of any emotion. She kept hoping she could think of something to say, but her brain was maxed out. Also, she was pretty sure there was trash or something under the gas pedal, and she needed to focus on not killing them in a fiery car crash. Carmy started mumbling something as they approached his neighborhood, apparently to himself. Syd sighed and eventually found parking underneath a tree by his building.

Even later that night

Carmy’s apartment

The two of them slowly walked up many, many stairs to his apartment. Syd figured that this was the only way left to find a decent apartment in Chicago; find something on the hundredth floor with no elevator. She twisted the key in the lock and opened his door. They both stumbled inside. Carmy waved at her as he slowly slurred, “Thanks, Syd. Go home and get some sleep. You killed it tonight.” She gave him a half smile and nodded. But as she started to turn around and head for the door, something didn’t quite feel right. She whipped her head back around and caught Carmy shivering. He had apparently waited to fall apart until after she left. “Carm, what the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me you were so cold? We had the heat on high the whole way here,” Syd huffed, losing what little patience she had left. “We could have saved time going to the ER!” At that thought, Carmy really looked at her. And he looked scared. “Syd, please,” he whispered, “No doctors, okay? I just can’t. I’m so tired and those places freak me the fuck out.”

“All right, Carm, but I can’t leave you alone- and we’ve got to get you warm.” He just looked at her, utterly spent and waiting on her next move. “Shit,” she thought. Maybe he has mild hypothermia? Is that a thing? Can you be just a little bit frozen? She Googled it and it was a thing. She also Googled if spiraling makes hypothermia worse, but the only thing that Google advised against was hot baths. Not super helpful, but good to know? She was torn between calling an ambulance and trying to fix him herself. If she was being honest, she didn’t have the energy to convince Carmy to willingly leave in an ambulance. And she certainly didn’t have the capacity right now to get him down those stairs on her own. She sighed and decided to put the kettle on. His depressing apartment wasn’t helping either.

“OK, Carm, let’s get you into something warmer,” she said dully. He just stood there, so she slipped into his bedroom. Pulling open drawers that barely slid open, she found some sweatpants that somehow looked like normal sweatpants but also like an artisan had handcrafted them in a long-forgotten Italian village. As she ran her hands across the expensive fabric, she wondered where he shopped. And when did he shop? Did he secretly have a massive online shopping addiction, or did he spend every day off buying expensive as fuck sweatpants and obscure white t-shirts? After grabbing the sweatpants, she found a thick, long-sleeved tee. She also grabbed some boxers and thick socks.

As she padded back to Carmen, she saw that he was shivering more than ever. “Arms up, dude,” she said sternly. He put them up without a fight, although they shook slightly. She pulled up his shirt, catching her knuckles on his chest as she did. His skin felt like ice. ‘Shit,’ she thought. New clothes weren’t going to be enough. She slid the new shirt over his head anyway and helped him pull his arms through the sleeves. She tried not to stare at his body while he was in this vulnerable state, but it was an exercise in control. Because all of his muscles were on full display less than a couple of centimeters away from her eyes. If she had had more time, she’d have taken a mental inventory of a few new-to-her tattoos. Her face felt hot all of a sudden and she shook her head to stay on task.

He managed to get his shit together for a second and changed his pants and boxers in his bathroom with the door (halfway?) closed. He was taking too long, so she pushed the door open and pulled him back out. She gave him a long look, sighing. She didn’t like what she saw. A wax version of a person stood in front of her, without substance or colour. Maybe it was just her, but he looked even paler than usual. His skin normally had a golden undertone with a blush of red ready to rise up just underneath the surface of his skin. Not that Syd had perfectly cataloged the colors of his skin in her memory or anything. Because that would be a new level of weirdness. Just then the tea kettle began to whistle. Sydney took some dusty mugs down from his cabinet and some even dustier tea bags, making tea for them both.

She dragged Carmy to sit down on the edge of his bed and handed him the scalding hot cup of tea. He looked at it, then at her, and then back at the tea again. “Syd,” he trailed off. “I’m fucking cold.” Syd looked up at the ceiling. Why did this shit always happen to her? How did she find herself in these situations? She felt like she was in a really random episode of a TV show with endless seasons, like Grey's Anatomy. This scenario had played out at least a time or two on that series, she thought to herself.

She gestured to Carmy to take off his shirt. “It’s either that or we go to the hospital,” she warned, as he looked at her in disbelief. “We have to get you warmed up somehow, and I’m afraid to put you in the shower when you’re this cold. If you fall and pass out, I don’t think I can pick you back up. I know we’re the same height, but fuck, dude, I don’t work out!” He let her come closer and take his shirt off. The collar got stuck on his nose for a second, and Syd heard a high laugh escape from her mouth. “Cool, super cool,” Syd thought. “Real chill.”

She gently pushed Carmy down onto his pillow and then laid down beside him. She pulled the covers over them both and wrapped her arms gently around his body. His eyes were tightly shut, and his shivering shook them both. “Syd… I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this,” he whispered through chattering teeth. “Hey,” Syd whispered excitedly, “you said two whole sentences! That’s more than you’ve said in the last hour!” Her grin faded as she saw the misery etched on Carmy’s face. His body felt tense like he would bolt if he could. Did he really hate this so much, or was he simply ashamed to be so weak in front of her ?

“Hey, Carm, it’s just me. You can relax, let’s just... You know? Get you warm, ok? You’re totally fine. We’re just cuddling, right? Nothing scary is happening. It’s just me.” But then a sudden realization hit her. “Oh fuck,” she thought, cringing inwardly. He has a girlfriend. Who is an ER doctor? Of course he’s tense. “Carm, should I call Claire? I’m sure you’d much rather her do this, right? Especially since she’s a… fuck… I don’t know? Actual doctor who knows what she’s doing? I can’t believe I’m such an idiot! I’m so sorry!” But Carmy just shook his head, pressing it into her shoulder. He was mumbling, but his voice sounded much clearer than it had just a little while ago. “So Claire kind of heard me say some shit while I was locked in the walk-in. Yeah, I thought I was talking to Tina, but I guess Tina left? And I’m paraphrasing but I am pretty sure I told her she wasn’t worth all of this time? Pretty sure we’re broken up. So. Yeah. Please don’t fucking call her, Syd.” Carmy dragged his hands through his hair, which at this point made little to no difference. His hair was already wild after his jaunt in the walk-in.

Syd didn’t know what to say, because she had never known how to feel about Claire in the first place. Claire was fine? Perfect on paper, but not for Carmy. “Syd?” Carmy had apparently asked her a question. “Sorry,” Syd replied, “Are you okay? Uh.. fuck, you’ve had a bad night. I guess you were under a lot of pressure though. If you say you’re sorry and you didn’t mean it, I’m sure she’ll understand.” Syd believed this to be true while wanting it not to be true at the same time. She had that odd feeling of missing a step while walking down the stairs deep in her belly.

Carmy’s nose felt like ice against where it was wedged against her shoulder. “Look, I feel bad about how I said it, but I’m also relieved.” She could feel him smile slightly, the first bit of life she’d seen from him since the walk-in had been cut open. “I always really liked her, you know? And when we started hanging out, it was cool. But she got to see me when I was ok. I don’t think she ever saw that side of me, where I get angry or anxious or throw up or just guzzle Tums. For a while, I thought it was fine. But it’s not. And she reminds me of being a little kid. And like of how I was in high school. And that’s not her fault, I know. But I can’t be with her.” He sighed. “I’m not explaining it well at all, I know. But I’m glad it’s you here and not anyone else. I don’t think I could take it.” Sydney nodded, understanding immediately. “I get it,” she murmured softly.

She looked down and saw that her hand was lightly rubbing his back. His very naked, very muscular back. She felt the heat radiate from her cheeks, down through her arms and legs, and into the sheets. She was very, very thankful that Carmy was still out of it. Too out of it to notice that she was losing her damn mind. As her hands slowly rubbed up and down, she felt Carmy’s muscles relax bit by bit. He even felt a bit warmer now. Still fucking cold, but she didn’t think he needed the hospital anymore. He felt like he’d just come in from playing in the snow. The mental image of Carmy as a boy, coming inside from building a snowman, appeared in her mind’s eye. She had to bite down a smile.

“What?” whispered Carmy softly. “What made you smile just now? Where did you go?” Syd just shook her head. “It’s too embarrassing,” she admitted. “I’m sure it’s definitely more fucking embarrassing than what I’ve experienced tonight,” he deadpanned. She chuckled as he cracked a grin. “I was just thinking that now you don’t feel like ice anymore, and then I thought that now you feel like you’re just cold from playing outside. Like kids do after it snows.” Carmy pulled back to look at her. “Do you think we’d have been friends if we’d known each other back then?” he asked. “I don’t know,” answered Syd truthfully, staring up at the ceiling. “I was a major nerd. And I was also a lot younger than you. Four years was a big difference back then. That’s like ten years in kid years.”

Carmy stared at her. “Four years isn’t much anymore, though,” he breathed. ‘Fuck,’ thought Sydney desperately. ‘Don’t look at me like that with those eyes.” He scrunched up his blue eyes. “What do you mean?” He asked. “Oh, fuck. Did I say that out loud?” She laughed nervously. “Syd,” he stared at her as he shifted a bit closer to her. “What do you mean?” he repeated softly. There was no judgment in his eyes. He just wanted to understand.

“Jesus Christ, Carmy, you have to know that your blue eyes are enough to stop traffic. People in small villages would probably have a parade to celebrate that shit.” She shut her eyes tight and waited him out. She slowly opened one eye. Yep, still staring at her. He was smiling at her sadly. “I don’t think anyone is gonna throw a parade for me any time soon, “he replied. “But they definitely would for you.” She wrinkled up her face as though she had swallowed a mouthful of vinegar.

“Syd, you’re worse at taking a compliment than I am, fuck. You don’t see it, but you’re everything. Everyone loves you, you’re incredibly talented, and you- yeah, you’re just everything,” he sighed. “I don’t deserve you,” he says as he pushed a stray braid out of her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Syd,” he repeated.

Syd suddenly couldn’t think of anything to say, and her mouth was dry. As Carmy gazed into her eyes, she felt herself on the edge of something, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to go over. Trying to hang onto some semblance of normalcy, she squeezed his shoulder in reply. Carmy, whose arms had until now been resting at his sides, reached up to wrap an arm around her waist. She felt her skin warm at his touch, which was weird, right? The heat wasn't coming from his body; that was for sure. Was she freaking out? Was she breathing weirdly? Could he tell? Oh God. He seemed so calm, and she was losing her mind. Apparently not noticing her awkwardness, Carmy moved closer. She could feel his soft curls touching her cheek. She could feel his chest pressed into hers, soft and reassuring. He even smelled? Cold, somehow?

“Syd? This is really nice,” he whispered, stroking her back. “Carmy, why does your breath smell like spices?” Sydney couldn’t help but giggle. Carmy should smell like cigarettes and soap, and she finds the difference strange. “I was hitting the walk-in door, you know?” Carmy said softly, “And I accidentally knocked over a container of cloves. Luckily it was almost empty, but I got a fucking mouthful. It was intense.” He was staring at her again. She felt the places where his fingers touched her burn with electricity.

“I like cloves,” Syd said stupidly. Her cheeks started burning, and she groaned. “Don’t listen to me,” she murmured. “I’m fucking delirious.” She chanced another look at Carmy. Yep, still staring. “Syd,” he said quietly. “Look at me.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. She caught him looking at her mouth. He quickly looked up and had the decency to apologize with a look. He slowly brought a hand up to her cheek, feeling her soft skin. “Do you- can I-“ his words were cut off as Sydney suddenly sat straight up in his bed, causing his arms to fall away from her. “Carmy,” Syd breathed, “I.. I just can’t. I don’t know how to do this. After everything tonight- and Claire- and you probably had hypothermia just now- it’s a lot.” Carmy squeezed her hand in understanding. “Syd, I get it. I’m sorry. I should not have put you in this position tonight.”

Syd smiled sadly, her dark eyes wide. “But Carmy? I liked this. You know, except for the part where I had to basically carry you up the stairs. And the whole me worrying about you having hypothermia part? So ok now that I’m hearing myself a lot of it actually sucked? But also I got to see at least 17 tattoos I’ve never seen before, and I’m also not saying no, OK? I just think we need some time.” She got up then to stop vomiting out words. Carmy rolled out of bed too, swaying slightly as he stood. He put his arms around her in a tight hug. She leaned her slender body into him for a second, forgetting everything she’d just said. “Text me when you’re home safe?” he asked. His eyes smoldered. Syd was pretty sure she had never smoldered at anyone. “Yeah,” Sydney said unevenly. She somehow turned around and walked to the door without passing out. As she closed the door, she saw him, still staring at her. And “Jesus Christ, fuck me,” she thought. “Those abs. Will I see those abs again?”

As she walked towards the train, she looked at her phone and saw several messages and missed calls from Nat, each one more frantic than the last. She called her immediately, explaining that she had stayed with Carmy until he warmed up. She mentioned making the tea and helping him change his clothes, but she left out the rest. Natalie thanked her profusely before hanging up. Eyebrows raised, Syd threw her hands up as she walked. Being a human was so confusing sometimes.

#ao3 #sydney adamu #carmy berzatto #sydcarmy #the bear fx #the bear

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1oxnes · 1 year

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sim dump [my sims] - DJ Candy

She'll tell you all about stuff like watts, reverb, and noise reduction filters. And then she'll bust out some glowsticks and then things get crazy!

☆ Candy is a character from the game My Sims

☆ 8 outfits

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☆ all credits to the cc creators

☆ see all the characters mysims!

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#simblr #sim download #sims 4 #my sims #sim dump #ts4 #симс 4 #ts4 cas

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wario-speedwagon · 5 months

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Dave and Old Sport Adopt a Kid: Chapter 8

Hello, me again here with chapter 8! And with the longest chapter yet no less! Hope you enjoy, and thanks for the support as always! <3

And this time I want to shout out @p13rr0t for their cute little drawing of Pruny that honestly made me laugh! Thank you so much!

Chapter 1 Chapter 7

And without further ado, full chapter beneath the cut!

Chapter 8

Suddenly the momentum slowed to a halt, and Dave awakened. Ah, when did he fall asleep? After some seconds of waking himself up, Dave glanced up out of the front window. Jack was already at the front door of his house, bags and blankets in arm, fishing his pockets for a house key.

He looked beside him and Pruny was also still fast asleep, head leaning against the car door. His heart melted at the sight–that is, the cavity where his heart should have been did. He climbed out of the car to catch up with Jack.

“I see that you’re unfortunately awake now. Welcome back.”

“What, getting sick of me already?”

“Evening naps are always dangerous for kids. Once you wake up from an evening nap, you'll be awake for hours before you go to bed; it’s always a real headache to deal with.”

“C’mon, Prune’s a good kid.”

“Oh, it’s not her I’m worried about.”

“Ha ha. What would you have done if I didn’t wake up, carry me to bed bridal style?” Dave said perhaps a little too hopefully.

“Good point. I probably woulda just let you sleep there in the car for the night.”

“Mm. Well lucky for ya, I’m ready to collapse right back into the sack as soon as possible.”

Dave was tired, but even then he still took note of how Old Sport clearly seemed to speak earlier as if referring to personal experience, which left Dave wondering again about his background. …No, now wasn’t the time or energy to bring up something like that again.

“...Hey, what's all that extra stuff you got in that bag? I see a toothbrush.”

“Yeah, I bought her some other essentials we'd missed, y'know, in case she would have to stay longer…”

“Weren’t you strapped for cash or something? Did ya ‘lift ‘em after all?”

“Well yeah, I sneak stuff out all the time too, how could I not? It's been hard to get by ever since Walmart stopped accepting Faztokens. But I'm–”

“Woah woah, Walmart used to take Faztokens!?” Dave suddenly shouted very alertly to Jack’s regret.

“A couple years back, yeah.”

“Damn…”

Jack resumed unlocking the door open, so Dave went back to the car to carry Pruny inside.

It made Dave think. The way her light body felt in his hands. Just like all the other ones he disposed of. But this time he had to actually be careful not to wake the sleeping kid…

Boy, it’s a real good thing Dave was an expert on cutting off haunting thoughts like that before they can get to him! Besides, Pruny was different!

Dave carefully closed the busted up car door and, Pruny still cradled in his arms, re-approached the front door step to enter the briefly dark living room that Jack promptly lit up with a switch. The two were consciously trying to stay quiet in her presence.

“Shit, I completely forgot about a pillow,” Jack harshly whispered to himself as Dave went over to gently set her down onto the living room couch. Luckily they seemed successful at not stirring her awake as she seamlessly snuggled into its cushions.

The two then shut off the living room lights and left the girl to her peace as they then took the shopping bags to the kitchen table.

“So what else'd you get her then?”

“Oh– just a toothbrush, toothpaste, some hair ties, and a brush (since I don't exactly use one myself). …Oh, and I nicked this as well for her.” He held it up. “Think she'll like it?”

Dave stretched his neck closer and judged the strange little bottle carefully with a discerning eye.

“Hmm…

…

…What is it?”

“...Huh?”

“What is it?”

“You… don’t know?”

“Is it… edible? It’s not much to drink if so…”

“...”

“...Oh. ...Oh, this is a delightful twist! If you don’t know what this is, then that just means you’re gonna find out directly once we give it to Pruny!”

“I don’t know that I like the vague threatening tone in your voice…” Dave eyed the red bottle with confused intimidation.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, it’s not a very painful process.”

“Not a 'very–’?”

“Anyway, what are your sleeping plans, Aubergine? I don’t exactly have any spare bedding for you.”

“Oh, uhh, maybe just with you–?”

“Vetoed.”

“That was… the only idea I had to be honest…”

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

…

When she came to, the first thing Violet relished in noticing was that she had been the most comfortable she had been in months. Every desire told her to just keep her eyes closed and her mind foggy with sleep, but she had to be sure– sure that yesterday did happen, so she opened her eyes a slit to the mild morning light to confirm this was indeed the orange man’s living room, and that she had been laying flat on his couch–oh, and covered with an incredibly warm, soft navy blue blanket!

And so she faced an internal battle: wanting to get up and satiate her new curiosities while wanting to stay warm and sleepy in her blanket’s heavenly embrace. She continued to sit with this dilemma under closed, tired eyes...

But she finally decided that her curiosity wins out.

Lightly opening her eyes, she saw that grandfather clock that she rather liked. It read 7:47. Violet enjoyed the pendulum’s dedicated repetition back and forth as her gaze meditated on it for a good minute or two.

...Until she noticed something purple on the floor nearby her.

That purple guy–Dave–was sprawled on the floor asleep in a position no more natural than if a Raggedy Andy had been unceremoniously dropped onto the floor. He didn’t even have a blanket or anything… Well, at least the floor was carpeted.

Getting up from her comfort felt like a crime; but Violet was being exposed to a lot of that lately, so emulating her new—

–Her train of thought halted. ...How should she finish that sentence? Calling them her captors might be the most accurate, but she only ever felt “captured” in the first couple hours of meeting them before she started to realize that maybe she had just wildly misinterpreted their intentions at first... that maybe sticking with them might be a better bet than what she’d been doing for the past several months…

But the word she wanted to use for them… it felt too presumptuous.

Well! Enough daydreaming, time to wake up and explore this house while they’re still asleep! So tiptoe-ing around the mangled pile of purple limbs on the floor, she headed first for the kitchen!

...

The dishes from last night were still awaiting washing in the sink and the table was not cleared of crumbs from their grilled cheese last night, but otherwise it was a perfectly fine kitchen. Naturally the first place Violet checked was the fridge to see what kind of snacks Jack usually had, but she didn't expect such disappointment upon opening it.

The full-sized fridge was mostly empty if not populated by some yogurts, cheese slices, a half used stick of foreign butter and a loaf of bread (that had some specks of something green in it...?). And in the door were just some bland looking soda cans…

Well enough of that, where else could she raid? But her attention was immediately redirected to a cute doggo! Or rather, a framed picture of one hung on the wall. She didn't know her dog breeds very well, but she was enamored with its pointy little ears and dark purple fur– er, huh… She could have sworn she saw that it was a dark purple color at first, but it was just a regular blonde color. Weird.

Opening drawer after drawer for interesting things, she only got mildly interesting junk at best like Freddy's trinkets or a popped balloon dog or a taser, but otherwise it was mostly random cigarette packs, loose change, pens, Faztokens… Violet very quickly decided to head to a new, hopefully more interesting room instead.

But this small house didn't have many other places to explore. There was a second bedroom, but that didn't have much of note upon entering as it was half-empty: a desk with minimal desk stuff on it… most interesting were some unopened cardboard boxes she found in the closet that were still taped shut. Strange. They were simply labeled ‘Kennedy Stuff’ in marker, whatever that really meant. She'd love to rifle through all their contents and find out if it weren't for the tape stopping her. For now…

Well, given she'd already spent time in the bathroom last night, that left Jack's room. She debated if she wanted to sneak in quietly and risk waking him and getting caught. She slowly opened the door just a crack to peek inside…

And she saw the messy bed was empty. No one was in that room.

Now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to take the opportunity to explore Jack’s room or to first ascertain where he even was.

She decided to go search the bathroom next instead.

So she opened the bathroom door and–

*gasp*

“Bejesus, you scared me!” Jack blurted startled with a hand over his chest. But then self-awareness quickly kicked in since he quickly turned away from Pruny in a way that failed to be casual.

And Violet knew why because the man she accidentally interrupted looked ghastly and frankly terrified her at first glance. But she understood quickly what he was in the middle of doing and why from the open orange jars at the sink he’d just been using.

Jack, recovering from being caught off guard, turned back to at least somewhat face her, one hand at his cheek as if it would help hide it. He said something to her, but she didn't know what, with his hand blocking his mouth–

And only growing more awkwardly flustered, he abruptly jerked his hand down away from his face as if reading her mind.

“Sorry, you, uh… You're up early aren't you? Caught me in the middle of my makeup–”

But that filled Violet with some excitement as she rushed toward the sink to see it.

“O-Okay then–” Jack stepped back mildly bewildered to give her space to indulge in her sudden fascination.

And oh boy was there a lot of it!! Just whole jars of orange stuff, though it seemed cheap. And looking back up at Jack again, he seemed to have gotten to his forehead, under-eyes and part of his left cheek so far with how it's bright orange contrasted with the rotten, grey-ish maroon rest of his face and neck as well as the hands and– Violet then noticed that along his arms–both of them–were deeply indented, discolored gash lines running down them. She had so many questions, and she didn't know what the appropriate way to feel should be– and then suddenly she realized she'd been just staring at his rotten skin for seconds too long, and it was her turn to look away sheepishly.

Jack's arm then reached for another dab of makeup to slather onto his face, his attention returned back to the mirror again. She quickly saw that this guy was not very good at this, at least not compared to how her street friend showed her how they did it. Unfortunately, she’d never done it for herself, so she couldn’t show Jack how to do it better if she wanted to.

At the rate he was going… How long would this take? Did he do this every morning? Would it be weird if she just watched him put on makeup for a while? It’s not like there was anything better to do right now, now that she was well awake, and his face admittedly made her morbidly curious–

“By the way, just for future reference, it’s good manners to knock before entering a bathroom if the door’s closed,” he said while continuing to smear orange streaks across his cheek. She nodded in acknowledgement. The thought didn’t even occur to her since she wouldn’t hear an answer if there was one anyway.

Violet picked up an orange jar to look at it closer to give her a more polite thing to stare at instead. Orange, huh? It seemed to be from some company that specialized in costume makeup and such. She turned immediately as Jack started talking–

“--’re wondering why orange, huh? It was the only color they were practically begging to get rid of. Well, the best of a couple colors; the other options were even worse if you can imagine.”

Violet opened the jar to observe the texture of its contents–

“--free to try some on. If you’re bold enough, that is.”

She swiped some of it onto her fingers and smeared it across the back of her other hand. The orange comically contrasted very gaudily against her purple skin.

“Oh, sorry, you probably came in here for a reason. Did you need to use the bathroom?”

She shook her head. She was just being nosy.

“Well, either way, if you wanna freshen up, I got some stuff for you last night!”

He stopped mid-application of makeup to head out of the bathroom to get something–

–when he opened the door, a purple figure was standing right there, quickly realizing he was caught eavesdropping.

The half-orange man groaned a deep, exasperated sigh, loud enough that even she could hear it well.

“Dave, are you unacquainted with the concept of privacy?”

“Why hello there old sports! You’re looking, uh, dashing this morning…?”

“Dave, I thought you were the kind of person to sleep in late? What are you doing up at 8 in the morning?”

“Well, I DO sleep in late, given I have a half-decent bed to sleep in!” he retorted pointedly. “‘Sides, I heard you talkin’ in there, so I wanted to know what I was missin’ out on!”

“This kind of thing is exactly what I was afraid would start happening…”

“You’re pretty good with kids by the way!”

Jack just blankly stared back.

The statement hung in the air unanswered for a few too many seconds until Jack pushed past Dave for the kitchen.

Jack picked up the grocery bag. “Anyway: here Pruny, we got you some extra things. Look, toothbrush and toothpaste, some hair ties–” Jack handed her the bag and with elation, she ruffled through it to see the contents for herself.

“So how’d you get to be so good with kiddins anyway?” Dave added with no subtlety.

"...I'm really not, Dave, believe me."

"Nonsense! You got her warmed up to ya like-"

“Now Pruny, why don’t you ask Dave to tie your hair up while I go finish up in the bathroom?”

“I dunno, I think you’d probably be much better at that than I would, old sport!”

“Well, there’s no better way to improve than to practice then, is there? I can’t do everything for her, y’know.”

“But I’d need someone more experienced to show me how first!”

“Figure it out yourself! It’s really not that complicated to learn, Pruny could probably even teach you I bet!”

“Out of curiosity, where’d you first learn how to do it? You didn’t have long hair to tie yourself in your younger days, did you?”

This drawn out back and forth was getting more and more passive aggressive. Violet was starting to not like it.

“Dave, remember when I asked you to drop the issue last night?”

“And what issue was that again? You’ll have to remind me.”

“No, I’m not a parent!" Jack snapped. "I just had a little sister, now will that shut you up?”

“A sister!” Dave’s insufferable cheekiness suddenly gave way to genuine, delighted interest as he pestered a retreating Jack who was ignoring him again. “Now I’m even more curious! What was she like!? Were you guys close!? What’s her name!? Why don't you talk about her-”

The bathroom door closed in front of Dave, halting his onslaught of questions.

“Fine then, keep your secrets!” Dave retorted nonchalantly.

Violet could tell Jack regretted saying anything at all. But she also couldn’t deny having her curiosity piqued as well. A guilty part of her was hoping Dave would eventually drag an answer out of him too, though she felt equally bad about Jack being put in a bad mood again. Dave seemed to have a talent for that, didn't he?

“Well then! Pruny!” He turned back to Pruny with a smile that changed the topic. “Let’s have a go at this hair business, eh? You think that hair’s long enough for a braid?”

Pruny didn’t even know how to do a braid herself, and she seriously doubted Dave did either, despite his newfound confidence.

(Chapter 9) ->

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FANART! :D

Thanks again to @p13rr0t for the awesome drawing, it has lived rent free in my head for a while since I first received it from them <3

#thanks for the support and patience as always!#hope you enjoyed! :)#dayshift at freddy's #dayshift at freddys #dsaf #dsaf fanfic #jack kennedy #dave miller #jack dsaf #dave dsaf #dsaf jack #dsaf dave

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andmaybegayer · 2 months

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Last Monday of the Week 2024-03-11

Sun's out

Listening: The Neotokyo Soundtrack. Neotokyo is a Half Life mod that I never played, but some people mentioned the soundtrack and I went digging into it, it's a slice of a very specific idea of cyberpunk, it's not as techno-heavy as you'd find today, it's much bigger and slower.

Reading: Picking things up and putting them down, couldn't get my attention pinned down. I might try reading Glory In The Thunder, I've only had the epub drifting around for a eight years.

Watching: 1) Yojimbo (1961), Toshiro Mifune in a Kurosawa Samurai joint. It's really incredible just how much Leone fucking copied this exactly into A Fistful of Dollars, right down to the jokes.

2) rewatching Dune (2021) part 1 in prep for watching the next part. It's good but I'm still not sure how good this feels if you don't know. You know. The deep lore.

Playing: Dark Souls again, I made it through to the Duke's Archives as my first Lord, but I only just found my way through the Archives into the Crystal Caves.

Also finally figured out why my controller was busted in Forza Horizon 5 on Linux, which is nice. It's been a while since I did Car Sim stuff and I forgot how good it is both as a podcast thing and as something both technically intricate but mostly autonomic to do with my hands.

Making: Last 3D printer parts finally arrived today, so I was able to get that to put up a test cube. I need to rejigger the nozzle/hotend a little to make everything fit up, and I might need to salvage some parts from the previous hotend that I was planning to mostly scrap, but it seems to be coming together.

Tools and Equipment: For about as long as I've had a smartphone I've relied heavily on this app called SwipePad, which gives me an always-on hotzone that I can swipe in from to pull up a panel of apps I can quickly launch into from anywhere without going back through my menus. Because of this I almost never actually go to my phone's homescreen, nor do I have to use an app switcher, I just ping pong directly between apps. It's also complete abandonware and has been for ages, you can't even download it anymore, and lately it's been giving me trouble.

I have found a suitable replacement in Zone Edge Launcher and Drawer which costs a couple dollars if you want the full thing but is very handy. I am so dependent on this, without it using my phone becomes unfathomably slow.

#last monday of the week #Bandcamp

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the-writing-moon · 2 months

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so i work in a well-known library, right, as a part-timer, and it's been great working with the books, they're real friendly and everything. but this is a very exclusive library, right, you have to send in an application and maybe get interviewed to get in because we're dealing with really old archival material here; i've had to dust crumbled paper off of desks and some of the spines of these hundreds-of-years-old books have been replaced with electric tape with their titles rewritten with wite-out from how much the spines have fallen out. i look up and see dead white men glaring down at me from murals and paintings and busts from the ceiling, probably aghast and wondering how a fucking little island girl is handing their precious books and poking at their dutch-painted glass windows with her grimy brown fingers. this is just set-dressing, so you really know where i'm coming from.

anyways, you know those memes that go around writing communities? doesn't matter if you write fics or manuscripts, we've all seen them, liked them, reblogged them.

"writing a slash fic instead of writing i've been googling what jewelry young german women wore in the 1700s"

"i'm pretty sure i'm on the fbi and interpol hitlists because of my search history"

"story prompt: overly helpful serial killer sweetheart x clueless crime fiction writer"

"when you don't know long division but you can talk about the taxation laws in victorian england because you needed to find out how taxes work to make your story believable"

they're memes that make you chuckle, guffaw, and nod because they're relatable! everyone hates the idea of being corrected by a random poindexter who can call you out on your bullshit on victorian tax laws, you uncultured fool, or who happens to know how blood sprays look if you shoot a person a certain way, you gormless coward, not because they were shooting the gun but they were part of the forensics team, pinky promise, i wasn't there on the 15th of november. and it's a bit absurd. like, who exactly knows - or cares - about victorian tax laws? does it really matter to write about reality in all its facets into fiction? majority of your readers probably aren't vampires or other extant immortals so does it really matter if you don't hold history up as accurately as possible in your 30k friends-to-enemies-to-lovers dark academia yuri slashfic? does historical accuracy matter when you're writing about samurais in the heian period in modern english with modern sensibilities? who would even know what stuff was really like back then? some things aren't googlable, and you can't always trust google anyways.

i don't know the answer to all these questions. but i know the answer to one.

so, back to the library.

one day, i'm shelving history books one after the other, listening to an audiobook from a public library using a library card of which i faked my address for me to use. reparations. and way more ethical than piracy in my eyes. support authors, patronize libraries, and all that. when i shelve books, i like to wonder about who reads them and why. what research they're doing. what they're doing here. whether they know how lucky they are. i envy this library where i work. i envy the people who live in this town. i envy the readers. they have all of this because someone recognized the value of hoarding, the value of taking and tabulating and preserving. one could argue it's the colonial way. but enough of that, i'm shelving books, books that i sometimes wonder at, because i never could have imagined so many books on so many topics, and sometimes they are topics that are so trivial and-

and i'm holding, in my hands, a book about the jewelry young german women wore in the 1700s.

being in a university town, you come to understand that academics have their pet projects; the drive to understand the minutiae of their field, of humanity, of nature. think of a topic and there's probably a dissertation for that. you also understand there is a lot of publishing politics, that researchers' papers are paywalled behind exorbitant fees for which they receive no royalties from. you also understand that academia can also be elitist, even when the people inside it call for open access.

to other people, i'm sure i sound incoherent and raving. but i'm sure that there are people out there who understood why i took several moments staring at this book, recalling all those fucking memes about historical accuracy, of people joking that they're looking for things even the internet has no answer for. because the answers do exist. someone's written about them. someone took the time to look at and tabulate and write about german jewelry. someone else, tax laws. some other person, blood sprays, either through study or applied experimentation. the knowledge is out there. they just aren't available to you.

#writeblr #writing community #writers of tumblr #essay #personal essay #thought this was going to be a funny haha post #but you kno what #sure #i love writing essays on tumblr actually because i get to be as batshit and descriptive as i want here #anD EVEN IF THERE WAS AN ONLINE COPY OF THE BOOK #COULD YOU ACCESS IT FOR FREE? SAFELY? ON DEMAND?#booklr #open access

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the-sprog · 1 year

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Here's my holiday truce gift for @constellaj !!! I hope you like it :)

I worried a lot about the length XD it came out a lot longer than I expected!

Dash runs, ducking behind a big enough piece of rubble that got detached from the City Hall when the ghost threw Phantom at it.

He's breathing heavily, catching his breath and catching at his weapon. He takes a look over his hiding place. Red Huntress is physically holding the ghost to the ground –how she can do it and why the ghost isn't phasing through her or the ground itself he doesn't know– while Phantom is nowhere to be found.

The Fenton's aren't on the scene, and neither are the Guys In White luckily –for anyone but him. He's been looking for a functional specific piece of gun for a while now.

"What are you doing?" He hears someone say behind him. Dash turns around. He feels his cheeks heat up as he finds himself face to face with who he would probably consider his favorite person in the whole world.

Phantom stands there, floating a few inches off the ground, with his arms crossed and stern expression printed on his face. Dash had never noticed before now how short the boy-ghost truly is, since the only reason why their eyes are the same level is because of the floating.

"Phantom-!" His enthusiasm is cut short as the ghost in front of him doesn’t let him get another word in.

"Where did you get that weapon?" Phantom asks. His voice carries anger in it, Dash realizes. His brows are furrowed and his jaw seems slightly clenched. "Did you steal equipment from the Fentons?"

"What? No!"

"Where did you get that stuff, then?"

Dash pulls on the safety on the ecto-gun he held carefully in his hand. He usually wouldn't bother, seeing as ecto-based weapons were usually regarded as safe for humans —he tested that theory on himself before bringing the gun to school with him—, but he didn't want to risk hurting Phantom.

He nervously adjusts the baseball cap hiding his hair as well as the tight domino mask glued to his eyes —thank Paulina and her emergency make up pouch— before he decides to respond, "The -ehm- the GWI tend to leave stuff behind, especially of it gets busted by a ghost," he clears his throat before continuing, "so I've been picking them up and –well, turns out this shit is not as complicated as it seems."

For a small moment, Dash could swear Phantom seems impressed by his admission, but as quickly as it came, the look is gone from Phantom's face. "You've been doing that?"

Dash nods. "Yeah. My pop's always making me help him work on his cars so…" he trails off. "I know my way around soldering irons and cables and stuff."

Phantom hummed, but his expression didn’t change. "And you think that's good enough that you can put your life on the line like it's nothing? Like you know what you're doing?"

Dash crosses his arms and squirms under Phantom's scrutinizing gaze.

"As tempting as it is, you shouldn’t steal from the GIW." His eyes trail towards Dash’s ecto-gun. "And you definitely shouldn’t be fighting ghosts with a modified ecto-gun."

"I'm not the only one!"

Phantom sighs and his hands drop to his side. "Red has armor. Heck, even the Fentons have some kind of protection on them!" He takes a breath, calming himself after the involuntary outburst. His face changes, and for a moment Dash truly sees how tired, perhaps even a bit dejected, the other kid is. "I'm already dead, Dash." Their eyes don't meet. Any awe and wonder Dash may have felt when he was first approached were gone.

Dash's eyes widen upon hearing his name. "How did you...?" He doesn't even finish his question that Phantom scoffs.

"If you want to hide behind a cap and a mask, maybe don't wear your letterman jacket," Phantom tells him with a smirk and an eye roll.

Dash looks at his sleeves and curses under his breath. "I'll remember next time," he says.

That sentence seems to bring Phantom back to the core of the issue. "There won't be a 'next time'."

"What? But I can help!"

"You’re going to end up hurting someone, Dash." Panthom’s patience is starting to wear thin, Dash can tell. He’s fidgeting with his gloves and looking around, like he would rather be anywhere else than here talking to Dash.

"I just want to be a hero," Dash pauses and watches Phantom’s eyes widen. "Like you," Dash finishes, blushing slightly.

Phantom scoffs. "You? A hero?"

The color drains from Dash’s face. Unsure how to respond he lets out a weak, "What?"

"I hang around Casper every once in a while. You’re a bully, Dash, and nothing more than a bully." Phantom’s face hardens. "You torment kids weaker than you and for what? Feeling superior to them?" Dash stays quiet. He doesn’t know how to respond- doesn’t know if he even should respond. "I won’t say you’re just as bad as the ghost I fight. But, Dash, you sure as hell aren’t a good person, let alone a hero."

Dash swallows around a lump that has taken residence in his throat. Was this truly how his hero saw him? How can he defend himself? How can he explain that it isn’t as bad as Phantom’s making it sound?

…is it as bad as Phantom’s making it sound?

"I’ll be taking that ecto-gun now." Phantom stretches his hand towards him in silent demand, but Dash doesn’t move. If he gives the gun the conversation will be over and who knows when he’ll have a chance of redeeming himself!

Phantom sighs. "I’m asking as a courtesy. I could just phase it out of you, dude. Have your existential crisis later, please."

Dash lets go of a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding and silently reaches for his gun. He briefly entertains the thought of pointing it towards Phantom and making a run for it, but he pushes it away. That would make him just like one of the actual villains Phantom has to deal with, be it ghosts or overeager ghost hunters.

Phantom's words haunt him when he goes to school the following day. Dash can't stop thinking about what the ghost told him.

"So..." He gets pulled out of his musing by Kwan resting his elbow on his shoulder. "How did it go out there? I bet Phantom was hella impressed by your bravery and general hotness."

Dash doesn’t respond. He sighs, a dejected expression having long since taken residence on his face.

Kwan’s smile falls. "Hey, man. What’s up?"

Dash closes his locker and leans against it, looking directly at his friend’s face. "Phantom caught me with an ecto-gun and he was not happy about me going into danger with no protection. He took it from me."

"But that’s not what’s bothering you, is it?"

"He told me I can’t be a hero." Dash pauses. "Because I’m not even a good person in the first place."

Kwan’s eyes widen in surprise. "What? Why?"

Dash rubs his neck. He doesn’t know when the habit started, but he knows it’s something Phantom had also been caught doing numerous times. "He said he sees how I act in school and doesn’t like how I treat other students."

Kwan groans. "Who knew Phantom was a killjoy?"

"I don’t know, man." Dash tries not to look towards Daniel Fenton, but his eyes wonder as he thinks about Phantom’s words once again. "Maybe he has a point?" If Phantom had talked about one of his… victims –he thinks is probably the most appropriate name for his classmates– in particular, Fenton would have a medal for ‘Most Tormented Kid In Casper High’ so who knows what the ghost would’ve told him. "I did some thinking and –well what fun would he be ruining? The one we have at the expenses of other people?" He crosses his arms. "It wouldn’t make us much different from Youngblood."

Kwan rolls his eyes at Dash’s claims. "C’mon, man. You know it’s not the same! We don’t have superpowers."

"Yeah. But we sure as hell have more muscles than all the geek squad combined."

"Y-yeah, but… well-"

"It's harder to excuse when I put it like that, isn't it?" Kwan doesn't respond and this time Dash doesn't even try to stop himself from darting a look towards Danny. "Maybe it's time we grew up."

And thus begins Dash's However-many-steps-it-takes plan to… become a better person, he supposes.

He thinks about it for a long time, and ultimately decides to not include apologizing to the kids whose lives he made like hell to the list. If he were them, he wouldn't believe himself based on words alone. He'd assume it was all part of a prank or some sort of scheme. A change in attitude and behavior would actually show he wants to do better, and it would be more convincing than simply words.

So, he decides to start by working on his temper. Dash is aware of the fact he's quick to anger in a way that none of the other football players on his team are.

He considers asking Danny's sister for advice.

She's a psychology major in some big name college, right? Yeah, he thinks he remembers something like that. He should still have her number from when she used to tutor him, from before she moved to college.

Dash thinks about it during the rest of the day, writing in his phone’s note ideas on how to redeem himself in Phantom’s eyes. It makes him wonder if wanting to be better to win someone’s affection defeats the purpose of being a better person…

He adds that to the list.

A high-pitched shriek startles him out of thinking about it, almost making him drop his phone.

"You talked to my ghost boy?" Dash turns around and, sure enough, Paulina is uncomfortably close to him. "Did he talk about me? Why didn’t you say anything?! I’m sure he talked about how much he loves me, didn’t he?" she said.

"Uhm," Dash stutters and takes a few steps back. "Not really, no."

Someone next to them chuckles.

"What do you want, Manson?" Paulina crosses her arms and glares at the goth chick, one of Danny’s friends. He never really did pay attention to her, so her name escapes him. He knows her and Paulina used to be forced to hang out when they were kids, and that she used to be a possible A-Lister recruit.

"To know how someone can be so delusional." the girl- Manson, Paulina said– is evidently having a great time antagonizing his friend –ex-girlfriend?... Ex-beard?– with a smirk on her face and leaning on her locker. "There’s no way you still think you have a chance with him," she pauses, watching Paulina fume. "He probably doesn’t even know you exist."

"Sam-" her friends look as uncomfortable as Dash feels witnessing the exchange. Danny has a hand on her shoulder, trying to pull her away to go to their next class. At this pace it’s likely they’ll all be late.

Lancer won’t care, but still.

Tucker is looking towards Dash, never making eye contact for more than a millisecond, clearly waiting for his reaction.

"You’re one to talk, Marilyn Morose," suddenly, Paulina starts responding to the taunt, "making goo-goo eyes at Star whenever she’s close." She’s smiling, apparently satisfied with herself. Sam is bright red in her cheeks. Dash has eyes, so he knows it’s not Star that Sam is looking at, but he doesn’t say.

"Hey," he decides to intervene, deeming this a situation that fits with his goal. "Not cool, Polly."

"But she started it!" Came the response.

"Yes. And you’re not a child. Be the bigger person or whatever." He doesn’t wait to see anyone’s reaction. He just takes Paulina’s arm and pulls her towards their class, but she pulls away from his grip and starts yelling at him.

"What’s your deal?"

Dash sighs. "Just… Some things Phantom said. Put stuff into perspective, is all,"

Paulina plays with a strand of her hair. "He told you to do that?" She asks, contemplative.

"In a way."

She looks him up and down, face scrunched up, before it clears up and she hums, "Alright then. I forgive you."

And that was it? Damn that was easy.

As Dash turns around, he catched a glimpse of Danny’s eyes examining his face and looking at him up and down, but he tries to ignore the anger that comes from the other boy staring at him and judging him. He takes a big breath and clenches his fists and grits his teeth, and he follows after Paulina heading towards Lancer’s English class.

The morning’s encounter sets the example for the rest of the month.

Someone attacks –verbally or physically– another student;

Dash stands up for them;

Dash loses a few friends;

Paulina and Kwan back him up by saying Phantom agrees with Dash;

And then the cycle repeats.

Dash also continues going out with modified ecto-weapons –he understands the danger. He knows what he’s doing when he’s fixing them! Kinda– and a new costume. Over the month he learned more and more about what he needs. He’s pretty sure his dad has some suspicion about his ghost hunting activities, but as long as his dad doesn’t try to stop him that’s good enough for him.

Now the suit is more reminiscent of Red Huntress’, although it’s clearly more homemade. But it has more protection –his hands are wrapped with boxing ropes, he has knee guards, toe-steel boots, and he’s in the process of making an ecto-proof kevlar undershirt, but the materials for that are hard to come by and his sewing skills need some work.

"So you did get better at the secret identity thing."

Dash turns to the beginning of the ally he’s been sitting in to catch his breath. He’d been trying to catch the Box Ghost all evening, but he’s yet to come across a containment device and getting the ghost in a net is surprisingly hard.

Phantom stands –well, floats actually– next to him.

Dash feels his cheeks heat up. He hadn’t been planning on going face to face with Phantom any time soon, going as far as trying to patrol on hours when Phantom doesn’t. He’s unnecessarily nervous, but nervous nonetheless.

"How did you know this time?" Dash thought he did so well. He switched his jacket for a non-descriptive black hoodie with the hood glued to the baseball cap, his eyes are behind a domino mask, and his nose and mouth are covered by a homemade additional mask that Paulina helped him design. It is pastel pink, but so is his cap, so it matches.

Phantom scoffs. "You’re the only dumbass who goes around with old GIW weapons."

Dash looks at his arsenal, then back to Phantom, and a laugh escapes him. "Yeah, I guess you’re right." He pulls at his mask revealing the lower half of his face. "Are you here to take my stuff again?" He asks, as he holds out one of his ecto-weapons to him.

Phantom shakes his head. "No."

"Oh?"

"I’m here to make you an offer."

Dash waits, but Phantom doesn’t elaborate. "Go on?"

Phantom takes a breath. "I need you to promise I can trust you and you won’t say anything about this to anyone."

Dash eagerly nods. "Yes, of course." He gets up, getting on a more even level as the ghost.

Phantom takes a deep breath –a breath? How’s he breathing? Is it a reflex? A muscle memory of his life?– and holds out a hand.

"Want to be part of my team and help me fight ghosts officially?"

"Yes! Of course," Dash immediately responds, "you’re awesome, why would I not want to?" He takes the offered hand, and immediately feels the air kicked from his lungs.

"Sorry." Phantom doesn’t actually sound sorry. Dash thinks he seems sort of amused, actually, but based on previous conversations it’s a fair bit or revenge for how much of a jerk Dash has acted over the years. "Should’ve probably warned about holding your breath when turning intangible. I forget," he admits as he rubs the back of his neck.

Dash definitely got the habit from him, and the confirmation only makes him blush more.

"Reminds me to warn you about invisibility. Your eyes will mess up colors while you’re invisible."

Dash nods and readies himself for the change. It makes him feel slightly nauseous to see so many purples, blues, and greens in the familiar Amity Park scenery.

They don’t fly off, though Dash assumes Phantom is still floating, but they do pass through several buildings.

They don’t talk again –which makes the journey slightly awkward– until Phantom phases them through the ground and Dash makes a strangled cry. Phantom chuckles at that.

Once they’re in front of an underground door, Phantom lets go of both invisibility and intangibility, and then phases through the door on his own, leaving Dash to inspect the door, and then opening it from the inside.

"Ta-da!" Phantom says while doing jazz-hands.

Dash gets pulled inside the room by an additional set of hands that definitely didn’t belong to Phantom, phasing right through him, and finds himself pinned to the wall by a tiny figure.

"Sam," the ghost-boy admonishes, "Play nice."

"His reflexes are terrible," she comments, letting him go. "Are you sure about this?"

Phantom shrugs. "He’s the one that modified that ecto-gun I brought back a few weeks ago."

Sam turns quickly to stare down at him. "You said it was you- the Fentons who got to GIW garbage before us!"

"Yeah, well… I lied."

"You! Ugh!" She grunts and then storms off towards a staircase on the other side of the room. Dash is sure that if she had walked through a door, she would’ve slammed it closed. But the sound of her boots hitting the ground with each one of her steps does convey the same feeling as if she had done just that.

"Dude…" Tucker speaks up from wherever he appeared while Dash wasn’t paying attention. "Why?"

"This explains so much but also nothing at all." Dash’s exclamation gets ignored.

"Oh, heyyy… Dash is here." Well, sorta. There are still no explanations given, so Dash doesn’t think it counts. He slowly waves a hand at Tucker.

"We needed an engineer, Dash is a pretty decent one!" Phantom explains.

"I’m a pretty good engineer!"

"Tuck, you’re good with tech. You’re our tech guy. You don’t know how to fix the speeder and it’s been 3 months now since the last time we’ve been able to use it."

"That’s irrelevant." Tucker crosses his arms.

"No, it is not." Phantom lands on the ground and calls out to him "Dash Baxter," Phantom says, looking towards Dash, "Welcome to Team Phantom!" And he smiles, showing a bit of fangs that have no business making Dash’s cheeks color in red.

"Thank you, it’s an honor!"

"You should already be familiar with the other members of the Team." Phantom gestures to the staircase behind him, "You saw Sam earlier, that’s Tucker."

"Hi."

"Then there’s the Fenton kids." He counts on his fingers, "Red Huntress –leaving it up to her to reveal her identity to you or not–" Dash nods. "And then the ghosts: Frostbite, Specter, Pandora, Clockwork-"

"When it suits their fancy," Tucker interjects, not even looking up from whatever he’s doing on his PDA. Why does he even still have that? Can’t he get a smartphone, like a normal person?

"-right." Phantom nods, "We have some files you’ll need to look at about all the various ghosts and people, and their affiliation to us. Got it?"

"Absolutely, anything for you!" Good way to put your foot in your mouth, Dash. He blushes, as does Phantom, his pink cheeks getting even pinker and brighter coloured.

Tucker clears his throat. "Phantom’s going to teach you how to use the weapons you’re fixing, I’ll fill you in on a bunch of stuff, Sam will teach you to use the thermos, and if you need to talk to someone… go to Jazz."

"Tucker!"

"What? I’m not going to- psychoanalyze him! That’s Jazz’s job!"

"So…" Dash tries to prevent another argument. "The Fenton kids?"

"Where do you think we get all this stuff?"

"Yeah," Phantom says. "We really needed another way to get weapons. Danny is not great at sneaking around."

"Oh, this is great."

Dash turns to see the Red Huntress leaning against the wall next to the stairs, while Sam enters the room from behind her. She goes straight towards Phantoma and punches his arm.

"Red?" Phantom doesn’t phase her out, accepting the punch that Dash doesn’t believe could ever hurt the ghost. "What are you doing here? We were supposed to meet tomorrow," he says, as if nothing else was happening in the meantime.

"A little birdy told me about someone’s character development."

"Whose character development?"

"Yours, Dash."

"Oooh. Yeah, makes sense." Dash nods.

"Well, then," Sam interjects, "since you’re here earlier for no sensible reason, why don’t we go ahead and start Dash’s training right now?" She smirks, her hand resting on an ecto-gun left on the table in front of her.

It’s not the same that Phantom took from Dash in the past, it doesn’t look like a GIW weapon at all. It’s more gray than white, for starters, and there are green and blue accents in the design. There are soldering marks and paint splotches, the color in some of the details doesn’t even look very uniform.

"Heck yeah!" Dash pumps his fist in the air, excited to actually do something.

And also, possibly, maybe, to spend some time standing really close to Phantom, his body behind Dash, his hands over his and helping him hold the weapons correctly, his face so close he can feel his breath on his neck- Oh gosh, he’s definitely red in his cheeks again.

Tucker flips a switch and a section of the floor opens up, while something raises up from the opening.

Suddenly, there are training dummies in front of Dash. They’re scorched and cut and overall ruined. But still usable.

Except one that has a hole in its stomach. That one’s probably not that useful.

"We’ll start with the one of the guns you have with you," Phantom says and gestures with his hand towards his hip, "I like your outfit change, by the way," he adds, "Did you make it yourself?"

"You should see me without it?" Dash can’t help but try to show off, stretching one of his arms in front of him, making the fabric adhere more to his body and accentuating his muscles. He immediately cringes internally at his own attempt at flirting, but it’s too late for him to backtrack so he commits to it and smiles at Phantom’s direction.

Gosh he wants to steal Tucker’s PDA and look up ‘How to flirt like a normal person’. Maybe WikiHow has some advice he can look at. Anything would probably be better than whatever he’s trying to do at the moment.

"Uhm… I like the outfit. I’m a bit confused about the pastel pink, though," Phantom admits.

Dash shrugs and pulls out one of his weapons. "I like pink, and I think it looks good on me. Don’t you?"

"Sure…?"

"I know I love it on you, especially when it colors your cheeks." Dash tries to look smug, even as his own cheeks start gaining pigment.

There’s a beat of silence and then, "Are you flirting with me?" Phantom asks him, voice breaking in the second half of the question.

"Is it working?"

Phantom blushes again.

"See? You’re so cute when you blush," Dash can’t stop himself from saying, smiling smugly with the knowledge he was the one to fluster the hero.

"I- I have to- I’ll just-" Phantom points towards the staircase before flying towards it and disappearing at the top.

No one else in the room says anything for a while. Dash fidgets with the ecto-gun in his hands until the silence gets too unbearable for him and he clears his throat.

"Was I that bad?" He asks, a bit jokingly, just to break the tension that built up in the atmosphere.

"I’m sorry?" Tucker is the first one to respond to him. "I feel like my entire worldview just crumbled."

"What about Paulina?" Sam asks.

Dash shrugs. "She was my beard, I was her skirt. We broke up when we came out in…" he thinks about it for a second, "July after Freshman year, I believe?"

"That was so long ago, how did we not know?" Sam said, almost masking Tucker’s confused "What does that even mean? I’ll just google it."

"We don’t make a big deal out of it."

"Well, at least you and Danny can bond over something." Red walks in Dash’s direction and pulls out an ecto-gun of her own. "Well, since spooky bailed on you, I’ll help you work on your aim a bit."

"Sure." Dash grips his weapon in front of him and desperately attempts to ignore the fact that Sam and Tucker are going to wherever Phantom ran to.

They meet up three times each week, Dash's training sessions with Phantom don't get any less awkward, even though Dash does minimize the amount of flirting attempts. He doesn't stop altogether, he's not strong enough to resist the temptation completely –and Phantom’s just so cute when he blushes! Being able to fluster the town's resident superhero is one hell of a power trip.

"Your hands look heavy- want me to hold them?" Dash says one day.

"I guess you'll just have to kiss it better," he says the next.

And he continues like that until one day–

"I do like my men like I like my coffee. Very strong and able to keep me awake all night."

That… that was something Dash didn't prepare himself for, as is evident by the color that spreads up his ears and down his neck.

The smirk Phantom throws his way after saying it –while he hides his own red cheeks behind the ghost-themed mug he’s drinking from.

Dash does his best to ignore the confused looks Tucker and Sam send each other, too preoccupied by trying to regain his footing and not dropping his weapon.

From that day, Dash starts learning more and more about Phantom. It's like he passed an invisible barrier and now the ghost feels more comfortable letting him in.

He learns that Phantom loves video games, though he doesn't play often and mostly uses Danny's accounts and devices.

He learns that he loves food –hates toast, though. With a passion– and would give a limb for some good Nasty Burger fries drenched in sauce.

He learns he's a huge Astronomy nerd. Phantom Loves to stargaze.

He learns he used to dream of becoming an astronaut. Dash forces himself not to pay attention to the solitary tear that falls on Phantom's cheek and is quickly swept away.

He wishes he was the one to do it. But he's not sure any kind of comfort would be appreciated in such a situation.

Dash wants to kiss him.

It’s something he’s been thinking about increasingly often.

"They’re glaring at me again," Dash says bitterly, putting all his focus on fixing Tucker’s FentonPhone that got damaged during that day’s fight. He’s getting more frustrated as time goes on, between not being able to figure out which of the wires he’s crossing incorrectly and feeling Tucker and Sam’s eyes on the back of his head.

Red Huntress scoffs. "You’re not winning them over that easy."

"Dash shrugs. "Phantom seems to like me enough."

"That boy is both too trusting and too paranoid somehow. Don’t know how he does it."

"So…" he pauses what he’s doing to look her in the eyes –in the… visor mostly. "What do you suggest?"

"I’m not helping you pick up Phantom."

"What!"

"You don’t seem to need my help with that."

Dash blushes. "No, c’mon Red! I meant about the other two!"

She shrugs. "Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything you can do other than… Being nice. Just like you’ve been doing now."

Dash hums. "It doesn't seem to be working though."

"These things take time, Dash." Phantom’s voice comes from behind him. The ghost rests his arms on Dash’s head, even though Dash can tell he’s also floating. He would be too short otherwise.

Dash, despite himself, smiles when he hears Phantom’s echo-y voice.

"They’re just being difficult," says Red.

"Unlike someone else," was the barely audible retort from Tucker followed by hasty apologies.

"Hey." Phantom taps Dash’s shoulder, once again gaining his attention. "Want to patrol with me tonight?"

Dash’s eyes widen. "Really?"

He can feel Phantom nodding on his head. "Yeah. you’ve been doing well with learning about weapons. I can put you on thermos duty so you can practice without subjecting me to that thing."

"It’s going to be awesome!"

Phantom giggles at his enthusiasm, and Dash knows if he spares a look towards the previously mentioned two in the room he’ll see judgment in their eyes.

But he doesn’t let that spoil his mood. He starts packing his backpack, having quickly learned throughout his training that it was always a good idea to have one with him. It isn’t reinforced yet, they don’t have the materials to do it for all of them, but they’re working on it.

Phantom's waiting for him on the staircase. They're yet to let him come and go from what he refuses to call anything other than a hideout. He's always accompanied by the ghost boy and they never leave by foot. He doesn't know what the regular-person entrance of the place is.

As Dash expected, Phantom grabs his arm and shoots up towards the ceiling. During the course of his training Dash also learned to get used to the change of colors and the longing for air.

And patrol begins.

Dash has never patrolled before, getting into the midst of things only in defense, as a response to an attack. He's surprised to discover just how many ghosts get out and about, not even causing trouble, during the wee hours of the night.

But of course 'playfully-mischievous-at-worse' is not the only type of ghost lurking in the shadows.

Phantom appears to know pretty much everyone they come across, be it friend or foe.

There's the biker –who Dash thinks looks weirdly families, and not based on the files he was handed when he joined– and his girlfriend who not even Phantom seems to be sure where they stand.

"Relax, peepsqueak," Johnny says. Dash did study those files, he feels is important to point out. "Zone's a bit stuffy today. Not a lot of privacy."

"We're not causing trouble, so why don't you introduce us to your new recruit?" Kitty –the girlfriend– smiles towards Dash. "He's cute."

"Hey, watch it," both Phantom and Johnny say to her.

She shrugs. "I'm just saying."

Dash steps forward, tired of being passive in a conversation that concerns him. "I'm flattered, but I have eyes on someone else," he says, looking in Phantom's direction. As soon as they make eye contact Dash winks causing Phantom to giggle.

The ghost boy coughs and schools his expression again.

Kitty's eyes widen. "No way." She smiles. "Ember is never letting you live this down, kid."

"I told you two to stop gossiping about my life!"

"There's not much more to do in the Zone," Johnny adds.

Dash lets them bicker for a bit, ready to intervene if it devolved into a fight. Phantom doesn't have the chance to let go like this that often, and seeing the smile tugging at his lips that the ghost boy is not really that desperately trying to suppress… well, it creates butterflies in Dash's stomach.

They move on with a parting warning from the biker.

"Careful. We're not the only ones aware of blondie here."

They're on edge.

The Box Ghost makes himself known and Dash panics. He doesn't even let him finish his usual monologue that he has the thermos pointing in his direction and sucking him in.

"He's not so useless after all."

Both Dash and Phantom turn towards the new voice entering the alley.

"What are you doing here?" Phantom's eyes dart from Dash to Plasmius, never leaving one unchecked for more than a few seconds.

Plasmius smiles. "I just thought I'd come to greet the new kid, Daniel," he says. Phantom flinches at hearing his name. "We should get to know each other. After all, we're bound to meet again." Plasmius pulls out a gun, one that Dash has never seen before, with more purples and pinks in its design.

Why would a ghost need a gun?

Phantom starts charging his ecto-blasts.

Dash grips the thermos.

"Does he know? Or is he the only one in the dark?" Plasmius taunts. "Afraid he won't like you anymore?"

Plasmius shoots towards Dash with no hesitation.

Dash lifts his arms to shield his face from the upcoming blast.

Phantom cries out in pain.

Plasmius clicks his tongue. "So predictable." He starts floating towards Phantom, his eyes focused on the boy.

"It doesn't do you well to keep secrets, my boy."

Phantom grunts and a flicker of light starts emitting from his body at random intervals.

Dash doesn't let him get too close. He lifts the thermos and is fast enough to surprise the ghost, sucking him into the containment device.

Dash crouches next to Phantom. "Oh my God-"

"I can't-" Phantom groans again. There are tears streaming from his eyes. Dash is starting to panic, so before he succumbs to it, he forces himself to pull out a medikit from his bag.

"What- what do I-" he starts to say, but gets interrupted.

"This isn't- FUCK- this isn't how I wanted to tell you," Phantom says.

The light keeps pulsing until it forms a ring around his midsection.

The ring splits, traveling opposite sides –up and down Phantom's body.

Until Phantom is not who's laying in front of Dash anymore.

"What the fuck," he manages to say, once out of his stupor.

"I-" Danny gulps. "I'm sorry."

Dash sighs. "C'mon." He grabs his arms and starts pulling up. "Let's get you against the wall."

Danny hums in agreement.

Once situated, Dash plops down next to him.

"So," he says.

"So." Danny mirrors.

"Are you… hurt?"

Danny shakes his head. "No, mostly tired. A bit disoriented."

"Cool, cool."

They sit in silence for a bit.

"Are you going to ask?" Until Danny breaks it.

"Huh?"

"How it's possible. How- how I… died." Danny fidgets with his fingers, looking anywhere but towards Dash.

"Oh. Uhm… I don't really care."

"Oh."

"I mean- if you wanna talk about-"

"No, no. It's just… refreshing. People are usually curious."

"I'm- honestly I'm mostly confused."

Danny nods. "Yeah I don't… I don't fully understand it either."

"I really like Phantom," Dash admits. He's surprised by how quiet his voice is.

"Yeah- I-" Danny keeps avoiding making eye contact with him. "You must to be so disappointed to discover this-" he gestures to himself. "-is really who you were flirting with."

"I don't know."

"What?"

"Well, I realized- after these weeks. I don't… really know you. Any of you."

"Huh."

"And I really like Phantom."

"You said that, yeah. So?"

"So…" Dash trails off. "I'd like to get to know Fenton, too." Dash smiles and turns towards Danny. "But I doubt they're much different."

Danny doesn't seem reassured. "But what if you don't like Fenton?"

"Do you like me?"

Danny snorts, color spreading to his cheeks and ears. It's a little weird, Dash thinks, to see the familiar sight but feel like it's for the first time all over again. "I've been told I have a think for nice people that can deadlift me, and… well, you did become cool to hang out with lately."

Dash draps one arm across Danny's shoulders, bringing him closer to him, so much so that Danny's laying on Dash's side. "Then you're worrying too much. We'll cross that bridge if we get to it."

Danny snorts and Dash doesn't even have to look down to know the red has spread further on his face –not that Dash's own hasn't started to resemble a tomato. But his mask is doing a good job protecting his dignity, as well as his identity.

"I do have a question though."

"Mmh?"

"Can I kiss you?" Dash asks before he loses his cool.

"What?"

"I mean- you don't have to. I've just… been thinking about it a lot," Dash says, lamely, "so I'd really like to kiss-"

Danny pulls down his mask and kisses him.

His lips are soft. For some reason, Dash wasn't expecting that.

The kiss is chaste, quick, but it shuts him up for a good minute, making Danny laugh and making him blush even more.

"You were taking too long."

Dash gives him a friendly shove when Danny starts laughing again and gets another kiss for his efforts.

'Yeah,' he thinks, 'I don't think I'll find it hard to like Fenton, too.'

#danny phantom #teddy ghost #swagger bishie #danny/dash #holiday truce 2022 #holiday truce exchange #danny phantom fic