This time, Wrench can't quite keep his own pained groan under wraps. It urges past his lips before he can think to stop it, and the tall man briefly pitches his head back like he's imploring one of the Gods to end his torture. But rather than seeming frustrated, it's that telltale heat creeping up his neck and into his cheeks that makes Wrench appear utterly embarrassed instead.

I actually don't own a mirror. Wrench wishes for a cleverer answer right about now. Look, I'm not good at this. Believe it or not, I didn't have the whole telepathy thing back in 2016 so I mostly did this without words.