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delusionsofgrandeur13 · 1 year ago

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girl, i wanna see you undo it

i wanna see you but you’re not mine.

how the other batboys react to a breakup

18+, mdni !!!!!!

readers can expect: a fem reader, lotttta angst, cursing, mentions of violence, sexually explicit scenes including mentions of penetration, oral, and masturbation. also tim drake being a creep via e-stalking but reader is aware of it and more or less okay with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your ex boyfriend, bruce wayne, was avoiding alfred.

his butler was insisting on signing him up for therapy, and bruce was dodging him, hard. he didn’t have it in him. he wouldn’t go pay a professional to hear how pathetic he was over the lack of you in his life. couldn’t. he’s found a much more effective way to get out his emotions.

one that involves his fists and a goon’s face.

it was probably cruel, these poor goons were just trying to feed their families, or something, but batman was indifferent.

he was now always nearing dangerously close to breaking his no-kill rule. almost always teetering over that edge. even with his own life. he’d head out in the batsuit, prowling the seediest streets of gotham, hoping, practically praying, for someone to do something illegal. he would put himself in the most deadly situations just to feel alive. wasn’t the healthiest solution, but.

did he care? no.

bruce was numb, unfeeling to those around him. he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, not at the stupid fuck who’d lost the love of his life. he’d lagged behind in his case solving, gordon was growing increasingly more concerned. he was rude to the paparazzi asking after you, almost able to hear your voice in his ear, telling him to be nicer to them, whacking him on the bicep. he’d throw his usual charity galas, sure, but would send dick or jason in his place to showboat. he didn’t have the patience to talk to reporters. didn’t want to show face if you weren’t there on his arm. you always made the social aspect much more bearable. would always help him relieve the stress of it all after the event had ended.

but did he still care about you? yes.

just like when you were dating, bruce taking care of you was second nature.

he wouldn’t dare cancel the flower deliveries he’d set up when the two of you were together. they appeared at your apartment door every week and a half, always something different, but always in your favorite colors. you couldn’t stay mad at them either, the flowers brightened up your kitchen so nicely. when you and bruce were dating, he’d merged your calendars, just so scheduling was easier. you’d since deleted the connection, but he somehow still knows when you have appointments, as you’ll come out of your building’s lobby to a sleek black wayne enterprises car. the chauffeur opening the car door for you silently. you’d take it over the subway every time, even if it was a little awkward.

the dating app you’d downloaded after the breakup kept glitching, never letting you text any of your matches back. if you cared more, you’d contact support, but it was so odd. everything else on your phone works perfectly fine! but you had a gut feeling it had something to do with your ex boyfriend.

bruce might’ve slipped oracle a few bills for her silence over that favor.

he tried not to think about the fact you were already willing to start dating again. he couldn’t fathom being with anyone else. could not possibly wrap his head around it. why would he want anyone when he could have you? when he had already had you? everyone else seemed..lackluster.

it’s the same reason he’d been celibate since the breakup. after you, he was tainted. he didn’t think he’d ever be able to have sex again without thinking of you. especially in his own house. the two of you had fucked on every surface possible, seriously. tried every position.

it’d been difficult just sleeping in his own bed when he used to share it with you. used to make your legs shake as you gripped at the sheets. would never make you beg for anything, eating you out until you couldn’t take it anymore. that’s when bruce would press you up against him, holding you up with his huge arms as he pounded into you, his balls slapping against your clit as you whined, barely able to form words.

he’d never been with anyone the way he had with you. so obviously he wasn’t even able to finish with his own hand. it was nothing, nothing compared to the way you felt. his imagination would never have him moaning the way you could. could never make him melt the way you oh so easily were able to, with just a look.

so he was numb. and bruce just figured that’s how he’d stay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your ex boyfriend, jason todd, throws his book across the room, flinching when it thuds against the wall opposite.

annoyed at the surprise romantic subplot, he huffs out a breath from behind his hands. he has to get over his sudden aversion to romance, but it feels impossible after losing you. he can’t watch any of his favorite movies, can only read a select few of his favorite books.

he barely even goes out anymore, mostly to avoid seeing couples on dates. the two of you loved going out together, loved going out to community events like concerts in the park, fairs in the summer. he missed accompanying you to your nephew’s t-ball games, watching you cheer and beam up at him in one of his old baseball hats.

so he barely goes out. he doesn’t have you with him!

he saw an elderly couple strolling in the park the other day. jason had promptly turned in the opposite direction, to avoid crumpling into a ball and sobbing or throwing up into the nearest trash can.

he’d gotten back onto his bike and rode home, going way over the speed limit. he didn’t care about being safe on it anymore, not when you weren’t there to ask him to or be his backpack. he missed the way you’d hold on to him, your thighs bracketing his torso as the bike roared. how at stoplights you’d rub your palms over his chest, grabbing his pecs with your gloved hands. your resulting giggle was muffled through your motorcycle helmet, but it was still the sweetest sound in the world to him.

but jason stopped bothering trying to function out in public after that, only ever really leaving his place for missions and to train at wayne manor.

and boy, had he been training. ever since the two of you had broken up, he’d been working out to the point of exhaustion.

barely peeling himself off of the floor after each workout, always heading straight to the shower to rinse the sweat off while he zoned out into the steam. after his workouts was the only time he would relieve himself. he’d hunch over with one hand propping him up opposite the tiled wall, the other fisted around his cock as he thought of your pretty smile, your gorgeous eyes, the meat of your thighs, the curve of your ass. how you’d clench around his cock with yet another orgasm, moaning his name into the mattress.

he’d finish, hard, his body shuddering, leaving him to be ashamed with himself.

he wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to think of you like you were still his. all this and yet the pain in his muscles still didn’t ease the pain in his heart, the pain seeping into his bones whenever he thought about you.

jason was still hesitant to be around his siblings.

you had left your perfume in his bathroom, and while he knows it sounds crazy, he's been spraying it on his clothes. he misses the way they would smell like you after you’d borrow them. he still hadn’t touched one of his flannels, the one you loved to steal and loved to see him in. he didn’t see the point in wearing it if you weren’t there to see it.

the last time he’d seen damian, his little brother had loudly asked him why he “smelled girly.”

jason had turned bright red and mumbled something probably unintelligible before briskly walking away, bumping into the doorframe on his way out.

he’s been spraying your perfume on the pillow you’d always use too, snuggling it close to his chest like he used to with you while he fell asleep.

it’s definitely not the same, but it’s the closest jason has to the real thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tim drake, your ex boyfriend, swiveled in his desk chair, spinning back and forth. the monitors covering the wall above his desk were alive with various video feeds and social media websites.

@user892548276 was viewing your instagram story, a gorgeous selfie of you that tim had already screenshotted. he had plans for that later. @gothamite69 was liking your latest tweet, while @ilovedoggiess couldn’t get enough of your latest tiktok.

he knew he had to switch up the users so you’d think it was bots. you’d figure it out otherwise. too bad he had a thing for smart people.

he nodded, satisfied at the cctv feed of the street your apartment building was on, before throwing a hoodie on over his bare chest. tim strolled into the kitchen, his sweats slung low on his hips. he ran a hand through his hair, using the other to grab the coffee pot to refill his mug.

“hey, tim. whatcha up to?” jason leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

tim jumped, turning around.

“just some surveillance, nothing much.” he replied, hoping he sounded nonchalant.

“ohh, that case for bats?”

“mmhm.” tim cracked his knuckles, something of a nervous habit he’d developed after the breakup. and his serious lack of sleep.

“well, i won’t keep you. tell y/n i said hi!”

tim flinched at the mention of you as jason left in the direction of the garage. it’s not his brother’s fault. jay had been really busy with the outlaws lately, never home long enough to realize tim hadn’t brought you over in weeks. tim scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. maybe it was the exhaustion muddling things, but tim can’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. it was already difficult falling asleep. it only made it worse that every time he did fall asleep he dreamed about you.

but dick had noticed. he had slowly transitioned tim’s assignments to mainly desk work. his older brother was probably worried about him being too tired on the field and getting hurt. but he hadn’t told bruce. tim preferred it that way. he didn’t need a big fuss about if he was okay or his performance level as a hero.

tim grabbed his mug, making his way back to his bedroom. he caught a glimpse of a dark figure in the window, spooking himself. he was on edge so much worse than usual. his reflection stared back at him, his face skinny and his eyebags dark against the pale skin of his cheeks.

tim shook his head, heading into his bedroom. he swayed a little, locking the door behind him. he set his mug on his desk, sitting down in his chair just in time to see you heading down the street.

he stood up so fast his chair rocketed back, hitting the wall. you usually don’t go out on thursday nights. is everything okay??

he types frantically, finding different angles to effectively follow you down the street, physically recoiling to see you stop at a restaurant. just another date.

you stopped, looking around, waving when you spot a blond guy walking towards you. tim enhances the best he can, zooming in on this asshole who thinks he’s good enough for you. tim scoffs out loud at the wrinkled shirt your date has on, looking ridiculous in comparison to your beauty.

the sundress you’re in is one of his favorites, red and white and flowery. he gulps down a sip of coffee at his screen when you turn around, the fabric hugging your body. he blinks, snapping out of it as your date ushers you into the restaurant. tim cracks his knuckles. he reaches for his phone, pulling up your contact. he itches to call you, to pull you out of the date you’re on, to make you think about him instead of that tool you’re with.

but he can’t. he shouldn’t.

he pulls up the screenshot of your story instead, staring at the selfie of you in his favorite sundress. his cock twitches against the fabric of his sweats. he can’t even count how many times he’s had you rutting against him with that dress hiked up to your waist.

he tosses his phone onto his bed, sitting back in his desk chair as he palms his cock, his brain full of thoughts of you.

you pressed up against him in a slinky dress as you slow dance at a wayne gala. waking up in your bed how the two of you fell asleep, naked, limbs intertwined. dancing in a gotham nightclub together, your hair in your face as you throw your arms up and swivel your hips in his direction in your shortest dress. the texts and pictures you’d been sending back and forth after the breakup, unable to let each other go.

tim throws his head back as he finishes, your name on his lips. his body rigid, the warm liquid all over his hands. he cleans himself off, staring into nothing until his computer dings at the motion detected on your street. you’re strutting down the sidewalk, the street empty. before you head inside your building, you stare into the cctv camera across the street. you wave, smiling coyly. tim sits up straighter, holding his breath. you hold up your thumb, and tim groans. that guy??

but you flip your thumb down at the camera, shaking your head. bad date.

tim whoops, beaming.

he shuts down his computer before flopping onto his bed, burrowing under the covers. five minutes later, he’s fast asleep as his coffee grows cold where it sits on his desk.

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sepdet · 6 months ago

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Killing Time excerpts #2:

Kirk & Spock compare dreams over breakfast (p 7-10)

(from that totally canon Star Trek novel that Pocket Books rapidly recalled from stores to de-gay certain Kirk/Spock scenes, but my Mom beat the censors to a first edition!)

Kirk poked at the eggs on his plate with the tip of his fork, but it was blatantly obvious to Spock that the captain had little interest in the food.

"I don't know who I was, but ... I wasn't who I was supposed to be." He laid the fork aside and took a healthy gulp of the reconstituted orange juice. "And that's not exactly right either," he continued, not quite looking at the Vulcan. "It was as if I was still James Kirk—the same James Kirk I've always been—but I wasn't in the right . . . place." He shook his head in frustration. "I can't explain it, Spock."

Spock eyed his friend carefully. "Dreams of alienation are not unusual," he pointed out. "In situations such as exist onboard starships, they are, in fact, extremely common." Taking a sip of the hot herb tea, he pushed his own plate of untouched tood aside. He couldn't help remembering that he, too, had been experiencing dreams of alienation and displacement for nearly a full solar week; but something restrained him from mentioning it. "In your dream, Captain," he continued cautiously, "was it as if you were . . . not how you would normally envision yourself to be?"

Kirk frowned thoughtfully, then glanced up as his open palm slapped the table."That's exactly it!" he exclaimed, then lowered his voice as he noticed a young yeoman at the next table cast a quick look in his direction. He leaned closer to the Vulcan, feeling vaguely ridiculous for the outburst, but somehow closer to the solution. "I was on the Enterprise— but it wasn't even the Enterprise—at least not like I know her," he added as an afterthought. "And . . . I kept seeing you." At last, he looked up. "But you were different, too, Spock," he stated emphatically. "I'm not sure, but . . . I think you were the captain."

He shuddered internally, as the haunting quality of the dreams sharpened. He thought he saw a faint smile come to the young yeoman's face as she stood and quickly left the dining area, but he no longer cared. At least it might alleviate her boredom. "And I didn't know who I was." He shrugged uncomfortably. "I must've been an ensign or something, because I remember trying to think of some way to approach you—to tell you that things weren't the way they're supposed to be."

He grinned without looking up, and took another swallow of the orange juice, tasting it for the first time. It only strengthened his resolve to put in a formal request to Admiral Nogura for fresh orange juice at the next opportunity. "And I also remember thinking that you would never believe me. After all," he added as the smile broadened, "you were the ship's captain— and a Vulcan! What chance would a lowly human ensign have of trying to inform the Vulcan commander that he (meaning me!) was supposed to be the cap-tain?" He laughed aloud, feeling some of the tension ebb away just in the act of telling Spock about the absurdity of it all.

The Vulcan leaned forward, and their eyes met across the table. "Jim," he murmured in a tone suddenly deep and foreboding, "I also dreamed."

Kirk swallowed the lump of nervousness which rose in his throat, but he could only stare mutely at his first officer. Guiltily, he looked around to see if the yeoman was still eavesdropping. Bad enough that the captain's having anything but delusions of grandeur, he thought. But if Spock buckles . . . He let the thought drift into silence.

The Vulcan steepled his fingers in front of him. "At first, I believed the dreams were attributable to the somewhat uneventful mission currently assigned to the Enterprise. However, I am no longer convinced that such is the case."

Kirk looked at his friend for a long time, their eyes holding them together. "What did you dream, Spock?" he asked, forcing his tone to remain neutral.

But he didn't need to hear the answer; it was clearly inscribed in the dark eyes, carved in the angular features, written in the almost tangible conviction with which the Vulcan spoke.

One eyebrow arched, and it seemed for a moment as if the first officer might surrender to the human urge of shrugging. He did not. "I do not believe it is worth concerning yourself, Captain," he said as if attempting to dismiss his own statement. Somehow, it sounded far less logical in reality than it had in his own thoughts. "We have observed in the past that our minds have developed a telepathic rapport of sorts. Perhaps I was merely receiving fragments of your dreams, thereby—"

"Spock," Kirk interrupted with an exasperated sigh. He reached across the table, resting his fingers lightly on his friend's arm. "I know it's an inconvenience to your Vulcan logic to have this link with a human, but just tell me!" But the gentle smile robbed the words of any harsh implications.

After a moment, Spock nodded almost imperceptibly and took a deep breath. "I dreamed that you were an ensign," he stated, "and that I was . . . captain of the Enterprise."

Kirk leaned heavily back in the chair, letting his hand fall back to his side. He could think of nothing to say.

"Perhaps we should inform Doctor McCoy," Spock suggested. "Since Vulcans do not normally dream whatsoever, and since our dreams do bear remarkable similarity . . ." His voice drifted into silence.

Kirk glanced at the chronometer on the wall, then nodded. "You're probably right," he agreed. "As a precautionary measure, we probably should tell Bones. But . . ." He put one hand to his forehead, sensing a headache struggling to break through. "Just keep it to yourself today, Spock. I'm going to talk to a few other people and see what I can come up with first."

Spock's head inclined in acknowledgment, and he rose from the chair as Kirk stood and followed him toward the door.

Once inside the lift. Kirk tried to shake the feeling of uneasiness with a deep breath. His success was marginal. But when the double doors opened to reveal the familiar refuge of the bridge, he stepped back, smiling deceptively at Spock's apparent confusion. "After you . . . Captain Spock," he offered graciously.

The Vulcan turned, both brows climbing in a moment of surprise. "Illogical," he noted, but nonetheless stepped onto the bridge first. "Captain, I need not point out that it would be irrational to base rank solely on the basis of dreams—regardless of the fact that I would, no doubt, make an excellent commander.*

Kirk shrugged, scrutinizing his first officer discreetly. "Maybe," he conceded, stepping onto the bridge and pulling the professional air of command into place. But he couldn't resist one final urge. "But keep in mind that I'd make one hell of a lousy ensign, Spock!*

The Vulcan stopped, meeting Kirk's eyes warmly. "Of that," he readily agreed, "I have no doubt."

Next Time

Things get steamy (literally) as Kirk dons a lumberjack shirt and invites Spock to stroll with him in a garden.

See tag Killing Time excerpts for more

#killing time excerpts #killing time #spirk #pocket books #star trek TOS #star trek #kirk/spock

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sylusonychinus · 3 months ago

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Episode Four: Playing the Part

Series Masterlist

Reader stood in Sylus’s penthouse, her mind spinning from the bombshell he had just dropped. She had spent the better part of the last few days adjusting to her bizarre new role as Sylus Qin’s personal maid-turned-fake fiancée, only to find out she had unknowingly become a pawn in a much larger game.

An auction house. Underground. Illegal. Dangerous. And Sylus—Sylus was at the center of it all.

She sat stiffly on the edge of the leather sofa, gripping the hem of her dress. Her gaze flicked up to Sylus, who was casually pouring himself a drink, his movements unhurried as though discussing criminal enterprises was as mundane as reviewing hotel operations.

“You run the auction house?” Reader asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sylus smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “What gave it away? The part where I knew everyone there, or the fact that I bought you for a billion dollars?”

Her stomach twisted. “That’s not funny.”

“Relax,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “I didn’t put you there. That was an… oversight.”

“Oversight?” she snapped, standing up. “You mean to tell me that people like me—people who accidentally break a vase—end up being sold in cages, and it’s just business as usual for you?”

Sylus set his glass down, his red eyes sharp as they locked onto hers. “First of all, I don’t sell people. That’s not my business. The auction house is a means to an end—a tool to build connections with… powerful individuals. And before you ask, yes, some of those individuals are less than savory. But you’d be surprised how useful those connections are in this world.”

Her brows furrowed. “Connections like Maria?”

Sylus’s lips twitched, a mixture of annoyance and amusement crossing his face. “Ah, Maria. The lovely daughter of a renowned mafia boss from Linkon.”

Reader’s eyes widened. “Wait—mafia boss?”

He nodded, a trace of exasperation in his tone. “Her father is one of my biggest ‘clients.’ He sent her in his place to attend the auction, and she’s been… attached ever since.”

Reader crossed her arms. “Attached, huh? Sounds like she has a crush.”

“An unhealthy one,” Sylus muttered. “Maria has a penchant for getting what she wants, and she’s convinced I’m on her wishlist.”

Reader raised a brow. “And you don’t like her?”

Sylus gave her a pointed look. “Do I strike you as the type to tolerate people like her?”

“Well,” she began, shrugging, “you are tolerating me.”

A laugh burst from him, deep and genuine. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Why don’t you just tell her to back off?” Reader pressed.

His expression darkened slightly. “Maria isn’t the kind of person you brush off. Not without consequences. And upsetting her father isn’t exactly on my to-do list.”

Reader frowned, piecing it together. “So, you needed a way to get her off your back without causing a mess.”

“Bingo,” he said with a grin, tapping his temple. “And then, as if the universe handed me a solution on a silver platter, you showed up.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

Sylus shrugged, unbothered. “What can I say? I’m a problem solver.”

Before Reader could retort, Sylus glanced at his watch. “Speaking of problems, we have a party to attend.”

The grand ballroom of the Onychinus Casino was alive with glittering lights, soft jazz music, and the quiet hum of conversations between the rich and powerful. Reader adjusted her red dress nervously, feeling out of place among the opulence.

Sylus, on the other hand, looked completely at ease, dressed in a sleek black suit that contrasted sharply with his white hair and striking red eyes. He rested a hand lightly on Reader’s back as they entered, his touch sending an unexpected shiver down her spine.

“Smile,” he whispered. “You’re my fiancée tonight, remember?”

Reader forced a polite smile, though her nerves threatened to undo her. “Do I have to hold your hand too, dear?”

Sylus chuckled, leaning down to murmur, “Only if you want to sell the act. Or is it that you want to hold my hand?”

She shot him a glare, which only made him smirk wider.

As they mingled, Sylus seamlessly navigated the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and sly remarks with his guests. Reader tried to keep up, but her attention was pulled away when a familiar figure entered the room: Maria.

Maria’s emerald-green dress shimmered under the lights as she approached with her usual confident stride. Her sharp eyes zeroed in on Sylus, narrowing slightly when she noticed Reader by his side.

“Sylus,” Maria greeted, her voice honeyed but icy. “You didn’t tell me you’d be bringing… company.”

Sylus’s smile was perfectly measured, his arm tightening slightly around Reader’s waist. “Maria, meet my fiancée.”

Maria’s eyes flicked to Reader, her expression skeptical. “Your fiancée? How… sudden.”

Reader took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage she had. “It’s nice to meet you, Maria,” she said with a polite smile.

Maria’s gaze lingered on her, and for a moment, the tension was palpable. Then she smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Likewise. I wasn’t aware Sylus had settled down. You must be very… special.”

“Special doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Sylus said smoothly, his tone dripping with amusement. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

Reader clenched her jaw, trying to keep her expression neutral. “Of course, sweetheart.”

Sylus bit back a laugh, clearly entertained by her forced tone. Maria, meanwhile, didn’t look convinced.

“I suppose I’ll have to get used to the idea,” Maria said, her voice laced with false sweetness. “But Sylus, you know how I hate surprises.”

“Oh, I’m full of surprises,” Sylus said, his red eyes glinting mischievously.

Reader held back a groan. This man was impossible.

As the evening went on, Reader found herself enduring Sylus’s constant teasing remarks and Maria’s thinly veiled hostility. But despite the chaos, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow passed a test she didn’t even know she was taking.

By the end of the night, Sylus leaned down to her, his breath warm against her ear. “Not bad for your first performance. Keep this up, and I might actually start enjoying having you around.”

Reader rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, “I’m not sure I can say the same.”

Sylus grinned, his crimson eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, you’ll warm up to me. They always do.”

Reader wasn’t so sure about that. But as she glanced at him, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d already taken the first step into a game she wasn’t ready to play.

Taglist: @nezuswritingdesk @beaconsxd @seris-the-amious @paninisstuff @mysticcollectionvoid @animegamerfox @mcdepressed290 @fries11

#love and deepspace #sylus qin #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus #qin che #sylus x you #sylus fluff #sylus imagine #love and deepspace fic

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verecunda · 21 days ago

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Fic: Moonrise on Sirannon

My first entry for Celebrimbor Week. Thank you to @the-southlands for hosting this event. <3 This is for yesterday's "Celebration" prompt, but I only had the idea late last night as I was going to bed. :P

Read it here, or on AO3.

The doors were in place, the ithildin had dried into the stone, all tools and support-beams had been cleared away, and Celebrimbor and Narvi sat upon the bank of the murmuring Sirannon, looking at the blank rock-face, ruddy in the evening light. “Now we wait,” said Narvi. His voice was calm and steady, but Celebrimbor did not miss the way he glanced up at the sky and the westering sun, and he laid a hand upon the Dwarf’s shoulder. “Not long,” he said. Here it was: the end of their long work upon the new West-gate. Months of planning and labour, of sharing the joys and frustrations of crafting, of small victories and long nights teasing out solutions to the various puzzles the enterprise had put in their way. Now it was done and all was in place, and all that was needed now was to be sure that it worked. And they would not be sure of that until the rising of the moon.

So there they sat, together, waiting. In the West, the sun dipped below the far horizon, but her presence lingered in the vivid bars of rose and saffron in the sky, and the fires in the bellies of the clouds. High, high above and to the north, the frowning pinnacles of Caradhras were blood-daubed. But nor Elf nor Dwarf had any mind for this; their eyes were fixed upon that one small stretch of rock at the mountains’ foot. From time to time they traded a few words - light words, trivial, something to break the heavy tenseness of waiting, but mostly they were silent, every sense alert for the expected change. Slowly - so very slowly! - the last remnants of the day faded. All colour leached from the sky, while down in the valley the shadows gathered about them, the waters of the Gate-stream turning from silver to onyx. A little chill wind breathed down from the mountains, chattering in the leaves of the holly-trees. Narvi pulled his cloak about him. Celebrimbor made no movement. At long last, the sky began to deepen into twilight. High in the West, Eärendil sailed into view, and with his coming, a host of smaller glims were kindled in the heavens: faint at first, but growing steadily brighter and more numerous against the ever-darkening sky. Celebrimbor breathed out in a long sigh, and felt Narvi’s shoulder press against his arm. For all their long waiting, the rising of the moon almost caught them by surprise. One moment, it seemed, there were only the stars to keep them company; then, all at once, the bright disc of the moon had leapt free of the mountain-fence and now hung above them, his silver light falling full upon the cliff-wall. Swiftly, Celebrimbor met Narvi’s eye, and saw there the same vivid, piercing excitement that was rising in his own heart, before they both looked again at the blank rock. How long they looked, staring with aching eyes to catch the merest rumour of a change, Celebrimbor never could tell. It might have been the space of a mere heartbeat or two, but to him it felt an age. All at once, a thousand doubts and worries came rushing in upon him, and he found himself turning over every calculation, every measurement and scrap of theory that had gone into the building of the gate, struck by the sudden fear that they might have got it wrong somewhere, that it had all fallen short… “Celebrimbor.” Narvi’s voice was a whisper as he laid a hand upon his arm. “Look.” Even as Narvi spoke, Celebrimbor saw. There, upon the moonlit face of the rock, slender threads of silver had begun to appear. Faint at first, like the threads of a spider’s web, or the winding path of a snail. Beside him, he heard Narvi draw in a breath. As they watched, those silver threads bloomed and stretched, unfurling across the stone, reaching further and shining brighter, ever brighter… And then, there it was. There was the arch, the trees; there were all the heraldry of Khazad-dûm and Hollin, the devices set down by Celebrimbor on paper, now committed to stone in Narvi’s peerless hand, the whole glowing softly between its sentinel holly-trees. And there, within the arch, was the inscription in Elven-letters: The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Say “friend” and enter. And below: I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Eregion drew these signs. This last had been Narvi’s own idea: not just a symbol of an alliance between two kingdoms, this gate would also stand as a testament to their own friendship, such as had not been seen between Elf and Dwarf for many a long year. Now Elf and Dwarf turned to each other, smiling, their faces both bright with pleasure and pride.

“Just one test left to make, my friend,” he said. “I think it should be you to do it.”

“Are you sure you would not prefer to make it yourself?” said Narvi. Celebrimbor smiled and patted his shoulder. “Quite sure. I have had enough of that ithildin to last me some ages. Please, let you speak the password.” Narvi’s grin was bright through his beard as he got to his feet and went to stand directly before the gate. Celebrimbor’s heart was thrumming, racing with excitement and not a little fear. He put his fingers to his mouth, and realised, somewhat to his surprise, that his fingernails had already been bitten to rags.

Then Narvi spoke, and his deep, clear Dwarven voice he uttered aloud the opening word: “Mellon.”

And upon that word, the star of Celebrimbor’s house, which - in a moment of forgivable vanity - he had set in the centre of the door, shone out white. Then, just as suddenly, it faded, the doors divided and in one seamless, soundless movement that gladdened the heart, they swung outwards to disclose the stairs that led into the Dwarven realm.

For a short span neither of them moved or spoke, too awed by the success of their venture. Then, with a glad laugh, Narvi turned back to Celebrimbor; in the same moment, Celebrimbor cried aloud with joy and came forward to meet him. They clasped hands, they threw their arms about each other; then, cheering and whooping, they broke into a lively, scatter-stepped dance, making up in delight what they lacked in grace, spinning each other about and about until they fell, winded but still laughing, back upon the bank.

“We did it!” cried Narvi, exulting. “By Mahal’s fiery beard, it worked!”

“It did indeed,” replied Celebrimbor. Now that it was done, he only realised just how tightly-wound his nerves had been, stretched taut as wires. Now he slumped almost boneless on the grass by the roadside, laughing with the delight of it. “I swear to you, Narvi, there was an instant when I thought it had not, and my heart nearly died within me.”

“Nonsense, you ridiculous Elf. Did you not see how it shone? I have seen starmoon before, but never the like of that. Well were you named the silver-handed, my friend.”

“Oh, never mind the starmoon! What about the way the doors opened? The very waters of Ulmo would be hard-pressed to flow so smoothly.”

And so on, and on. Then, when all words of craft were spent, Narvi reached for his pack and drew out a flask of dark Dwarven ale, and two cups. “Here. I did not mention it before, lest it seem like tempting fortune, but I brought something to toast our achievement.”

Chuckling, Celebrimbor found his own belongings and brought out a bottle of Elven wine. “As did I. Come, let’s fill those cups.”

So the cups were filled, and as they were raised them, Narvi said, “I think there can be only one toast on this occasion. Mellon.”

To which Celebrimbor smiled, and chimed his cup against his friend’s. “Mellon,” he agreed.

#my fic #Lord of the Rings #Celebrimbor #Narvi #celebrimborweek2025

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voiceapisolutions · 1 year ago

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#voice api #voice call #enterprise voice solutions

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anonymousewrites · 2 months ago

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Logos and Pathos (Book 4) Chapter Twenty-Six

TOS! Spock x Empath! Spouse! Reader

Chapter Twenty-Six: Prisoner's Dilemma

Summary: (Y/N) and their crew attempt an escape from Sybok.

“Ah! Aha!” Kirk strained from where he stood atop Spock’s shoulders.

(Y/N) stared at the opening in the ceiling where he was trying to find a certain wire. If they could gain control of some part of the ship from the inside out, then they could escape.

“Useless,” remarked Spock. He didn’t believe this idea had much merit.

Bones’s worry pricked at (Y/N)’s skin. This would either end very well or very poorly.

“Unwise,” warned Spock as Kirk reached for a wire, but it was too late.

The wire sparked, and Kirk jerked back from the electricity. He tumbled from Spock’s shoulders and hit the ground. Fortunately, he rolled as he landed, so he received bruises but no worse injuries.

“You could’ve warned me,” groaned Kirk, massaging his back as he stood.

“He did,” pointed out (Y/N), and Bones nodded.

“There’s got to be a way out of this mess,” said Kirk, looking around the cell.

“This is a new brig, Captain,” said Spock. “It is escape proof.”

“How do you know?” asked Kirk.

“The designers tested it by using the most intelligent and resourceful person they could find,” said Spock. (Y/N) and Bones exchanged a look. “He failed to escape.”

“This person, he didn’t by chance have pointed ears and an unerring capacity for getting his shipmates into trouble, did he?” said Kirk.

“And maybe handsome, too?” said (Y/N).

“He did have pointed ears,” admitted Spock. “And some people may consider him attractive.”

Well, that answers that, thought (Y/N), shaking their head in amusement.

“Brave crew of the Starship Enterprise.”

The group in the brig paused as Sybok’s voice reverberated from the comms in a ship-wide announcement. A moment later, the tiny viewscreen in the cell switched on to show his face.

“Consider the question of existence,” said Sybok.

(Y/N) raised a brow. What was this, a lecture?

“These are the questions which man has asked ever since he first gazed at the stars and dreamed,” said Sybok. “My Vulcan ancestors were ruled by their emotions. They felt with their hearts. They made loved with their hearts. They believed with their hearts.”

And they nearly killed one another over their hearts until they found a solution, thought (Y/N). That solution is not for everyone, but it is a solution. Just as Celians chose to embrace empathy and emotional understanding as another solution. Both are valid. They are just different.

“And above all else, they believed in a place in which these questions of existence would be answered,” continued Sybok. This was not a lecture; it was a preach. “Modern dogma tells us this place is a myth, a fantasy concocted by pagans. It is no fantasy!”

He spoke with pure conviction. Clearly, he believed himself, though whether or not it was real fact would remain a mystery until proof for or against was found. Belief was important, but (Y/N) and the Enterprise needed facts, too.

“It exists!” said Sybok emphatically. “My brothers and sisters and siblings, we have been chosen to undertake the greatest adventure of all time…” He paused dramatically and gazed into the camera as if looking into the eyes of true believers. “The discovery of Sha Ka Ree.”

Spock furrowed his brow. “Is it possible?” He spoke quietly, considering Sybok’s words carefully.

“Spock, what is Sha Ka Ree?” asked (Y/N).

“The reason Sybok left Vulcan,” said Spock.

“Our destination—the planet Sha Ka Ree—it lies beyond the Great Barrier at the center of the galaxy,” continued Sybok in his announcement.

“The center of the galaxy?” repeated Kirk in surprise.

“Where Sha Ka Ree is fabled to exist,” said Spock.

“But the center of the galaxy can’t be reached,” said Kirk incredulously. “No ship has ever gone into the Great Barrier. No probe has ever returned.”

“Sybok possessed the keenest intellect I have ever known,” said Spock. “If he believes he has found a way, it may be true.”

“Spock!” said Kirk. “My only concern is getting the ship back. When that’s done and Sybok is here, you can debate Sha Ka Ree until you’re green in the face. Until then, you’re either with me or you’re not.”

“I’m here, Captain,” said Spock. He would not kill Sybok, but his loyalty was with (Y/N) and Kirk and Starfleet.

“Captain, Spock,” said (Y/N), interrupting. “Do you hear that?” A soft tapping had caught their attention.

Kirk and Spock quieted in order to listen. They didn’t ask if (Y/N) was making it up; they wouldn’t. Bones furrowed his brow.

“It’s…tapping. Rhythmic but not a set pattern,” said Bones.

“It may be a primitive form of communication known as Morse Code,” said Spock. “The rhythm fits with certain letters perfectly.”

“You’re right,” said Kirk, furrowing his brow. “That one there…an ‘s,’ I think.”

“I believe the next letter is a ‘t,’ ” said Spock.

“ ‘A’…‘n’…‘d’…” said (Y/N).

“You know Morse Code?” said Bones.

“I’m a Negotiations and Communications officer,” said (Y/N) matter-of-factly.

Spock looked at (Y/N) with pure adoration. They were such an incredible officer and so skilled at what they did…it was maddeningly attractive.

“That was the end of a word,” said (Y/N), nodding.

“ ‘Stand,’ ” said Bones.

“New word starting,” said Kirk, listening intently. He moved closer to the wall to hear more clearly.

“ ‘B’…‘a’…‘c’…‘k,’ ” said (Y/N).

“ ‘Back,’ ” said Bones. “ ‘Stand back.’ ”

The four paused. “Stand back!” they exclaimed. Spock grabbed (Y/N) and pulled them back while Kirk and Bones jumped backwards.

The moment they moved, the wall exploded. Dust and debris fell from the newly formed hole, and the four peered through the dust cloud warily. (Y/N) relaxed and touched Spock’s hand as they felt a familiar aura.

“What are you standing around for?” said Scotty, looking at them all incredulously. “Do you not know a jailbreak when you see one?”

(Y/N), Kirk, and Bones grinned.

“The bond between these four is strong…” said Sybok, frustrated. He walked with Sulu and several members of the Galactic Army of Light behind him through the brig towards his prisoners. “Difficult to penetrate. This will be quite a challenge.”

Sulu nodded. “Kirk, Bones, and Spock are like brothers, and (L/N) is like a sibling to Kirk and Bones. Spock and (L/N) have the strongest bond, though. I don’t know if enlightenment will change that.”

Sybok paused. “My brother has such a strong bond with another person?” He was surprised.

Sulu nodded. “They’re married.”

Interesting, thought Sybok. Perhaps he could use that.

However, when the group rounded the corner, they found the cell their four prisoners were in empty, and a giant hole exposed their escape route.

“We’ve got to find them!” exclaimed Sulu.

Sybok certainly agreed.

“So Sulu, Uhura, and Chekov are just…on Sybok’s side?” said (Y/N), frowning as they walked through the lower decks of the Enterprise.

“Aye,” said Scotty. “I don’t know what he did to ‘em, but they’ll be searching for you once they find out you’ve escaped.”

Kirk grimaced and nodded. “Thanks, Scotty.”

Scotty shrugged. “It was no problem. I needed to find some people not on his side. We can’t trust anyone now.”

“We need to send a distress signal,” said Kirk.

“We’d never make it to the Bridge,” said Bones.

“There is an emergency sending apparatus in the forward observation room,” said Spock.

“The only trouble is, it’s up there, and we’re down here,” said Kirk.

“You might be able to reach it by means of turboshaft number three, which is closed for repairs,” said Scotty. He shook his head. “It’s a long and dangerous climb,” he warned.

Bones, (Y/N), and Spock looked slightly at Kirk.

“Some of us get off on long and dangerous climbs,” said Bones sarcastically.

Kirk decided not to respond to that comment. “Scotty, get the Transporter working. If we make contact with a rescue ship, we’ll need it.”

“Aye, sir,” said Scotty, nodding.

“Which way to the turboshaft?” asked (Y/N).

Scotty paused at a crossroads in the lower decks and gestured down one hall. “Straight down that tunnel to the hydro vent and turn right, then left at the blowscreen. You can’t miss it.”

“Mr. Scott, you’re amazing,” said Kirk, smiling.

“Nothing amazing about it,” said Scotty. “I know this ship like I know the back of my hand.”

He nodded goodbye to Kirk, Spock, (Y/N), and Bones as they stepped into the tunnel and continued their walk. They listened carefully for the sound of people, but with the twists and turns and pipes and wires, any sound could mean anything. The only choice was to keep going without looking back until they arrived at the turboshaft.

Bones grimaced as he looked upwards at the high, high ceiling above them. The shaft went on forever, to every level of the Enterprise. (Y/N) knew they were in for a long, dangerous climb, just as Scotty warned.

“Look at it this way,” said Kirk, knowing the thoughts of his companions. “We’ll get a good workout.”

“Yeah,” scoffed Bones. “Or a heart attack.”

Kirk grimaced and headed to the ladder, beginning the long climb. Bones clambered up after him in resignation. (Y/N) started up after him. Spock…walked out the door. The other three continued climbing, but as they reached Level 13, they were feeling the strain. (Y/N) paused and looked down, expecting to see Spock. When they didn’t, they frowned.

“Captain!” said (Y/N).

“Yes?” Kirk looked down.

(Y/N) looked up. “Spock is gone—Oh!” They stared in surprise at Spock, floating down from above Kirk. “Never mind.” He had found his levitation boots again.

Kirk and Bones looked up, and they were startled by the appearance of the Vulcan from above. Spock lowered down to (Y/N) and held out a hand.

“I believe I have found a faster way,” he remarked.

“I hope so,” said (Y/N), letting go with one hand from the ladder.

Spock’s hand wound around their waist, and (Y/N) held onto his neck tightly. They balanced slightly on one of the boots, leaving room for Kirk and Bones. Spock flew a bit higher, and Bones stared.

“Coming, Bones?” said (Y/N).

“You two go ahead. I’ll catch the next car,” said Bones, staring.

“We’re not splitting up,” said Kirk from above.

Bones sighed and let Spock support him on his other side. Slower now, Spock floated up to Kirk and turned. Kirk got onto Spock’s back. Unfortunately, the group began to drift downwards, too heavy for the boots with four people.

“It would appear we are too heavy,” observed Spock.

“It’s all those marsh-melons,” said Kirk, sighing.

Clanging echoed upwards, and the four looked down. Below them, getting ever-closer, was Sulu and several of Sybok’s followers. They stared up at the group, having caught up to their trail.

“Spock, use the booster rockets,” urged (Y/N), knowing how strong those were on the boots.

“If I activate them now, T’hy’la, we’ll be propelled upward at an unpredictable rate,” said Spock.

“Fire the rockets!” ordered Kirk, holding on tight as they approached Sulu.

Spock obeyed, and the jet of energy sent them flying upwards.

“Captain! Please come back down!” shouted Sulu after them, emotions perfectly pleasant, though (Y/N) couldn’t trust it.

They held on tight to Spock, and his arm around their waist tightened as they flew wildly up.

“Hit the brakes!” shouted Kirk over the rushing wind.

Spock stopped the booster rockets, and they slowed to a halt a few moments before they would have hit the top of the turboshaft. With their weight, they drifted slightly downwards, and Spock looked at Kirk.

“Captain, I am afraid I overshot the mark by one level,” said Spock.

Bones let out a breath of relief at having survived. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“And we’re going down again,” said (Y/N) cheerfully as they floated vaguely down with their combined weight.

Spock directed them to the side, and they landed on the proper level.

“Good job,” said Kirk, nodding and leading the way out of the turboshaft.

He crawled forward and stood in the hallway of the Enterprise. He warily looked around before nodding, and the other three followed him out. Fortunately, for once, the forward observation room wasn’t much farther down the hall, and the group crept through the dim lights of the currently unused corridor to the room. Bones turned on the light and closed the doors behind them while (Y/N) moved to the controls of the emergency sending apparatus to open a comms channel.

“(Y/N)?” said Kirk.

“Emergency channel open,” confirmed (Y/N), standing.

Kirk nodded and wasted no time speaking. “To anyone hearing my voice, this is Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation Starship Enterprise. If you read me, acknowledge.” Nothing. “Acknowledge!” They needed someone to hear.

“Enterprise, this is Starfleet Command,” said a voice finally. “We read you, over.”

“A hostile force has taken control of our vessel and put us on a direct course to the Great Barrier,” said Kirk. “Our coordinates are 0-0-0, mark 2. Request emergency assistance. Acknowledge.”

“Understood, Enterprise,” said Starfleet Command. “We are dispatching a rescue ship immediately.

“Roger Starfleet,” said Kirk.

In the Klingon Bird of Prey, the commander, Klaa, nodded as his second-in-command, Vixis, finished pretending to be Starfleet Command. “Plot course 0-0-0, mark 2,” he ordered in Klingon.

“But, Captain, that course will take us into the Barrier as well,” said Vixis.

“Where Kirk goes, we follow,” commanded Klaa.

The moment Kirk finished his message, (Y/N) tensed. “Captain, people are approaching.” They felt calm, happy auras approaching and one intense, powerful one. Sybok and his followers.

“We need to leave, now,” said Kirk, moving towards the door quickly.

Too late. The doors slid open, and Sybok stood before them, expression as pleasant as ever. However, his emotions showed tremors of frustration. (Y/N), Bones, Spock, and Kirk were proving troublesome.

Good, thought (Y/N).

“I trust your message was received?” said Sybok.

Kirk stood strong and stepped out from his friends. “You can’t expect us to stand by while you take this ship into the Great Barrier.”

Sybok’s disappointment and frustration grew as he circled the group. “What you fear is the unknown. The people of your planet once believed their world was flat…Columbus proved it was round. They said the sound barrier could never be broken…It was broken. They said warp speed could not be achieved.” He gestured to the ship as evidence of falsehood there, too. “The Great Barrier is the ultimate expression of universal fear. It is an extension of personal fear.”

Every word he spoke was meant to draw you in, to give logic to all of his actions. He knew how to speak to people, how to get them to listen. However, (Y/N) would not stand for it.

“And yet you have committed acts of violence in this endeavor,” said (Y/N). “You’ve twisted the minds of people.” Sulu, Uhura…Maybe even Chekov and so many others. “That is wrong of you.”

Sybok sighed and shook his head. “I so much want your understanding. I want your respect. Are you afraid to hear me out?”

“We do not fear you and your ideas,” said (Y/N). “We dislike what you have done. There is a difference.”

Sybok’s frustration was a soft quake in his aura, and (Y/N) kept a keen eye on it. However, instead of lashing out, Sybok turned to his companions. “Wait outside.” The members of the Galactic Army of Light walked out of the room, and the doors slid closed. Sybok looked back at his prisoners with a kind expression. “I’m sure you have many questions. Here, amid the stars of our galaxy, we shall seek the answers together.”

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nayziiz · 1 year ago

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Shadows | LN4

Summary: [Mafia] In the face of dire financial troubles, Lando receives a desperate plea from his father to unearth a lucrative solution within the family business. Fueled by the pressure to rescue his family from ruin, Lando stumbles upon a seemingly perfect venture—using luxury cars as a facade for the clandestine world of drug trafficking. With the unexpected partnership of Amelia Rossi, his father's best friend's daughter, Lando believes he has found the ideal accomplice. However, as the Norris family collides with the ambitious Russells in a ruthless bid to establish their dominance, the perilous path Lando has chosen places not only his newfound enterprise at stake but also entangles Amelia in the dangerous crossfire that unfolds.

Warning: Violence, drugs, blood, smut, fluff, guns, pregnancy

Pairing: Lando Norris x OC (Amelia Rossi) - appearances from other drivers

Masterlist

Chapter 16

News of Steve and George Russell's arrest sent shockwaves through the underworld and the upper echelons of society alike. The headlines blared the downfall of the notorious crime family, striking fear into the hearts of those who had once cowered under their influence. For Lando, Amelia, and Adam, it was a bittersweet victory, a crucial step in their quest for justice and redemption.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange hue over the skyline of São Paulo, Lando paced the villa's terrace, his mind swirling with a whirlwind of emotions. Steve's arrest marked a significant milestone in their plan to dismantle the Russell empire, but it also brought a heightened sense of urgency to their mission. With the Russells on the defensive, they would stop at nothing to protect their secrets and retaliate against those who had dared to challenge their reign.

Inside the villa, Amelia sat by the window, her fingers tracing the contours of her growing sixteen week old belly as she watched the city come alive with the glow of streetlights and the hum of nightlife. The weight of their situation pressed heavily upon her shoulders, the reality of impending motherhood mingling with the uncertainty of their future. But amidst the chaos, one thing remained constant – her unwavering faith in Lando and their love, a beacon of hope in the darkness that threatened to consume them.

Lando's heart swelled with love and pride as he beheld the sight of Amelia's burgeoning baby bump. It was a tangible reminder of the new life growing within her, a symbol of their shared journey and the unbreakable bond they shared. He approached her with a tender smile, his eyes alight with warmth and affection.

“Hey there, little peanut.” He murmured, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “How's our little one doing today?”

Amelia looked up at him, her eyes shining with a mixture of joy and anticipation.

“I think peanut's doing just fine. You want to feel?” She replied, reaching out to caress his cheek.

Lando nodded eagerly, crouching down beside her. He pressed his hand against her belly, feeling the subtle movements of their unborn child beneath his fingertips. It was a moment of pure magic, a connection forged in the silent whispers of their shared dreams and hopes for the future.

“I can't believe we're going to be parents. It feels like just yesterday we were kids ourselves.” Lando murmured, his voice filled with wonder.

Amelia smiled, her gaze softening with affection.

“I know.” She agreed, leaning into his touch. “I really want to go home, Lan.”

“I know, baby. Just a few more weeks so we’re sure it’s safe to go back, then we’re on the first flight out.” Lando's words were filled with reassurance, but Amelia couldn't shake the feeling of longing for the familiarity and security of home.

The past months had been filled with uncertainty and danger, and while they had found temporary refuge in their secluded hideaway, it was far from the comfort of their own home.

“I need to have this baby back home.” She admitted softly, her voice tinged with homesickness.

“You will, just a few more weeks.” Lando murmured, wrapping his arms around her in a comforting embrace.

“I miss my Mom, believe it or not.” She sighed, resting her head against his chest.

As the details of her passing unfolded, it became clear that Marilyn, Amelia’s mother, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when Harold was shot and killed. She had been going about her day, perhaps running errands or attending to her own affairs, when fate cruelly intervened.

“My father said my Nan sent down a whole box of that chocolate you like so much.” Lando informed Amelia, attempting to change the subject.

As Lando attempted to shift the conversation away from the sombre topic of Marilyn's passing, his mention of the chocolate brought a faint smile to Amelia's lips. It was a small gesture, but a welcome distraction from the weight of her recent loss. The thought of indulging in a sweet treat, especially one that held sentimental value, offered a brief respite from the grief that loomed heavy in the air.

As Lando stepped out of the room to make the call, he couldn't shake the sense of unease that had settled in his chest. The distance from home weighed heavily on both him and Amelia, amplifying the usual challenges of pregnancy and adding an extra layer of complexity to their situation. With each passing day, the longing for the familiar comforts of home grew stronger, tugging at their hearts and fueling a deep-seated yearning for the safety and security they had left behind.

With a heavy sigh, Lando dialled his father's number, his mind swirling with a myriad of concerns and uncertainties. He needed guidance, reassurance, anything to ease the burden of responsibility that weighed so heavily upon him. As the call connected, Lando's voice was laced with a hint of apprehension, a reflection of the tumultuous emotions that churned within him.

“Hey, Dad.” He began, his words tinged with a mixture of relief and anxiety. “We need to come home.”

Lando's plea hung heavy in the air as he awaited his father's response, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. He knew the risks involved in returning home prematurely, but the thought of Amelia enduring the challenges of pregnancy without the support of family was unbearable to him.

“I understand, son.” Adam's voice resonated through the phone, his tone weighed down by the gravity of their situation. “But we can't afford to take any chances. You know how dangerous it is right now.”

Lando's jaw tightened as he absorbed his father's words, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness that gnawed at him, knowing that he couldn't provide Amelia with the comfort and reassurance she so desperately needed.

“Dad, she’s pregnant.” Lando insisted, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation. “She needs Mum, and Savannah, and anyone who can just support her through this. Please, Dad. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

There was a brief moment of silence on the other end of the line, the weight of their conversation hanging heavily between them. Adam's sigh echoed through the phone, a testament to the internal struggle he faced in balancing his desire to protect his family with the undeniable need for support and comfort.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily in the space between Lando and his father, the urgency in his voice underscoring the importance of his plea. Adam's silence spoke volumes, the weight of his own concerns mirrored in the sombre tone of his response.

“I understand, Lando. I'll arrange for a secure escort to ensure Amelia's safety.” Adam replied, his voice tinged with a mixture of apprehension and determination. "But I need you to promise me that you'll prioritise her safety above all else. There’s a baby to think of now.”

“I promise, Dad. Thank you. It means everything to us.” Lando affirmed, a sense of relief washing over him at the prospect of finally bringing Amelia back home.

As the call ended, Lando felt a sense of resolve settle within him, a renewed determination to do whatever it took to ensure Amelia's well-being.

Lando entered the room, his heart buoyed by the prospect of bringing some relief to Amelia amidst the uncertainty they faced. As he approached her, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, a mix of anticipation and apprehension etched on her features.

“Hey, baby.” He greeted softly, taking her hands in his as he sat down beside her. “I've got some news.”

“What is it?” Amelia looked up at him, her eyes reflecting a blend of curiosity and concern.

“We're going home. Dad’s making all the arrangements now and he’ll let me know once everything has been sorted.” Lando announced, a flicker of excitement dancing in his eyes.

“Really?” A wave of relief washed over Amelia, her tense shoulders relaxing as the weight of uncertainty began to lift.

Lando nodded, a tender smile gracing his lips. Tears welled in Amelia's eyes, a mix of gratitude and overwhelming emotion swelling within her.

“Thank you, Lando. Thank you for everything.” She choked as she tried to hold back her tears.

Wrapping her in a warm embrace, Lando held her close, his heart swelling with love and determination.

As the jet's door swung open, the familiar sights and sounds of London greeted Lando and Amelia, signalling their return to the place they called home. Max Fewtrell, Lando's trusted childhood friend, stood at the ready by the armoured SUV, his expression a mix of relief and anticipation as he awaited their arrival. With practised ease, Lando emerged first, swiftly retrieving their luggage before returning to assist Amelia down the steps of the jet.

Max's eyes widened in surprise as he caught sight of Amelia's unmistakable baby bump, a visible symbol of the new chapter awaiting the couple. His expression softened into a warm smile as he approached, offering a hand to help Amelia onto solid ground once more.

“Welcome back. Looks like I arrived just in time to see the next generation of troublemakers in the making.” Max greeted, his voice laced with genuine warmth and excitement.

“Thanks, Max. Flip, have I missed you.” Amelia chuckled softly, a hint of exhaustion mingling with the overwhelming sense of gratitude flooding her senses.

With Max's help, they made their way to the waiting SUV, ready to embark on the next leg of their journey home. As they settled into the familiar comforts of the vehicle, a sense of hope and anticipation filled the air, a testament to the unwavering bond shared between friends and the promise of new beginnings on the horizon.

As they settled into the SUV, Max couldn't contain his curiosity, prompting him to broach the topic that had been swirling in his mind since he laid eyes on Amelia's baby bump.

“So, a baby?” Max inquired, his tone a mix of surprise and genuine interest.

“Yep, a little surprise that kept our spirits up while we were away.” Lando's smile widened at Max's reaction, a flicker of pride evident in his eyes.

“How far along are you?” Max's eyebrows shot up in amazement.

“Just over sixteen weeks.” Amelia replied, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and tenderness as she glanced at Lando, beaming with impending fatherhood pride in the passenger seat.

“Wow, you two were away for a long time.” Max remarked, a hint of playful teasing in his tone.

“Yeah, yeah. Missed you too, mate. But now that we're back, we've got some catching up to do.” Lando chuckled in response, reaching over to give Max a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Your parents are going to do somersaults about their new grandbaby.” Max remarked, causing both Lando and Amelia to chuckle in response.

Almost an hour later, Max pulled up in front of the Norris family home and almost instantly, Lando’s family came rushing out from his father, to his mother, to his sisters and brother. Lando got out in a haste to open the back door of the SUV for Amelia to step out.

As Amelia stepped out of the SUV, she was greeted by the enthusiastic embrace of Lando's family. His sisters, in particular, were ecstatic to see her and the baby bump. They showered her with hugs and affection, their excitement palpable as they welcomed her into their home.

“Amelia, you're glowing!” Lando's mother exclaimed, her eyes shimmering with joy at the sight of her son's partner.

“We've been waiting for this moment for so long.” Flo, one of Lando's sisters chimed in, her smile radiant with happiness.

Amelia felt overwhelmed by the warmth and love emanating from Lando's family. Despite the challenges they had faced, being surrounded by such genuine affection filled her with a sense of comfort and belonging. She exchanged grateful smiles with Lando, silently acknowledging that they were exactly where they were meant to be.

“Careful, girls. There’s special cargo in that belly.” Lando’s mother, Cisca, warned her daughter as Adam wrapped his arms around his son and kept him tight against him.

As Lando's family continued to fuss over Amelia and the baby bump, his mother's gentle reminder brought a sense of protective unity to the moment. Cisca's words served as a subtle reminder to everyone that Amelia and the unborn baby were precious cargo, deserving of extra care and consideration.

Adam's embrace around Lando spoke volumes, conveying both love and a silent promise of protection. In that moment, Lando felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for his family's unwavering support. They had been through so much together, and yet, here they were, embracing the future with open arms and loving hearts.

With his father's reassuring presence anchoring him, Lando felt a renewed sense of determination to ensure the safety and well-being of Amelia and their growing family.

“You did a great job, son, keeping her safe.” Adam acknowledged as he whispered into Lando’s ear.

“Thanks, Dad. And, thank you for your help.” Lando told his Dad.

“Amelia, dear, what do you need?” Cisca asked Amelia as she led her into the house.

As Lando and Amelia made their way into the house, the warmth of familiarity enveloped them. The comforting scent of home-cooked food filled the air, triggering a wave of nostalgia and anticipation for the meal ahead. Despite the challenges they had faced during their time away, being back in the familiar embrace of family brought a sense of peace and reassurance.

“Just a hot shower for now.” Amelia chuckled, keeping her exhaustion at bay.

“You do that, sweetie. I have a full roast going at the moment. I assumed you kids haven’t had a real home cooked meal in a while.” Cisca assured Ameli and Lando.

“That sounds lovely, Mum.” Lando smiled. “I’ll take Amelia up and get her settled and we’ll come down for dinner.”

As had become a norm in their relationship, Lando ran the shower allowing it to heat up for her. Amelia caught Lando's gaze lingering on her as she undressed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Despite the familiarity of their relationship, there was still an undeniable spark between them that never failed to ignite a rush of warmth and affection.

“Not as hot as you thought I’d be pregnant?” She wondered, suddenly self-conscious like she had been all the times he paraded his model ex-flings.

“The exact opposite, actually. You’re beautiful, Amelia.” He assured her and then proceeded to place a loving kiss on her lips.

With a teasing glint in her eyes, Amelia stepped into the shower, feeling the warm water cascade over her skin, washing away the weariness of their journey and leaving her feeling refreshed and invigorated. She closed her eyes, relishing in the sensation, until she felt Lando's presence behind her, his strong arms enveloping her in a gentle embrace.

As he began to massage shampoo into her hair, his touch was tender and intimate, sending shivers of pleasure down her spine. She leaned back against him, letting herself melt into his embrace, feeling his heartbeat against her back as they stood together beneath the soothing stream of water.

In that moment, with the comforting sound of the shower filling the room and Lando's reassuring presence surrounding her, Amelia couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude for the man standing beside her. Despite the challenges they had faced, their bond remained unbreakable, a testament to the strength of their connection and the depth of their love. And as she turned to meet his gaze, her heart swelled with a profound sense of contentment, knowing that she was exactly where she was meant to be - finally out of the shadows.

#f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fic #lando norris smut #mclaren #mclaren f1 #lando norris x oc #mafia!au #mafia!f1 #f1 drivers #f1 driver x oc #lando norris x reader #f1 driver x reader #f1 x reader

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glancetelecom · 1 year ago

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Say goodbye to outdated systems and hello to a new era of efficiency and excellence in customer service. Join us in enhancing call centre performance and achieving higher customer satisfaction than ever before. https://bit.ly/4cG4F2U #AIPoweredVoIP #CallCenterPerformance #CustomerSatisfaction #TelecomInnovati #GlanceTelecom

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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In the winter of 2022, Rachel Maddow announced that she was taking a break from her nightly show on MSNBC. An expectation that she would step away permanently created “a near-existential crisis” for the network, Dylan Byers, a reporter for Puck, wrote, with industry insiders chattering about “the lack of an obvious successor.” Byers asked whether Jen Psaki—who was still President Biden’s press secretary but reportedly close to leaving the White House for a TV gig, and on the radar of several networks—offered a potential solution. “After all,” Byers noted, her role under Biden required her “to explain complicated matters of politics and policy and debunk falsehoods—which is not dissimilar from the job Maddow has created for herself at 9 P.M., where she typically punctures G.O.P. talking points and spends entire segments circuitously arriving at a point.” Psaki’s time in the White House briefing room had also made her a darling of a certain type of #Resistance liberal—for restoring a “West Wing”-ish sense of civility after the caustic Trump years, but also for her supposedly deft clapbacks to reporters’ vacuous or hostile questions. Those came to be known online as #PsakiBombs.

Psaki did, indeed, end up at MSNBC, but not as Maddow’s immediate successor in the coveted 9 P.M. slot, which went to Alex Wagner, a former daytime host. Maddow stuck around, but hosted only one night a week. She returned to full-time duties, however, for the first hundred days of the second Trump Administration, which she covered with alarm, while also emphasizing the growing grassroots opposition to it. And, now that that period is over, Wagner is out, and Psaki is finally inheriting the time slot. (Maddow will continue her weekly appearances; Wagner will stay at MSNBC as a senior political analyst.) Psaki’s ascent, as Byers, of Puck, put it recently, suggests that she is now, along with Maddow, the “marquee star of the MSNBC enterprise.” In a trailer for her new show, she struck a Maddovian note of anti-Trump defiance. “You can’t cower to bullies; that’s how they win,” she said. “We are not powerless. We have our voices. And I will continue using mine.”

Yet Psaki and Maddow are in many ways different. As I’ve written before, Maddow’s signal contribution to the cable format, which can often be superficial, has been her often lengthy and, yes, circuitous monologues situating current events in historical context, a technique that can bring a welcome cooling perspective in crazy times, however overheated Maddow might then get about the news of the day. (You don’t have to like her politics to appreciate her approach—Steve Bannon has described himself as an admirer.) Psaki, during a media tour to promote her new show, has stressed that Maddow is inimitable and suggested, instead, that her own chief value will be as an experienced insider who can decrypt Washington for viewers. “I like history, too,” she told Byers, but “what I feel like my love is, and what I have experience in and hopefully I can bring insight to, is, like, what it’s like to be in the arena.” Maddow told People that this would make Psaki’s show better than hers. Psaki “both knows people and knows how to talk to people,” Maddow said, before describing herself as “a weird little hermit.”

It seems doubtful, however, that Psaki will become as much an avatar of the resistance to Trump 2.0 as Maddow was of the #Resistance to Trump 1.0, or that she will score as well in that most crucial of cable currencies: ratings. As other commentators have suggested, the #PsakiBomb phenomenon was always strange, belying how bland and low-key most of her public performances as press secretary actually were. (And it now feels like a relic: a search for the hashtag on X and Bluesky this week, the morning after the first episode of her show aired, returned no new results.) Maddow—once dubbed a “bellowing soothsayer” by Vanity Fair, and, reportedly, “ratings Viagra” by network executives—has built an enormously loyal audience over the years. Those tipped to step into her shoes—Wagner, Mehdi Hasan—haven’t managed to match her.

In many ways, though, this is an unfair expectation. In part, Maddow has been so successful because she is and always has been a singular talent. But we are also, of course, living through the fracturing of our information ecosystem. The question now, perhaps, isn’t whether Psaki or anyone else is the next Maddow, but whether the 9 P.M. Eastern hour on MSNBC still matters at all, as either a source of news or a lightning rod for liberal energy.

It’s a common article of faith that cable news is dying, ditto that the mediasphere has splintered since the heyday of Walter Cronkite (or even of CNN), with younger people, in particular, now getting their news—or, more worryingly, not—from a dizzying array of apps, social platforms, and podcasts, and a combination of opaque algorithms and personal choice insuring that no two news consumers see exactly the same things. Trump, we have been told endlessly, has expertly gamed this new world, by weaponizing the decline of traditional news sources to sow division and distrust and, more recently, appearing on podcasts—both political and ostensibly not—that value vibes and authenticity over facts. As the manosphere goes, apparently, so goes the nation.

Since Trump returned to office, prominent Democrats have sought to catch up to his perceived advantage online, sometimes even giving the appearance that they’ve used the internet before. In March, as Trump addressed a joint session of Congress, Democratic lawmakers invited liberal influencers to help amplify their response, though some of the resulting content was mocked as staged or, worse, cringe; around the same time, Gavin Newsom, the governor of California, launched a podcast featuring bizarre, friendly banter with hard-right brawlers like Bannon and Charlie Kirk. (Jay Caspian Kang panned the endeavour as “embarrassing” in this column). Other governors have been less embarrassing, on sports shows, for instance, and last month, Pete Buttigieg, the former Transportation Secretary, dipped at least one toe into the manosphere, chatting for nearly three hours on the comedy podcast “Flagrant” and coming across as relatively relatable. Last week, MeidasTouch—a liberal content machine that posts hyperactively across various platforms and has been described as appealing “to those for whom Rachel Maddow is too subtle”—hosted four governors for a virtual town hall, including J. B. Pritzker, of Illinois, who is currently being touted as a key leader of the resistance.

One can debate whether Psaki qualifies as a prominent Democrat in a political sense; she has spent the bulk of her career in Democratic campaigns and Administrations but, after joining MSNBC, has described herself as a journalist. Either way, her anti-Trump message is broadly the same, and will have to overcome similar challenges in breaking through a crowded media environment. High-profile former cable anchors—including Joy Reid, axed from MSNBC (to Maddow’s dismay) during the same programming reshuffle that saw Psaki elevated—have found an audience by posting independently to Substack, stripped of the bells and whistles of a fancy studio. In a similar vein, people are increasingly watching the video versions of podcasts as TV. The most influential resistance-adjacent media figure of this moment might not be anyone at MSNBC but the Times columnist and podcast host Ezra Klein. Recently, MeidasTouch briefly overtook Joe Rogan’s wildly popular podcast in terms of downloads.

It’s certainly true that the 9 P.M. Eastern slot on MSNBC is too little (and literally too late) to stand astride the modern media landscape. And yet it’s also possible to exaggerate the death of established formats. The notion that Trump won last year because he had the brilliant idea to tour apolitical podcasts, and that this was entirely new, oversimplifies the reality. Fox News remains hugely influential on the right, and is still watched by several million people in prime time; Maddow’s nightly show during the first hundred days of Trump’s current term scored ratings in the millions, too. (Indeed, hers was the only non-Fox offering among the top fifteen highest-rated cable shows between January and March.) And political élites still care about what happens on cable—not least Trump himself, who has stuffed his Administration with Fox personalities, and recently found time to attack Maddow from the Oval Office. (“Nobody watches her anyway,” he said—a telltale sign that people do.)

The line between the polished old-school structure of the TV studio and the badlands of the podcastverse is perhaps blurrier than it might initially appear. It’s impossible to imagine an MSNBC version of, for example, Buttigieg’s three-hour “Flagrant” odyssey (with its digressions on, among other things, how hot Scandinavians are). But if shows like that reflect, in part, a growing audience demand for content that takes more time to unspool than the typical cable segment, one could argue that Maddow preëmpted that trend, and did it on cable news, with her winding historical monologues and earnest self-presentation. (In recent years, Maddow has herself adapted to the fracturing of our media world, branching out into podcasts and books, in addition to her show.) And some digital offerings, like the MeidasTouch governors’ town hall with Pritzker et al., would not look so out of place on MSNBC. Psaki, for her part, has spoken recently of the importance of making content for TikTok or YouTube in between her nightly shows, rather than counting on being appointment viewing. “Everybody kind of has to do everything right now,” she told the Poynter Institute. “If there was one thing, everybody would be doing it. There isn’t one clear silver bullet. So we all gotta try lots of stuff.”

If the point of MSNBC’s 9 P.M. hour is to be the tentpole for the resistance, based on some idea of a TV-centric liberal monoculture, Psaki’s show is all but destined to fail. The notion of a singular tentpole was always a bit of an illusion anyway, even during the early days of the first Trump Administration, when Maddow was No. 1 in prime time and perhaps at the apogee of her cultural relevance, for better or worse. (I’m old enough to remember the buzz generated, around the same time, by an upstart liberal venture called “Pod Save America.”) And the further fragmentation of the media landscape doesn’t mean that prime time has suddenly turned into worthless real estate. Psaki’s show will, at least, be one fragment among all the others, and perhaps a relatively noticeable one. She may not have a hot new platform. But she is a political celebrity, which can still help you stand out from the crowd.

If the media environment is fragmented, so, too, is the Democratic resistance itself: split, as Kang wrote in this column, in February, among incompatible strategic impulses; severed from a discredited Party establishment but uncertain where to go next; fundamentally leaderless. As Biden’s former press secretary, Psaki is plausibly part of that discredited establishment, even if she left the role in 2022. (During her recent media tour, she has had to parry questions as to what, if anything, she knew about Biden’s decline, with her response—essentially, that she knew nothing—proving to be catnip for right-wing websites.) But, as Kang suggested, those who still have a platform can use it to cast off the establishment mantle—even if they really should have to wear it. A leadership vacuum is also an opportunity.

Kang ended his column by asking readers to “picture the most intense, bleeding-heart liberal you know, the type who has five signs in their front yard, rage-watches the news, and has spent the past ten years worried that Donald Trump will march us straight into fascism,” and then wondering where all that energy might go next. That person sounds, to me, like a Maddow viewer, and possibly now a Psaki one. Psaki surely won’t harness that energy for herself, at least not in any electoral sense. (She has said that she’s done with government service, unless she’s one day offered an ambassadorship in a warm climate.) But she is pitching her new show as a space where possible future Democratic leaders—prominent already or not—will be able to get a hearing, and that itself confers a certain sort of power. Recently, Byers, of Puck, asked Psaki how she’s thinking about MSNBC’s status as a Democratic Party forum, now that others exist, too. “There are still millions of people—more if you’re Rachel Maddow and Fox News—but there’s still millions of people watching cable at night,” she replied. MSNBC has “a tremendously dedicated audience of people who wanna hear what all these people who may aspire to be leaders have to say.”

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warpfive · 7 months ago

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A SMILE CREEPS OUT FROM YOUR TEETH

request : a malcolm reed rivals to lovers? ☆ malcolm reed x reader wc: 1,090 gif

malcolm reed is a man born to serve. carrying out orders comes second nature to him. so much of his self-worth and self-image comes from being a good officer - one whom his commanding officer could rely on. so to become the tactical officer for earth’s first warp five vessel was both a blessing and a burden - you being chief amongst them.

captain archer had the role of tactical officer narrowed down to just a handful of people. malcolm knew you’d be a great officer for the job - tough, intelligent, and honorable. still, he wanted it, too. more than anything. he’s not sure where the competitiveness came in - somewhere between passing by each other after the initial interviews and the field tests.

and when malcolm was chosen, he was a little ashamed at how good it felt. giving a tight nod and handshake to captain archer, then grinning when his peers gathered around to congratulate him. all except you, who only really dipped your head and walked off without a word. despite having been given a respectable role on malcolm’s security team, it wasn’t the tactical officer.

the first month or so was a bumpy ride for the both of you. malcolm, professional as ever, tried his best to be a fair commanding officer to those beneath him - especially you. but try as he might, there was a lot of friction. you’d think he was bossy, uptight, and snotty. he’d see you as disobedient and unprofessional. you would question his orders on occasion, thinking your ideas were better. malcolm developed a nasty habit of automatically shooting your suggestions down.

tensions ultimately boiled over to a verbal argument over the smallest thing - the placement of the phase pistols. whether or not they should be close to the door or beside the rifles or across from the flashbangs or whatever petty excuse one could find to keep yelling at the other. word eventually got back to captain archer through the lens of gossip. his solution to the tension was very inline for him - cooperating through force. sending you and malcolm on an away mission together for bonding time.

no amount of excuses or malcolm’s attempts at a doctor’s note would make it go away. so, on the next M-class planet enterprise came across, the both of you were paired up. sent to protect some of the xenobotanists to collect plant samples. very few words were spoken. malcolm kept his head on a swivel, forcing him to focus on work and not how well you seem to be getting on with one of the scientists.

nobody on enterprise could have predicted how quickly the weather took a turn for the worse. the sky grew a little cloudy, and before long, the wind itself seemed to be trying to flatten everything in its path. malcolm led the way back to the shuttlepod while you brought up the rear to help stragglers. everything was happening so fast - the shuttlepod was right there, malcolm was urging everyone inside, you blindly shove someone toward him, malcolm yells out your name, something hits your head, and everything is dark.

waking up in sickbay, it’s a surprise to find malcolm already there. he’s talking with phlox, and your head is still reeling from what must have been a nasty concussion. but then, as you’re sitting up, he’s there. hands in fists at his side, a stern knit of his brow, a rod in his spine - all normal malcolmisms. until he speaks, and you can’t recall ever hearing his voice so unsteady.

from that day on, things are…better? you and malcolm aren’t outwardly hostile anymore. he seems more willing to hear you out, and you fall into line a little easier. but to go on and call him your friend was still a reach. friends usually hang out and talk and laugh. you and malcolm have only had a single meal together once, and travis was there. you barely speak outside of your shifts. the closest you came to laughing together was because trip said something stupid that one time.

so it surprises you when, one day, malcolm approaches you in the armory. it’s late, every one else is off shift. it has been almost a month since the away mission accident, and he finally tells you how glad he was that you made it out. and then you guys just. talk. talk about your work on the enterprise, which of the crewmen might deserve a promotion, and how sorry malcolm was for ever making you feel like weren’t as good just because he was chosen as tactical officer.

of course, that means you have to apologize for being a little rebel. you couldn’t just let malcolm be the only one to apologize. that night, after a little more talking and even a laugh or two, you invite malcolm to movie night. he wasn’t planning on going, but the next day, he asked commander tucker which film will be playing.

movie night turned into late night chats in the mess hall afterward. those turned into malcolm walking you to your cabin. the moments spent lingering in the doorway grew longer and longer until you’re inviting him inside one night. you don’t even remember the excuse you thought up that successfully tricked malcolm into actually coming in, but the passionate way he was kissing you made you realize you didn’t even need to trick him at all.

he spent the night in your quarters, and in the morning, he was stressing out in the way only malcolm can. talking about fraternization and breaking protocol and stuff like that. not even the way your fingers glided over his skin really made malcolm feel better. not until your lips found his again, and it was suddenly a lot easier to forget about protocol for the moment.

gossip spreads so quickly. trip is the first to find out somehow, and he’s genuinely happy for you. travis and hoshi approach him next, grinning and asking for details about how it happened. t’pol was surprised - she was still under the impression you both hated each other, and lamented that she evidently had much to learn about human relationships.

it’s hard for malcolm to remember the days when he despised moments when you merely walked into the room, hoping one day captain archer might break the news to him that you were being reassigned somewhere else. because when he’s in your cabin, holding you close, making you laugh accidentally while telling you about his day, he can't imagine not loving you.

#star trek headcanons #star trek x reader #star trek enterprise x reader #malcolm reed x reader

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cooperscreosote · 7 months ago

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@flashfictionfridayofficial

I think this is my longest prompt story so far, haha.

Fandom: Star Trek The Original Series Pairing: Kirk/Spock Words: 940

~~~

Spock's shuttle was drifting helplessly through the vastness of open space.

Oh, if only.

In fact there was a meteorite field all around the little spacecraft. So far the outer hull was holding out, but ever since the engine had failed and Spock had drifted into the field he could hear the constant noise of a barrage of rocks hitting the shuttle.

And that wasn't all. A brief analytical scan had showed that these meteorites contained a rare metal that made it impossible to get a fix on anyone with the transporter. It also severely influenced the communications equipment.

Seriously, how wrong could a mission possibly go? Spock knew that most humans in his situation would panic, but he was a Vulcan. He wouldn't steep so low. (He decided to conveniently forget his half-human heritage. Everything was allowed, as long as it helped him to keep his composure.)

Suddenly a beep from the console alerted him. 'Warning! The life-support system has failed. Remaining oxygen supply will last for approximately ten minutes,' came the emotionless voice from the computer.

Alright, things could always get worse. He sat down and pressed a few buttons on the console. Now there was only one thing he could still do.

---

'I don't want to hear any more excuses, Scotty! We have to rescue Mr Spock!' exclaimed Kirk sternly. 'I'm doing my best, captain, but...' 'Then you need to do more than your best, Mr Scott! Work on it!'

Kirk knew he was being a bit unfair, but after all he was beside himself with worry, so Scotty would probably understand him.

'Captain? We've got an incoming transmission from the shuttle,' said Uhura suddenly. 'What?! Put it on the main screen,' demanded Kirk.

And there he was, his first officer. The picture on the screen was grainy and the sound was crackling, but there he was. 'Mr Spock! How did you get through the jamming and-' 'There is no time to explain, captain. I did some minor adjustments to the instruments. It will cause them to be destroyed in a few minutes, but I decided that it doesn't matter. Not when the whole shuttle will soon be destroyed.' 'About that, Spock...Scotty is working on a solution. We will have you out of there very soon.' 'I fear I must object, captain. One of the meteorites hit an important part of the shuttle. The life support system failed, and the oxygen supply will run out in,' he checked the screen, 'in three more minutes.' 'What?! But Mr Spock, surely there is-' 'There is nothing you or me or Mr Scott can do, captain. I only called the Enterprise to tell you a last goodbye. Please allow me this kind of sentimentality in my final moments.' He said all of that in an entirely matter-of-factly tone, as if it didn't concern him at all. Before Kirk could get a word in, he added: 'I am aware that making a final call home to talk to one's friends and loved ones is a very human trait, or at least I heard about it. However, having seen you for one last time, captain...it makes it easier. Goodbye, captain.' 'What do you mean, goodbye? Mr Spock, I order you to return to the Enterprise! To your home...to where you belong! Is that clear?' Then the connection seemed to fade away. The picture got worse, and even though Kirk still saw Spock's lips move, he couldn't hear him anymore. 'Mr Spock! No!' He whirled around. 'Do something! Anyone! There must be something...' 'There isn't, Jim. You heard him,' said Bones. 'It's too late. The three minutes he mentioned are already over.' 'But this is just-'

In that moment the console beeped again and he heard Scotty's voice. 'Captain? Please come to the transporter room, would you? I've got a-'

He didn't even wait until the chief engineer had finished speaking, because he was out of the door in a heartbeat.

'I surpassed myself, if I dare say so,' said a voice with a Scottish accent. 'I rerouted the entire transporter system in mere minutes. Means I will have to do a lot of repair work since a lot of relays burned through, but it made the transporter beam strong enough to penetrate the meteorite field.' 'Very good, Scotty. Very good,' said another voice. It was warm and full of relief...then Spock finally realised that it was the captain's voice. But how was that possible?

He slowly opened his eyes and saw the faces of Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy hovering over him. 'Look, he's waking up!' said Kirk and took his hand. 'Spock, are you alright?' 'I think so.' He slowly sat up and looked around. This was clearly the Enterprise's transporter room. So they must have found a way to save him. 'You brought me home, captain.' 'Well, technically it was me, but I'll let it slide just that one time,' commented Scotty with a brief laugh. Kirk smiled at him. 'Welcome home, Spock. Welcome home, my dear friend.'

Just as Spock was about to say something, the doctor shoved Kirk aside. 'Now that you welcomed him you should finally let me examine him.' 'Of course, Bones. But you surely won't mind if I stayed with him while you do that?' Kirk grabbed Spock's hand tighter and Bones sighed.

He knew these two. No force in the entire universe would get the captain to let go of his first officer's - and T'hy'la's - hand if he was like that.

'Oh, sure, go ahead. I'm used to it, after all. By god, am I used to it,' he muttered.

#flash fic friday #flash fiction friday #fanfic writing #star trek #star trek tos #spirk

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sassenashsworld · 8 months ago

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Deacon at the Switchboard

(hm...)

The List

Their little enterprise, almost a dream, has become something. A real big something, organized and all. The Switchboard was the center of the operation, and the exact place Deacon was roaming at this moment. This moment when he was desperately searching for Desdemona, yelling to anyone on his path, for them to save themselves. But it was already too late; Deacon knew better than to hope. The Institute has found them, and now, waves after waves, their synths and Coursers are getting into their secure place; they have already killed almost ten of their Heavy.

He frantically shoves past a couple more runners, desperate to find Des and warn her.

"Des!" he yells, his voice strained. "Dammit." He runs down a hallway, his heart beating rapidly. "Where the hell is she?"

He turns a corner, shoving another runner out of the way. The woman is frightened, but Deacon doesn't have time to be gentle; he must find Des.

"Dammit, dammit!" He exclaims. "DESDEMONA?!"

A bright blue flash interrupted his path, and he barely had time to hide behind a desk before the new Courser invaded his area. Some more agents try to fight back.

Deacon's heart sinks when he peeks from behind the desk, eyes widening as he sees Donny crawling to his position.

"Damnit…" he mutters before shoving himself flush with the desk, praying the Courser doesn't see him.

Donny… it's Donny. This kid was supposed to leave with Deacon soon after for a special mission, his very first on the ground. Donny is a young man—only eighteen maybe. He's still green and clearly terrified of the situation at hand. He looks at Deacon, a mixture of fear and pleading in his eyes.

"Deacon…" he whispers, his voice shaking. "I- I don't... What do we do?"

The spy tries to think fast, but the events are even faster. He would like to joke it off, find a miracle solution, or anything. However, as he turns to reassure Donny, the intense heat from a plasma gun destroys his attempt, causing the young boy's head to explode.

The gore splashes him all.

Deacon can't prevent the gasp that escapes him as Donny's life is snuffed out in front of him, but he doesn't dare move or squeaks to reveal his really precarious position. He can feel the warm blood spatter against his skin as he ducks further behind the desk, his heart beating rapidly.

"Damnit, damnit, damnit…" he cursed quietly, desperately trying to think of an escape route out of here.

His eyes dart nervously from side to side, taking in the ongoing battle happening around him. He could try to sneak past the Courser and run for the exit, but that route appears to be nearly swarmed with synths…

He can feel panic rising in him, his mind a mess of racing thoughts. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Think, think. Come on. But his heartbeat is too loud in his ears for him to think clearly; panic and fear are seeping into his very bones.

He casts a backward glance at the Courser, its focus on some agents engaged in combat farther away from him.

He takes the chance, slowly and quietly creeping himself around the opposite edge of the desk, away from the super-synth's gaze.

He tries to keep his footsteps light and steady, praying that the Courser won't hear the sound of his boots against the ground. He can feel his heart hammering against his chest, his sweaty palms against his jeans as he creeps ever so slowly, inch by inch.

He's mere feet away from a door, one that leads to the secret escape of the Switchboard. He's slowly reaching out his hand towards the door, his fingers trembling….

And the Courser's head suddenly snaps in his direction. Its cold eyes fixate on him, pinning him in place with a predatory glare.

Shit. Deacon freezes in place, his eyes wide. He can feel the blood in his veins turn to ice as the Courser slowly stalks towards him, its synthetic face expressionless as it raises its weapon.

The Courser's footsteps are loud and methodical as it advances on him, the tip of its gun pointed at his heart. Deacon can feel the sweat beading on his forehead, his chest heaving as adrenaline courses through his body.

A hand closes on his collar from behind, and he is suddenly drags without even being able to get back on his feet.

Glory's strong and firm grip yanks Deacon backwards. He staggers, momentarily off balance, before Glory begins hauling him down the hall, pulling him behind Des and Carrington.

Desdemona is trying her best to maintain order, calling out directives that fall on deaf ears in the chaos.

"Dammit, move, move!" she yells, her voice strained.

He tries to pick up his pace, his heart still beating furiously as he runs with Glory. He can hear strange voices giving deadpan orders and shooting gunfire behind them—the Courser and synths trailing them. He chances a look over his shoulder to see if they're catching up, but another tug from Glory forces him to focus back on the hallway before him.

Tom Whisper manages to break away from their group, and Desdemona pulls them along, now under the protection of P.A.M. Deacon doesn't even realize the robot was with them. The group runs blindly and desperately down the hallway, their footsteps echoing madly against the walls. Deacon tries to keep up, his legs pumping underneath him.

But now, all he can think about is the realization that everything has ended.

It's over. It's all over.

He can't even count the deaths.

Those he almost called his friends. What he almost thinks of as his family. What he thought was the secured place of the world.

"No, no, no, no, no…" he mutters lowly to himself, his heart heavy with despair. He can't believe this is happening. This was their heaven, their safe place.

And it's all over.

#noskipnovember #fallout 4 #fallout #deacon #fo4

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