#adapted from prompts-in-a-barrel

[high-key-satan-low-key-satanic]

Always face a wild animal

Yuri : * Back turned*

Satan : *Literally half an inch away from her*

Satan :..Yuri.

Yuri : Oh my god!-Don't do that!

Satan : Do what?

Yuri : That! Listen babe I love you I do, but do you always have to be so creepy?

Satan : I'm a demon. I don't have a lot of other hobbies.

[ghoulsbounty]

From a Previous Life

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bound and fearful, you seek answers from a mysterious stranger about the fate of those you love.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of death, pregnancy, non-detailed talk about experimentations, angst, grief, swearing, judgement, flirting (if you squint)

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: My first Cooper fic! I've had this idea going around my head for a hot while and I really could go on, and on with more (yearning, smut, etc) but I just wanted to get out an initial one-shot that could potentially turn into more if any one likes it (or I end up adding to it anyway!) I'd love to hear your thoughts 💌

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Silently, you moved through the desolate wastelands, each step stirring clouds of dust and veiling the once lively towns now reduced to rubble. Somewhere in California, though the exact whereabouts blurred, you were leagues away from the sanctuary you once called home, apparently almost two centuries ago. Time, to you, was an elusive concept, for the stiffness in your joints and the lingering ache betrayed the recent thaw from cryo-sleep. Your mind remained ensnared by fog, a residue of the drugs coursing through your veins during preservation.

Yet, your senses, dulled by centuries of slumber, detected his presence long before he materialized. Heavy footfalls pierced the barren silence, prompting a cautious glance over your shoulder. There he stood, solitary amidst the wasteland, a gun slung lazily across his back and a weathered ten-gallon hat shadowing his features. Perhaps he had spotted you, perhaps not; regardless, neither of you quickened your pace, silently agreeing to maintain a wary distance.

Ever cautious, you abruptly veered into the next structurally sound building, bracing for a potential standoff. Praying it wouldn't come to that, for the meagre supply of bullets salvaged from a fallen vault security guard, coupled with his erratic pistol, offered scant reassurance. The art of marksmanship was foreign to you, a skill unbefitting a woman of virtue in the world before its descent into chaos. Your pride lay in nurturing the home, not in extinguishing life.

"What would your husband make of this sight?" you thought. Clad in the worn remnants of the blue and yellow jumpsuit issued upon vault entry, now stained with blood and grime from your desperate flight. Would he mock your dishevelled appearance, your unadorned face and frayed nerves? Would he marvel at the pistol clenched tightly in your grasp, its weight unfamiliar and your trembling fingers poised on the trigger? Could he shoulder this burden, like you wish he was here to do so? Such musings left you unsettled, your husband's whereabouts a lingering question mark, conspicuously absent from your side.

Peering cautiously from beneath the window sill, your gaze swept the scorched landscape beyond. The lone figure should have drawn near by now, should have approached the building where you lay in wait, yet his silhouette remained absent from the horizon. Instead, the frigid touch of a gun barrel against the back of your skull sent a shiver down your spine, your body tensing instinctively under the ominous threat. You suppressed the cry that clawed at your parched throat, swallowing hard as you slowly lowered your pistol to the ground beside you.

"That's it, nice and slow," he instructed, his voice gruff with a hint of amusement. "You might be my easiest catch yet."

Realization dawned upon you—he had been tracking you. You inwardly chided yourself for your naivety before complying, raising your arms slowly with palms outstretched. Encountering no one in these barren lands, you were uncertain of the customs among people so removed from your time. You were one of them now, but survival demanded adaptation.

"Please, I don't have any money," you offered, hearing his scoff. "I mean it. Take my gun, you can have it."

His movement rustled the air, his presence brushing against you as he leaned to retrieve your pistol. A low hum of amusement escaped him, and you felt the cold barrel of his gun pressing against your skull before it vanished altogether.

"I don't want your hunk of junk, sweetheart," he drawled, tossing it back to the ground beside you. "Doubt it can punch through a tin can. No, what I seek is your cooperation."

"O-okay, yes," you agreed, the words tumbling from your lips almost too hastily, embarrassment flushing your cheeks.

A nudge at the side of your heel prompted you to turn and face him. You complied, shifting on your knees, arms growing weary as they remained raised above your head while you awkwardly pivoted to meet his gaze.

The scream tore from your throat as you beheld him, sending shivers down your spine. He loomed above you, his visage warped by decomposing, discoloured flesh that swathes his form. Cracked lips parted to reveal yellowed teeth in a perpetual grimace, his once vibrant eyes now a haunting shade of blue-green, still clinging to a trace of humanity amidst the decay. You recoiled at the absence of his nose, now a dark cavity amidst cartilage and bone.

"That's not polite," he admonished, his narrowed eyes betraying annoyance. Trembling under his scrutinizing gaze, you stammered out an apology, extending a trembling hand to ward him off as he took a step forward.

"Please, leave me alone. I-I don't have anything," you pleaded, but he showed no sign of relenting. Your fingers curled around the pistol on the ground, raising it shakily in his direction.

"Well now, what are you going to do with that?" His smirk deepened as you aimed the weapon at him.

His amusement infuriated and terrified you in equal measure. You were aware of your body shaking, aware that he saw it too. You hadn't formulated a plan, hadn't considered the consequences. But you'd never faced a situation like this, especially not with someone so grotesque yet strangely human. He spoke like a man but resembled a monster, reminiscent of the creatures from the old sci-fi holo tapes your husband used to rent on Friday nights, leaving you cowering behind embroidered cushions until the credits rolled. You weren't built for this, but just like only hours before, you must fight.

With a tight grip and clenched eyes, you pulled the trigger. The recoil sent you crashing against the wall, the impact jarring your head as the bullet ricocheted through the room, narrowly missing the man and striking a nearby doorway with a sharp ping.

"Well, that was disappointing," he remarked, his head cocked and lips drawn into a condescending smirk. "You finished, sweetheart?"

With a mixture of annoyance at your failure and frustration at his dismissive demeanour, you tossed the pistol at his feet. Your head throbbed, and as you tentatively touched the back of your skull with trembling fingers, you were unsurprised to find them stained with blood.

"Are you going to kill me?" you panted, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

He shook his head, kicking at the dirt with his pointed boot before crouching in front of you. "Not much use to me dead, not much use to me at all if you don't cooperate," he emphasized, his tone dripping with implication.

"Fine," you huffed. "What do you want?"

A triumphant hum escaped him as he straightened up, retrieving a long rope from his hip and tossing it into your lap. "Tie your hands together," he commanded.

You hesitated, eyeing the rope and then him with uncertainty. His tone shifted, imbued with a hint of authority as he spoke again. "The rope goes around your wrists or around your neck. Either way, you don't want me to be the one to do it."

With deft fingers, you hastily wound the rope around your wrists, striving to fashion a knot that would hold without chafing your skin too severely. He bent down, giving the tether a firm tug to test its security before nodding in approval. Seizing the other end lying in the dirt, he yanked it harshly, nearly causing you to stumble forward onto the unforgiving ground.

"Get up," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

You complied, awkwardly pushing yourself to your feet without the use of your bound hands. There was a pregnant pause as you gazed at him expectantly, awaiting further instruction. However, he simply tugged on the rope, turning to lead you out of the dilapidated building and back into the sprawling wasteland.

You followed him into the desert expanse, both of you shrouded in silence save for your intermittent attempts to coax answers from him. Questions about where he was taking you, what he planned to do with you, hung in the air, but he offered no response. Instead, he whistled a tune, leaving your inquiries to dissipate into the wind.

As frustration reached its boiling point, you dug your heels into the sand, exerting force against your restraints as the rope cut into your skin. A hidden thrill coursed through you as you witnessed his hulking frame falter against the resistance, a fleeting moment of satisfaction before he regained his footing. His narrowed gaze met yours from beneath the shadow of his hat.

"I'm cooperating," you asserted, your voice strained. "You can—should at least tell me where we are going. Why you're doing this to me."

A heavy sigh escaped him, his shoulders slumping as he gazed skyward before meeting your eyes once more. "You're sure dumb for a pretty thing," he muttered, retrieving a flask from the recesses of his torn duster and taking a long swig. "I guess that's how they like to keep you down there."

As he turned to face you fully, his eyes rolled at your bewilderment before he elaborated. "Not much up here untouched nowadays, so when you see a little rabbit wandering the lands fresh from her cage, a smart man doesn't think twice before he acts."

Anger surged through you at his mocking words. Barely escaping your 'cage' with your life, barely comprehending the aftermath of the bombs, and now captive again—this time by a man, no, a monster, likely more sinister than those who had ensnared you initially.

"You already said you're not going to kill me, so you're going to fuck me or sell me," you asserted, mustering more confidence than you truly felt, chin lifted defiantly as he scrutinized you, tucking his flask away.

"Now you're catching on," he replied cryptically, offering no further explanation as he tugged at the rope and resumed walking. Your mind whirled with apprehension at his ominous response. Which fate awaited you? Both? The thought churned your stomach, imagining the touch of his weathered, calloused hands, pondering the atrocities he may have committed before and the ones he might be willing to commit now. You resolved not to make it easy for him, determined to fight tooth and nail if necessary.

"I can hear you thinking from over here, vaultie," he called back. "I ain't gonna fuck you," he added with a smirk, glancing briefly over his shoulder at you before continuing. "Ain't my type."

You scoffed, your brows furrowed in disbelief at his audacity. Doubt crept in, questioning if someone like him truly had preferences, more inclined to prey on anything within reach rather than adhere to any type. He resembled a monster more than a man, and you suspected his instincts remained consistent regardless of his words. Out here, where the population had dwindled to ashen, skeletal remnants of unfortunate souls caught in the blast, it seemed unlikely anyone could afford to be picky.

"What happened to you?" you demanded, your voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

He visibly stiffened at your question, briefly halting his movements before resuming with a dismissive gesture. He heard you, yet chose not to respond.

"I said, what happened to—"

"I heard you," he snapped, cutting you off. "Doesn't mean I owe you an answer."

You huffed, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "I'm just trying to understand what's going on! Yesterday, I was in my kitchen baking a key lime pie and dancing to the radio, and then—"

"Miss your cage, vaultie?" he interjected, a cruel chuckle escaping his lips. "If you miss it so much, why are you out here?"

Straining against your restraints, you heard him sigh in annoyance as he came to a halt. Turning to face you, irritation etched on his ghoulish features, he regarded you with a jutted hip and clenched gloved fingers tightening around the rope. "I'm not talking about the vault," you said earnestly. "I was in my home yesterday, just a normal day. Then the sirens blared, so loud I couldn't think. My neighbour, she came to my door, told me we had to leave, find safety. I didn't want to go without Glenn, but everyone was running, scared. I was too."

"When we reached the vault, it was chaos," you continued, his attention now fully captured, eyes glazed. "So many people, struggling to get in. But we made it, and... my neighbour, Patti—she's my friend. She had just given birth to her first child, a beautiful baby boy." You swallowed hard, suppressing the bile that threatened to rise in your throat. "They were supposed to let us in, we were pre-selected. But when we arrived, they turned Patti away. Shot her husband when he fought back," you recounted, the horror of the memory still fresh. "Then chaos erupted. The first nuke fell, and I was pushed through to the vault door. I lost Patti."

He regarded you with a sombre understanding, silently urging you to continue.

"When I entered, it wasn't like the commercials," you spat bitterly, recalling the false promises of safety. He cleared his throat. "That actor, going on about how great the vaults were—'a vast and wonderful place,'" you mocked with disdain. "Mine wasn't like that. It was... They did unspeakable things to us, to unborn children, and there was no recourse. It wasn't right. I knew what they wanted, deep down, but my head told me not to be so naïve. Vault-Tec was supposed to be saving us."

Tears welled in your eyes as the memories flooded back, as vivid as if they had happened yesterday, because to you they did. "They threw us into pods, froze us until they needed us. Took us out for testing and... I was the last one. Everyone else had... died, from the testing," you choked out, the pain of loss still raw. "I fought to survive, because I couldn't let what happened to those women and their babies happen to me or mine."

He listened intently, his eyes widening as he took in your story. His gaze flicked to the small swell of your stomach below your tied wrists, realization dawning.

"So I need to know," you implored, your voice trembling with fear. "Is what happened to you also what happened to Patti and her baby? Will it happen to mine?"

He studied you, and you felt yourself shrink under his penetrating gaze. You hadn't intended to divulge so much, to reveal your condition that you had desperately tried to conceal until it could no longer be hidden, to relive the trauma that still haunted you, though in reality centuries had passed since its occurrence. Yet, you needed answers. You needed to know what lay ahead in this desolate wasteland, and if you possessed the strength to face it.

"Yes," he answered quietly, his voice laden with a heavy solemnity. "It will, in time."

Fresh tears traced their path down your cheeks, and you nodded in understanding, raising your bound hands to wipe at your wet nose. "Okay," you whispered, then smiled sadly in resignation as you rubbed your wrists gently over your stomach. "At least up here, we had a little freedom for a time."

You felt the rope that he had been keeping such a tight hold on slacken before being dropped to the ground. Stepping towards you, he gingerly took your wrists and began working on the knot, untying it with ease before meeting your gaze from beneath his lashes. "You just gained a little more."

"You're letting me go?" you asked, doubtful.

"I'm letting you choose," he corrected, his voice carrying a peculiar weight as he rubbed the tender, burned skin of your wrist where the rope had left its mark. His thick thumb felt rough against your flesh as it traced over you in a gentle, swiping motion. "There are things worse than me out here, sweetheart. Are you going to take your chances?"

His words hung heavy in the air, and you met his gaze defiantly. "I don't need your pity."

"Good, because I ain't giving you none," he replied, his tone firm.

You held his gaze, neither of you willing to be the first to look away. Moments ago, he had been intent on taking you to an undisclosed location to sell you for whatever passed as currency in this wasteland, but now he presented you with a choice—a grim ultimatum. Stay with him or fend for yourself in the harsh wastelands. Neither option was ideal, but you hadn't lasted a single day on your own before being apprehended by him. Perhaps it was better to stick with the devil you knew, especially if there truly were worse threats out there as he claimed.

"I'm going to get bigger, you know. I'll slow you down," you warned him. "And I can't fight."

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he gathered the discarded rope and secured it at his hip. "I've seen you shoot, but I've yet to see you fight. I think a few vault security guards could probably vouch for you, though," he teased, a hint of admiration in his voice. "You can't stay with me forever, nor would you want to. I'll take you to a safe haven for women in your condition. It's a few months' journey north from here. Until then, try to keep up."

You pondered his words, feeling a sense of relief at the prospect of a safe haven and the promise of being escorted there, despite the long journey. "Why the change of heart? What's in this for you?" you asked, curious about his sudden shift in demeanour.

His expression tightened, his gaze drifting to the small swell of your stomach that you now cradled protectively. "Righting some wrongs from a previous life," he answered solemnly, not waiting for your response before turning and beginning to walk away. He paused momentarily, waiting for you to follow.

"I don't know your name. What do I call you?" you called out after him.

He pondered for a moment, gazing out into the vast desert before turning back to you, tipping his hat in acknowledgment.

"Ghoul, for now."

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Playful prompts for tadc cast playing hide and seek with hider reader?

Awe this is a cute idea! (not including Caine bc I see him as the one organizing this game).

.........

Pomni

During her first week inside the Digital Circus, she's slowly adapting to everything...although she refuses to give up on finding an exit.

But when Caine forced everybody to play some hide n' seek, with you being the hider, she really doesn't want any part of it.

However you convinced her to play along, whispering that if she found you first, you'll share what you remembered from your old life as a "prize".

Although initially annoyed you wouldn't just tell her, she becomes motivated searching high and low, opening doors, looking down barrels, etc.

When she finally finds you (courtesy of a glitching object), she's anxious to hear what you had to say-

Unfortunately Caine decides to pop in and put on a big celebration for Pomni winning the game...which goes on the whole damn day up until everybody goes to bed that night.

You seemingly forgot what you were gonna tell her, to which she gets upset and angry that you gave her false hope, sulking in her room.

But you slide a note under her door, explaining that you only recently remembered your real name.

Suddenly she realizes that maybe her memories weren't 100% gone.

If you could suddenly remember your name, then....surely she can, too!

Gangle

After Jax was mean to her during the last hide n' seek game, you try cheering her up by playing another one.

It didn't involve Caine or anybody else. Just you two.

She mopes about being a terrible seeker. But since you're her best friend (and you promised her a prize), she'll go along if it makes you happy.

You decide to hide in spots that she would 100% think to check, deliberately allowing her to win.

Since she's all ribbons, it's easy for her to slink around and squeeze into tight spaces.

After finding you three times, she gets suspicious that you're purposefully going easy on her-

But she stops her accusations as you finally present her prize:

It's a brand new comedy mask!! Except this one wasn't made of porcelain or ceramic, instead being unbreakable material (or at least material that's couldn't casually be broken by anyone, especially Jax).

Gangle sobs with happiness before putting the mask on, squealing over how perfectly it fits, and hugging you tightly.

Thanks to you, she can finally feel joyful again!

Zooble

They'd rather do anything else....

But since this little hide n' seek "adventure" was all Caine's idea, she has no choice but to go along with it.

Even so, she puts the least amount effort into the game.

When you're the hider and she's the seeker, they just pray to whatever god is in this world (besides Caine) that you aren't anywhere in the Gloink cavern.

She'd rather not get discombobulated again.

Sometimes, she'll throw parts of herself in the direction where she thinks you're hiding, hoping to startle you into giving away your location so this dumb game can finally end.

Lucky for you, you know their tricks and keep quiet.

She doesn't expect any prizes (unless it's a limb that makes her body not look like a hot mess).

If they find you, she'll be like "yay I win..now I'm going back to my room" and saunter off.

Kinger

Like Zooble, he'd much rather do something else.

But he goes along with Caine's game anyways after you enticed him into playing for a prize.

Whatever momentarily stops his sanity from spiraling, I guess.

He searches high and low, getting nervous when he can't find you anywhere in the places he'd 100% expect you to be.

Lowkey starts to wonder if something terrible actually happened to you--like if you were trapped and not even Caine could help you.

The last place he could think of was your room but.....he doesn't have your key.

At the same time, he knew you weren't a cheater. You wouldn't hide somewhere that nobody else (except Jax) could access!

In the end, he goes back to his fort to sulk, openly declaring that you've won the game.

As it turns out, you chose to hide in that same fort, and you jump out with a grin, feeling victorious.

Kinger just stares at you for a solid 10 seconds.....before he suddenly screams and asks why tf you were in there.

You feel bad for scaring him, so you reward him for at least trying: a jar with a caterpillar currently wrapped up in a chrysalis.

He LOVES it, but now he carries around the jar every second of the day, staring at it until the little bug hatches.

At least now he has a reason not to fall off the deep end just yet.

Jax

Hide n' seek is like child's play to him.

Somehow this cheeky bastard knows exactly where you're hiding no matter what, even if it's outside the tent (like at the lake or fair).

It's definitely tarnishing your reputation as the best "hider" out of all of the gang.

When you ask him how tf he knew, he just shrugs and says "you're too predictable, try a better spot next time".

Hiding in your room is definitely not an option, as he's stolen your key (and would point out that would be cheating if someone else was the seeker instead)--so there truly is no place to hide.

Like Zooble, he's not in it for some prize.

It is, however, quite rewarding seeing you get so frustrated when he effortlessly finds you.

And that's enough for him

If it's a game involving everyone, then he just straight-up mocks the others for not realizing the very obvious spot (or at least to him it was obvious) you were hiding in.

Ragatha

She's probably the most enthusiastic about Hide n' seek (like you have mentioned, it's a good distraction from the stresses of being stuck in this virtual world).

Is also a fair and honest player, never once peeking while she counts to 10.

Like Pomni, she does her best to find you first, searching places she knows you frequent--or mentioned liking in the past.

But you're definitely the best hider out of everyone, so it's a little challenging.

Still, she refuses to give up!

When she does successfully find you, you and Caine decided that she should get a prize for being such a great seeker.

It's her very own centipede-repellent spray bottle.

While it won't stop Jax from trying to sneak those little pests into her room, the mist will deter them from coming near her at all and help her conquer her fear.

She's forever grateful and sprays it around her bed every night before she sleeps.

Oh, and she'll definitely threaten Jax with it if he even mentioned centipedes around her.

[insomniamamma]

Threefold: Ezra x F!reader w/Cee

A/N: I am still working on my kiss prompts for @yearofcreation2023. Yeah yeah. I know we are well into 2024. But I am determined to finish these prompts. The prompt for this fic is "Kiss as a lie." This does not connect to any of my other Prospect fics, even though some terms may overlap. Enemies to reluctant allies. Reader is disabled and relies on body mods to assist her breathing. This one really got away from me. like 6K away from me.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injuries and medical procedures. Alcohol and drug consumption. Vomiting. Smut but nothing super graphic. Mentions of bodily fluids. This is not my usual Ezra. He is a shit in this one.

 “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t splatter your brains all over this bar.” You jam your thrower into the curls at Ezra’s nape. You watch him in the bleared bar mirror, watch the color drain from his face even as he smiles, starts to turn his head and you dig the barrel of the thrower in deeper, feel your finger tightening involuntarily, your need for vengeance vying with your need for satisfaction, for some sort of answer for what he did, finger curls slightly and releases again, Kevva knows you never expected to see him again, Kevva knows—something cold jams beneath the angle of your jaw and you snap back into the present. The bar mirror shows a slight girl with a halo of pale hair and thundercloud eyes, a small, freckled wisp.  “Put it down,” her voice is soft and steady, “I don’t want to hurt you but I will.”   “Well if this isn’t quite the predicament,” says Ezra, “How but you ease up on the trigger and we talk this out like civilized folk.”  “Your time for talk ended five stands ago,” Your eyes flick towards the bleary girl in the bar-back mirror, “I don’t know what he promised you, kid, but he’ll fuck you over the second it makes sense. You’re what, fifteen stands? When he ditches you on some no-name moon what’re you gonna do?” The barrel digs deeper into the flesh at your neck. Ezra says your name, not darlin or kitten or sweetheart or any of the slew of names he gave you down on The Green, but the one you told him, the one he murmured against the sweaty column of your throat while you arched beneath him, quivered around him, felt like a blessing from his lips as he spilled fever hot inside you.  “I did you wrong,” says Ezra, “You weren’t the first and you certainly weren’t the last, and, if I’m being honest, I did not think on you overmuch—“ The little girl in the warped mirror shakes her head--  “Ez--“ You feel the gun held against your throat tremble.  “But these past stands have not been kind,” says Ezra, “To either of us, I imagine.” His eyes flick up towards your reflection and you know exactly what he sees, and how could he not? Paired auto-breathers clipped to your collarbones, metal and plastic welded to meat in an a scarred seal, ports that can be used for a filter-hookup with the right adapters.  “So what? That’s the Fringe, isn’t it? That’s what you told me then—“  “How, exactly, do you imagine this plays out?” says Ezra, “You kill me, she kills you. Both of us dead here on the deck-plating and what’s the point of it? Revenge? Satisfaction?” You dig the barrel of your thrower into the meat at the nape of his neck, even as his girl shoves her weapon tighter against the angle of your jaw.  “Or let’s say I kill you,” Ezra purrs, and you become aware of a buzzing, like a neglected data pad with incoming message against your inner thigh, but that doesn’t make sense, data pad’s in your left breast pocket and he grins in the mirror, flick your eyes down and damned if he doesn’t have a laser scalpel pressed into the meat of your leg, blood corona already spreading, “Think you can make the shot before I clip your femoral artery? You didn’t crawl out of Bakhroma’s well to bleed out in this dive, did you?”  “Damn you, Ezra. You owe me. You left me to die down there.”  “I did indeed, and if you ease off the trigger for a tick, I can offer your recompense.You think it’s an accident? You and me nested into the same ring? Show her, Cee.”  “Ez, I don’t think-“  “Show her. And I’ll get us some drinks. I think a toast may be in order.”

“You know what we need to do, when we meet up with the others, right?” You cling to him despite the sticky heat of the tent, air thick and heady with the smell of sex, his come smeared between your bellies as you lay half atop him, head on his chest, his arm curled around your shoulder.  “I stay on one,” you say, yawning, drifting as he traces aimless patterns up and down your arm, “You switch to two. Give them the talk. You fake a comms error and go for your channel box. You take the big one and I pick off the leader. The one with the red. Then we get,  we get out of here.” He squeezes you tight as sleep takes you, his heart slow and steady beneath your ear.

 Cee sighs, rolls her eyes, pulls her thrower off your throat.  “Fine,” she says, and reaches for a bag slung at her side. 

 Ezra hails his crew, and hiss of static on your ear when he switches to two, your thrower in hand, trained on the leader, brilliant red plast pauldron over his exosuit, waiting for the signal, for Ezra to go for his channel box, what is he waiting for? He looks animated, smiling through the fog of his helmet, this is wrong, you think, and he turns, thrower in hand and shoots and the world whites out for a tick, your leg collapses under you and when you lift your head there’s Ezra, tucking his thrower back into his holster, the press of his boot against your shoulder rolling you on your back from where you curled around yourself, broken nerves screeching around the path of cooked flesh just above your knee. You know what’s happened, but part of you can’t believe it—  “Help me!” You say, met by the hiss of an open channel, he grabs your trophy case and tosses it to his friend, the big man with the railer he was supposed to kill, leans in and reaches for you and for a moment you think this is all some mistake, something that can be made right and he wrenches your filter out of it’s clip, cuts the hose so it’s you and the dust laden atmosphere.  “Why?” You ask and know he won’t answer, makes a big pantomime of tapping his helmet and shaking his head. Your eyes scrim over with tears, the cooked nerves in your leg screaming a wordless anthem, “Please.” Ezra bows his head but still smiles, presses his gloved fingers to his helmet and  blows you a kiss , that’s the fringe, girl, even with comms cut you can make out the words, and then he turns away, walking off into the brush with his crew. 

 “Carom-burned pearl,” you say, mouth taking over while your brain runs wild, this gem is trash, sure, but the size— “So what?” You drop your thrower back to your hip without even thinking on it. Impossible to tell the quality with the membrane half-burned into the surface, but still—  “Don’t play stupid.” says Cee, “You were on The Green. You know what you’re lookin at.”  “I know that I am looking at a botched pull,” you say, “I’m also looking at a little girl who thinks she’s found a friend way out here in the ass-end of the Great Arm. Did he give this to you, spring-sprite? Spin you a tale of buried treasure? He promise you an even split—“  “60/40. My way. 16th per point garnishment to clear his debt,” she says, “Ezra works for me.”  You laugh, a real one deep from your belly and the intake fans, your intake fans whir faster to make up for the perceived oxygen debt, vibrations through your bones that you can’t seem to get used to even after all these stands,   “Oh, honey, I was gonna kill him, but now I don’t think I will. Think I’ll let you reap the consequences here. Me and Ez? We’re done.”  “It’s the Queen’s Lair,” says Ezra, and you stop cold, half-way up off of your stool, seep back down like your legs have forgotten themselves. “I know. I know you’ll never believe me, but we were there.”  “You just happened on it right? Just happened to drop right down in the place that every fool and their brother went hunting for on that Kevva-forsaken rock.”  “Not me,” says Ezra, “Cee’s father.”  “So why isn’t it him making the pitch?”  “He didn’t make it,” says Cee. And you nod. Spacer’s phrase for a constellation  of mishaps. A blown hull. A dust infection. An altercation in some shit station bar over points or pussy or any number of things. An invitation to not ask. “It wasn’t even really him that found it—“  “Cee—“  “My father was contracted to harvest for Karoclan. Group of mercs found the Lair by accident. Probably digging a shit-pit. We landed bad. By the time we made it to the site it was just me and Ezra, and things got complicated.”  “Complicated.”  “We had to fight our way out. We barely made the sling.”  “You couldn’t do the job,” you say, “And you know I can.”  “That’s not-“  “She never learned the trick and I was trying to cut the blisters weak-handed,” says Ezra, “That’s why we need you.”  “You went back there. Even after all you took from me. You could’ve gone somewhere better with your cut but you didn’t. You got addicted to the rush.”  “I did,” says Ezra.  “Me and Ezra and now you are the only people that know the Queen’s Lair is even real,” says Cee, “We go there, we get a good pull and we can live off it for years. Now that the line’s dead the value’s just gonna go up. We get the pearls and trickle them into the market—“  “How’re we gonna get there with the line dead? No one makes the BG sling anymore. They just route everything around Ikhar and—“  “Got a hot-jumper willing to take us for a cut.” Says Ezra, “We ride the line till just after the Ikhar sling and then unclip and burn. Gets us in orbit in 6 stand months.”  “Risky,” you say, tapping you index and middle fingers against your right breather, vibration passing from metal into bone, a nervous habit born out of a rerouted urge to scratch at the healing skin.  “Yeah. But if we do it right, if we play it smart, none of us will have to drop down some Kevva-shunned well for a hand of points ever again. We can have the lives that sharp-toothed bitch moon took from us.”  “Like you didn’t have a part in it—“ Ezra reaches across the sticky bar and folds your hand in his—

 He grabs you under the arms, woah there girlie, this is bad ground, yanks you back, so focused on the pull that you didn’t feel the ground shifting beneath you, grab your gear and hold it to your chest even as you’re pulled back from the rapidly forming sink-hole in the loamy dirt, draw your thrower and whirl on the stranger, your gear scattered all around your feet. Don’t fuckin touch me.  Is that anyway to talk to someone who just saved your life? What’re you doing out here all alone anyway?   who says I’m alone?  You got crew? Raise ‘em on coms. Yeah that’s what I thought. Gonna get killed out here all alone.

 “I had every part in it,” says Ezra. “The breath of your lungs, Cee’s only living kin, and the arm from my own body. All victim to my greed and stupidity and short-sightedness. I used you and I duped you and robbed you and left you to die and Kevva rightly and thoroughly kicked my ass for it. If not for Cee I would have breathed my last in that forsaken jungle-“ You yank your hand away as if burned.  “You do not touch me,” you say, “We are not friends, we are not lovers. That part is over. Forever. We clear?”  “Clear,” says Ezra, that infuriating little half-smile crawling up his cheek, “That mean you’re in?”  “Maybe.”

 Didn’t realize how loud those fans were gonna be.  Maybe you’d like me to suffocate about it.     Does she ever turn that player off?  Do you ever turn your breathers off?  Not the same.  To her it is.

 What’s with you and her? You aren’t kin. You said you cost her only kin. In that pretty speech you gave me so I wouldn’t shoot you.  That is a complicated and lengthy tale.  We’ve got time.

 “Ezra? I don’t like this.” Cee eyes the blue gel pack in her hand.  “Once the bolts release Jada’s gonna burn hard,” says Ezra, “She’s got mods to deal with the pain and sickness, but we don’t. If we don’t dope down, we’re gonna be in a world of hurt.”  “People’ve died,” you say, and Ezra shoots you a dark look that you give right back, “They go into shock sometimes. Don’t wanna risk that right?”  “It’s not addictive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” says Ezra, “We’ve got a sixteenth to take it and have it work. You go past that and it’s your choice, Little Bird.” Cee’s eyes flick from your face to his, and you wonder how you’ve slipped into caring for this girl, this orphan of Ezra’s making, how you became someone she’d look to in a place of indecision.   “I’ve never hot-jumped myself, but I was crew with a man who was on a prison transport that did,” you say, hoping the grain of truth in the story will be enough to get Cee to chomp down on that gel pack when the time comes. You heard the story second hand on over drinks on Leylan bench, but Cee doesn’t need to know that. “They didn’t bother doping down the prisoners. Guess they didn’t want to spend the points. Aggie said him and most of the others exploded from both ends. It wasn’t nice. Hallucinated on top of that if I remember right. Hot jump fucks with people.”  “Heard some of those tales myself,” says Ezra. “Jada’s a professional. She’s so modded up she can’t handle a drop down a well anymore. She wants her cut we’ve got to be her hands. It’s not in her interest to lead us wrong.”  “We got a sixteenth?”  “Yeah, but how bout we get ourselves secure and do it all together?”   “Okay,” says Cee. The three of your wordlessly prep, following the instructions Jada gave you on boarding. Wear something soft. No jewelry, nothing rigid. These, Jada had flicked a finger against Cee’s music player, are a no-go. The crash beds have plenty of give but I’ve seen people come out the other side with holes in em from fancy buttons on their pants. These gonna be a problem?  Jada eyed your breathers and poked at one with a questing finger. How long’ve you had em? Bout five stands. Should be fine then. Bone’s had time to remodel and deal with the extra mass. You’ll be sore though. You remove the ring your mother gave you before you left the well, remove the studs from your ears, don the softest clothes you have. Cee wears an over sized shirt with Puzo in his space suit, long, coltish legs and bare feet sticking out. Her toenails are painted an alarming sparkly green, and your heart squeezes a little. She may have shoved a thrower into your neck but she is still very much a little girl.   “We ready?”  “This is gonna taste bad isn’t it?”  “Most likely,” says Ezra, “We bite down on a three count, yeah?” Cee scrunches her face, tucks the gel pack into her cheek and you and Ezra do the same.  “Ready? One, two, three-“  “Oh that is nasty-“ says Cee. You crunch down and swallow the drug in a convulsive gulp, bitter medicinal taste beneath something that is supposed to taste like bananas. Not that you’ve ever seen or eaten one.  “That is just—wrong.” You feel sleep sucking at your bones, and you can hear the sound of the hot-jumper’s engine’s spooling up, a bright spike of anxiety tries to lodge itself in your chest, familiar whir of your breathers kicking up as your heart rate rises and then the drugs take you down. 

 Come to with a raging headache,  Ezra and Cee are already awake and at the controls.   “Here,” says Cee and tosses you a pack of stim-chews, “Just do one. It’ll kill the headache.” You crunch one, sickly fruit and bitter and you feel a little more alert, but not in a pleasant way, like remembering the last bits of a long and unpleasant dream, not sure exactly what happened, but there was blood and horror and pressure.  “Something happened—“  “That’s the drugs,” says Ezra, “Telemetry’s good. We’re right down the line. Five by. Took you a little longer to come out of it, that’s all.” You try to sit yourself up, and your pectoral muscles scream, your clavicles ache where the breathers are clipped to them. You must make some sound, because Ezra turns to look at you, those dark eyes locked on you and you want to slap that concerned face right off his skull—  “You okay?”  “Yeah. Gimme a minute. Jada said it would hurt.”   “Should’ve said something, Kitten, I would’ve gotten you a patch—“  “I’m not your kitten, and it’s not your business.”  “You’re right,” says Ezra, “it’s not my business. But we go hot in a sixteenth and I’ll need you sharp. You know what you need to do?”  “Do you?”  “How bout both of you shut up and focus on the drop,” says Cee, “You can fight it out once we’re clipped back in and bench-bound.”  “Fair enough, Little Bird,” says Ezra, “You take the conn, Cee. Your controls.”  “My controls,” echoes Cee.   “Where’s the pain?”   “Clavicles. Achy around the breathers. I don’t think anything’s fractured-“  “Here,” says Ezra. He hands you two pain patches. “Peel these and I’ll stick em.”   “Fine.” You open one patch and then the other, stick them to your fingertips and hold up your hand for Ezra to take them. Scoop your hair out of the way and Ezra smooths the gel-patch on to the join of your neck and shoulder.  “There you go. Let’s get the other side.” His hand lingers, brief and warm and before you can tell him not to touch you he withdraws. “That should keep you creamy until we’re dirt-side. Don’t be shy about takin what you need from the kit. Need you steady downworld, we clear?”  “Clear.”

 This feels nothing like a normal drop, not the warning alarm and dull thump of bolts retracting. Going hot means a hand of solid fuel boosters will push you screaming towards the Green Moon, igniting as soon as the clips let go, push you away from the hot-jumper without slowing, vibration shaking the dropper in a sick two part resonance that hurts your ears and churns your stomach—  “Oi! chute status” Lock your eyes on the jittering screens.  “Bolts are go. Drogues are go. We’re go.” You flip up the toggle guards and hold your fingers above the switches. The thrusters fire and the dropper rocks, flipping itself so the engines face down, watch the numbers on your screen go green and listen for the callouts—  “Heat shield sep!—“  “Tracking?”  “We’re clear! Go for drogue deploy on your mark—“ The switches vibrate beneath your fingers, you feel the vibrations in your skull, in your bones, strange resonance in your ears that churns your stomach, crush your eyes shut so you don’t have to see the way the screens jitter in and out of focus.   “That’s atmo—“ says Cee.  “Blow the drogues in 3..2…1…mark—“ You flip the toggles and lurch forward hard into your harness, and then back into your crash-couch as the landing burn starts. “Where we at—?”  “Transonic,” you say, numbers blearing green on the scope, “we’re green.”  Hook a bag from where its stickied to your seat and wretch into it, smell of fake chocolate half-digested Bitz-Bars and jump drugs. Grav and spin enough to fuck your inner ears, and the engines burn hard,   “Landing gear deploy—“ calls Cee. There’s a hard thump and you’re down and stable but your roiled stomach and pounding skull and tight neck betray you and you dry heave while the others gear up.  “Gimme a minute,” you say, pressing your eyes closed, trying to get some sort of control over yourself, “Haven’t done much well-work since— since—,” heave helplessly over the bag but nothing comes up, there’s nothing too come up. Ezra rests his hand your arm.   “Hey. Look at me—“ You try to lift your head, and the world starts spinning again, too much time station-side, too much time in the gentle, predictable spin of bench-rings, your body’s forgotten the suck of the world on your bones, on your blood on your lungs  “Can’t,” you crush your eyes shut, welcome dark nulling out some of your screaming nerves.   “Okay,” says Ezra in the roiling dark, “Okay, Baby, I need you to breathe real deep through your nose for me.”  “Not your baby—“  “I know,” he says, “Deep breath. Through your nose. One, two, three--“  You breathe in, left over bitz bar chunks making their presence known, irritation followed by something numbing and cool and slightly spicy, you stomach calms but sweat breaks out all over your body--  “Is this even gonna work?” Cee glares, hands on hips, mostly suited.  “Finish kitting up and start scouting the perimeter,” says Ezra, “Stay on two unless I tell you different. We’ll be out shortly.” Cee narrows her eyes, but does what she’s told, seals her helmet and clips her filter and steps through the hatch, brief breeze of equalizing pressure, scrubbers kicking up to deal with the dust as do the fans clipped into you. When the seals cycle Ezra hands you a styrette.   “This’ll kill the nausea. Also you won’t be able to shit for a half-hand or so. It’s intramuscular”  “I’ve given myself hot-shots before,” you slide your pants down and jab the styrette into the meat of your thigh. Ezra’s eyes flick away.  “Cee’s funny about chemical help,” says Ezra, “Her father was an addict you see. He’d dope down and then stim awake and it scares her so-“

 “Let’s just suit up and do the job,” you say, baring your back to Ezra so you can don the compression garments that go under your suit. The suit’s a custom-job to accommodate your breathers, filter clipped into a hose split and spliced three ways, clean air for your breathers to pass on to your dust-scarred lungs, and another than clips in to your helmet. Settle your mic-rig over your ear.  “Channel two how read?”  “Channel two clear,” says Cee.  “Two clear,” says Ezra, odd doubling of his voice through your rig and through your helmet. And then the channel goes dead. Hollow thump of Ezra’s fishbowl pressed against yours.   “Can we do a suit check right quick?” His voice muffled by his helmet and yours, “I think i’ve got it, but I’d like—“  “Turn around.”  “Cee usually—“   “I’ve got it.” He turns his back to you and you lift the loose fabric off the back seal, two twist catches with hook and loop for the outer seal. You tighten the right side catch and smooth everything else into place.  “Thank you,” he says, “You need checks?”  “No, I’m green.”  “They’re still here—“ Cee’s voice loud and overdriven through your rig and Ezra bolts for the hatch. You shove yourself into the nacreous light, Bakhroma hanging above, it’s curve spanning the sky like a diseased rainbow, pulsing through thick clouds and the endless fall of dust.   “They’re dead, Birdie! Look! They’re just bones in suits. They can’t hurt us, okay?” You turn your back on them. Cee’s breath loud and ragged on two.  “Okay,” says Cee, “M’okay—I just”  “What the Kevva be-cursed fuck?” A plast box rises out of the tall grass, curled around in flowering vines inside and out, a skeleton inside seated on a small bench, glints of gold and bones stained a livid, unnatural pink.  “He got back in the box,” says Cee, “Why would he do that? He let us go and then he got back in the box.”  “Karoclan,” says Ezra, “An oblation I suppose.” Your neck prickles.   “Those folk are fuckin crazy,” You press the back of your hand to your helm and push away, palm out, a gesture to dispel bad luck, can’t rightly remember where you picked it up.  “Look,” says Cee,” standing in a bare, cracked circle of dirt, “This is where we boosted from. Must’ve baked out the soil.”  “Hey. Let’s get the pull. We can get all nostalgic once we boost.” Ezra gives you a dark look, but Cee, bounds past and into the trench.   “Ezra,” she says, her voice flat, even over coms. You and Ezra catch up to where she’s frozen, stone still, “He’s still here. Why is he still here? Why are they still here? It’s been almost a stand.” You push past Ezra and examine the sprawled and sagging suit, nudge the boxy helm with you boot, rotted breather hoses crumbling, dust floating up.  “Are you gonna get your shit together or not?” Cee flinches. Glares at you through her fishbowl. Ezra scowls.  “I hardly think—“  “I’m here to harvest,” you say, “And I will harvest, but I am not doing it alone unless you alter the split.”  “You’re out of line, Kitten,” says Ezra, “You seem to have forgotten who’s hired you on for this venture—“  “It’s okay,” says Cee, “I’m okay. Third time pays for all, right?”  “Third time pays for all,” says Ezra, “Clear.”  “So lets dig,” says Cee, “Fuck these guys, right?”  “Fuck ‘em.” you say, “We’re gonna get rich while these fellas feed the bugs for the next stand and change.”

 The kips that came before you exposed the leading edge of the deposit, oxidized crusts shimmering in Bakhroma’s murky light.   “They didn’t prime any of this?”  “They didn’t know to do so,” says Ezra. “That one over there—“ Ezra jerks his head towards a blood colored suit with faux gold adornments glimmering through a twisted clutch of creeper-vines, “Got himself acid burned for his troubles.”  “Dry breach.”  “Something like.” 

 This is no hurried dig, this is no quick pull and boost, Jada has her heart set on atmo-skimming around the outer moons before hooking back up. Trying to break some record. Ezra hovers at first, flitting around the perimeter you’ve established, light poles stabbed into the boggy ground, and then gets drawn in to the excitement of the pull, peering over your shoulders as you and Cee work. Cee is a quick study, follows your instructions to the letter, and between her hands and yours? The size and clarity is like nothing you’ve seen.  “This makes what we got last time around look like pea gravel,” you say.   “We’re going to have a weight issue,” says Ezra.  “Do we stop?” asks Cee.  “Absolutely not,” says Ezra, “We keep pulling and take the highest grade with us. And then we chem-burn what ever we leave behind.”  “That’s crazy!” says Cee.  “Think on it,” says Ezra, “We burn it behind us and no one else can get ahold of these gems ever again. Not at the size and quality we’re pulling.” You split the fibrous outer husk and Cee squeezes in the diffuser without being asked, and you feel yourself smile.  “The scarcity sets the price,” you say, “We’re the only folk who know about this deposit. No one will ever know we scorched it.”  “But all these pearls—“   “No one knows about them,” says Ezra, “Only us and Jada and she can’t ever drop down here herself. And some hot jumper hits a bench blatting about buried treasure on a world they can’t touch? Only ads to the mystique and rarity, and the points in our accounts.”  “Enough to get me into the Academy? You’re laughing,” she frowns at you, “why’re you laughing?”  “Because this is fuck you money,” you say, “We play this right you can probably buy yourself a station-ring or five somewhere in Central. This is do whatever we want forever kind of money if we keep our heads.”  “She’s right,” says Ezra, “We play the long game and there’ll be precious little we can’t do.”  “Still want to go to the Academy” says Cee, peeling the outer husk away just like you showed her and backing off so you can cut the carom blisters, but there is a tub full of the biggest pearls you’ve ever laid eyes on hardening in the fazer.  “And so you shall,” says Ezra.  “You do this one.”  “You sure?”  “You’ve been watching me excise blisters all cycle. Give it a go.” Cee turns the pinkish mass one way and then another, jaw clenched in fraught concentration, trying to grip without touching the blister, the trick is to slide the blade under and cut it free from beneath, go in at the wrong angle and the cillia react, defensive mechanism.   “What’re you gonna study at the academy?” You ask, and her face loosens up some, her hands do the work they’ve been trained in, pulls the inner husk tight and slides the blade under the blister.  “I’m thinking a botany/anthropology double major,” she says, flicks the blister into the weeds like she’s done it a million times before.  “Huh,” you say.  “Interesting combination, Birdie,” says Ezra. “What ties the two together?” Cee slices another blister and flicks it away, brief curl of steam where it sizzles in the grass.  “What doesn’t?” says Cee, “Why do people bring certain plants from one world to the next? You remember the orchard we saw on Verres? Someone planted those trees there. Don’t you wanna know who and why?”  “Guess so,” says Ezra, “It was a bit creepy seeing all those trees in lines. Verres being classed unihabited and all.”  “I’ve seen stuff like that too. Folks’ve been screwing around in The Great Arm for a long time-“  “Hey! Fazer!” Cee barks and you squeeze the fluid into the cut, watch the husk curl and shrink away.   “There she is,” says Ezra and the three of you look at Cee’s prize, held aloft in the murky daylight, Bakhroma’s ruddy arc taking up most of the sky.  “Not the best one we’ve pulled—“  “This one’s mine,” says Cee, snatches the squeeze and coats the pearl before tucking it into her suit pocket, slow smile creeping up her face, “This is my fuck you pearl. We make it out of here and I’ll use it as a paperweight if I get into the Academy.”

 “When you get into the Academy,” says Ezra, and Cee rolls her eyes, and you feel yourself smile a little. You like Cee.   “You should do one, Ezra,” says Cee, “You peel it down and I’ll hold it for you.”  “I don’t think—“  “Give it a go,” you say,  “Get yourself a fuck you pearl.”

 Ezra eyes the exposed deposit, an irregular honeycomb of aurelac pores, dirt darkened to mud, sprayed water from the onboard tanks to rinse away the caustic slime.   “In for a penny in for a pound,” he says, just loud enough for the mic rig to pick up and shoves his arm inside. His breath comes ragged over two.  “Ezra?”  “I’ve got it, birdie. It’s a big one,” he says, and Cee slices through the dirt flecked umbilicus. Ezra cradles his prize like a kitten then sets it on the tray. Cee gives it a good rinse like she’s been trained to, pinches the outer husk and rolls it between her gloved fingers, loosening it up from the inner husk so Ezra can cut.   “It’s thick,” says Cee, “You got wiggle room. We got time. It’s not like before.” Ezra’s breath steadies and he cuts, splitting the fibrous husk, slow, careful movements, beads of sweat popping out on his brow.  Cee peels the husk away, like taking off a sock and you douse everything with the diffuser. Ezra primes the blade, waits for it hit the right setting and then freezes, sharp edge glinting in the ugly light as his hand shakes. Cee wraps her hand around his wrist.   “You’ve got this.”  “Okie. Yeah. Let’s give her a go. Third time pays for all, right?”  “Third time pays for all.”

 One half-stand later…

 Pain is the first thing, deep, sprained ache in your chest, thirst is second, thirst and taste in your mouth and nose like burnt rubber, third is a warm hand holding yours. Squeeze your fingers around a warm palm, around a plastic handle with a button on top that you press and then there’s no more ache, no more thirst, no more light shining blood ugly through your closed lids.

 Later. You come back to yourself. The pain is less and the thirst is more. Slit your eyes and cram them shut, dark blob leaning over you haloed in screaming light, the hand holding yours lets go.  oh, shit, let me douse the lights.  And the bloodshine through your eyelids stops. Blink the tears out, and Ezra’s face resolves out of the dark his face pinched with worry.  “Oh Kevva, I’m dead.” His eyes go big and then he brays laughter.   “Fraid not, Kitten. Might not feel like it right now but the head nurse assured me that you’re healing well.”  You close your eyes, and press the button that will kill the pain.   “Why’re you here?”  “Cee was worried. She keeps tabs on both of us. She couldn’t make it herself, she’s up to her eyeballs in her new school, she tested in and—“ Sleep is calling, the ache in your chest dying to a low hum.  Why’re you really here? not sure if you say it or think it, and the drugs call you down before you can figure it out.

 thirsty.  “Can you sit? I’ve got you.” His arm curls warm around your back and tilts you up, plastic straw pressed against your lip and you drink deep, frigid water against your raw throat.  “Slow sips,” says Ezra, “Don’t want to shock your stomach.” One arm holds you up, a hand offers you a cool drink. You blink your eyes open, confusion  and cool water against your dry  tongue wake you some, close your lips around the straw and drink deep before Ezra snatches it back, plastic bottle gripped in an intricately articulated prosthetic hand, burnished metal plating like the scales on a snake's belly, telltales and indicators winking, etched over with decorative grooves, circles and curves. Looks a bit like a nav map.   “Slow,” he says. You narrow your eyes at him and swish the water around your mouth, trying to wash the dryness, the foul taste away before swallowing.   “You didn’t go for a regrow?” Your voice sounds lower than usual, ratchety. Ezra shakes his head.  “Too much nerve damage for that,” he says, “Scarring and time passed.” You reach for the bottle and he puts it in your hand  “Slow,”  you say before he can, “I know. Ezra, why are you here? You got your new arm, I got my breathers out and Cee’s got her schooling. We got the agreement set. Third time pays for all, so why are you here?”   “Cause I did you dirtier than that cache of pearls could ever pay for,” says Ezra, “And you shouldn’t be all on your own right now.”   You want to say something back, but you’re so tired, even the act of speaking has made you tired right down to your bones, chest and throat screaming in protest, and your eyes scrim over with tears. One escapes and Ezra strokes it aside with the pad of his thumb.    “I pushed the call button, Kitten, they’ll be here soon.”  “Not your fuckin Kitten,” you say as Ezra folds your hand warm in his, “Not your friend.”  “I know.”  i know.     

[eluxcastar]

number 13 with pierro im BEGGING on my knees

Number 13 with Pierro because eiscoathanger begged on their knees

── ୨୧：pierro x reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: another number thirteen from the prompts

୨୧﹑genre :: fluff

୨୧﹑content :: gn reader, not proofread

୨୧﹑words :: 1.2k

"I could see the worst parts of you and still think you are the most beautiful person I’ve met."

yk I got stuck cause I didn't wanna repeat every other thirteen request and then suddenly LIGHTBULB 🫵 I thought of how to make this apply to reader in a different context than just insecurity. I think that worked well with the ones I did it for but as I said I didn't wanna do that for everyone we need some fresh homegrown v a r i e t y🤞 that lightbulb unfortunately did not come through on the title

Pierro is a gentleman who once had a kinder heart. Time has weathered that man away into a colder shell, the remnants of a homeland once prosperous torn apart by the gods. It's never a pretty sight to see a traveller who appears weary and lost.

There is light in his life, a child born in the lands under the rule of gods, ironically.

You barreled into his world, elven-born and undying, to wreak havoc on his life and destroy any semblance of carefully crafted peace. You refuse to be tamed, can't settle in one place for too long, and have a hard time with authority. He hates it, though it is admittedly quite endearing. The commitment to never tying yourself down is admirable, yet irritating, as you showed up once every few years for a decade or two before he managed to convince you to stay for a little while longer and indulge him.

It is certainly not easy to calm your free spirit, but he manages. He bends to your whims and wants and finds any number of reasons to keep you put. You humour him because he's working so hard just for the little attention you will spare him.

Pulcinella told him to cut you loose while he could, but he wouldn't— couldn't, by some accounts. You're too overwhelming to simply give up on, bursting in with the destructive power of a natural disaster to spend your time pleasantly at ease with him. Though you destroy every semblance of peace in your path, you offer respite in return, the open arms to greet him when the world is too much. Responsibility falls away into the background of his mind so easily in your arms. It's as if your carelessness rubs off on him with every night you let him settle into your embrace.

You are made for the long flow of time, and each year builds you up. With each passing year, Pierro feels his humanity slip away, like the sands of time seeking to grind him down to nothing but reputation.

None of his inhibitors stop you, unchained by duty and with practically no responsibility to speak of. In a perfect world, he may have adapted even half as well to his sudden lack of home, but barely decades past, the thought of abandoning everything he has worked for sickens him like the highest betrayal. He cannot help but envy your careless disposition.

A home existed for you at one point— probably still does— but you grew bored with it like many things in your life and left it. The world is bigger than one town, area or nation, you reasoned. He can't argue with that outlook.

It is not wrong, but it is flawed, a fact that you are aware of. Staying in one place starts to make you go batty—Pierro can't argue with that either. The less excitement you find naturally in your life, the more you seek to create the excitement you find yourself lacking. That habit is responsible for how much you manage to disrupt him.

The first few times, it was dismissed as a lack of self-awareness. You hadn't yet picked up on his schedule or when he's most busy, so showing up at those times was a coincidence. That is until he realises you do it intentionally. The coincidence is far too convenient to ignore after the first few times.

Your stay as Snezhnaya—a favour to him—is beginning to irk you, and you search for any way you can to make him send you away.

You can't take back your eager agreement, but you can drive Pierro up the wall until he regrets asking it of you. He figures that out within practically seconds of realising that you're doing it on purpose. With that confirmed, his first question was naturally why and while he could have jumped to you simply stirring trouble, it makes more sense for you to be trying to worm your way out of your commitment without losing the opportunity to have him owe you.

It is conniving, and maybe he could fault you for it if only owing you didn't inadvertently work in his favour.

It means someday you'll come knocking when you need him to help you.

You'll come back of your own volition.

There are many nights he thinks of you, your many charms some would call flaws. More than anything, you are interesting, a seeker of adventure with more knowledge to offer than any mere book could hold. You have stories from eras he never lived in and advice you stole from the elderly across the continent for him, returning to greet him with a cheeky smile and some outrageous demand.

Perhaps Pierro should've expected that much, but the trouble you put him through is worth it when he's faced with your smile. Anything to hear you say, "I knew the moment I thought of it exactly who to ask," as if you believe he should have any idea how to make the impossible possible and grant your ridiculous wishes. 

All of it is enough to bring you back to Snezhnaya, back to him where he can see your eccentricities unfold before him. Pierro will wonder endlessly why he's dealing with this, then remind himself of why when he looks at you.

He is dealing with this because you asked it of him.

"Though maybe I did ask too much of you," you add. Pierro likes the way your hand runs through his hair when you say that, perhaps the gentlest thing you're capable of.

You do that to everyone, he wants to say, but only musters a "For you, nothing is too much," in response.

"You'll regret saying that," you warn him. He knows he will.

He likes the way you lean on his shoulder without even asking him first, like you own it, and he's just minding it for you. Maybe he is.

Something happened between now and the first day you met for him to be so utterly taken with you, whether because you did something to him or he was struck by one last curse to love someone whose life is so tumultuous. You should be everything that infuriates him.

A chuckle slips past his defences, the kind only you manage to pull from him, the source of fiery passion somehow able to melt his heart. "Perhaps," he says, "but I could see the worst parts of you and still think you are the most beautiful person I've met."

It is not lost on him how your head briefly lifts as you try to gauge how serious that way, only to return to his side as you lay your head back against his shoulder and resign yourself to simply accepting he's being overly sentimental as you frequently claim he is.

Sentimental or not, he wouldn't mind you showing up to ruin more of his carefully planned days.

[astromechs]

I know it’s late af since June it’s almost over but if you’re still accepting the smut prompts, here you go: Jyn and Cassian fucking in some tight space on that ship on the way to Scarif because I just know it happened

anon, i am so thankful for you, you and my 2 am binge of listening to the smiths singlehandedly broke me out of writer's block ❤️ also, yes, readers, definitely mind the explicit rating hgfjdks happy pride to these lgbts also on ao3!

Jyn has always hated being trapped on a ship in the middle of hyperspace.

Even in scattered memories of the days before she and her parents had settled on Lah’mu, when she’d once traveled with her mother to all sorts of planets for exploration, the journeys had always made her nervous. Restless. The first time, her chest had tightened and her throat had closed to the point that she could hardly breathe; it’d only been when her mother had found her, terrified in the cargo hold, and had held her close until the ship had landed, that everything in her had started to ease. It’d gotten somewhat better after that, but even so, she’d needed at least a hand to grip onto in order to combat the panic that would come for her.

There hasn’t been a hand to hold hers in a long time — not since her mother had been killed and her father had left her behind, and she’d spent an entire night curled up in a cave, terrified as the rain had battered relentlessly on the ground above and trickled down below. Saw would’ve never been one to offer anything for comfort, much less his hand, and with him, she’d quickly had to adapt; beyond him, totally alone in the galaxy, she’d had no choice. Still, between transports to places she’s long since forgotten, between being locked in one prison cell or another, between continually being forced to adapt, she’s never lost her profound discomfort. Her profound distaste.

She’d tried, for a while, to stay in the cockpit with Bodhi, K2, and Cassian, felt like she’d owed it, somehow, but there’d been a point when sitting still, looking at the same monotonous view of hyperspace, had been too much. Without a word, she’d pushed herself up from the floor, climbed down the ladder to the cockpit, and begun to wander aimlessly — but in a shuttle as small as this one, there hadn’t been much room to do so.

It’s not as if she’d been stupid enough to not know that, but there’s knowing something and there’s facing the reality of it; she hadn’t had to go far to achieve the latter, for the realization of it to hit her like a blow to the chest, stopping her in her tracks, back against the wall, and bringing out some vague, childish thought that hasn’t been possible in well more than a decade to wish for her mother.

Her hands had started to shake as she’d taken the chain holding the kyber crystal out from under her shirt and wrapped her fingers around it — and so far, they haven’t stopped. So far, all she hears other than the sound of her own breath and pounding heart is the hum of the shuttle as it continues to barrel through hyperspace and toward… she can’t say she knows what.

That’s all she hears. Until —

Footsteps, which fall heavy, and come steadily closer.

Jyn’s eyes snap open, head turning toward the sound as she quickly tucks the kyber crystal back under her shirt, safely against her chest.

At first glance, there isn’t much to read in Cassian’s face, because his expression is as neutral as he often makes it. But in his eyes, there’s a different story; she sees a weight there, as oppressive and heavy as anything sitting inside her right now. A reflection that she, somehow, understands completely.

That brings her voice back, raspy from lack of use — at least enough to ask:

“How long?”

“An hour,” he tells her, then, as if reporting some mundane fact with no stakes for life or death, “if the calculations are right.” They both know, of course, that the calculations wouldn’t be anything but right, so Jyn can read the unspoken that’s lurking just underneath: If we don’t run into any problems.

To say that this is all a risk is definitely, obviously, an understatement. There are so many ways this could fail, well before they even reach Scarif. Forging airtight scandocs would’ve taken well more time than they have, so all they can rely on is Imperial slowness, Bodhi’s knowledge, and more than a fair bit of luck.

(There are so many ways this can, and probably will, fail.)

She drops her gaze and lets out a breath, long and slow — which does nothing to ease the tightness in her chest, the way her throat threatens to close, or the tremor in her hands. Still, she flicks her eyes up again to meet his, steady.

“Okay.” She doesn’t say anything else, because there’s nothing else to say to that — and he just nods his acknowledgement, for the same reason.

Any conversation that could be had is done; any reason for both of them to still be standing here has long since faded with it.

And yet — they linger, and somewhere along the way, both because of his steps and her own, they come closer, until there’s barely any distance between them at all. Until she’s acutely aware of what’s been added to her space: the sound of his breath, matching hers. His presence, warm and alive, a sharp contrast against everything cold, mechanical, and monotonous around them. Something she could reach for, something she could hold; it wouldn’t be far. It wouldn’t be hard.

She’s not thinking about being trapped on a ship in the middle of hyperspace, suddenly. That’s parsecs away from her mind compared to the way that her heart pounds against the walls of her chest, compared to the way she’s drawn in, like she’s caught in his gravitational pull. Something sparks to life under her skin, something ironically warmer and more alive than she can ever remember feeling, considering what they’re headed for as soon as the stolen Imperial shuttle they’re on drops out of hyperspace.

Because, yeah, in an hour, maybe, in more if they’re lucky and less if anything resembling luck has gone to total shit, the odds are good that they’re going to die.

And Jyn thinks: fuck it.

Cassian absorbs the force of her when she stands on her toes and crashes into him, far from gentle when she captures his mouth with hers. For a moment, he otherwise goes still; it stretches on long enough that something in her considers pulling back, but then she feels his lips part under her, feels, more than hears, the noise that escapes them — and that consideration is dust. His hands are rough when they reach for her and bring her flush against him, gripping her so tightly that she can feel his fingers leave impressions on her skin, even through her clothes.

They’re perfect.

So is the way they stumble, completely lacking any grace, toward a nearby compartment just barely big enough to fit two people, separated from the rest of the shuttle by a sliding door she activates with a fumbling hand. And so is the way they practically fall inside of it, still clinging to one another, teeth knocking and messy kisses tasting of blood.

It’s dark and cramped in here with the door shut behind them, and the air is thick with their sweat. She has no range of motion with the way her back is pressed against the wall and she’s surrounded on all other sides by Cassian. More trapped than she’s ever been — but it’s a trapping she wants, to the point of aching in her core; the noise that leaves her, too loud to be decent on a shuttle full of people, is a testament to that. His lips find hers again, though, muffling it before it has a chance to travel far, and in this moment, she’ll take that silencing.

She’ll take anything he has to give. Life has taken so much from her, and here, just before what is likely the end, she’s going to fucking take something back.

And he has so much to give, as it turns out. There’s no time to protest the loss of his lips on hers because he’s turned them to her throat, finding a spot on her skin there that has her eyes fluttering closed. One hand slips under her shirt, cupping her breast and rolling a thumb over the nipple, while the other somehow manages to unfasten her pants, sliding them down just far enough to tease between her legs. Through the haze steadily enveloping her, it occurs to her, at least a full minute later, that she should be working on his.

Her hands are clumsy, fumbling, but they get the job done — and she’s rewarded with something that sounds like a sigh against her neck. She reaches up, tips his chin with her thumb until he’s lifted it away, and leans in to kiss him once again, messy and desperate; fingers trace the line of his jaw and wind into his hair, and she holds onto him, as he holds onto her.

“Jyn,” he rasps between them when they break apart.

She opens her eyes, lets them adjust to the dark enough to make out what she can of the man in front of her. There’s a thoughtful sort of hesitation in what she’s able to see, as if he has to wait for his order. As if he has to… confirm with her. Most people don’t stop when things get this far, in her experience, and —

A deep-seated part of her, buried near the cave in her mind, can’t help but be touched by it.

But the rest of her knows they don’t have time for that; the shortness in her voice, more urgency than irritation, says as much. “What are you waiting for?”

He follows his order with no further hesitation, sinking inside her, filling her. Moving against her as she arches her hips into him, and —

Already so close, it doesn’t take long for either of them to find the release they’re looking for.

In the aftermath, the time they have left before they reach Scarif continues to dwindle. Soon, they’ll have to leave this moment they’ve created and go back to the others; they’ll have to ready themselves to fight, as much as anyone can when so much is so uncertain. But Jyn will take just one more thing: a last stretch of time being held in his arms, warm and safe like what she can remember of home.

Maybe when she dies, if she’s lucky, she won’t be so out of her mind that she’ll forget how this feels.

At the end, it’s not just a memory to take with her. His arms are around her when the blast comes for them, warm and safe, home, and after so much of her life has been spent drifting with no tether, she’s lucky enough for that feeling to be the last thing she knows.

[drylan]

Ryan and Dylan want to attend their first collage/university party but Ryan is too nervous and doesn’t tell Dylan so he panics at the party.

'You can do this.' Ryan repeated to himself over and over again as he and Dylan got dressed. 'You can do this.' On a loop, over and over. Never mind this week had been terrible, never mind Ryan already felt incredibly overstimulated and exhausted, never mind he could only handle specific crowds in specific circumstances. "You can do this." He whispered aloud.

"What's that, babe?" Dylan asked after he tugged his shirt over his head. Ryan felt himself, sigh and relax as Dylan smiled at him. It would be okay, with Dylan.

"N-Nothing, just talking to myself, man." He shrugged a little, forcing himself to play it off. It wasn't a complete lie and he hated how Dylan quirked an eyebrow, clearly prompting him to say more. "Ready to head to the party?"

"Oh, look at you, party animal! Yeah, let's go." They took Dylan's car, which had adaptions in to make it easier to drive with one hand, but Ryan could easily drive it, too.

It was only about a 20 minute drive, a little bit past the suburbs outside they college town they had moved to. Ryan kept the passenger window down, trying to keep himself calm. "Who's going to be there again?"

"Um, some of the physics guys, I think some of the football and soccer team, too? Not sure fully, exactly." He hummed.

"No Kaitlyn or Abi?" He tried not to sound disappointed. "...or Jacob?"

"Shit, I knew I forgot to tell you something or multiple things, dammit." Dylan sighed and shook his head, clearly disappointed in himself. Ryan hated it. He knew Dylan was dealing with a lot, too. "No, man, I'm sorry. It's just us from the quarry crew. Kaitlyn had to head back home cause her grandma's visiting her parents. Abi and Jacob flew to Emma's this weekend. Last minute, too, but those assholes told me they got a good deal just this morning."

"Oh, um, okay." He nodded. Well, glued to Dylan's side he would be, then. Even among the art folks, he really only hung out with Abi. Ryan had his bubble of friends and that was it, that was what he was comfortable with, at least for now.

When they pulled up, the bumping base of the music and the lights and crowds of people made him nauseous. He swallowed it down, trying to keep himself together. He had to. Parties were fun. And Dylan wanted to be here.

"Ready?" Dylan smiled, before digging into his pocket quickly, offering to Ryan a small plastic container. In it where Ryan's earplugs. Shit, he had almost forgotten. They provided a bit more comfort, blocking out some of the heavier or louder pitched noises while still letting him hear Dylan and other people.

They made it into the house and to his relief it wasn't as crowded inside as it looked from the outside. Instantly Dylan was greeted by a bunch of folks, obviously physics majors based on just their overall cool nerdy vibe. Dylan introduced Ryan and Ryan waved awkwardly.

Each of them were passed a can of beer, Dylan whispering to Ryan this was his only drink so if Ryan wanted to really let go and have fun, he could. He appreciated it, but as he sipped on local brew that normally he would probably like, it tastedd like liquid ash on his tongue.

"We're so excited to finally meet you, Ryan." A redheaded woman with rectangular glasses said. "Dylan will just not shut up about you."

"What can I say, he's my better half." Dylan wrapped an arm around Ryan and squeezed him closer to Dylan's warm side. The compression was a welcome distraction and comfort.

"Uh, yeah, emphasis on better. Dude, he's so out of your league." Another physics major said with a snort.

"So, Ryan, how do you like the art program?" The redhead, who he learned was named Mimi, asked him. For a moment, it was cool, it was neat, and she seemed genuinely interested in what he did.

But then someone come barreling downstairs, who resembled a far less mature and far more annoying (if you can believe it) Jacob. "You, Dyl-Dog, we need your help! The music system is all fucked, need more bass and shit, dude! C'mon, upstairs!"

Loud, he was so loud, and he had cut between him and Dylan, which had Ryan already a little panicked. "God, Jesse is so annoying." Mimi scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"Hey, Ryan, I'll be right back, okay? Just a couple minutes." Dylan said gently, hiding the annoyance and squeezed his arm. A fit, tall, blond guy had come down with this Jesse character, staring over at Ryan as soon as Dylan ascended back upstairs with Jesse.

Unfortunately, the intrusion had caused the physics majors to scatter, including Mimi who had gone off to grab another drink. This left Ryan alone at the landing under the staircase.

"So, this is Dylan's man. Ryan, right?" The blond moved in closer. "You're skinnier than I thought you would be."

"Do I know you?" Ryan bit back, hand reaching up to his necklace, beginning to twist it, trying to find some relief as tension built.

"Oh, how rude, I'm Daniel. Engineering major. Oh, and on the basketball team. I don't see you around much, Ryan." He had this skeevy little smirk.

"Art doesn't have a lot of common in engineering." He shrugged.

"True." Daniel moved in a bit closer. "Do you see any other art majors here, Ryan?"

Ryan felt panic begin to build, this guy was too close, his attitude meant nothing to Ryan, but the ringing in his ears, the music changed, it was too hot, it was too much. "Back off." Ryan bit out, barely above a whisper, eyes getting damp, his heart hammering more and more in his chest as panic began to build.

"What's that?" Daniel smirked, a cruel twist on Dylan's own question earlier that evening.

"He said back off, dipshit." Dylan's voice cut through the noise and the ringing and the tension, as he quite literally lifted Daniel by the back of his collar, pushing him out of the way. "Fuckin' weirdo."

"I'm sorry, I just..." Ryan started as Dylan stared Daniel down, who seemed to get the message real quick. Dylan was popular, well liked, of course he was. It would be social demolition if he tried to do anything with so many witnesses. He scampered off.

"Don't be. This party is lame. The playlist is shit and the physics majors already left for bowling." Dylan laughed, voice light and airy. "Wanna get out of here? Head home?

"Please, please, Jesus fuck, Dylan." He hated how vulnerable he felt, laid bare in front of all these strangers. But as Dylan's large, warm hand took his own and led him quickly outside, nothing else mattered.

Dylan opened the passenger door for him, before sliding behind the wheel himself. "I'm the one who should be sorry. Should have vetted the party more. Can't believe someone invited that asshole Daniel. And Jesse and his goons are so obnoxious."

"It's okay, I just...um." Ryan bit his bottom lip. "...maybe we could throw our own party, sometime? With the quarry crew and physics friends? I liked Mimi."

"Yeah?" Dylan smiled as he pulled away from the curb, back onto the roads and away from that crummy party. "Sounds sick to me, baby. But let's just focus on getting your Schrodinger cuddles, okay?"

"Okay..." Ryan nodded, already feeling himself relax, calming down. "...just as long as that comes with Dylan cuddles, too."

"Oh yeah, it's a buy one get one sale, of course." He smiled, laying his head on the windowsill as Dylan turned on the radio. Their party would be so much better.

[aswallowimprisoned]

Restless far from a Wine Dark sea -Alt prompt Needles

Just a routine medical procedure with a very large needle and an unconscious merman.

@medwhumpmay

Tw needles, medical experimentation, Dispassionate whumper doctor, unconsciousness

A bit of the biology of my vampiric mer is explained in this one too

≪ °❈° ≫

“Procedure 269 on subject #3, the mer also known as Fogal." Dr Rana regarded the form lying prone on the gurney before him. "It is May 23rd 2025, procedure is a venom draw from the right venom sack, with entry through the roof of the mouth using a 14 gauge needle. Procedure start... ' Dr Rana checked his watch, "13:32 hours."

 With careful fingers, he took the seamonsters jaw in his hands and pulled downwards. The skin distorted with the gentle pressure, but his face remained locked in its sleeping position.

"As with much of the mer's body, the jaw has locked in sleep and does not move easily. This was not unexpected. 78ccs of orphenadrine to the masseter muscle should relax the mandibles and allow access." He held out his hand, and the nurse placed the prepared syringe to his palm. 

This had been prepared for, the dosages measured. 

He popped the lid from the needle, and took only a moment to swab the cheek of the sleeping merman with antiseptic. Clean and precise. 

The needle slid through skin and muscle, not hitting the bone, but close enough to the joint to have the desired effect. 

He circled the bed, swabbed, injected, rubbed into the skin on the other side. They waited a moment. This time, the jaw swung open under his firm hand, exposing the seamonsters teeth. Two elongated razor sharp canines protruded from a row of mostly-human teeth. But they were not of his direct interest today. 

"The jaw has been opened giving access to the pallet. Inserting chocks against the molars to keep the mouth open..." The nurse passed a block of blue plastic, and he carefully slid it between the sea monster’s molars, wedging the enamel apart. Even if the merman was to wake - which was highly unlikely given what they knew about his deep sleep patterns - he couldn't bite. They had also given him a medium dose of sedative since they were working on the mouth, though not enough to require breathing support. It paid to be prepared for these things. 

“Hold his head."

The nurse moved to the other side of the bed, placing one hand on the forehead and slipping the other around the back of the sea monster’s neck. His Adam's apple stuck out of his bared neck like a fragment of something broken. 

“Head is tilted back by 45 degrees to give access to the pallet." Rana narrated. He bent to examine the roof of the mouth. Unlike in humans, the pallet was made of a layer of cartridge, and that layer was particularly thin in certain areas. The venom sacs were adapted salivary glands, much like a snake's, and lay just below the nasal cavity. It would be an odd angle to work at, but he could manage.

He picked up a syringe from the gleaming tray of utensils, and looped his finger into the handle at the end for the ease of draw. 

"Extraction point is 10mm behind the right canine using a 14 gauge needle. It is anticipated 25ccs of venom can be drawn."

It took some pressure to push the needle through top of Fogal's mouth, but with careful application of force the cartilage gave way, letting the metal enter the nasal cavity and into the venom gland. His fingers moved, dextrous and practised, gently pulling back the plunger on the syringe. 

The venom was urged up the barrel of the syringe to fill the vacuum of the pull. Milky opaque with a hint of purple, the venom was almost pretty. This batch seemed paler in colour than the last - perhaps testing would show a different composition? He wondered for a moment why the change may be, then filed the thought away for later. 

For now he had a task. 

The prescribed 25cc was drawn, a streak of red marring the final millilitres. A potential contaminant. He would have to recalculate the draw volume. 

“The draw went smoothly, 25cc has been taken. Ejecting the needle now…” He pulled the needle from the sea monster’s mouth before his hand could cramp from the strange angle. “The wound is minimal and likely to be healed by the mer's saliva very quickly, so no attempts are made to blot the site, despite the large bore of the needle used. Molar chocks are removed…” He extracted the lumps of plastic deftly, mindful once again of the razor sharp fangs that could easily catch out the less careful.

The merman’s mouth closed. By itself.

That was… a deviation from the norm.

Rana glanced up to the vitals monitor, swiftly evaluating the readings. Heart rate had risen…

“He is regaining some consciousness…”

“I’m coming.” The interrogator, Mr Logan, spoke through the comms.

“He probably won’t have much awareness, and this level of sedation should prevent memories from being formed.” Rana cleared up the chocks and sheathed the venom collecting needle, “And I have weakened his jaw muscles so he may not be able to speak.” 

The merman opened his eyes, blurry eyes blinking fearfully into the light, trying to focus on Rana’s face.

“Tell him you're a doctor and you were just giving him a check up, and tell him no one will harm him.”

The blades of the sea monster’s tail unfurled and he flapped it like a dying fish.

“Fogal. I am giving you a checkup, no one will harm you.” Rana recited in a flat tone. The merman rolled his head towards him, jaw flapping uselessly and drooling on his shoulder.

“Aahhhrmmrmm” He said, predictably completely nonsensical and lacking in awareness of his surroundings. After his eloquent speech, the sea monster planted his face into his shoulder and passed out again. 

“Consciousness lost again at 13:39. Unclear why he woke up, but we will have to keep an eye on his vitals when performing procedures on his face. Procedure 269 on subject #3 ends.”

[blizzardrush]

Experiments with Sleep in Russia

                                  Dragunov Week Day 1: Origins

Welcome to my entries to Dragunov Week! These were written in response to seven prompts issued by @dragunovweek1. 

Content warnings for this story: body horror, canon-typical violence, and references to bullying. 

Can be read here or on AO3.

Please enjoy, like, and leave comments! Thank you for reading!

                                           1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

                                               -  -  -

    Your name is Sergei Alexandrovich Dragunov, you are nineteen, and you see patterns where others do not.

    That's why your favorite subject in school was science -- after physical education, of course. Science is about patterns. Observing them, testing how they work, coming to conclusions. Methodical, delineated steps. You like those, and things that involve those. Sometimes you think you would like a career in science. Biology, maybe. Get your hands dirty. You like that too.

    But that would involve going back to school, and that's a hard sell. It's not a question of coursework difficulty. It's your fellow students.

    You see patterns, and you know when you don't fit in them. Your silence, your scars are enough to draw the scrutiny of your peers. Some do not like what they find. Your mere existence gives them cause to hate. To them, you are a cockroach.

    Very well.

    Your carapace is defiance -- you will not be made a victim. Your eyes are compound -- this is not your first fight. Your claws are sharp -- your right to life will not be torn away.

    They can stamp on you all they wish. You have survived worse. They are soft and easily broken.

    When the dust and lawsuits issued by parents settle, you wear your bruises with pride.

    You do not go to university. Even if your grades were sufficient, you don't want to go. You've had your fill of so-called colleagues.

    The army is happy to have you instead. It's an adjustment, like any major life change, but you adapt. Strict routines and discipline are the same, whether in boot camp or a laboratory. You come to like your training.

    Three-quarters into basic, you find the opportunity to do some science too.

                                                      -  -  -

    No one has slept well in over two weeks.

    You could chalk it up to a number of reasons. Your drill sergeants certainly do. Stress, of course. Strenuous schedules. Guts and bowels conditioning themselves to military cuisine. Your superiors take the opportunity to call you lazy and weak.

    But you see patterns, and you know something is wrong.

    You observe who's the testiest at mealtimes, the slowest at practice, the yellowest, crustiest around the eye. The deprived live in the same buildings, though not all are targeted at once. The insomnia travels in waves. Something is letting them recoup their energy before striking again. Something is farming your fellows.

    It can't go on. Someone is going to be drained to the breaking point. The cracks are going to crumble completely. There have already been four fistfights in the mess hall. Hypothesis: someone is going to seek refuge in the barrel of a gun than continue enduring this torment, possibly taking out others in the process in what they see as a mercy.

    You don't want to wait for results. You're training to kill people, yes, but you'd rather they deserve it.

    You wait instead until it's your barracks' turn for reaping. Curfew has come and gone. You should be in your bunk, but you're not. You're hiding in the bathroom ceiling, courtesy of a loose panel that didn't fit in. The only light is the glow of your watch. 0217 hours. Go time.

    You drop to the floor as quietly as possible and sink to your belly. You crawl like a cockroach, innocuous, from linoleum to wood scuffed with years of boot-prints. You do not want to draw the attention of whatever is making everyone's lives hell.

    You follow the scent of graveyard dirt.

    What you find skews everything you thought you knew.

    She is the product of a mad sculptor given clay of human tissue slathered over the bones of a colossal rat. Sitting on her haunches, perched on the chest of your adjacent bunkmate -- she would've selected you if you had been sweetly dreaming, you realize -- her elongated jaws hanging above his face. A steady stream of gray mist wafts from his slack mouth past her saber fangs into her gaping throat. His body jolts and cramps from head to toe, eyes frenzied beneath closed lids.

    Your stomach wants to vacate the premises. She -- whatever she is -- she does not belong in this world. Part of you says to bolt. Get the fuck out of the barracks, out of the base, until you can run no longer.

    Another part -- a greater part -- is so angry it makes your hands ball into shaking fists. It makes you rise to your feet and, as carefully as you can, pick up a nearby folding chair.

    She has no right to prey on the defenseless.

    And so you do what you wish someone would've done for you when you were being victimized.

    The chair connects with the side of her head with a clank that's more sound than substance. It leaves a dent in the metal -- her skull is harder than you thought. It does accomplish two things--

    One: it knocks her off-balance, and she spills out of the bunk in a spasm of long, spindly fingers and--

    Two: it wakes everyone else up. Groaning, slowly other soldiers rise from their stupor. Her parasitized host sobs, rolls onto his side, and vomits on the floor.

    The creature slinks around the end of the bunk. Again your gut twists with visceral horror at the sight. She has a woman's face stretched over a rodent muzzle, and her nostrils flare a split second before her orange fur stands on end and she screams from the deepest pit of her lungs.

    The noise forces your eyes closed, pierces your eardrums, and makes your skin feel splashed with prickly oil. You nearly lose hold of the chair. You fight through the pain -- under the sharp ring in your hearing, there are ticking claws--

    She leaps, teeth reaching.

    You don't think. You let your body do what it's been trained to not only for these past weeks, but earlier too.

    You like science, but your best marks were always in wrestling.

    Dodging her snapping jaws, you let the creature's own momentum propel her throat into your grip and drag your weight with her, slamming her to the ground. You pin her legs under your own, her scrabbling paws under the chair. Her tail is just long enough to curl around your thigh.

    The revulsion that fills you fuels the fists that fall on her face.

    You don't know how long you keep punching. Eventually the others run over to help. They throw blankets onto the thing, smothering her attempts to bite, stomp on swiping claws. To her monstrous credit, she keeps struggling until you tear the gold crucifix your mother gave you from its chain around your neck and drop it onto the thrashing pile of cloth. She shrieks one last time, then goes still.

    You learn a lesson that night, one that does not lose its importance in years to come: demons remain flesh and blood.

                                               -  -  -

    "Video call for you, Private Dragunov."

    Three days have passed. No one talked about it openly, but you know word got around. An unused, now locked storage unit in the back of the garage grew a bumper crop of religious icons in seventy-two hours, and in the mess hall, no one meets your eye.

    You aren't expecting a call at all, let alone video. If this is your dishonorable discharge, at least you went out on a high note.

    You are taken to an office. Projected on a screen is a man sitting at a desk. Spotlights behind him conceal him beyond a black silhouette.

    You salute. It feels like the right thing to do.

    "At ease," the man says, "Take a seat."

    You let your hand fall. The chair provided is cushioned and not suitable at all for beating giant rat-women into submission.

    "I wish to discuss the event that took place two nights ago between 0222 and 0228 hours with you," the man continues. Before you can react, he adds, "You are not required or expected to speak."

    You like this stranger already.

    "The subject that entered your barracks is a nocnitsa. Are you familiar with their kind? Have you encountered one previously?"

    You have not. You shake your head.

    "Do you have any prior experience with anomalies? Objects, substances, or entities believed to be supernatural in origin?"

    You do not.

    "Our operatives have removed the nocnitsa from its improvised containment for permanent, more suitable captivity. Initial examination revealed multiple fractures to the mandibles and cranium." The man leans forward. "Private Dragunov, during the event, how did you feel?"

    Disgust. Righteousness. Outrage. Courage. Victory.

    Good. You felt damn good.

    The office door opens. A woman in a white lab coat -- a scientist -- approaches you. She hands you a business card. It is blank, save for a golden raptor, its wings raised and talons poised to strike.

    The man has a smile in his voice. "Are you interested in joining very special forces?"

    Your name is Sergei Alexandrovich Dragunov. You are nineteen. You see patterns where others do not.

    And you are.

[petermorwood]

Hi Peter! I really love your mum’s soda bread recipe, as you might recall, but unfortunately, I am currently staring down the barrel of a possible celiac disease diagnosis 😭 I’m definitely going to spend some quality time experimenting once I know for sure I’m going to have to eliminate gluten, but I was wondering if you had any thoughts about the best way to adapt it for a gluten free flour. My initial plans are to try it as written with the King Arthur measure for measure flour (which is apparently the most neutral tasting gluten free flour readily available) and go from there but if you or any of your followers have any expertise (or other gluten free recipes or tips) you’d like to share, I’d be grateful! Hope you and DD are well. 💙

I'll pass this on to DD for suggestions, and throw it open here for input.

That said, your idea of subbing in King Arthur gluten-free flour sounds like a good one - as you know from making it, this (indeed any) soda bread isn't kneaded to develop gluten, so may well work just fine with a flour that doesn't have it. Let us know what happens.

Here’s one recipe for gluten-free oven soda.

NB, just for terminology reference, when I was growing up in Northern Ireland, “soda bread” never had dried fruit in it. That was (surprise, surprise!) “fruit soda”. Mum didn’t have a name for my soda farl with pickled Jalapeños, which is probably just as well. Though it was too hot for her palate, she did agree that it made an excellent addition to an Ulster Fry...

This is a recipe for gluten-free farl which is based on the EuropeanCuisines original and rather decently says so.

For other readers’ reference, here's Mum’s recipe, with a pic of the oven version.

To my certain knowledge it's been in my family via Mum, Granny, Great-Gran for at least 150 years, and is probably even older than that.

The recipe, that is, not the actual loaf in the photo...

My preferred form of soda bread is farl, quartered griddle bread, which is amazing just with butter - though strawberry (and especially raspberry) jam brings it to a new level. Best accompanied by a glass of cold milk in warm weather, or the never-out-of-place wee cup of tea.

Here’s our photo of farl, an image long overdue for replacement with something better, except that when we make this stuff it tends to get eaten before one of us thinks to say “Uh, camera...?”

(DD, prompted by this, is making some Right Now. Pics later.)

When split fresh off the griddle, or later on when toasted, it can absorb more butter than seems possible, and that’s exactly the way my Dad liked it. He’d have looked at our pic, and at this one from Office Holidays Blog,..

...and said something like “If you can still see the bread through the butter, there’s not enough butter.”

YMMV about that, especially with toast where the butter lurks under the crunchy crust then makes a dive for chin and shirt-front as you bite, but it’s worth trying at least once.

As DD says, “If you can eat a slice of New York pizza and finish with grease-free elbows, you can probably manage soda farl with ‘enough butter.’..”

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Disobedience & Body Worship - Aredhel x Celegorm

My dear @elentarial, thank you so much for this prompt!

It was tremendously fun to write! I hope you'll like it <3 Tyelko is such a brat, but I think he's got what was coming to him haha <3

Words: 1 050

Characters: Aredhel x Celegorm

Warnings: Seduction, nudity, sexual innuendo, reference to genitals, Tyelko is a brat!

“Got you!” Aredhel hooted as she seemed to float through the air for a breathless moment before barrelling into her cousin’s broad, muscular back to toss him to the ground in an avalanche of sweat-sheened flesh and silver hair. “That means I win, and you have to do what I say!”

Of course, she was bending and adapting the rules of their little intimate training ritual somewhat, but she really needed someone to take her place in the archery lesson she had promised her brothers.

It was not that she didn’t love them, but she lacked the patience and they the necessary finesse for such an endeavour not to inevitably end in blood and tears.

“No.” The single word rang out like the tolling of a bell and hit her in the chest like a poisoned arrow, setting her blood aflame with outrage and ire.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked sharply while burying her hand in Celegorm’s mussed hair to press his handsome face into the loamy ground forcefully.

She was faster than him, but he was still stronger when it came to brute force, and so he threw himself around, catching her wrists as he twisted, and stared up at her with twinkling eyes.

“I’ve got you as much as you’ve got me,” he growled playfully.

“You are a disobedient, disorderly brat, Tyelko,” she huffed. “No wonder your brothers don’t like you!”

To her dismay, he laughed heartily and winked at her. “My brothers adore me, and so do you!”

Forcing her wrist to his face, he pressed an astonishingly tender kiss to the thin, sensitive skin under which her pulse was racing after the long, arduous chase.

“Disobedient? How about you teach me a lesson then?” he teased, his large, powerful frame relaxing provocatively between her tense thighs. “I am all yours, oh queen of the hunters!”

“Don’t mock me!” she hissed, but she could discern the earnest admiration and smouldering lust in the bright radiance of his unguarded gaze, and it mellowed her ferocious heart. “As I can’t and won’t deny your prowess, I shall withdraw the humiliating task and choose something that might feel a little bit like a victory to you too! All I ask is that you keep perfectly still!”

“I shall be your paralysed prey!” Celegorm promised—he took immense pleasure in the intimate, morally ambiguous covenant they shared, and he did not object to being hunted, caught, and torn apart by his cousin every once in a while.

With a satisfied hum, Aredhel slid off him to stand, relishing the fact that—for once—she was towering over him.

“You’re a pest,” she sighed. “But Eru knows, you’re too pretty to banish from my company!”

Celegorm gave an acquiescent hum; unlike some of his brothers, he did not think of himself as particularly vain, but he, nevertheless, wasn’t beyond basking in compliments, especially if they were delivered in so reluctantly awed a voice.

“Undress!” Aredhel commanded, and he obeyed readily, casting off the clammy leather and soiled linen with careless vigour. He knew not what she had in mind, but he liked the direction this was taking.

“Ah, those shoulders,” Aredhel sighed, leaning forward to run her hands along the ropes of muscles bunching in Celegorm’s arms as he remembered her previous command not to move unless prompted.

“You have good skin, Tyelko. You’d make perfect leather!” Short, blunt nails dug into his upper body ruthlessly, leaving red streaks akin to war paint, and he shivered violently.

“I am sure that I can speak for my whole family when I say that Anairë’s blessing far outweighs whatever charm our blotchy, pale flesh might hold,” he replied in a sensual purr.

Visibly pleased, Aredhel stepped closer to let her soft, plush lips brush against the bulging vein, pulsating frantically, that ran along Celegorm’s throat like a beckoning river that promised a cleaning torrent of delight.

“So strong,” she hummed as her hands travelled along his ribs to caress his hips and cup his ass playfully. “So fast—but never quick enough.”

“I let you win,” he grinned, “because I like it when you take me down.”

Nudging her knee against his quickly filling cock, she chuckled quietly. “Apparently, you also enjoy being told how handsome and alluring you are, don’t you?”

“By you? Yes! Whether you insult me or shower me with praise,” he rasped, “I shall always drink your words like fresh water on an arid day.”

“Why?” she cocked her head inquisitively, letting her long braids cascade across a deceivingly slender shoulder.

A thousand answers came to Celegorm—Aredhel was the most beautiful, the most skilled, the funniest, and his best friend besides Curufin—but he swallowed them all down resolutely.

“Because I respect you,” he finally replied with overwhelming simplicity. “Because I honour and heed your words.”

At once, her lips were on his and her hands tugged at his hair mercilessly to put him off-balance so she could crowd him against a nearby tree and claim every part of that gloriously unvanquished body of his.

Nobody other than them would have understood, but the way she recited a prayer to Oromë, enumerating the pieces of valuable, life-giving meat she’d carve off his bones in her imagination made him stifle a visceral groan of pure delight.

Her hands were steady and firm as she rolled his flesh between her fingers, punctuating each probing touch with a fleeting kiss before moving on.

“Do you think I’ll learn humility under torture?” he gasped, irrevocably aroused and writhing in agony as she kept ignoring and neglecting the parts of him that demanded her attention.

Celegorm felt unbecomingly flushed and swollen all over, and he was convinced that he’d soon burst with unfulfilled lust if she did not take pity on his wayward heart and woefully dumb body.

“So pretty,” she praised, her damp breath fanning maddeningly across his heated skin, “so desperate. Say it!”

“You’ve won,” he whimpered. “You always win—I am yours. I shall do what you demand, and I shall thank you for the opportunity to serve you. Please, Rissë, please!”

And, in the name of friendship and shared greed, she finally relented and opened her lips to accept the first cut of fresh, raw meat that was the victorious hunter’s due.

@fellowshipofthefics here's another one!

I am still taking requests for this <3

Lots of love and well-wishes!

-> Masterlist

[magnusmodig]

botanical headcanons / @chaoticclaybomber / accepting !

╰┈➤ holly :   how strong is your muse’s sense of intuition ? are they aware of it ? do they ever fear that it is only paranoia ?

Thor's sense of intuition - emotional and logical - is exceptional. He's the son of the wisest king, and the wisest woman of all of Asgard. And as such Thor is by no small margin equally as keen.

He shares his mother's kind heart, able to pick up on the smallest of emotional cues through sheer intuition alone. That doesn't mean he always knows the cause of what he's sensing, but he is emotionally intelligent enough to pick up what others are laying down, even through subtext, even without a word. (Now, whether or not he accepts or reciprocates these properly is an entirely different matter and I am looking at you, age of ultron but that inaction is done ... semi-deliberately on Thor's part.)

He shares his father's militaristic mind , being exceptionally quick on his feet and adaptable in most every situation. He also has the gift of foresight , receiving visions in his dreams (ragnarok) and when prompted by outside forces (the nornns, wanda's vision, odin's mental interference.)

I also like to imagine his prophetic gifts go far deeper than just dreams. (since the mcu didn't bother to flesh it out and so I am taking it and running with it; nothing can stop me.) A gut feeling here, a sense of strange knowing there, all of it jumbled up and confused lest put into practice or untangled by someone who knows him well. Premonitions that bleed from the sleeping world into the waking at every turn. And this, I would say, Thor is only half aware of. It is a fickle gift. One that is not always so cut and dry. And one can't bend the future to one's will so much as follow where it leads, and prepare for what comes next.

And in that way, I would imagine Thor can be paranoid. He tried to stop Ragnarok, collect information on Thanos and find and secure the Infinity Stones after receiving visions of both calamities. The vision that Wanda prompted was one that shook him deeply to his core.

So, yes, Thor is paranoid. But he also stares fear right in the eyes and barrels into it headfirst.

[fuckepilepsy]

Epilepticon 2022 Day Twelve

EpileptiCon MC @haikyuupaladin asks:

I’ve been trying to keep the prompts this month so far from being too negative, but I also think it’s important to be given the opportunity to vent your frustrations, so, what’s your biggest complaint about your meds or other form of epilepsy treatment? And it’s ok if the complaint is something that you think other people will deem as small. This prompt is meant to be a place to vent, not a competition.

I used to despise my meds and everything that they did to me. It seeed like every time I got switched to a different generic, the effects would be different, and I would have to adapt to them. What I hated more than anything was what it did to my speech. I'd stumble over words, utterly fail to come up with the word that I wanted, or fuck up the most basic speech patterns, and it made me feel embarrassed and angry.

However, I ultimately adapted to that, too. If it gets really bad, I come to a complete stop, hold up my finger so my parter(s) in conversation give me a second, and then proceed, more slowly, to complete the sentence. I also learned to just barrel ahead at times if my meaning was clear, and let everyone else deal with my dysphasia.

I think that I was able to accomplish this because my workplace is extremely casual and many people do not accurately pronounce many words as a function of their regional accent (which I do not possess). Is it really a big deal for me to fuck up a word if the person I'm talking to pronounces "ambulance" as "ambliance?" Not really.

For a period of about two years I got pills from a manufacturer called Wockhardt. For some reason, those pills did their job absolutely perfectly, without any noticeable side effects to my speech. I felt perfectly normal and it was great. Then the pharmacy switched me and not only did my speech go to hell again, I also completely lost my appetite for some reason.

Anyway.

Ultimately, I came to appreciate my medication, not just for treating my seizure disorder, but also for their secondary application, which is mood stabilization. I know that many people do not like the sensation of compulsory indifference, but holy shit do I love being incapable of caring strongly about anything. Those pills have saved my bacon during periods of intense anxiety. It also empowers me to live as I do, isolated emotionally, spiritually, and socially. It is extremely rare for me to experience loneliness or longing, and it's awesome.

However, I still do not like taking them. I hate that I have to pay for them, I hate that they tether me to a schedule, and I hate that I don't have the choice to stop taking them, ever. I hate that I can't just fall asleep on the couch at night if I'm dead tired; I have to get my ass up and take my pills before bed.

I hate that my employment options are restricted to employers who provide decent benefits. I can never quit my job to chase a dream, or go back to school, or just because I'm unhappy, because no matter how much I saved up, paying full price for my meds would deplete my savings in no time.

Most of all, I hate that I have to force myself not to think about it if I want to do any daydreaming. It takes actual discipline, a learned skill, to tell a little story in my head and remember to NOT account for my disability and reliance on my meds. If I let the reality of my treatment plan interfere with my imaginary fun, it defeats the purpose of daydreaming and imagination. And it took a long time to teach myself to do that.

[lunarosewood23]

FFXIVWrite2022 Prompt 11: Promise (EXTRA CREDIT!!)

ChariTsuyu just before Tower of Babil. Yotsuyu wants revenge, Charibert just wants her to be safe.

Translation: huǒ hè - flaming lily

~~~

Yotsuyu was furious. Fandaniel has gone too far.

From kidnapping her sister to literally forcing her soul out of her body for Zenos to manipulate as he pleased?

She felt disgusted thinking about it.

She picked up her gunblade, she had a feeling she was going to need it, along with her fire-enhanced cartridges, checking over her gear to ensure it was working properly. She clenched her fist, the leather of the gloves she wore stretched with how tightly she clenched them.

She was putting her whole barrel of bullets between that bastard’s eyes.

She had already told the others she was going with them, and she was bringing her gunblade if someone was willing to heal, much as she heard several people tried to say it was too dangerous.

She felt a sudden warmth near her left side and sighed.

“If you’re going to try to stop me I swear-”

“I wasn’t, my dearest nightbloom.” Charibert assured as he took her hand. “I couldn’t even if I tried.”

“But you’re not exactly pleased I’m going either.” She guessed.

He sighed as he sat down on one of the nearby boxes and held her hands. “I’m not exactly happy I’m not able to go with you. As impressed as I am with your skill, how quickly you’ve taken to the art, and how you’ve adapted it to your gunblade, pyromancy is still dangerous, and I don’t want you to accidentally blow yourself up with whoever is on the business end of your blade.”

Yotsuyu looked away, Charibert had a point. Despite her quick adaptability, it was still dangerous and he was still needed in Camp Broken Glass to help the healers. She felt like she had to do this though. For Mingxia, and to a lesser extent for herself.

“I need to, alright?” She explained. “Fandaniel wears the face of one of my tormentors, that one is mine to deal with. I will gain vengeance for both of us.”

A pause, followed by a sigh. “Alright.”

She looked at him in confusion as he gently cupped her face and almost hesitantly kissed her forehead, her bangs hiding the grey lip print on her forehead.

“All I ask is you be safe, my cherished nightbloom. No vengeance is worth your life. Promise me?” He requested softly, his tone gentle and almost pained with worry.

She blinked, startled by the affection, a blush lightly dusting her cheeks that if anyone asked she could blame on the cold. She stared at him for a second before being startled by an angry sounding voice.

“Oi, Firecracker, where are you??”

“Damnit Grinnaux.” Charibert cursed as he started to stand up with an apologetic smile and she made an impulsive decision.

She tugged him down and kissed his cheek. “Only if you promise to be safe too, huǒ hè, whatever machinations Fandaniel tries to do, don’t let him take you and inflict such a horror upon you.”

He blinked, startled by the kiss, but smiled as he hugged her. “I will.”

With that he let her go, and she ran off to meet with the others, narrowly avoiding bumping into Zephirin on the way out and missing the way Charibert touched where she kissed him, a blush deepening his already brown cheeks.

[bohusblog]

Navigating Ease Of Operation And Adjustment In Lab Extruder Machines

Lab extruder machine serves as an indispensable tool in research and development environments, enabling precise material processing and experimentation. Central to their utility is the ease with which operators can navigate their operation and make adjustments as needed. In this article, we delve into the intricacies of operating and adjusting lab extruder machines, exploring features and considerations that contribute to their user-friendliness and versatility.

Before delving into the ease of operation and adjustment, it's essential to grasp the fundamental principles governing lab extruder machines. These devices utilize a combination of heat, pressure, and mechanical force to melt, mix, and shape materials into desired forms. Operators feed raw materials into the extruder, where they are heated and forced through a die to produce uniform products such as filaments, sheets, or pellets.

One of the key factors contributing to the ease of operation is the design of the machine's interface. A user-friendly interface features clear labeling, intuitive controls, and ergonomic layout, allowing operators to navigate functions effortlessly. Touchscreen displays, digital readouts, and graphical interfaces provide real-time feedback and facilitate precise adjustment of parameters such as temperature, speed, and pressure.

Lab extruder machines equipped with programmable settings offer good convenience and flexibility. Operators can save and recall predefined recipes or processing parameters, eliminating the need for manual adjustments between experiments. This feature streamlines workflow enhances reproducibility, and reduces human error, particularly in multi-step processes or complex formulations.

Efficient changeover between different materials or processing conditions is essential for improving productivity and versatility. Lab extruder machines with quick-changeover systems feature tool-less access to key components such as screws, barrels, and dies, facilitating rapid cleaning, maintenance, and adjustment. Modular design and standardized interfaces further simplify changeover procedures, reducing downtime and enhancing operational efficiency.

Real-time monitoring and control capabilities enable operators to oversee the extrusion process and make adjustments on the fly. Advanced sensors and feedback mechanisms continuously measure key parameters such as temperature, pressure, and torque, providing operators with actionable insights into process performance. Automated control systems can dynamically adjust operating parameters to maintain conditions and prevent deviations from target values.

Comprehensive user training and support resources play a crucial role in ensuring the ease of operation of lab extruder machines. Manufacturers should provide detailed user manuals, instructional videos, and hands-on training sessions to familiarize operators with machine functionality and safety protocols. Additionally, prompt technical support and troubleshooting assistance empower operators to address issues quickly and effectively, reducing disruptions to research activities.

The ability to customize machine settings and adapt to specific research requirements enhances the overall user experience. Lab extruder machines equipped with adjustable parameters such as screw geometry, die configurations, and processing profiles allow operators to tailor extrusion conditions to suit diverse materials and applications. This flexibility fosters innovation and experimentation, enabling researchers to explore new formulations and optimize process parameters with ease.

Feedback from operators and ongoing evaluation of user experiences are invaluable for driving continuous improvement in lab extruder machine design. Manufacturers should actively solicit feedback through surveys, focus groups, and user forums to identify pain points, usability issues, and feature requests. Incorporating user feedback into product development cycles ensures that future iterations of lab extruder machines are increasingly intuitive, efficient, and user-friendly.

Lab extruder machines are indispensable tools for researchers and engineers engaged in materials development, formulation, and processing. The ease with which operators can navigate machine operations and make adjustments directly impacts productivity, efficiency, and experimental outcomes. By prioritizing intuitive interface design, programmable settings, quick changeover systems, real-time monitoring, and control, user training and support, customization, and continuous improvement, manufacturers can empower operators to master precision and unlock the full potential of lab extruder machines in advancing scientific discovery and innovation.

[ashok92]

The Extrusion Process

During extrusion, unrefined substances are compelled to stream under controlled conditions along the length of the extruder barrel and through a formed opening (called bite the dust gathering) at a characterized throughput. In the first place, unrefined substances are regularly ground to the favored molecule size. As often as possible they are gone through a preconditioner in which different fixings are added and steam might be infused. During extrusion the item is cooked and blended by three separate energy sources: mechanical energy (shear brought about by the screw components), nuclear power that comes from the warming framework, and self-warming because of the soften thickness in the barrel. As the rheological way of behaving of the batter in the barrel extraordinarily influences completed item quality, it is vital to control temperatures and cycle times to upgrade food quality and intensity move.

Factors that impact the extrusion interaction can be isolated into three fundamental classifications: 1) Natural substance piece and plan (consistency, dampness content, synthetic organization); 2) thermomechanical cooking factors, including innovation configuration (screw profile, length/breadth of the machine) and working circumstances (screw speed, temperature profile, water content, dry blend rate, home time); and 3) bite the dust texturization factors (pass on plan, embed shape, opening area).

There are four principal classifications of extrusion processes: chilly, hot, steam-instigated, and co-extrusion. Cold extrusion is utilized to tenderly blend and shape batter without direct warming or cooking inside the extruder. It is utilized chiefly for delivering pasta and batter. Hot extrusion thermomechanically changes unrefined components through brief time frame and high-temperature conditions under tension. This sort of expulsion is utilized basically to cook unrefined components to deliver finished food and feed items. Steam-instigated development characterizes the liquefy extension at the kick the bucket exit because of water blazing off, prompting profoundly extended items. Resulting handling then, at that point, decides the textural qualities of expelled items. Instances of items created utilizing this kind of expulsion are extended bites and breakfast cereals. Extended co-expulsion joins steam-actuated development and filling infusion for extended items with double surfaces (typically fresh shell and delicate filling).

Extruder producers should offer exceptionally adaptable hardware to meet the wide extent of uses. For instance, the material that the expulsion kick the bucket is produced using can altogether affect eventual outcome properties. Bronze passes on are known to deliver better caliber, harsher surfaced pasta items than hardened steel bites the dust. Adaptable vertical cutting frameworks are famous with nibble makers to acknowledge new item calculations, including cup-molded snacks and a great many 3D shapes. As item improvement is normally performed on little measured machines, it is basic to have the option to increase effectively from a Research and development machine to a creation estimated extruder.