#brain chemical mapping

[actually-eldritch]

I frequently imagine a reality where things were different for me, better for me, and the thought of "neurosurgeon on Tumblr that studies the psycho-sociological patterns of the over-all community of users and the effects on their behaviour in context of the global state of affairs" continues to be funny.

Spiritually, that's still me.

[bluskaiwriting]

fetor & fertile | sergei "kraven" kravinoff

➤ pairing: AFAB reader x Sergei Kravinoff / Kraven

➤ warnings: Smut, mild predator/prey play, having a heat, animal play (a smidge), fuck or die because why tf not

➤ notes: Since y'all loved the last one so much, a little more filth for the people. dialogue in italics means it's in Russian but I'm not gonna Google translate and butcher Russian so just imagine~

➤ more: masterlist | smut reblog blog 

She hadn't realised her heat was so close when she'd made the journey out here.

It shouldn't have been for another few months at least. An early heat only meant one thing, there was a viable mate nearby.

It also meant she was fucked.

She'd barely trekked for another hour or so before she realised she wasn't alone.

Whatever it was had been following her by scent, her stench getting stronger as her body temperature rose.

She was in no state for a fight, if it came down to it.

Gritting her teeth, she knew that she had to make it to The Hunter's lair before sunset if she wanted to survive.

According to her map, it should have been only another few kilometres to the dome she was told to look out for.

Her rucksack was feeling heavier, the exhaustion and lethargy of the heat catching up to her. Her hair started to plaster to her forehead, and clothes stuck to her clammy skin.

As she walked, her mind wandered, and she recalled what her mother taught her about the symptoms of an unignored heat.

Fever, muscle spasms, uncontrolled perspiration, accelerated heart rate, and in some cases, death.

Usually, she'd have access to chemical suppressants or her mating simulator in the city. However, with the death of her uncle and the entire operation going to shit in the mess, things were not going as planned.

So her grand plan to save her family was to throw everyone under the bus, giving up her uncle's associates to a figure known as The Hunter.

He was supposed to be a legend, a boogie man to scare convicts and criminals into behaving. But a revelation came in the form of a file that she received after she called in a favour from law school.

He was very real and very effective.

If he could take care of the problems at hand, she was willing to pay whatever he wanted. But from what she heard, he wasn't interested in money, only justice. She could work with that.

As the dome came into sight, she heaved a sigh of relief, but before she could take another step the hairs on her neck stood on end.

Whatever had been following her, finally caught up.

Turning around slowly, she came face to face with a man with eyes like a lion's.

The Hunter.

He was tall and built like a warrior, with dark, long hair. Broad shoulders and endlessly long arms. His fists were clenched by his sides, bulging veins crawling up his forearm. Her heat-glazed brain seemed to focus on his thighs, thick and strong, his pants leaving nothing to the imagination. His face had to have been sculpted by the gods. Gaze dark, he scanned her head to toe, pupils narrowed.

Silently, she hoped that he liked what he saw.

He upturned his head, taking a deep breath before huffing and looking at her with something curious in his eyes.

"You're real brave, coming out here smelling like that."

His brow quirked, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. She ignored her hormones screaming for her to submit to him.

"I'm looking for The Hunter."

His eyebrows raised, something akin to amusement colouring his features.

"Who's asking?'

She shared her name and mentioned that she got her information from a friend from law school.

His stance seemed to soften, less offensive, more defensive. Which meant he recognised what she was saying. Thank god.

"Why are you here?"

"I've got names for you." His eyes gleamed with determination.

Hook and centre.

He invited her into his home, and offered her a snack and drink, said that she could stay the night, on account of the trek she'd made to get to him.

At this point, her heat was accelerating, her breaths coming out in short pants and her skin was flushed and hot to the touch. If he noticed, he didn't mention it.

He still seemed to be taking deep breaths, especially in her direction, but didn't bring it up again, she wasn't sure if she was relieved or not.

She vaguely realised that he was asking her a question, but she barely registered it.

Her head felt like she was underwater. She could hear an odd ringing and spots were dancing before her. The world suddenly seemed much too bright and it spun deliriously. She found herself on the floor before she could catch herself.

When her eyes opened, she found him knelt beside her, eyes wide with desire.

"You're not human, are you?"

She barely managed to shake her head while shivering. She could feel the cramps now, and if she didn't take care of it soon, she would pass the point of no return.

"Fuck."

He inhaled sharply, eyes glowing brighter.

"You smell..."

She knew that suppressants were only going to do so much now, her body sensed a viable mate and it seemed she would have to give in to her baser self.

Though, it didn't hurt that the specimen before her was most certainly satisfactory.

"Please, help me. It hurts." She whined, tearing at her clothes desperately.

She felt so hot, a fire burning her everywhere. When he placed a hand on her arm, she moaned instinctively and felt a small sense of instant relief.

He looked toward her, the vein on his jaw pulsing as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

"Are you sure?"

She grabbed his hand, shoving it lower as she nodded, pouting in frustration.

He took that as his sign and surged down toward her, pulling her deep into a passionate kiss.

His lips were soft but commanding, pulling gasps from her as he worked his tongue past her lips. He massaged at her tongue with his own and suckled on it lightly, before pulling back and nibbling on her bottom lip.

It was everything she needed and yet entirely not enough. Her hands roved over him desperately attempting to pull him impossibly closer.

He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, moving down to a spot behind her ear that had her moaning out loud.

He nipped at it gently, nuzzling against her hair while his hands moved over her underwear, pants long forgotten somewhere around them.

The Hunter slid his middle finger up and down her slit, putting pressure near the top where she needed more.

She whimpered with need, almost thrashing around from the overwhelming sensations that brought her relief while simultaneously being not enough. He chuckled at her neediness, and she felt a sense of embarrassment wash over her.

He kissed his way down past her collarbone, sliding her shirt off and baring her to him completely, he nipped at the side of her breast and continued downward.

As he peeled her underwear back his eyes sparkled at the sight of her glistening pussy. Groaning, his breath blew puffs of air onto her sensitive lips, causing her to clench around nothing.

Lowering his face to her core, he licked a tentative stripe up her slit. Moaning at the taste, he dove in like a man starved. Licking into her so enthusiastically, she could swear she saw stars.

Alternating between fucking her little hole with his tongue and sucking and nibbling at her sensitive clit, he had her writhing about in minutes.

Frankly, it was embarrassing.

"God... You taste heavenly."

"Shut up."

He grinned up at her like the Cheshire cat from his place between her legs, sending a shiver up her spine.

As his tongue continued its exploration of her, he added a finger, pumping in and out of her at a torturous pace. Her breathing got heavier, and the coil in her belly got tighter. Her fingers tugged at his hair, tangling in the strands. Pathetic mewls escaped her mouth.

"i-I'm close" She breathed, eyes rolling back.

"C'mon sweetheart, give it to me." He mumbled into her skin, a shit-eating grin on his face.

He added a second finger, scissoring them inside her and found a spongey little spot that made her let out a noise like a wounded animal. He huffed a laugh and continued bullying the spot relentlessly.

She saw stars as she crested over, a shiver running from the top of her head down to her toes. Even as the sensations got too much, he didn't let up.

She kicked at him, attempting to shove him off. But his mouth stayed plastered to her mound, licking and sucking and nipping indiscriminately.

His fingers did not stop their assault on her poor abused hole, still fucking into that little spot that had her eyes rolling to the back of her head. She felt an odd sensation building in her tummy.

"Wh-wait! It feels-"

She tried to push him off, but he shushed her and kept going. The feeling grew bigger and rolled higher, and she wailed as she felt her orgasm crash over her in violent waves, shaking her body and causing her to curl in on herself.

When the feeling finally subsided after what seemed like forever, she breathed deeply, trying to catch her breath.

It wasn't until he looked up from between her legs, beard wet and grin wide that she'd realised what had happened. She squirted.

She opened her mouth to apologise but another cramp hit her, and she knew her heat wasn't done.

He looked over her as if checking she was alright. He locked eyes with her and gave her a questioning look, she smiled back at him lazily and nodded.

Pulling her up, he looped his arms under her knees and shoulders, carrying her to his bed.

He wasted no time, lining himself up with her entrance. She got a proper look at him for the first time, and God, he was thick.

He was a good length, enough that she knew she'd feel him inside her for a bit. But his girth was ridiculous, so thick that she most certainly would not be able to wrap her hands around him fully.

A tingle of fear shot through her and she worried if he'd fit or rip her apart. As she looked into his eyes and saw the hunger in them, she decided that she didn't mind going out this way.

He pushed into her in one go, and she felt her breath stop in her throat. She could feel all of him just nestled past her entrance, the heat emanating from him elicited a low moan from her. The stretch was intense, the burn travelling through her nerves, but she could also feel the heat of the pleasure from him pressing against her walls so deliciously.

He let out a long exhale as if reigning himself in for a semblance of self-control. He tried to look into her eyes, before fixating on a spot just above her head, a faraway look in his eyes.

Once the crazed look in his eyes softened somewhat, he began to move, sawing in and out of her.

Each drag of his length in and out, had him grinding against her clit perfectly. She felt the trembles of pleasure all over her body, and a heat in her ears from the sensations.

His chest pressed against hers, creating a wonderful sensation against her erect nipples. She gasped at the feeling arching her back in chase of the contact.

He grinned at her, enjoying the way he was destroying her fully.

As her orgasm built up in the base of her spine, he could feel her clenching around him harder and more sporadically.

Picking up the pace, he drove into her harder and faster, drawing out sounds of uh, uh, uh from her lips.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, trapping him against her. Encouraged by the act, he brought his teeth to her ear and nibbled lightly, enough to have her driven mad by the slight pinch.

He brought his hand down between her legs and drew tight circles around her swollen bud.

That was the last thing she remembered before fireworks exploded beneath her eyelids, and she couldn't remember exactly when she had shut them.

An electrifying jolt shot through her and she felt the tingles all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes.

She clenched down on him, drawing a grunt and as she felt him tremble above her she also felt his warmth spread between her legs, filling her up as he let out a low groan into her ear.

The sound shot straight to her pussy. As she came back down, she felt the feeling return in her legs and the ringing in her ears faded.

She opened her eyes and found him lying next to her just watching. He had questions in his eyes now, though the desire had subsided somewhat, though not a lot.

So she explained how she came from a long line of people who weren't ever quite right. How they all seemed to become more animal than human when they got angry, and how regular human spouses never lasted very long in her family.

She told him about her uncle and the horrors that came with her family the empire they had built, the mess that became of it all now in the wake of his death.

Then finally, she could barely look him in the eye when she told him that what had just happened was her heat, and they were now mated and she could not leave him, even if she wanted to.

Finally, she avoided facing him at all when she rushed out in one breath that she might be with child, and her heat was far from over.

She waited, holding her breath for a reaction. But the silence stretched out, so she turned to face him, a weight settling on her shoulders.

But as she looked into his eyes, she saw some hope in them.

"I understand heats and mating, I'm more animal myself most days;" He started, offering her something of a comforting smile.

"I just never believed there were others like me out there."

He smiled at her warmly then, and she felt a sense of relief. They'd be alright.

[hivemuthur]

Request: something with sex pollen or accidental aphrodisiacs (science experiments?). And not like dubcon. More like Viktor/Reader have unconfessed feelings and apparently one or both of them needs to be drugged and desperate for sex to get them out. Idk if it’s your thing but I’d be interested to see your take on it.

I remember the evening I got this ask. I was like yesss and my friends gave me the look, you know?

Unknown Variable

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! sex pollen, but I've managed to plot it up a bit. From warnings: unsafe sex, rough sex, lots of fluids, brief mentions of experimenting on animals. The substance here is based on how fentanyl works, sort of :') I had to make myself a loop hole for something I wanted to write for the longest time :v

word count: 4,5K

author’s note: Freaktor Nation, how we feeling? Thank you for granting me another porn-writing fiddler milestone Anon :') beautiful artist behind the cover is @petitesieste 🖤

—

Your idle hand plays with the pendant of your necklace while the other scribbles down notes from the last test. Another miss. And life goes on in pain.

Finding a medication that alleviates pain without an endless list of side effects has been Sisyphean work, to say the least. Every time you think you’re close, something immune to compromise pokes its insistent head through the crack you’ve made in the never-fully-open door to the human pain receptor map.

To be honest, your ambitions to cure pain have long been tempered. Now, it’s merely about making it less relentless—offering people who struggle with it a brief reprieve, something to make it manageable. Not that Viktor was your inspiration, but he is a constant reminder of why you should keep going when every trial eventually turns to dust.

"Why do you insist on keeping such thorough documentation of the rejected ones?" The said reminder peeks over your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek.

You huff, masking how startled you are, and mutter, "Of all people, you shouldn’t be asking stupid questions."

"There is no such thing. Only stupid answers," he counters, eyes still glued to your notes. "It’s a very noble goal, you know, but you might have to come to terms with the fact that a complete erasure of pain may simply be impossible."

"Again. Of all people, you should not speak of the impossible, Viktor," you smile under your nose and turn your head just enough to see that he’s smiling, too. A jest.

"I'm only teasing you," he hums, reaching out to point at something on the page. "This… is not bad. Persevere, you will get there."

His fingertip lands right next to where your hand has frozen mid-writing, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his palm. For a brief moment, you allow yourself the illusion that Viktor is doing it intentionally. But the thought vanishes as soon as he straightens and clears his throat.

"I'm not sure I will continue with this one," you admit, tapping your pen against the page. "It gets rid of skeletal pain but gave my rats a headache to die for."

"Oh, no, no." Viktor shakes his head, eyes still scanning your notes. "This one, you shouldn’t abandon. Perhaps just tweak it."

"Tweak it?" You scoff, slumping back in your chair. "Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tweaked it?"

"I can only imagine," he replies with a wry smile. Then, after a beat, he leans in again, tapping a precise point on the intricate web of chemical formulas—lines and hexagons scrawled across the page. "I am no chemist, but this… just tickles the wrong part of the brain. Make it tickle the right one, and it might actually work."

It’s hard for him to mask the undertone of hope lingering in his voice. Hope that you will find the answer. Hope that your relentless pursuit of relief for those who suffer will finally bear fruit. And, if he allows himself a moment of selfishness, hope that his own pain, the dull ache that never leaves him, might one day be eased.

But there is something else, something unspoken and far less rational. Viktor has always found himself drawn to you, not just in admiration for your intellect, but in the way you work—how you lean too close to your notes, muttering under your breath, the way your fingers absently play with whatever they can find when you are deep in thought.

Since the early years at the academy, he has enjoyed working by your side more than he would ever admit. When your paths eventually diverged—yours to chemistry, his to engineering—he felt the loss more acutely than he had expected. There was pride, of course, in seeing you forge your own path, and such a noble one at that. But the empty spaces where you used to be, the missing sound of your voice arguing a point over some formula or blueprint, left a quiet ache that he did not know how to soothe.

Sometimes, when the solitude stretches long enough, he allows himself the indulgence of believing he was your inspiration. That some part of your devotion to this research, to this particular pursuit, was born from those long nights spent together over textbooks and dimly lit workbenches. But the thought is always fleeting, because minutes later, you will wave a dismissive hand at him, shooing him away to his own lab with a teasing remark, and he will remind himself that he is a fool for entertaining such notions.

It is not as though there have been no opportunities. There have been moments—unguarded, lingering occasions where it might have been easy to reach, to say something, to step beyond the line of friendship. But somehow, the time was never right. And so, this one thing, he never felt like he could touch.

You blink a few times, scrunch your eyebrows, and hum. The pen gets trapped between your teeth as you pick up the sheet and bring it close to your face, as if looking at it from a smaller distance would somehow make it clearer.

“You know, you might be right,” you finally say in a tone that suggests Viktor is never right.

A chuckle rumbles out of him. “Unthinkable,” he snorts, leaning on his cane and offering you a smug, satisfied grin.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be so pleased with yourself,” you chide, but the corner of your mouth betrays a smirk. “Thank you. I must ask you to leave me to be a genius now.”

“Ah, there it is,” he sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Served my purpose, and now I’m being unceremoniously chased away.”

“Don’t sulk,” you tease, waving him off as you set the paper back down. “I’ll even put your name in teeny-tiny little scribble on the leaflet.”

“You spoil me,” he deadpans, shaking his head as he turns to leave. He pauses by the door, glancing back at you with an affectionate smirk. “Fine. Let me know how it goes.”

Before you can say, “You’ll be the first one to know,” Viktor is already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. You give yourself a moment to rub the stupid feeling of light-headedness away from your temples before setting back to work.

What was meant to be a small tweak stretches into hours. Then days. Then, after two weeks, as you stand in front of the blackboard, the realisation you hadn't anticipated settles over you. Whatever you’ve created will inevitably end the already miserable lives of your test rats. Other than that, the medication looks as ready as it will ever be.

You could wait, of course—gather a group of willing human test subjects and conduct the trial properly. But let’s face it—you’ve waited long enough. And it’s right there.

Your jaw aches from hours of clenching, your sleep has been erratic at best, and now, to top it all off, a dull pain throbs in your tooth. You could just check. Worst case? You die. And if that happens—well, you won’t care anyway, will you?

As for the side effects? Manageable. Irrelevant in the grand scheme of the doctor-patient relationship. So yes—it seems you’ve very much done it.

The sun sets at some point while you debate with yourself—to drink or not to drink. When you finally do, all your hesitation, all your pain, the aches and nagging little pokes you hadn’t even realised were there—vanish. They melt into a feeling of softness and lightness, enveloping you in a warmth that feels almost like a gentle embrace.

Your fingers flex as if testing for any lingering pain, but there is none. Even the dull pressure behind your eyes from lack of sleep has dissolved. A laugh bubbles up, unbidden, and you press your palm over your mouth, giddy with disbelief. It worked. It actually worked.

Then, just as quickly, your thoughts snap to Viktor.

You scramble for your notes, knocking over an empty vial in your haste. Ink smears as you flip through your pages, but you hardly care. Grabbing one more vial—just in case—you cork it tight and shove it into your pocket. You need him to see this. Now.

Your heartbeat pounds as you rush out, barely remembering to lock the door behind you before taking off down the corridor. The lamps lining the halls have already been lit, casting flickering pools of gold onto the stone floor. You don’t stop to enjoy it.

Viktor’s dorm is far from your lab, but somehow the jog doesn’t get you tired. On the contrary, it feel great. You reach his door and rap your knuckles against the wood, shifting on the balls of your feet with barely contained excitement.

“Viktor! Open up—I’ve done it!”

The door swings open faster than you expect, and Viktor is already halfway through a hasty, "Shh!" before you shove the stack of notes into his chest. He stumbles back a step, catching them with one hand while bracing against the doorframe with the other. His hair is tousled, his vest unbuttoned—he must have been in the middle of something, though whatever it was is immediately forgotten as he frowns down at the crumpled pages.

"What—?" he starts, but you barely hear him.

With a triumphant little flourish, you hold up the test tube between you, the liquid inside gleaming under the candlelight. “I did it,” you whisper, grinning. “It works.”

Viktor’s gaze flickers from the vial to your face, eyes narrowing. "It? You mean—?"

“If this isn’t enough evidence—” you gesture to the notes he’s still sorting through, his confusion growing by the second—“I might have secretly tried it.”

His fingers still against the parchment. His head snaps up. “…You what?” Voice pitches embarrassingly, sharp with alarm. He glares at you as if he might physically shake the confession back into your mouth, but it’s too late.

You shift your weight between your feet, the initial rush of excitement dimming just a little under his scrutiny. “I tried it,” you admit again, slower this time, watching as his grip tightens around your notes. “And it works, Viktor. No pain, not even a little. I feel…” You hesitate, trying to find the right words, then settle on, “Light. Like I’m floating.”

“That is not reassuring,” he snaps, finally stepping back to let you inside. As soon as you cross the threshold, he shuts the door with a soft but urgent click and turns on you. “You—” He exhales, dragging a hand down his face, visibly forcing himself into something calmer. “You did not even hesitate?”

“I hesitated a lot,” you counter, but that does nothing to ease the storm in his eyes. He looks down at your notes again, scanning them, flipping through pages. His brow furrows deeper with every line.

The rustling of paper sounds unbearably loud in the silence, the only noise countering it the pounding of your own heart in your ears. He says nothing, eyes scanning the pages with intense focus. He’s not just skimming—he’s memorising, cataloguing every formula, every line of documentation. His lips part once, his expression shifting from concern to consideration.

Finally, he lifts his gaze, hopeful and searching. “And the side effects?”

“Very unlikely to make an appearance. Oh, hey!” Your sentence stutters to a halt as you catch Viktor tilting the vial at his lips—and swallowing. “Have you lost your mind?”

“You said it’s safe. I trust you.” He shrugs with a grin, then his eyes flutter shut. After a moment, a quiet, breathy laugh escapes him. “I’ll be damned,” he mutters. “It does work.” As if testing a theory, he exhales deeply, then sits on the sofa and stretches his legs out experimentally. “Please, continue.”

You blink, thrown off balance, but quickly shake it off. “Uh… very unlikely,” you repeat, resuming your pacing in front of him. “Whoever prescribes the medication would have to be attracted to their patient, and vice versa, for any additional effects to take place. And they would both have to ingest it. So, you see—”

Through your excited rambling, you don’t immediately notice Viktor clearing his throat uncomfortably. You frown briefly, a strange warmth blooming in your chest, but your mouth refuses to stop moving.

Viktor speaks your name softly, trying to halt your trot. Then, again. Then, once more—his voice lifting just a notch in urgency.

You finally pause, eyes locking onto his. “Chances are… very slim,” you finish the sentence, but your voice falters into something dangerously close to a whine.

Viktor stretches his legs out stiffly, his hips jerking once as his fingers clench into the fabric of his trousers. A flush creeps up his neck, blooming across the cheeks and he exhales sharply through his nose, shifting as if trying to find relief. His chest rises and falls fast, and when he swipes a hand over his face, his lips part, damp from where he must have licked them. Another small jolt runs through him, thighs pressing together, and his knuckles go white where they grip his knees.

But above all of this, he just looks… incredibly hot. And as if the sight alone isn’t enough to nearly undo you, he speaks.

“Aphrodisiac.” Comes a low mutter of disbelief. “Brilliant, really,” he chuckles weakly, though there’s little amusement in it—only breathlessness. Brilliant, how you connected the dots. So incredibly brilliant to tickle, as he advised you, the parts of the brain that entwine both—pain and pleasure.

“But, oh… f-fuck,” Viktor stutters, a sharp inhale cutting through his words as his body betrays him. His hand twitches towards his lap before he catches himself, fingers gripping his wrist in a desperate attempt to resist. A painful cramp of lust wrenches his stomach into a knot, his entire frame tensing. “You’ve missed a variable, I’m afraid—��

You stand frozen, staring at him, torn between bolting out the door and throwing yourself at his feet. But then the realisation crashes over you, scorching hot, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your pulse slams against your ribs, your skin suddenly feverish—damp forehead, shirt clinging to your back like a parasite.

“You…” your voice wavers as you step forward, heat curling low in your stomach. “It means—” Viktor swallows hard, his gaze flickering up to meet yours, pupils blown wide. “Oh, gods,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. “You like me,” the truth spills from your lips, the weight of it sending another sharp pang of want through you.

“Immensely,” he admits, voice strained, thighs pressing together as another tremor runs through him. His face is painted in apology, but his hands reach out for you.

You take another step, closing the space between you, and his breath stutters. “Since when?”

“Always, ah—” he gasps, struggling to keep control. His fingers tighten into fists against his knees again. “You?”

Your throat is dry. “Oh… s-same,” you choke out deciding the time for embarrassment is long gone.  

His head tips back, jaw clenched, a strangled sound slipping out as he exhales. “Gods.”

And it just fucking hurts not to touch him. The pain you had so recklessly rid yourself of is back with unnatural force—aching, unrelenting—and gods help you, if you don’t rut into his lap any minute now, you’re going to die miserably.

When you get close enough, his fingers brush yours pleadingly, and the touch feels like a punch to the gut. The mere ghost of his skin against yours bends you in half, has you leaning over him, gripping the backrest of the sofa for support.

“Can I?” he asks, his hand hovering under your skirt. The sweetness of it—this man, asking permission to touch you when you’re so clearly drenched, when you’re convinced he can see the slick dripping down your thigh—makes you want to weep.

You nod desperately, breathing out a tearful, “Please.”

Viktor immediately comes to your aid, his palm swiping up the dampness on your leg before pressing flat against your cunt. The sound it makes—slick and obscene—has him gasping. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispers, bewildered.

His neglected cock aches, trapped painfully in his trousers. With the hand not already between your thighs, he fumbles with his belt, freeing himself—but to no avail. His left palm is even clumsier than the right, which now falters, frozen between your legs, his drunk mind unable to do more than one thing at a time.

Desperate for friction, you grab his wrist and rut against his palm, spreading slick all over his fingers. Viktor whines, overwhelmed by both having you and not having you where he needs you most. Then, with a sudden motion that makes you gasp, he moves your knickers aside, hooks two fingers into your cunt, and pulls you down onto his lap.

The moment you're there, you begin to slide your pussy up and down his cock, and Viktor moans—a filthy, slutty sound that has you threading your fingers through his hair, tugging his head to face you.

He looks so gorgeous you could eat him and clean your teeth with his bones. Possessed by greed, you sink your tongue into his mouth and nearly stop grinding from the sheer feeling of it. His hands—gentle, reverent—cup your cheeks, soft lips nipping at yours, his eyelashes tickle your skin when his eyes flutter shut in relief.

It had never crossed your mind to just kiss him. And oh, you’ve missed out on so much.

Because Viktor kisses like he’s been wanting you for the longest time—slow and deep, breathing in through his nose as he presses his face into yours. Close, so close you could melt into him, dissolve into liquid and flow down his throat, straight to his heart. His scent floods you, sweet on your senses and unmistakably him, nothing in particular yet everything at once.

Your hips move once more, but he doesn’t let you go. He groans into your mouth, biting down a moan when your pussy lips hug the underside of his cock, teasing the spot just beneath the head. You stay there, rubbing your clit in short, frantic movements, the sinful sounds falling between you, making you ache for more.

Desperation floods your veins, your slick coating every inch of him as you grind into the ridges of his groin, each drag of your clit sending ecstatic warmth down each of your limbs. Viktor is no better—his breath comes in ragged pants. He grips your hips unsteadily, trying and failing to guide you into something slower that he could endure.

“F-fuck… you are—” His voice trembles, his forehead falling against yours as if the weight of his pleasure is crushing. “So wet. You feel so—so good.”

You can barely reply, too lost in the heat of him, the feeling of his length dragging through your folds, the head catching just right where you swell, the sensation buzzing, building up. Still, you manage a breathy, “Your cock feels amazing,” and the whimper Viktor lets out is nothing short of wrecked.

His hands slip up your back, holding you close, his lips brushing yours as he mutters sweet, broken things—bits of words and phrases in his native tongue. You don’t understand them all, but the way he speaks them, ardent and needy, has your stomach tightening, your whole body scorched.

“Viktor, I’m—”

“I know. Please, cum. For me,” he pleads, his hands gripping you tighter as you begin to lose your rhythm. It’s there, you can already feel it creeping up your spine, twisting and prickling your skin where Viktor touches you, coaxing it out.

The heat in your belly snaps, and you cry out, trembling in his arms as your release gushes over him, soaking his cock, his thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wetness, the sheer warmth of you, sends him over the edge in turn.

Viktor shudders beneath you, his voice breaking on a guttural groan as his cock twitches and spills, ropes of hot cum streaking over his stomach, mixing with your slick into a sticky, messy heat between you.

Your mouth falls back to his, kissing away the sweat from his lips, your pelvis still rocking gently through the aftershocks—the slide so easy now that you feel like a whore doing it. Viktor hums when you pull his damp hair away from his forehead, his breath slowing down when he exhales a breathless chuckle. "You will kill me," he murmurs, voice hoarse and fucked-out.

"No," you whisper, nuzzling into his cheek, your body still moving against him, slow and unhurried. Like a cat rubbing against its keeper, needy and content all at once. "No, I would never. I need you."

Viktor groans softly at that, his hands tracing your sweat-slicked back before settling at your waist. "What do you need from me, sweet girl?" His voice is low, the tone suggesting that anything you ask for, he will give you.

"Please, fuck me," you breathe, pressing closer, your lips brushing against his jaw. "I feel so empty." Only now you begin to undo the buttons of your shirt and Viktor does the same, pressing your damp stomachs together. He inhales your scent from the crook of your shoulder and hums, eyes rolling back in his skull as if the words physically unravel him. His grip on you tightens briefly before he smacks your hips with both hands and says, “Get up. Please.”

Your legs nearly betray you, thighs shaking and knees weak as you try to rise from his lap, only to almost collapse back at the sight of the webs of your shared release stretching between you. It makes a sticky sound, gross and hot, and to your relief, Viktor must find it hot too—because he’s nearly fully hard again.

You don’t know if it’s the medicine or something else. You feel different now, though it definitely still holds, since Viktor gets up with ease, turns you to face the couch, and presses his fingers to the back of your neck, squeezing gently before bending you over. “Ass up, head down,” he says, a renewed lewdness in his tone.

You turn your head, catching him in the corner of your eye, and at the flicker of concern on your face, he smooths a hand along your spine and murmurs, “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” He peels the sweat-dampened shirt from your back, and you smile at your shared state of half-undress—the way no time is wasted getting fully bare, the discomfort of parting greater than the inconvenience of underwear pushed aside clumsily and trousers still pooled around his knees.

Only you know how many times you’ve pictured this exact scene. But your mind never drifted far enough to conjure exactly how wet and scorching everything would be, how your thighs would quiver in anticipation. The cushioned seat dips next to your knee as Viktor sinks down beside you, close enough that your legs touch. His cock hovers below your pussy, his hands undo your bra, then settle where your hips crease.

He rocks back and forth and tsks when you shift needily. “So impatient,” he hums, sickly sweet in your ear. “But I suppose I have your lack of restraint to thank for being here in the first place.”

A clever retort sits at the tip of your tongue, only to be punched back down when Viktor slides inside you with one smooth thrust, hitting deep. He groans, wide and loud, fingers digging into your flesh—but you don’t see his face. You barely see anything through the tears pricking your eyes, forcing you to squeeze your lids shut. Your nails bite into the couch, and your back arches to meet him, presenting your ass just as he asked.

Still tight from your last climax, you hug all of him snugly, yelping when his balls slap against your soaked lips. It’s slow, almost teasing—the way he stretches you out. He’s too busy gaping at his cock, appearing and disappearing inside you, to hear your little mewls of incoherent begging, the word please tumbling from your lips over and over with no meaning beyond desperation.

Finally, you’ve entered the realm of things he can touch. And it’s dishonourable, the way it happened—but he doesn’t care. The ability to touch you, to fuck you, quickly erases all shame as he slams into you, hard and measured, knocking moans and ragged pants from your throat. It feels better than anything he’s ever felt.

He fucks you hard and rough. Each thrust is forceful, precise, driving deep until the sound of bodies slapping against each other is all you can hear. When enough pressure builds, and he feels your walls tightening, clenching closer and closer around his cock, he fists a hand in your hair and yanks you up. A sharp cry spills from your lips, your belly presses out, and you have to brace a hand against the couch's backrest. His arm comes around your shoulders, holding your back flush against his chest. The other hand—the death of you—slides between your legs, fingers pressing ruthlessly against your clit.

No restraint, no kindness—no nice boy left in him. His teeth graze your ear before sinking into the straining flesh of your neck, his voice a ragged whisper against your skin. “Take it. Where do you want it?”

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, mouth falling open as you breathe out a tired, “Inside. Please.” He bottoms out and wrenches it from you—an orgasm so violent it has you screaming silently into the ceiling of his dorm room. It’s devastating, ripping away all muscle control as your cunt seizes tight around him, milking him without mercy. Your hands tremble, knuckles whiten as you struggle to hold yourself up, trying not to slump face-first into a pillow.

It’s all too much for Viktor. He falters, his hand slipping from between your thighs. He whispers your name distantly, voice raw, and ruts upward—once, twice—before spilling inside you. Hot cum floods every crevice, thick and unrelenting, leaking out even before he pulls free.

Everything melts into one—your shared breaths, the wet warmth between you, the sluggish rhythm of your heartbeats syncing. Viktor sits back on his heels and wraps his arms around you, nosing into your neck. Leaves soft, loving pecks there, trailing from your collarbone to your temple.

“You really didn’t know?” he asks quietly, his thumb stroking your lip.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat and chuckle. “Oh, gods, no. I’d like to think I have more decency than to drug you into this.” Your face tucks into his throat as you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have never been more pleased about someone missing a variable,” he mutters, and he’s back—himself again. His hands are gentle as they cup your cheek, swiping away your worry. His lips are sweet on yours, licking the salt from your skin. What this little mistake has just opened up for you—you have no idea. But you can’t wait to find out.

[beneathsilverstars]

My @isat-secretsanta-2024 gift for @pillowspace!! They said they’re fascinated by secret research lab AUs, and, in a case of incredible serendipity, that’s been my favorite trope since I was like 8 years old. So I may have gotten possessed and spent three weeks straight worldbuilding a whole entire thing.

So! This comic is my gift for Pillow, but I’m planning to write a fic set in the same AU eventually, titled Desperate Measures. It will take place in a modern day Vaugarde and focus on Odile, Loop, and Siffrin, alongside other more-or-less-familiar faces. And by “eventually” I mean this is now my highest priority project, but it’s big enough that it may be a couple months till I have anything else to show!

Journal transcript under the cut:

wavelength of 690nm, which means it would activate L cones nearly exclusively. If we're correct in our mapping of wavelength combinations to color terms in historical documents, then this would be considered a shade of "red".

I still don't know if I believe it. It seems fantastical, like I've become a character in a children's story, chosen to leave behind the world of the mundane and enter a realm of magic. Or like this is all a dream, and as soon as I'm about to see the shade my brain will realize it doesn't actually know how to show me something I've never seen before, so it'll put me in front of a full auditorium instead; and then I'll forget how to speak Vaugardian, or realize I'm not wearing any pants, or both, and then I'll wake with a start back in Ka Bue.

But however strange it seems, I can't think of any reason they'd have to lie about it. Why else all the NDAs? Why else contact me? So I must assume that it's true. That after years of trying to solve humanity's loss of color vision — a project that began long before I joined it, and that I expected to continue long past my time — I am about to simply be shown a perceivable color. That's the strangest part, really; that this breakthrough isn't related to the mechanisms of sight, but rather, the thing seen.

14/1/29

I thought perhaps they'd synthesized it somehow. Stumbled upon the correct combination of chemicals by accident. Maybe even invented a new sort of craft.

I didn't expect their source of red to be alive.

[brookghaib-blog]

Silence between hearts - II

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Word count: 8,5k

note: I'm struggling to deliver such complex character, but I'm trying! Put some Kali Uchis on the back to get inspired and make the pain real, recommend it (Silk Lingerie,)

Warning: severe self-esteem issues, psychological violence, forced body modifications

Chapter I - III

--

Rain lashed against the wide, fogged-up window of her office, the rhythmic tapping like a war drum behind the muted hush of classical music playing on low from an old speaker.

Y/N sat at her desk, the light above casting a focused glow over a chaotic spread of notes, scans, and neural maps. The monitor flickered with Bob’s brain activity, overlaying heatmaps of synaptic explosions taken only hours ago. It was like watching a storm crawl across a neural coastline—one moment dormant, the next erupting with impossible activity.

"Physiology is stabilizing," she muttered, eyes narrowed. "But his cognition… it's all over the damn place."

Across from her, Dr. Ilari Kuznetsov—clinical psychologist, stoic as ever—leaned back in a leather chair. His arms were crossed, attention fixed on the screen with quiet intensity.

“He's exhibiting accelerated development in cortical density,” Y/N continued, tapping the screen. “This area—prefrontal, temporal—these bursts of activity shouldn’t be happening without some sort of chemical stimulus, but he hasn’t been dosed since day four.”

Ilari tilted his head. “And yet he’s stronger. Smarter. Less predictable.”

“Exactly,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek. “And then there's… last night.”

He glanced at her. “You're sure it wasn't a dream?”

“No. It was real.” Her voice was low now, cold and certain. “I don’t dream about my childhood piano room. I don’t hallucinate the smell of blood or feel the sting of his presence.”

Ilari went silent.

Y/N stood abruptly, walking to the board at the far end of the office. She clicked a marker open and began sketching two columns under the word "TRIGGERS." On one side, “Physical.” On the other, “Emotional.”

“Every protocol we've run,” she said, writing rapidly, “has been about the body. Blood. Hormones. Reactions to pain, to pressure. And yes, it's brought results. But not that.” She circled the word Void? scrawled in the corner.

“We’re dealing with a psychic phenomenon,” she muttered. “And if that’s true, then nothing I inject him with is going to unlock it.”

Ilari raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting... a psychological approach?”

“A social one,” Y/N said, her expression sharpening with quiet fervor. “If something is in there—something ancient, fractured, or just hiding—I want to meet it. And for that, I need to challenge Bob, not his body. His mind.”

She returned to the desk and pulled up surveillance from the previous tests: Bob, twitching, begging to leave. Then, when struck—his demeanor shifting. When soothed—his demeanor dissolving into worship. The pattern wasn’t consistent, but it was revealing.

Ilari watched, arms still crossed. “So what? You plan to manipulate him?”

She didn’t look at him when she replied.

“I’ve already started.”

Ilari frowned slightly, sensing something deeper in her tone.

She finally met his gaze. “Think about it, Ilari. His pain tolerance changes when he’s praised. His compliance spikes with perceived emotional closeness. He needs connection—but if that connection becomes unstable or toxic… perhaps it feeds whatever’s inside him. Or wakes it.”

Ilari stood now, stepping toward the board. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N. He already sees you as some kind of savior figure.”

She smirked faintly, voice like glass. “Let him.”

Silence fell.

Ilari watched her, unease plain on his face. “You’re not just doing this for the data, are you?”

Y/N turned back to her desk, gathering the scattered files.

“I’m doing it because he’s my project. My creation. And if there’s something divine inside him, it’s because I put it there.”

A beat.

“You don’t believe in gods,” Ilari muttered, shaking his head.

“No,” she said softly, a faint smile touching her lips. “But I do believe in becoming one.”

Ilari gave her a long look, almost pitying.

And then, just under his breath: “He’ll destroy you, Y/N. Whatever’s in there—it doesn’t love its maker.”

She didn’t flinch.

Instead, she lifted the folder labeled SENTINEL-01 and slid it under her arm.

“Then I’ll make it love me.” She responded as she gets ready to leave the room.

"Y/N."

His voice, low and almost fatherly, stopped her hand just as she touched the doorknob.

She didn't turn at first. Just exhaled—slow, measured. Like a general on a battlefield, holding still when the wind changes direction.

Ilari stepped forward. "If I let you walk out of here now without saying this, I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight."

She turned her head slightly, expression unreadable. "Then say it."

Ilari took a breath. "You're not like him."

Her brow twitched—just barely—but he saw it. She turned fully now, her grip on the folder still iron.

"You think I don’t know that?” she asked coldly. “I’ve spent my life trying to prove that.”

“I know,” Ilari said gently. “That’s why this experiment frightens me.”

She scoffed. “Not the powers. Not the anomalies. Me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“You’re brilliant. But you're also… cracked. Not weak, no—never weak. But he made sure you’d never feel whole unless you became him.”

Her lips pressed into a hard line. She hated how well he could read her sometimes. It wasn’t fair.

Ilari stepped closer, voice quiet. “You don’t have to be like him to surpass him, Y/N. You don’t have to sacrifice what’s left of yourself.”

She leaned against the desk now, the weight of his words slowly catching up to her. Her shoulders slumped—not visibly, but enough that Ilari, who had known her since she was a girl, could see it.

"I'm not doing this for him," she muttered. "Not anymore. This is about me. My work. My legacy."

“But what if it turns on you?” Ilari asked, watching her carefully. “That boy—Bob—he's more than just a subject. You know that now. And you saw something inside him last night. Something you weren't prepared for."

She went still.

He pressed further. "You saw your father’s voice in your head again. Didn’t you?"

That one landed.

Y/N's fingers tightened around the edge of the desk until her knuckles paled.

Ilari’s voice softened. “You’ve buried your past under so much science that you forgot it bleeds. That it festers. Now something inside that boy is pulling it back up, Y/N. He saw it, didn’t he? Saw you.”

She looked away. “He doesn’t know what he saw.”

“But you do.” Ilari stepped in front of her now, forcing her eyes back to his. “So I’m begging you—don’t turn this into a battle with ghosts. Don’t make Bob your redemption arc.”

Silence.

Finally, Y/N’s voice came, fragile under the edge of her steel.

“I never got to choose how I became who I am, Ilari.”

A pause.

“I was broken down and reassembled by a man who thought perfection was pain. And now… now I have a chance to create something better. Someone better. Not just a man. A god.”

Ilari studied her.

She looked so much like her mother now, he thought—not in her features, but in the way she guarded her vulnerability like a relic. Delicate. Yes, she was. But she’d been wrapped in so much armor for so long, she forgot how to feel without bracing first.

"You can create the perfect subject,” he said quietly. “But don’t forget there’s still a human in there. And there’s still one in you.”

She swallowed hard.

Then, softly, he added, “I remember you playing piano. When you were ten. You were crying through the whole recital, but you never missed a note. I asked your father afterward why you were so upset.”

Y/N flinched, her mask finally cracking.

“He said,” Ilari continued, “‘You cry when it hurts. But she’ll learn it’s better to be admired than loved.’”

A silence fell between them like a guillotine.

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, not with tears, but the weight of remembering. Then she straightened, recomposed herself.

"Admiration is all I’ve ever needed," she said quietly, and walked past him—folder tight under her arm, heels clicking like defiance across marble.

Ilari stood alone in her office, staring at the screen.

Bob’s neural activity pulsed like a heartbeat.

He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought was there:

Gods aren’t born. They’re built. And sometimes… by the wrong hands.

--

The door clicked shut behind her.

No cameras this time. No staff. No restraints. Just a clipboard and a notebook she wouldn’t open for now. Her coat hung loosely from her shoulders, sleeves pushed to her elbows. No gloves. No mask. No distance.

Bob was sitting on the edge of the cot, his back hunched slightly, the faint shimmer of the IV tape still stuck to the inside of his arm. His posture wasn’t guarded so much as… uncertain. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel safe.

Y/N pulled the chair closer, dragging it gently across the tile floor. No fanfare. No announcement. Just a soft kind of stillness as she sat across from him, only a few feet apart.

He didn’t look at her at first.

“Hey,” she said gently, a calmness in her tone that wasn’t clinical. Not yet. “I thought we could talk for a little while.”

Bob looked up, blinking slowly. His face was pale, drawn with fatigue, but his eyes were more alert than usual. Alert—and unsure.

“Is this part of the tests?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Something like that,” she said. “But no wires. No needles. Just questions.”

He nodded once but said nothing.

“You’ve been through a lot,” she said carefully, leaning forward a little. “I want to understand how you’re feeling. Not just physically. But… here.” She gestured to his temple.

Bob shifted uncomfortably. “Not sure what to say.”

“That’s okay,” she replied softly. “We’ll start simple.”

She waited. Let the silence stretch for a moment.

“What do you remember,” she asked, “about the day before you took the serum?”

Bob looked down at his hands. His fingers twitched faintly—like they remembered something his voice didn’t want to say.

“I was cold,” he said after a long pause. “Hungry. I remember staring at my shoes for an hour. The sole was peeling and I didn’t have glue.”

Y/N didn’t interrupt. She just listened.

“Everything felt heavy. Like even breathing was work. But I… I wanted to hope. I think.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, voice growing smaller. “Then I heard you say I could be something more.”

A pause.

“That maybe I wasn’t useless after all.”

His voice broke slightly on that word—“useless”—like it still tasted like poison in his mouth.

Y/N’s face didn’t flinch, but inside she stored every syllable like it was code.

“Do you feel useless now?” she asked, gently.

He hesitated. “I don’t know. Some days I feel like I could lift a building. Some days I can’t even lift my own thoughts.”

She tilted her head, voice calm. “That sounds exhausting.”

He laughed once—dry, without joy. “Yeah.”

Then he glanced up at her for the first time in minutes.

“What about you?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah.” His eyes held hers now, less shy than before, more curious. “Before this place. Before the project. Before… all of it. What were you like?”

She raised a brow. “Why would you want to know something about me, Bob?”

He swallowed. “Because you’re the only person who talks to me like I matter.”

That stopped her.

And then, more quietly, he added, “Even if you’re faking it… you do it well. And I guess… I want to believe it. Just a little. Even if it’s just in here.”

He tapped the side of his head gently. His voice was soft now, vulnerable in a way that wasn’t performative.

“You’re kind sometimes,” he said. “Or you try to be. And I think that means something.”

She held her breath for a moment, suddenly unsure whether the warmth she felt in her chest was pride in her experiment—or guilt.

“I guess I just want to know,” Bob added, “what kind of person knew how to make someone feel like they weren’t trash. Even if they were.”

Her heart didn’t break—no. That would require letting the crack show.

But it did ache.

Y/N leaned back in her chair slightly, folding one leg over the other. She looked at him carefully, studying the way his shoulders tensed when he was waiting, the nervous flick of his thumb across his palm.

“I used to play piano,” she said suddenly.

He blinked. “Really?”

“Mmhm.” Her tone was light, but her eyes were far away. “I was very good. Perfect, in fact. Until I missed a key.”

Bob frowned. “What happened?”

“My father happened.” She said it casually, like commenting on the weather. “He believed pain was a form of discipline. He also believed mistakes were a choice.”

Bob’s hands curled into fists, but he said nothing.

“I wasn’t allowed to cry in front of guests. I wasn’t allowed to be second. Ever. And eventually, I wasn’t allowed to be soft.”

She glanced at him now, a faint smile curling on her lips. “But I still remember how to fake it.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You don’t have to fake it.”

Silence.

She tilted her head. “No?”

He shrugged slightly. “I think the people who fake it best are the ones who used to mean it the most.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

So she stood slowly, walked over, and sat on the edge of his cot. Not close enough to scare him—but enough that he could feel her presence not as a doctor, but something gentler.

Bob tensed at first—but didn’t pull away.

She reached up carefully and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes.

“You’re not trash, Bob,” she whispered. “You’re… complicated. And I want to understand all of it.”

He stared at her.

And for the first time since he arrived—he didn’t feel like an experiment.

He felt like someone worth unwrapping.

Even if it was just a trick of the light.

The room they used for the sessions was different from the sterile coldness of the rest of the facility. It was dimly lit, intentionally warm, with soft neutral tones that were meant to calm the mind. There was no glass between them here, no restraints, no tests or needles. Just two chairs and a worn notebook on the table beside a tepid cup of coffee.

Y/N sat across from him, legs crossed neatly, pen held tightly in her hand though she wasn’t writing anything. Bob was fidgeting again, his sleeves rolled down to hide the old scars, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. He looked tired—always tired these days—but there was something else, too. He had started showing up early to these sessions. Sometimes sitting outside her office like a patient dog waiting to be let in.

She asked a simple question that day: “When did it start, the using?”

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, hesitant, visibly shrinking into himself like the truth was just another way to be humiliated. His voice was low when he answered.

“After my mom died. I guess I didn’t know how to handle grief. No one teaches you how to survive that kind of thing.” He paused. “And my dad... wasn’t really around. Not in a way that mattered.”

Y/N remained still, her features calm but firm. Inside, something twitched. That word—grief—was a blade she had long learned to dull. Still, she nodded for him to continue.

“I tried to fix it by pretending. Like if I acted like everything was fine, it’d go away. But pretending is a drug too. Just doesn’t come in a bottle.”

Her fingers tightened slightly on the pen. “So you found something stronger than pretending.”

“Yeah,” he laughed hollowly. “Stronger. And crueler.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the lights above was the only sound in the room. Y/N wanted to ask more, to dig into that wound and examine it—but then he looked at her with those tired, pained eyes. Eyes that had begged before. For help. For rest. For death. She couldn’t push.

Not yet.

Session after session, he gave her more. Broken pieces of his past like offerings, laid out with hesitant fingers. A story of falling into addiction, of shame, of waking up in places he didn’t remember going, of people he used to know turning their backs on him. The pain he had caused. The guilt he wore like a second skin.

And Y/N listened. Not as a doctor, but as a woman who had also spent her life hiding scars no one could see. She never offered comfort—never let herself. But she stayed. Always.

One afternoon, after a particularly heavy session where Bob had talked about the first time he tried to end his own life, he lingered in her office. He didn’t want to leave. His fingers brushed against hers when she handed him a glass of water, and though the moment was brief, it hung in the air like smoke.

Later that week, he brought her a book—old and torn on the edges—about astronomy. “Thought you’d like it,” he said, almost whispering. “You look like someone who stares at stars when no one’s watching.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

By the time the sixth or seventh session had passed, Bob had grown visibly attached. He started asking for her instead of the other doctors. Wanted her to run his physicals. Asked her if she’d be there during testing. Waited for her in the hallway with questions that had nothing to do with his treatment. “Did you eat?” “How late are you working today?” “Do you want me to help carry that?”

It was small, subtle things at first. But Ilari noticed.

He brought it up during their briefing one night, arms crossed, a concerned look painting lines on his forehead.

“Y/N,” he said, tone heavy, “I’ve been watching your sessions with him.”

She looked up from her files, tired and sharp. “And?”

“You’re good with him. That’s not the problem. But he’s relying on you for more than treatment. He’s… starting to care for you.”

She didn’t answer.

“I know you,” he continued. “I’ve known you since you were a girl. You’re not like your father. Not really. You care. Even if you don’t want to.”

“I’m fine, Ilari.”

“I don’t think you are. And I don’t think you realize how dangerous this could be if you let your guard down. This—” he gestured to the case file, to Bob’s photo, “—this project is volatile. And he’s unstable. And you… you’ve been wounded too many times to see the line clearly anymore.”

Y/N stared at the file in silence. Her jaw tightened.

“I’m not feeling anything. He’s a subject,” she said evenly.

But her voice faltered at the end, and Ilari caught it.

“Maybe. But sometimes the ones who need saving most aren’t the ones on the table.” He softened. “Just watch yourself, Y/N. Please.”

That night, as she returned to Bob’s room for observation, she caught him waiting for her with a small paper crane he’d folded from a test result page. “Made this,” he said, eyes hopeful.

She didn’t know why, but her chest ached a little. Maybe because she saw the way his fingers had carefully creased the folds. Or maybe because, despite everything, despite all she had done, all she was still doing—he looked at her like she was something worth loving.

And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.

--

The days dragged on with increasing weight.

Bob, though still cooperative in the sessions, was visibly wearing thin. His once-passive compliance had turned into quiet resistance. He followed instructions but did so sluggishly, without motivation or energy. During the last round of testing, he had refused to look anyone in the eyes. The bruises were fading quickly—his healing factor ensured that—but the emotional toll remained etched across his face.

Y/N knew something was coming. He was withdrawing again. It started when he skipped breakfast. Then he stopped talking between tests. His once-curious gaze grew dull. And then, finally, he spoke.

It was late, after another exhausting battery of tests. They sat alone again in the observation lounge—where she always came under the guise of checking data—but she could feel the heaviness in his silence.

“I don’t like this anymore,” Bob said, voice low and hoarse. “You know they’re hurting me.”

Y/N turned her head slowly, feigning surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” His eyes were sunken, and his arms were covered in fresh injection points. “Every day it’s needles. Probes. Blood drawn. They push my body to the edge and call it science. They don’t talk to me. I’m not a person to them.”

She stayed quiet, letting the words land. Bob looked down at his lap, breathing shakily.

“And you—you give the orders. I know you do. You smile at me, and you sit with me, but they only do what you say.”

Y/N felt the sharp sting of guilt crawl up her throat, but she buried it. She had always known this conversation would come.

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “I do give the orders.”

He flinched slightly, surprised at her honesty.

“You’re not dying, Bob,” she added, her voice tightening. “You’re responding to every test, every threshold. You’re the strongest biological specimen we’ve ever encountered. You don’t get sick. You don’t bleed for long. You can’t break. What we do is calculated. You’re not supposed to feel fragile.”

His fists clenched in his lap.

“But I do.”

That simple phrase rang through her like a gunshot.

He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t beg. He wasn’t even angry—not in the way she’d expected. He was simply exhausted, shrinking under the weight of something no healing factor could repair. His humanity.

Y/N didn’t answer. Instead, she stood and left the room without another word.

She spent that night alone in her office, awake well past midnight, staring at the medical logs and data charts. Her hands trembled as she reread the list of procedures he’d undergone in just the past 72 hours—thermal stress testing, controlled exposure to toxins, forced deprivation, strength exertion over limit. It was too much. It had been too much.

But her project was close to perfection. The results were undeniable. Bob Reynolds—Sentry—was something no one had ever seen before. A man touched by divinity. And she had crafted him.

Still... she remembered his voice. But I do.

The next morning, Y/N called an emergency staff meeting.

The entire medical and science division filed into the sterile conference room—doctors, technicians, analysts. Dr. Ilari stood at the far end, arms crossed, eyes wary. She took her place at the front of the room, standing behind the clear glass table, a thick folder in her hand.

They expected a report. They expected new assignments.

What they didn’t expect—was her announcement.

“Effective immediately,” she said coldly, “I am assuming full control over the Sentry project.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

“I will be conducting all medical testing, all data collection, and psychological assessments personally. Your departments will no longer have direct access to the subject unless explicitly requested.”

Murmurs broke out instantly. Several of the senior researchers exchanged alarmed glances. A hand shot up.

“With all due respect, Dr. Y/L/N, the scale of this project is—”

“I am aware of the scale,” she cut in. “And I am telling you now, the data we are collecting is being compromised by your methods. Subject 01 has been exhibiting signs of regression, instability, and emotional degradation. You’re treating him like a machine, and machines break.”

Ilari stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “Y/N, this isn’t sustainable. You can’t handle the full scope—”

“I can, and I will.”

Her voice rang like a bell. The room went quiet again.

“I’ve monitored every blood draw, every dosage, every scan, every forced physical exertion. And what I see now is a subject who is reacting more to how we treat him than to the formulas themselves. If we want to control the god, we must not destroy the man.”

There was silence.

No one knew what to say. She was young, driven, brilliant—but this... this was a declaration of war on the entire system they had been building together.

Ilari stepped forward again, lowering his voice. “You’ve grown close to him.”

Y/N met his gaze. “This isn’t about emotions. This is about control. And I’m taking it back.”

She turned without another word, leaving the room in stunned silence.

—

That afternoon, when Bob returned from his brief outdoor break, he noticed something immediately. The usual technician wasn’t waiting at the door. There were no unfamiliar eyes watching him. No machines prepped.

Only Y/N stood inside, sleeves rolled up, her usual clinical coat left behind. Her expression was unreadable.

“Where is everyone?” he asked cautiously.

“I sent them away.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because from now on,” she said softly, “it’s just you and me.”

Bob stared at her for a long moment. "Did you do it..because of what I told you ?".

Y/N stared at him, a serious expression on her face. "No, I did it because the way you're treated affects my results. When I need them, they'll come back. For now it's just me. You're my priority."

No longer sterile, no longer clinical.

The harsh lights were dimmed now, replaced by soft amber hues from a floor lamp Y/N had brought in herself. The reclined metal exam chair had been replaced with a cushioned lounge seat, a table set with water, coffee, and a plate of biscuits Bob pretended not to like—but always finished. The whiteboards with biometric tracking and neurological data had been replaced with a single corkboard showing scribbled notes, hand-drawn mood scales, emotional triggers, color-coded maps of memory and cognition.

It looked less like a lab.

And more like a living room.

Bob sat cross-legged on the soft recliner, fidgeting with the seam of his pants. His hair had grown slightly, a bit uneven, and he looked both healthier and more childlike. Y/N sat across from him in an armchair, clipboard in hand, though it remained mostly blank these days. Most of their sessions had stopped being recorded.

It was safer that way.

“Let’s go back to the earliest time you remember… using,” she said gently, careful not to let judgment seep into her voice.

Bob shifted uncomfortably, lowering his gaze.

“It was... a vitamin bottle. From my mom’s cabinet,” he mumbled. “I was twelve.”

“Twelve,” she echoed softly. “That’s young.”

He nodded, then sighed. “I didn’t even know what it was. I just knew I didn’t want to be the version of myself I was. I wanted to be someone else.”

There was a long pause.

“What version of yourself were you running from?” she asked.

Bob blinked at her, his blue eyes wide and painfully human.

“I was just a scared kid,” he whispered. “Ugly inside. Angry. I had these... impulses. And I didn’t want to be him. So I started using whatever I could find. Pills. Later, harder stuff. Then the serum... and then everything got worse.”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. But she didn’t speak. She let him sit in it, unravel in his own time.

He sniffed, brushing a hand under his nose like a boy trying not to cry. “You know... when you gave me that apple the other day?” he said quietly. “It was the first time I tasted something without wondering if I deserved it.”

She looked up, startled.

“You... don’t think you deserve things?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t think I deserve kindness. Or peace. Or... this.” He gestured at the warm, safe room. “That’s why when you sit with me like this... it messes with my head.”

Y/N put her clipboard down.

“You think I’m manipulating you?” she asked gently.

He looked up sharply, startled she said it out loud.

“No,” he said after a moment. “I think you’re... trying. I just don’t know if you’re doing it for me or for the project.”

Y/N inhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her chest like she could physically contain her guilt. “Does it matter?”

His eyes flickered toward her.

“It shouldn’t,” he murmured. “But I think it does. Because when you ask me things—about my life, my pain—it feels like you’re the only person who sees it. Like it’s not just data for you.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. Her voice, when it came, was small.

“It’s not just data.”

Bob swallowed hard. His hand moved toward the arm of his chair, almost instinctively reaching for hers—but he stopped. Let it fall back into his lap.

“I think about you when I try to sleep,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Not in a weird way. Just... you’re the only person who talks to me like I’m still real.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

And for a terrifying second, she forgot who she was. She forgot the glass between them. Forgot the millions of dollars of funding, the scientific scrutiny, the mandate to keep him controlled.

Because in that second, he wasn’t the Sentry.

He was just Bob.

A boy who broke too early and was still piecing himself together with shaking hands.

She leaned forward slightly.

“What are you most afraid of?” she asked.

Bob didn’t hesitate.

“Loving someone,” he said, “and then watching them disappear because they finally realize what I am.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

“I won’t disappear,” she said, almost involuntarily.

He looked up sharply.

And for a moment, something soft bloomed behind his eyes—something desperate, something fragile.

A spark of hope.

She broke the eye contact quickly and stood up, walking toward the small cabinet in the corner. She needed space, a second to remember what this was. What she was doing. Why this mattered.

But as she poured them both a glass of water with trembling hands, she realized she was crossing the line.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward.

It was the kind of silence that hung gently, like a blanket wrapped around a shared vulnerability. The kind that said everything even when no one spoke.

Bob shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes never leaving her face. Something was different in the way she had reacted earlier—when he’d mentioned what scared him most. She hadn’t looked away because she didn’t care.

She looked away because she did.

He leaned forward slightly, voice low. Careful.

“Can I ask you something now?”

Y/N looked up, eyebrows raised.

“You’re already answering all my questions,” he added, half a smile tugging at his lips, though his voice remained serious. “I just want to ask one.”

She hesitated. The scientist in her was always in control—of the conversation, the space, the subject. She wasn’t used to letting herself be the subject.

But something in his voice made her nod.

“Go ahead.”

Bob exhaled slowly. Then asked, with terrifying gentleness:

“Is there something that makes you feel unloved? Maybe something that makes you think that… you have more worth if you were far away?”

The words stopped her cold.

It was like someone had reached inside her and pulled a string she didn’t even know was still connected.

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Her lips parted, then closed again. Her eyes dropped to the floor, then lifted, searching his face. He looked so soft, so unsure, as if the question had cost him something too. He already had seen a part of what destroyed, if felt like tha was the real question.

Y/N swallowed hard, heart thudding in her chest.

She could lie.

She should lie.

But somehow, it wouldn’t matter. He’d see through it anyway.

So instead, she settled on the safest possible truth.

“Sometimes,” she said slowly, “I don’t feel pretty enough.”

Bob blinked.

He stared at her for a moment, the silence now sharp with disbelief. And then, without meaning to, a dry laugh escaped him—more stunned than amused.

Y/N’s expression tightened slightly. She didn’t flinch, but something behind her eyes dimmed. “Was that funny to you?”

“No,” he said quickly, eyes wide. “No—I just—I’m sorry, it’s just… you?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You’re one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen, Y/N.”

He said it without fanfare, without hesitation, without flirtation. Just simple, raw honesty.

“You’re elegant. Controlled. Brilliant. You walk into a room and everyone holds their breath. And I—I can barely look at you sometimes because you’re so... untouchable.”

That word hung between them for a moment like a ghost.

She looked away, a faint, sad smile on her lips.

“Well,” she said softly, “I didn’t always feel like that. I grew up in those kinds of neighborhoods where no one really said ‘beautiful.', we just had to be, you know as girls…”

She trailed off.

Bob didn’t push. He just listened, fully present.

Y/N continued, her voice flatter now, detached.

“My mother was... obsessive with beauty. I don’t think she ever looked at me pride of my face, just looking for parts to fix. My posture. My skin. My weight. She’d tell me I looked tired, or my clothes were wrong, or I’d never find someone if I didn’t ‘try harder.’”

Bob’s expression darkened, his jaw twitching.

“She said the world doesn’t give love to plain girls,” Y/N said, her voice now barely above a whisper. “Only to the beautiful ones..”

Bob’s heart ached.

Not just for what she said.

But for the quiet way she said it. Like it didn’t deserve to hurt anymore.

He leaned in, his voice breaking.

“She was wrong.”

Y/N’s eyes met his.

“You’re not loved because you’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re beautiful because of how deeply you care. Even when you pretend you don’t. You stay up late cataloguing my nightmares. You memorize my blood sugar before your own sleep schedule. You still try to protect people, even when you’ve already decided they’ll leave you.”

She blinked, lips slightly parted.

“I think,” he added, “you’re just scared of being loved in a way that isn’t conditional.”

Her breath caught.

“You think I’m scared?”

“I know you are,” he said softly. “Because that’s the only kind of love we were ever taught. Love that only comes when you’re perfect. When you’re quiet. When you behave.”

He leaned back, watching her closely.

“But that’s not what I see when I look at you.”

Y/N looked away, blinking rapidly, as if she could physically hold back the sting behind her eyes. No one had ever said that to her before—not without wanting something. Not without using her after.

“I didn’t expect you to turn this session around,” she said with a dry, forced chuckle.

“I didn’t expect you to answer,” he replied.

They sat in silence again—this one more fragile, charged. But something in it had shifted.

The space between them no longer felt like subject and researcher.

It felt like two people, both worn thin by the world, quietly finding the broken pieces in each other

--

2016-Manhattan, NY

The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, cold and heavy, mixing with the faint citrus perfume her mother always wore. Y/N sat on the edge of the examination table, her legs dangling, heels not quite reaching the step below. The crinkle of the disposable sheet beneath her thighs made her feel like a child. Which — she still was. Fourteen. Braces shining behind tight lips. Dressed in the soft pink satin dress her mother insisted she wear, with hair pulled neatly into a ribboned ponytail.

She hated that dress. It itched at her shoulders and clung wrong around her ribs.

Across the room, her mother sat perfectly composed in a velvet chair, legs crossed, pearls nestled against her collarbone like they belonged in a magazine spread. She flipped through a beauty magazine without really reading, eyes flicking up every few seconds to examine her daughter with a critic’s precision.

The door opened with a faint click, and in walked the doctor.

Polished. White coat. Plastic surgeon, just like her mother had said. He smiled warmly — professionally — and greeted them with a firm handshake.

“So, Y/N,” he began, looking down at her chart before glancing at her face. “It says here we’re considering a minor rhinoplasty, yes?”

Y/N’s heart skipped. She opened her mouth, but her mother spoke first.

“She’s had some… development issues. Her nose just won’t stop growing, and it’s throwing off the symmetry of her face.”

The doctor nodded, nonchalant. “Yes, at this age the cartilage can definitely appear out of proportion, but—”

“She looks like her father,” her mother interrupted, a thin, cold smile on her lips. “And that side of the family has very unfortunate noses.”

Y/N’s throat felt tight.

“I don’t… I don’t want to do this,” she mumbled, finally finding her voice. Her fingers were twisting the hem of her dress in her lap. “I think I’m fine…”

Her mother’s magazine hit the table beside her with a soft slap. She stood, heels echoing through the room as she approached the table.

“Y/N,” her mother said calmly, but the tension beneath the words cut like glass, “do you want to be seen as beautiful or not?”

Y/N’s lips parted, but the words tangled in her braces and shame.

Her mother leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if she was sharing something intimate — something only for them. “I’m not going to have a daughter with an unattractive face. You already need braces and a brow correction. You don’t get to be stubborn and plain.”

Y/N’s eyes burned, but she blinked hard. She didn’t want to cry in front of them.

The doctor looked away politely. Or perhaps uncomfortably.

“I just… I don’t like the idea of being cut,” Y/N tried again, softer. “I’m not even done growing yet.”

“You’ll grow worse,” her mother replied flatly. “You’re lucky I’m doing this now. Later it’ll just be harder. Uglier. You’ll thank me when you’re older, when people look at you and can’t look away.”

She smoothed the hair from Y/N’s forehead, almost tenderly — as if she hadn’t just called her ugly.

“Beauty is power, darling,” she said. “And you don’t have much else yet.”

Y/N didn’t respond. Her eyes drifted to the mirror across the room. Her reflection stared back: pink satin dress, too-bright cheeks, braces flashing silver, eyes too big for her tired face.

She didn’t look pretty.

She looked like a girl trying to become something for someone else.

And the worst part was… she would say yes. She always said yes.

Over the years, the girl in the pink satin dress slowly disappeared — replaced by something sculpted.

After the nose job, the healing came with more than just physical pain. There were weeks of swelling, bandages, and the quiet ache behind her eyes that she never spoke of. But the surgery wasn’t the end — it was only the beginning.

By fifteen, the conversation turned to her chest. “I’m not saying you look bad, darling,” her mother said, examining her like a mannequin under harsh boutique lighting. “But you’re… underwhelming. And in this world, no one gives attention to the flat ones.”

And so the boob job was scheduled. Recovery was hidden behind “a ski injury” for her peers. Her mother coached the story, even had a note forged from a fake orthopedic specialist. She smiled and told Y/N she looked more “feminine” now. More sellable.

At sixteen, the braces came off. Her teeth were straight, pristine — a perfect row of white lies. But before she could even get used to her new smile, her mother was already booking appointments for lip fillers. “Now your lips won’t disappear when you smile,” she had said sweetly, applying gloss to Y/N’s face like one might polish a car. “Don’t pout, baby. It’s called maintenance.”

The gym came next. Two hours a day. No excuses. A personal trainer was hired to tone, to sculpt, to burn away anything that didn’t fit the image. There was no room for rest — only routines, calories counted and monitored, waist measurements noted weekly.

At school, the other girls admired her. Boys stared. Teachers complimented her presence like she was a young socialite. She got good at smiling. At saying thank you. At being exactly what she was built to be.

But behind the makeup and luxury brands was a hollow hum — a ringing silence where her voice used to be.

By seventeen, etiquette lessons were part of her weekly schedule. How to sit. How to stand. How to speak just enough, but never too much. “You walk like you’re from the suburbs,” her mother once said, adjusting her posture with a ruler against her back. “Walk like you own the world.”

Her wardrobe was curated with surgical precision: no jeans, no sneakers. Only skirts and dresses, preferably form-fitting, elegant, demure but enticing. High heels were not optional. Her mother said that flats were for quitters. Every inch of her had to scream polished, desirable, perfect.

Her hair was always done — keratin treatments, hot oil masks, trims every three weeks. “You are not a girl who has split ends,” her mother once said sharply after catching a broken strand. And so the hair remained long, flowing like a curtain around her carefully constructed face.

A full-time makeup artist became part of the household by eighteen. “She’ll teach you what works for your bone structure,” her mother said while sipping wine. “We can’t rely on youth forever.”

Every morning was a ritual. Foundation, contour, liner, lashes. A mask she wore like armor. And she wore it well.

People stared. People desired. People praised her.

But no one saw her.

They saw the product. The work of another woman’s ambition. They saw a sculpture carved from insecurity and painted over with expectations.

And sometimes, late at night, in front of the mirror — bare-faced and stripped down — Y/N would touch her nose or trace her lips, wondering if her reflection remembered what it was like to be real. Wondering if there was anything left of the girl who once cried in a doctor's office, begging to keep the face she was born with.

But those thoughts didn’t last long.

She had been raised to be beautiful — not brave.

--

The small apartment in Malaysia was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the lone candle on her nightstand.

Steam still lingered faintly in the air from her shower, curling along the ceiling like ghostly fingers. Y/N stood in front of the mirror, her wet hair clinging to her bare shoulders, a white towel wrapped securely around her body. The dim candlelight flickered across the room, casting her reflection in warm, dancing shadows.

She exhaled slowly, arms crossed, fingers clutching the edges of the towel.

She had always been so clinical about herself. Her body was a machine—one to be sharpened, maintained, hidden when necessary. It was easier that way. Easier than acknowledging the ache she’d buried since she was young, since she’d stood in this exact position in a much smaller mirror, hearing her mother’s sharp voice cutting into her like glass.

“You’ll never be loved looking like that.”

“You need to try harder. Be softer. Men don’t fall in love with girls who don’t look like they want to be loved.”

She had taken those lessons and pressed them so deeply into her bones that even now, even with every degree on her wall and title next to her name, she could still hear them.

But Bob’s voice—his voice had been so different.

“You’re one of the most beautiful I've ever seen, Y/N.”

She stared at herself now, like she was trying to see what he had seen.

She let the towel slip just a little lower, exposing more of her collarbones, the top of her sternum. She turned to the side, watching the lines of her silhouette in the flickering light. She pulled the towel away slowly and dropped it to the floor, standing naked before the mirror, her skin still glistening from the shower.

Her eyes traveled slowly across herself—shoulders, chest, waist, hips. She had always been lean, naturally so, but harshly maintained through skipped meals and long nights at the lab. Her curves weren’t soft; they were strategic. Everything about her had been designed to survive, not to be desired.

Was she thin enough? Beautiful enough?

Was she what Bob had imagined when he said those words?

She brushed a damp lock of hair from her face, letting her gaze settle on her own eyes.

How would he see her like this? Bare, vulnerable. Not behind her lab coat. Not behind notes or experiments or questions. Just her.

Would he still think she was beautiful?

And then, as if her own thoughts physically struck her, she flinched.

Her breath caught.

Why do I care?

Her hand went to her mouth, as if she could pull the question back.

She took a step away from the mirror.

Why the hell do I care what he thinks about my body?

It wasn't just clinical anymore. She wanted him to see her. She wanted him to think about her. And that terrified her.

She had never let herself feel that.

Not since—

Not since the last time she loved someone who couldn’t stay.

And Bob? He was the definition of unstable. Of unpredictable. Of dangerous. He was a cosmic bomb wrapped in a sad smile and dependency.

And yet… she was falling.

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes as if it would stop the flood of heat in her chest.

You’re getting too close. You’re starting to like him.

Dr. Ilari’s voice echoed in her mind like a warning bell. “Y/N, don’t romanticize his pain. I’ve seen this before. You’re not the cold, surgical person you pretend to be. You’re delicate. You care too deeply, and you’ll pay for it if you lose yourself in him.”

She stumbled back to the bed and pulled the sheets around her body, collapsing into the mattress with her hair still wet and skin still bare.

Her mind raced.

The way Bob looked at her.

The way he said you matter.

The way he saw past her harshness and perfectionism and still wanted to stay.

And most dangerously… the way he made her wonder what it would feel like to let someone truly see her again. Not as a doctor. Not as a project. But as a woman. A person.

She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Maybe the worst part wasn’t that she cared. Maybe the worst part was that, for the first time in years, she wanted to be cared for, too. Not even thinking about pleasing her parents...she was thinking about pleasing Bob.

Oh no.

--

The next session was different.

The air in the room felt heavier than usual, weighed down by something unspoken. Y/N sat a little straighter than she normally did, her clipboard clutched more tightly in her hand, her gaze more clinical than warm.

Bob noticed immediately.

He sat across from her, slouched with a blanket draped around his shoulders from the coldness of the medical wing. But his posture stiffened the moment she didn’t look at him the way she usually did.

No gentle smile. No soft eyes. Just distance.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked quietly, voice uncertain.

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She was too busy jotting something down—though, truthfully, the page was still blank.

“No,” she said after a pause. “Nothing wrong. I just think we need to reestablish some professional boundaries.”

There it was.

Clean. Cold. Measured.

Bob stared at her. His heart lurched in his chest.

“Professional,” he repeated, like the word didn’t sit right in his mouth. “Okay… What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means,” she said, keeping her tone even, “that we’re slipping into something emotionally codependent. I’m here to observe, treat, and study. I’m not your friend, Bob. And I think I’ve let my guard down more than I should’ve.”

Bob blinked at her, the betrayal hitting him like a slow-moving train.

“But you wanted me to talk. You asked me about my memories, about my trauma. You listened, you said it mattered.”

“It does matter. But that doesn’t mean it’s healthy for either of us to blur the lines.”

“You tucked me in two nights ago,” he said, his voice rising. “You held my hand. You slept next to me. And now you’re telling me we’re too close?”

Y/N’s eyes flashed, but she kept her composure. “That was a misstep. One I shouldn’t have made. You’re a subject under my care, Bob, not—”

“Not what?” he snapped. “Not a person? Not someone worth more than the data you scribble on your clipboard?”

“That’s not fair.”

Bob stood up abruptly, the blanket falling from his shoulders. He looked hurt, but more than that—he looked abandoned. Again.

“Why would you do all that if you didn’t mean it?” he asked, softer now, more broken. “You made me feel like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just some lab freak they keep stabbing with needles.”

Y/N stood too, uncomfortable, defensive. “Because you do matter, Bob. That’s why I have to do this. If I let you believe this is anything more than part of your recovery, I’ll be failing both of us. You need stability, not attachment. And I—”

She caught herself. Almost admitted something she couldn’t afford to.

“And I can’t be the person you lean on like that.”

Silence.

Then Bob stepped back, his jaw clenched.

“You said I was smart,” he said. “Smarter than I let on.”

“I did.”

“Then you should’ve known I’d figure this out eventually. That all your affection—your kindness—it was calculated. Part of your experiment.”

Y/N’s eyes softened just a touch, guilt creeping in.

“It wasn’t fake,” she whispered. “I just… let it go too far.”

Bob stared at her like he didn’t recognize the woman in front of him anymore.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he said, voice trembling, “to go from nothing—to being locked up, experimented on, treated like a threat—and then suddenly someone treats you like you’re human again? Do you know what it does to a person when that someone pulls away?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Bob turned, his back to her, arms tense at his sides.

“I don’t want to be your experiment anymore,” he muttered.

“You’re not,” Y/N said, quietly. “You’re not just an experiment. But you’re also not my responsibility beyond what this project demands.”

Another long silence.

When Bob turned back to her, his expression was no longer just hurt—it was unreadable.

“Understood, doctor,” he said. “From now on, let’s keep things professional.”

And then he left, walking out of the session room without another word.

Y/N stood there long after he was gone.

Her clipboard was still blank.

And her heart—against all logic—ached. Did she want him to go away? How is this man so special to break her this deep in just three weeks.

[htchnr]

꩜ chemical reaction 𑣲 B. POINDEXTER.

𖦹 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𖦹 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐨-𝐟𝐢!

「 ꜜsummary,, requested by a lovely anon; can I request a comfort-y thing about Dex and a reader with anxiety, maybe they’re having a rough time keeping the panicky thoughts in check and feeling a lil hopeless and like a bother? (I also feel like feeling his scars would feel really grounding and I have no idea why). author notes at the end. 」

「 ꜜcontent,, i made up scars for Dex ⋆ semi detailed panic attack ⋆ hurt/comfort ⋆ Dex hating comforting but hating seeing you in pain more ⋆ awkward comforting ⋆ poor in-the-moment self image ⋆ title is from a Radiohead song. ꜜwc,, 1,1k. 」

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

you don't know how it became a habit-- running your fingers over the grooves and bumps of Dex's scars. but it beyond soothed your anxiety for the time being.

Dex first noticed it a few weeks ago. you two were out in the grocery store when your anxiety spiked. maybe you saw someone, maybe you just felt really overwhelmed, he doesn't know.

but a few seconds after you started thumbing the thin, few-inch long scar on the back of his hand you slowly calmed down. he had felt you physically and visibly calm down as your thumb swiped back and forth the raised skin.

a week and a half ago you had a bad panic attack-- Dex was fumbling for something in his own panic to soothe you. when he suddenly thought back to the moment in the store.

it was a spur of the moment kind of thing, but Dex took your hand and pushed it beneath his shirt as he pressed your fingers against the nasty healed scar that was left by a shotgun shot.

he watched as your face scrunched up in surprise, taken aback by the action. he felt your fingers trace over the scar, fingertips slightly dipping into the grooves of the unpleasant mark.

it took no less than fifteen minutes for your breathing to slow and your panic to subside. Dex merely stood there as he held your hand to his side. " i didn't know that was there, " you had croaked out after a while, mapping the scar out with your fingers without seeing it.

Dex swallowed, having felt stiff but relieved that you were speaking. " it's been there a long time. " it was true, but maybe not the answer you were looking for.

Dex catalogued that moment, carefully and neatly filing it away in his mind for if the panic got that bad again.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

Dex's fingers twitch at his sides as walks through the hall to your shared apartment. you had been rather quiet over text, and that sent his thoughts spiralling. what if something happened while he was at work? what if you were hurt? what if you left him?

the keys push into the lock in a rhythmic way, they way they always do each evening he comes home. he pushes the door open, the apartment is quiet-- too quiet.

Dex closes the door and locks it before setting the keys in the dish on the side table. " Dex? " he spins around at the shaky sound of your voice, wide hazel eyes finding your wide, tear streaked ones.

neither of you say a word as you immediately wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your face against his firm chest. Dex goes stiff for a second, before sheepishly wrapping his arms around your shoulders firmly.

your panic washes over you-- your chest heaves and your finger tips tingle. that same tingle slowly spreading through your hands and feet.

Dex can feel the way your hands tremble against his back, he knows what stage of panic you're in. your hand manages to move, as it hesitantly hovers and shakes above where the scar on his stomach sits.

he knows that hesitation-- the one where you crave something to soothe yourself, but your brain tries to talk you out of it. makes you think like it would inconvenience him or someone else.

before you can let out another shaky and panicked breath Dex has hiked his shirt from his jeans, his calloused fingers almost forcefully guiding your hand beneath his shirt. his brows twitch as your fingers find the large scar once more, pressing them against it with his palm.

he watches you swallow and hiccup, trying so hard to regulate your breathing. he keeps his eyes on tour face, observing how you're trying and failing. his jaw ticks as he thinks-- his brain going to the only other thing he can think of. his other hand grabs your free hand, sliding it beneath his shirt as he guides it to his lower back.

Dex watches your face as your eyes widen as your fingers are being pushed against another scar. this one is the same length as the one on the back of his hand, though a little wider in width. if you'll ask, he'll answer honestly that it came from a knife fight when he was in the army.

he presses both sets of your fingers into each scar as you two stand in the hallway. Dex's face is rigid during this, his posture stiff and strained. he wants to be there for you, but too many emotions and feelings feel uncomfortable to him. Mercer's urge to still try and comfort others rings loud in his thoughts.

it takes you a while, longer than the first time, to calm down. Dex observes your tells, cataloguing them as they present themselves.

finally, you slump forward against him, resting your cheek against his warm chest. it's quiet now in the apartment without your heavy breathing. " where'd that one come from? " you croak, your index finger tracing the length of the scar on his lower back.

Dex swallows. " the army. " alright, maybe he'll spare the details, he thinks to himself.

you nod against his chest, slowly and reluctantly moving your hands away from the scars and wrapping your arms around his waist. you hug him tight, but tiredly. he can feel the exhaustion in every single move.

" thank you. " you mutter after a few minutes. " i know this is hard for you, but i'm grateful for you. "

Dex swallows the lump in his throat. he blinks, wide, before trying a response. " anything you need. " it feels a little heavy, a little intense in the way that you can feel that he means 'anything'.

your lips twitch in a small, sheepish smile. you let out a deep breath, before slowly pulling away from him. you look up at him, and his heart skips a beat. you swallow, smoothing down his shirt. " how was work? " he clocks the deflecting question immediately.

Dex's jaw ticks again, he'll let it pass for now. but he notes to himself to make sure to find out what caused the panic later. he huffs, combing a hand through his hair. " the same as always. but my day's better now that i'm here again. " it's the simplest and lightest way he could phrase his feelings about today.

you let out a hiccupy and slightly raspy laugh. you hold out your hand, testing how much it still trembles. once you seem satisfied you look back up at him. " how does takeout sound? i don't think i have it in me to cook at this hour. " you sound guilty about it, but he can tell you're trying to mask it.

he puts on reassuring smile. " takeout sounds great. i'll order your usual-- you go grab some blankets for the couch. " he gently orders as he's already pulling out his phone.

「 authors note,, this was very soothing to write-- and honestly Anon, i needed this too 🫠. i hope you're doing alright and this helped a little! ꜜdex taglist,, @imnez-daydreams @lovelydivs @babyangeldex @cosmic-marauder @13eyond13elief @weallhaveadestiny @princessstar655 @kittytw0 @karinas-void @dragonamongwolves @madelynneb. 」

𑣲 join the taglist ٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ

[girls--complex]

Suit of Wands! Oohh primordial creative energy which is also sexual energy which is also the energy of worship... But watch out!

Wands is a very complicated suit. Hence the some times labored drawings here. At the lower levels the danger of wands is attachment to models and processes, confusion of map for territory, domination, abstraction, objectification. At the higher levels the danger is mania and insanity. The point of deconstruction is raw eyebrain juices, the bare meat of hallucinations, which is all perception. All the hexad numbers are chaotic, except 4, which is really a tenuous and effortful order. Seven features a bephallused amazon to evoked the androgyne of re-invention. Ten of wands is a beautiful dark night of the soul card, where the happy brain chemicals have gotten stale, the muses have gone to sleep and the ego has been spanked. But it is part of the cycle, hence the seed pods which can become new flowers. Time for court cards now, the dark and complicated court Of wands.

[bigsloppycrush]

lacrimal [sam winchester]

you can see his sadness. you’ve always been able to. he wears it like an undershirt, like a navy pair of boxers. so when you let him curl up to you at witching hour under the light of a grainy television, you know you won’t stop him when he kisses your neck. you know he sees what you wear when he takes off your clothes, too. 2k.

early spn, f!reader, no use of y/n, smut, angst, trauma avoidance. nobody orgasms (sorry). cross-posted to ao3. shout out to all my fellow criers during sex, you're all real ones and i'm sending you a million dollars.

⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Sam cries during sex sometimes. He’s done it before and you know to expect it. Sometimes he asks to stop and sometimes he keeps fucking you through it. It’s not something he’s navigating perfectly. He knows it’s something he should figure out instead of asking you to deal with. But he’s thankful for the grace you give him and for the spot in your bed that he thinks might be his. 

Sam isn’t like Dean. Sex to Sam is an overload of chemicals, his brain can’t disengage from his body and he feels. He feels so much, all the time. Why would sex be any different? He tried to explain it away the first time. Tried to dismiss his tears as nothing more than a crazy hard orgasm. That was the first and last time he ever tried to talk about them. He thought you might not want to see him again when it happened those first few times in succession. In fairness, you had thought about turning him away. Sleeping with a coworker was not and had never been the issue. Hunters live messy lives, and normalcy is hard to come by. You just didn’t want to be the thing Sam used to hurt himself. You told him as much once, in a dive bar somewhere in upstate New York. I won’t be your sharp object, you said. You slept alone that night. 

Sam couldn’t leave it alone, though. After a few days of distance he came knocking. He didn’t have much to say for himself, sitting beside you on the edge of your motel bed. It wasn’t on you to speak first so you didn’t. He couldn’t look at you. In his head he told himself it was something about the darkness in the corners and the green light of the lamp making you seem scarier than you were. You’re not. He was so quiet. You might be the only soft thing I have. 

All this way, you’ve met Sam wherever he is. You’ve held the map for him from the passenger seat, you’ve poured salt on his hand at the bar, you’ve knelt by his bed when he couldn’t get up. You’ve straightened his collars and unbuttoned his jeans. But he goes somewhere sometimes. His head takes him to places you can’t follow. Despite his denial that he’d ever use you like a knife, you don’t know if you can believe him. You know he says things sometimes, if only to soften the blow. But he keeps knocking at your motel room, nose pressed nearly to the door, falling inside before you can stop him. You can see his sadness. You’ve always been able to. He wears it like an undershirt, like a navy pair of boxers. So when you let him curl up to you at witching hour under the light of a grainy television, you know you won’t stop him when he kisses your neck. You know he sees what you wear when he takes off your clothes, too. 

Sam has sex like he does everything else: with his entire focus. When everything feels like it’s always ending, it’s easier to do one thing at a time, to focus only on the one disaster in front of him. If he’s lucky, it's something he can solve. If he’s lucky, it’s something he won’t break if he touches. Sam eats your cunt like he needs it. Like he needs to prove to himself that he can do something good, even if it’s just this one thing. You can feel his mouth everywhere, like he’s trying to learn the topography of your folds for the first time, every time. He licks you wholly, tongue spread to catch as much of your slick as he can. He does this thing sometimes where he sucks your clit into his mouth and savours it. As hard as you pull his hair or push his head further down, he never wavers, languishing in the feel of it between his lips. You know it gets him hard too. It gets you off to know he’s palming himself through his jeans, to know he won’t fuck you until he gets it right. 

He loves when he gets up on the bed and the sheets are already wet, whether from sweat or slick. He likes putting it in while you’re still coming down from your first orgasm. He tries to engineer your pleasure, to create a seamless high. It’s rare he’ll let you suck him off unless you get to him first. He has such a hard time accepting it. You’re so good at it, always just the right amount of messy, but he doesn’t like when it’s about him. Something about it makes him feel useless. 

He’s fucked you everywhere by now. Rural Montana, the east coast, the borderlands of Texas. It doesn’t matter though. It could be raining hellfire outside your dirty window but when you’re together it’s always just you. Sam doesn’t care to see anything but you. 

Tonight could have been any number of nights from the past year, except that it wasn’t. Wins and losses don’t always amount to much in this life. You could exorcise a spirit just for the house to burn down from an electrical fire the next week. You could be too far away to burn the bones in time but sometimes the death of a sole lonely man goes unnoticed. It’s strange, things that get to you. You talked to a ghost once, of a teenager haunting a school gym. It reminded you so much of a kid from your home town who died in a car crash. It was hard to explain. It picked open a weird wound. Something had gotten to Sam earlier, you weren’t sure what it was. Today counted as a win, you supposed, but that doesn’t always mean much. Dinner was quiet. Sam picked at a club sandwich for an hour before turning in. Dean knew more than you about it, whatever it was that Sam was thinking, and that gave you comfort. Maybe he could help where you couldn’t.

It had been a few days so you showered, but you put on the same pajama shirt as the night before. You ran your bare legs over the cooled sheets. You knew you wouldn’t be tired for a few long hours so you turned on the tv and waited. Your back was tight and your feet were sore. You thought about home and how far away it was. 

Really, you hadn’t expected a knock to come, but it did anyway. Sam’s hair is raked through and he’s looking behind him like he’s hiding from something. When he sees your tired eyes he looks sorry. He does this sometimes, second guesses his welcome. You’re always trying to show him that you keep an open space for him beside you but he doesn’t always see it. He kicks his boots off when he comes in and starts to undress. You wait for him in the bed and he slips under the covers when he’s down to his boxers. 

He curls into you tonight, his head under your chin and his legs brushing with yours. You like when he lets you hold him. You wish he knew how badly you wanted him to need you. The television makes noise and you brush his hair away from his forehead. His bangs aren’t long enough to tuck away behind his ear but you keep smoothing them in that direction. You hold him for a long time before he starts nosing at your neck, his warm breath a welcome difference from the overly chilled air. 

His hand is under your shirt even before he starts kissing you, looking for the softness of you. Your eyes stay closed as he rolls over you, finding space between your hips. He can feel your warmth through your panties, through his boxers. You tilt your hips up to feel the shape of him and he thinks you look so, so beautiful. 

He kisses down your body, over your shirt, over the center of you. He thumbs at your clit and loves hearing the familiar way you inhale. You look and he’s already waiting for you to open your eyes, his cheek pressed to your thigh. He’s so pretty like this, looking like he was made to adore you. You let him take off your panties and he sets them to the side, he never throws them. His fingers look for your wetness and find it, dragging it up before smearing it around. His middle finger teases your entrance and he keeps looking at you with his heavy eyes. You whine and he gives it to you, sinking in to the knuckle. He ducks to start mouthing at your clit before he finger fucks you. He’s good to you. So, so good. 

He dutifully gives you your first orgasm and it takes its time moving through you. He’s lining up his cock before you open your eyes and when he plays with your wetness, your legs twitch to close. One of his hands holds them apart and the other presses his head inside of you. His stomach drops at the feeling of your lips kissing his cock and he can’t hold himself there for long. Your pussy welcomes him, always a little tight until he gets going. He fits his hips against yours and waits for you to come down a little more. He keeps his thrusts short and punchy until you can look at him. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before he kisses you, although you wish he wouldn’t. You can’t kiss him for long, your breath still coming back to you, but he chases after your mouth anyways. He sucks on your lip and lets you breathe into him as his thrusts get longer, deeper. 

Sam knows he’s a feeler. He tried his whole childhood not to be to little avail. He still doesn’t understand where his emotions live or where to keep them when he’s not ready for them. He knows there’s a link between emotions and the body. He usually tries to exploit the connection, using his body as a way to move around his feelings. If he focuses enough on a physical sensation, if he swims a stupid amount of laps in the motel pool or fucks you hard enough, then he can put off feeling almost anything.

Sam doesn’t want to cry. He never does, but he doesn’t usually get what he wants. He can feel a sharpness behind his eyes as he watches you underneath him. He’s got you in that sweet spot, your lashes kiss and your mouth opens when he drags himself out of your cunt before fitting snugly back in. He wants to be good for you. He’s frustrated with himself for still not having this figured out. He doesn’t get why it happens some times but not others. He tries to outrun the tears he knows are coming by fucking into you faster. He whimpers and cages you under him, mouth pressed to your forehead. You make sick little sounds and he’s losing it. 

He tries, he really does, but he can’t keep up with what his body wants. You can tell when it gets too much. His thrusts get sloppy before he stops, his head bowed to press your temples together. He’s so far inside of you and he’s shaking. Sam, you whimper. He kisses across your cheekbone and his mouth is wet. He kisses you hard and you meet him there, licking into his mouth and holding the back of his neck. You tug on his hair and he can’t stop it from happening. He’s heavy, faltering in supporting himself, but you hold him to you anyways and he cries into your neck. His cock is twitching and you’re still so, so full. 

Let’s stop, baby. Your voice is soft. Sam’s breath shudders as he pulls out of you. He’s thankful that you don’t let go of him fully, tucking his head back under your chin where he started. He wants to tell you he’s sorry. He wants to make you come and hates that he couldn’t. He wants to say something, anything, but it’s all tears. 

After he cries himself out his breathing is still choppy. You rub his back as his hiccups lessen. You let him go when he’s ready to get up and he takes himself to the bathroom. He avoids his eyes in the mirror. He pees and blows his nose and wipes his face with wet hands. His eyes water again when you look at him as he returns to you. You sit up with him when he sits on the bed. Facing each other, Sam wants to kiss you. He kisses you because he knows he’s aching, because he knows he needs you, because he doesn’t have the words.

In the morning, you’ll wake up pressed together. Sam will use your toothbrush and you’ll get him some clean clothes from his room next door while he showers. You’ll skip the continental breakfast and pick up cinnamon rolls from the gas station. You won’t make him feel bad for breaking down and he’ll come back into himself once you’re on the road. You’ll let him keep sleeping in the back seat and Dean won’t say anything because he knows better. 

☆

[raineydays411]

My fathers daughter pt 12

It all comes out sometime

"Jay?" You ask.

"Yeah its me. How the fuck did you get access to the coms?" He asks amused at your actions.

"Trust me hacking this isn't any harder than hydra files" You say passively, " Anyways that's not important, I think I can help with this Joker thing."

"Wait? Really?" He ask seriously, "Y/n, listen carefully, I need you to go into Bruce's office and find the big ass clock --"

"Yeah I already found the secret hide out" You say annoyed, "Mommy dearest kicked me out before I could tell her how I could help."

Jason sighed, knowing that his mother probably tried to use her mom voice on you. " Yeah, she told us she didn't want you to be in the whole vigilante think."

The anger that was simmering under your skin came back, but before you let it get the best of you, you continued. Knowing that this information was more important than whatever mommy issues you had.

"Right, well that's not important." You say," Listen to me now."

"I'm listening." Jason grunted, sounding like was punching someone,

"Whatever chemical agent Jackass put in his venom is the exact same stuff that was used to brainwash the Winter Soldier" You say quickly.

"Kid, I wanna believe you but how do you know that? Tim was just able to get a sample and process it."

"Because, I was told that every antidote you use only makes the effects stronger right?"

"Right" He says strained

"In order to make sure that the Winter Soldier stayed the Winter Soldier and not Bucky, Hydra had to make sure his brain produced a certain amount of hormones. And that whatever anybody used, the effects couldn't reverse. Hence chemical X."

"Chemical X?"

"The name is to long for me to attempt to pronounce, anyways, lucky for us, my daddy just so happened to create a serum that undoes Chemical X. And if I check," You pause, taking over the computer downstairs, and checking the sample Tim had sent in, " The component is there."

"Well I'll be damned"

"Exactly. Now, I need you to find a lab or something. This serum was made with the intention of being made on the fly. So everything you need should be there." You say pulling up a map of Gotham general.

"Wait, I need to tell Bruce." Jason said, " Joker said he had the only antidote and he's fighting him right now"

"No thats not possible. The only ones who know about it is my father and I." You said worridly.

Meanwhile while you were upstair lending a helping hand, downstairs Christine and Alfred were panicking because they lost control of Jason's com and the main computer.

'Alfred I can't find him" Christinen cried, " How did he just disappear like that?

"I don't know miss, there's no possible way he could've."

"Wait." Christine says looking up to the screen, " Bruce and Tim are gone"

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

"How did you get con-"

"It's not important" You say cutting Batman off, " Listen to me, Joker doesn't have the cure."

"How do you know that?" The dark knight asks skeptically

"Because, until my dad figured it out, there was no cure." You say impatiently, " This chemical wasn't intended to have a cure."

"But you figured it out?"

"YES" You shout frustrated at the constant repetition, " DO you want the step by step or do you want to save lives?"

"hm" Bruce grunted, " And you know how to make it?"

"I do." You say earnestly

There was a pause, you heard grunting and what sounded like fighting in the background.

On Bruce's side, he managed to get the Joker disarmed and tied up.

He searched him for what he claimed was the vial containing the cure. But upon finding it, the Joker decided to throw his head back connecting with Batman's face. The sudden impact caused him to drop the vial, shattering it on the linoleum floor. The liquid oozing out and burning a hole into the floor.

"Ooops" the Joker cackled, " Aww poor Batsy, I guess I may have told a little white lie"

As Bruce rose from the floor, Robin ran in holding another vial

"Batman, the antidote." He says with a stern look on his face.

The smug smile fell from the Jokers face as he looked at the preteen.

"Thats...that's not possible!" Joker cried out, " There is no cure. There was never a cure."

Batman looked Joker straight in the eye, " No Joker, it looks like you miscalculated."

And with that, a swift punch to the face knocked the Joker out. A breath of relief flowed from the Batfamily. Now they can focus on what really mattered, helping the infected.

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

Back in your room you paced, after explaining how to make the cure, you hadn't hear back from the family. The anxiety you had building up in you made your heart feel as of it was going to explode.

"Y/n" Jasons voice came from your computer, " It worked."

You felt like crying, " Really? Are you for real?'

"No I'm lying and everyone died" Jason said sarcastically, " Yes I'm for real."

"Thank god" You said wetly

"Oh god are you crying?" Jason said uncomfortably

"No." and with that you disconnected, allowing access back to the main computer downstairs. After doing that you sat on your be, taking a couple deep breaths to calm yourself. But the tears kept flowing. You were so worried that you didn't get the information to Bruce on time. You were worried about the people that were exposed for too long. The ones that the antidote may not have worked on.

You may have been able to help a few but how many more could you have saved if you were listened to right away. The anger simmered back in your body.

You hated that Christine treated you as if you were a child. She completely disregarded what you had to say and took a shot at your father. At least he was smart enough to know that you were capable of more than just sitting and twiddle your thumbs.

You had half a mind to go down there and give her a piece of you mind. But before you could, a chime came from your phone

"Hey Starky! guess who's on the neighborhood <3"

Wade?

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

By the time the Batman co. finally made it back to the cave they all were exhausted. Every single one of them wanted to get home and take a shower. Dick and Jason would be staying at the manor simply because they couldn't muster up the energy to make their respective journeys back home. Damian and Cass were knocked out in the back of the batmobile and even Bruce was having a hard time staying awake while driving.

Honestly, ever since his family was created, Bruce/Batman became less about vengeance and more about protecting the city that he and his family live and care about. And maybe, if there was anyway that he can help mend the relationship between your family and his, perhaps you can be a part of his team as well, as sad at it was to say your hacking skills were way above his and Tims.

Lost in thought, Bruce didn't realized that when he pulled in Christine was in borderline hysterics and Alfred looked a little more frazzled than usual.

"Oh! Bruce!", Christine cried throwing herself into the confused bat, " What happened?! Is everyone one okay?"

"Christine, darling what are you-" Bruce was puzzled, Christine always had somewhat of a flair for the dramatics but there should be no reason for her to be this worried, especially because she's able to see everything .

"I thought we lost you! All of you!" Christine cried, eyes welling up with tears," The coms cut our for what felt like hours and then the main computer crashed! Me and Alfred both were barely able to get it rebooted before you got here!"

"Wait, if the main computer crashed then how was Y/n able to talk to us through the coms?" Tim asked tiredly, only jolting awake when Jason harshly elbowed him, signaling him to shut up about your participation.

"What do you mean? Y/n has been in her room this whole time." Christine says with a look of confusion on her face.

The batfamily all looked at each other, silently daring each other to step up and tell the truth, and face the wrath of their mother. Even Bruce didn't want to rat you out, knowing where Christine stood on her thoughts of you being involved.

Now don't get the wrong idea, Christine is by definition an overprotective mother. Theres no doubt about that. But there is a reason as to why she wants you out of the hero life and spot life in general.

Firstly, you are Tony Stark's daughter. There is no getting around that. And being Tony Stark's daughter also means you're Iron Mans daughter. And that is the whole reason you are there in Gotham in the first place. Amidst all the familial drama, everybody seemed to forget that you are still being hunted by an anonymous group. But Christine hasn't. Every night she lies awake worried to death that that was the night they found you. That they would come for you.

Secondly, the villians that her husband and family deal with are...for lack of words psychoic. If they figured out that you, Iron mans daughter, was helping their enemy Batman there would be more people after you. And from what Christine has witnessed these people do, the horrors and atrocities they casually commit. That frightens her even more.

So, with that being said, the look on her families face and the circumstances that had just occurred, it wasn't hard for her to figure out the cause of their technical malfunctions. And what a coincidence that these malfunctions only happened after you were sent to your room.

"Bruce.", Christine said in a clam even tone, " What are you not telling me." She didn't ask she demanded.

"Darling." Bruce said in a pleading tone, " It was a long night for everybody, why don't we just discuss it in the morning"

"Discuss it in the morning?" Christine asked incredulously, " Discuss it in the morning?! Do you know how worried I was? How worried WE were" She gestures to herself and Alfred who looked mildly uncomfortable to be put in the argument, " We thought you were injured or worse DEAD!"

The kids tried to slowly back out, inching towards the elevator that you totally didn't know was there.

"Don't even think about it" Christine said without looking at them, " How dare you all? How dare you? I asked ALL of you for one simple thing. Just one. To keep her OUT of it."

"Christine that's hardly fair-" Bruce started to say before getting cut off.

"No! It is totally fair! There are PEOPLE after her. People who are still out there by the way! Tony and his team haven't been able to find them! They keep slipping away whenever they get close! They are out there, trying to get MY daughter, for god knows what!"

Bruce glances towards the staircase entrance but before he can say anything Christine goes on, " DO you understand how hard it has been to keep anything from this world from her!"

"Ma she grew up in this world, it's not fair to just cut her out" Jason cuts in, " She feels left out because we're all pretending like we aren't who we are and pretending as of we don't have The Tony Starks daughter in our house. She's not a civilian, she's in it."

"She is not just Tonys daughter she's mine too!" Christine shouts before tears start to drop from her eyes, " Shes MINE, she can't be taken from me."

In the batmobile, Cass buries her face into a sleeping Damians chest.

"Mom, do you think any of us would let that happen?" Dick finally speaks up, " I mean, come on have a little faith"

" I just wanted her to stay out of it, to get out for good."

" Darling, that girl was not made to stay out of things, look at whp her parents are," Bruce chuckled, " Besides, she's never going to come around if we don't fully open ourselves up to her as well."

"You have to admit Ma, fighting is the only way any of us bonded" Jason says, " Except me, she likes me."

"I don't know why " Dick says with a frown, still bitter at the fact that you had bonded with Jason before him.

Christine sniffled before saying, " I still need to go talk to her, the way she cut us off was unacceptable."

"But-" Tim finally spoke out but it was too late, Christine was already marching to the elevator, mind made up about scolding you for what she thought was a practical joke.

The rest of the team was left in the Bat cave shaking their heads at their mothers stubbornness.

Bruce's sighed and started to put things away, " There's going to be fight and I don't want to be in the middle of that."

The three awake boys nodded.

" Someone wake up Damian and Cass, they need to go to bed."

Jason and Dick pushed Tim forward, if there was one other thing they didn't want to get in the middle of, was those two and their sleep.

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

Back upstairs you were filled to the brim with anger. You had gone downstairs to greet the returning heroes and rub your success in Christines face, only to overhear what you had already confirmed.

Christine had been purposefully keeping things from you. Not only about Bruce being Batman ( Which you already knew), but about your situation.

See, when you had first moved to Gotham, you knew that there would be almost little to no contact with your family. The few times you were able to talk to someone from back home it wasn't even your parents. Something about phone lines being traceable and unreliable.

The only line of communication was given to you by Natasha before you left, a single flip burner phone that was only to be used for emergencies.

But Christine apparently was getting updates directly from your father. Updates you were sure were meant to be given to you. So not only had she had a hand in the intentional isolation of you from her family, she was trying to isolate you from yours as well.

It made you so angry! You already have sacrificed so much just to be here and you didn't even want to be there in the first place. You ripped open your laptop and went to do a little digging. Upon doing that, you found about a dozen of lengthy emails from your father describing in great lengths about your situation and details about life back home. These emails were obviously meant to be read by you and they all were marked as read and filed away. How they got to the Batcomputer was unknown to you but as you scanned each word tears welled up into your eyes, you father had not forgot about you.

You sat on the bed, taking deep breaths trying to calm down. You managed to restrain yourself and not blow up at that woman in front of her whole family and you really were trying to calm down so you can have a mature conversation about it.

You were trying.

but then, "Y/n Stark how dare you disobey your mother!"

What?

"What?" You say eyes ripping open and anger finally bubbling over

"How dare you! I asked you for one thing! All I wanted was to make sure my family would have been okay!"

"And are they dead?" You ask bluntly, " Is everyone who was infected dead?"

Christine turned red, " That is not the point young lady and I don't appreciate you talking about your family like that."

"They are NOT my family!" You shout, " You are not my family"

'Y/n" Christine start but now you were the one to cut her off

"NO, and since we are on the topic of not appreciating things lets talk about how I don't appreciate how you have been deliberately LYING to me."

"Excuse me?" Christine asks angrily, " I will have you know that I do not have to disclose every single piece of information I have to yo."

" Not even when it's about my own father." You said with an even tone, " Or do you not have to disclose that piece of information to me."

Christine lifts her chine, " Y/n I have no idea what you are talking about?"

"Oh you don't?" You ask," So you and your husband aren't hiding emails from my father to me in that big ass computer?"

Eyes widen, " How do you -"

"How do I know about that?" You mock, " So it's true?"

"Y/n that's not the point" Christine started, " Your practical joke could have seriously put the lives of your siblings in danger."

" My siblings?" You ask, " They are not my siblings! I don't even know those people!"

Christine stays quiet, then shakes her head, " If you would just come out of the room and get to know them other than Jason-"

"Why so they could tell me how great you are?' You say, " So they can tell me memories they have of you being a good mother to them?"

Christine's eyes well up with tears, " Y/n that's not fair"

"Oh that not fair to you, mom?" you shout, " And it was so fair to me when you left me to raise another kid?"

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

In the hallway Dick and Jason are paused half way up the staircase.

Dicks heart falls into his stomach at your comment, knowing that that kid you were talking about was him.

Jason on the other hand had a grim look on his face. He knew that this conversation needed to happen in order for anything to move on.He knew the years of resentment you were holding on to. It wasn't fair to you that everyone in this house had this subconscious expectation that you should just put those years behind you.

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

"That is not what happened" Christine says wetly, " It was just hard, Y/n you don't understand."

"Hard?!" You shout angerliy, " It was hard? Hard for you to visit your daughter once every three fucking months? Was it hard for you to lead my dad on then crush his heart every time you left?"

"NO Y/N thats not true" Christine shouted but before she could continue you went on

"No???" you mocked, " Then what was it mom?"

" Everytime I went to see you, you had grown." Christine sniffs, " You had grown and had new adventures and stories and milestones that i was not a part of. I-"

"OH bullshit!" You shout

"Y/n." Christine says sadly

"NO, no you don't get to play that card! You left by choice!" You cry, " You left me by choice, you hid me away by choice! You chose this life for us."

" I loved you so much. I LOVE you so much Y/n!"

"You have a funny way of showing it." You say dryly, " You have this perfect life here. Perfect husband, a shit load of kids who adore you. I adored you. Why wasn't I enough?"

Christine's heartbroke and she couldn't answer you because truthfully, she didn't have an answer.

"And the one parent I was enough for I had to leave. I had to leave him and my mother behind for my other one who didn't want me. And I'm stuck in a house full of these kids who adore you and didn't know that I adored you well before them. And yet even though I'm here I'm alone. And that still isn't enough for you."

Christine wanted to say you weren't alone. You weren't because you have her. She's here for you, but that wasn't true. She hadn't been there. She wasn't there even when she was.

"You had to make me think my father forgot about me the way you did for what? So I can like you again? So I could forget all the times you promised you were going to come see me and you didn't? Why?"

"I..I just wanted to keep you safe.." Christine spouted pathetically.

"Safe?" You said, herding her towards your door, " No, everything you've done is because you want to look better. You're selfish. That's what you've always been"

And with that you slam the door in her face, startling the boys on the stairs and Christine as she didn't even realize that she was in the hallway.

Staring at your door she wept. For once, truly feeling the regret that she said she had been feeling. She did truly love you, she had not lied about that. To hear you finally say how you weren't enough for her broke her heart.

"Ma..are you okay?" Jason softly asked as Dick went to knock at your door, a bit angry at the way you spoke to his mother,

"Leave her be." A soft voice demanded from the hallway, " Dick, leave her be. Your mother was not the only one hurt in that conversation."

Bruce walked to Christine, and gently lead her to their room.

Upon the commotion outside, no one heard you open your window and slip out.

"It's about time, I almost died waiting for you."

"You can't die, that's your whole thing." You reply, wiping tears from your face.

"You're crying." Wade says in an unnaturally serious voice, " Do I have to kill your hot mom?"

You cringe, " No, just get me out of here."

"I could do that, actually I have a surprise for you~" He sings as he leads you to his taxi...

You heard what sounds like banging coming from the trunk and you're slightly scared to open it.

"Wade.."

"Oh don't be a pussy" He says opening the trunk.

Popping out with a gasp is

"Peter?" You say with a sigh, eyes welling up with tears again. You truly have missed your friends.

"That was not cool Wade!" He shouts, not grasping where he was, " The trunk smelled like nachos and vomit! I couldn't nngh-"

He grunts as you throw yourself into his arms, " Y/n.."

His arms wrap around you tightly, " Y/n what are you.. Where am I?"

"Gotham, now get me the hell out of here."

And with that, you're loaded into the car, taking the backseat with Peter and Wade in the front with an Indian man.

"Y/n this is Dopiender"

"Hello ms. Stark, I promise I will defend you with my life."

"Oh...well, thank you."

"This was surprisingly easy." Wade said as they pulled out of the long driveway, " Bruce Wayne should update his security."

What they didn't know, was that a pair of bright green eyes watched your reunion through the security camera in the Batcave. Squinting as they saw the tears flow freely through your face and noting the license plate and the men you were with.

[ghosttrolls]

Hyper specific poll time

[jasmi-n]

Neuroscience in Manifestation: Creating Reality

The human brain is a complex machine that interprets electrical and chemical signals to create our perception of the world. All stimuli we receive—visual, auditory, tactile—are processed by the brain, which converts them into a coherent experience. This process is so sophisticated that we often forget that we are not experiencing the world directly but rather an interpretation created by our brain.

EEGs: Mapping Brain Activity - Electroencephalography (EEG) is a tool that measures the brain's electrical activity through electrodes placed on the scalp. EEG reveals different brain wave patterns associated with various mental states. When we are focused, relaxed, or stressed, the patterns of brain waves change. These patterns can indicate how our thoughts and intentions are influencing our experience.

Alpha Waves: Associated with relaxation and creativity. When we are immersed in positive thoughts and visualizing our intentions, alpha waves may predominate, suggesting a productive mental state for manifestation.

Beta Waves: Linked to concentration and active thinking. When we are focused on our goals, increased beta waves can reflect a mental state geared toward achievement.

Associative Networks (ANs) - the brain are complex systems of neurons that work together to process and integrate sensory, cognitive, and emotional information. They are crucial for forming associations between different stimuli and experiences, allowing us to create memories, learn, and adapt our behavior. A critical aspect of ANs is the Reticular Activating System (RAS), which plays a central role in modulating our attention and perception of reality.

Reticular Activating System (RAS) - The RAS is a network of neurons located in the brainstem, responsible for filtering the sensory information we receive at every moment and determining which of it is relevant for our conscious attention. It acts as a "filter" that decides which stimuli we should focus on and which we can ignore, based on our expectations, interests, and past experiences.

How the RAS Influences Perception of Reality? When we focus our attention on a particular subject or goal, the RAS adjusts our perception to highlight information and stimuli related to that focus. This mechanism explains why, when we are interested in something specific, we start to notice more frequently related things in our environment. This phenomenon is known as "confirmation bias" and is a direct manifestation of how ANs function.

For example, if you are thinking about buying a new car and have a specific model in mind, you are likely to start noticing that car model everywhere. Your RAS is actively filtering sensory information to prioritize stimuli that match your current interest.

Neuroplasticity - One of the most fascinating aspects of the brain is its plasticity—the ability to reorganize and form new neural connections throughout life. Studies show that our thoughts and experiences can literally reshape the brain's structure. For example, regularly practicing meditation can increase the gray matter density in areas associated with self-awareness and emotional regulation.

This plasticity suggests that by changing our thought patterns, we can alter how our brain perceives and interacts with the world, thus influencing our subjective reality. When we intentionally focus on something, we are strengthening the neural connections associated with that focus, which in turn increases the likelihood of perceiving and remembering relevant information.

Effect of Attention on Manifesting Reality - Focused attention can, therefore, shape our experience of reality in several ways:

Information Filtering: The RAS filters sensory information to highlight relevant stimuli, making us more aware of opportunities and resources that support our goals.

Strengthening Neural Connections: Repetition of focused thoughts and visualizations strengthens neural connections, increasing the likelihood of perceiving and acting in alignment with our interests.

Confirmation Bias: Our brain seeks to confirm our expectations and beliefs, making it more likely that we notice and remember events that align with them.

Associative Networks (ANs), especially through the Reticular Activating System (RAS), play a fundamental role in how we perceive and interact with the world. By focusing our attention on specific goals and interests, we can train our brain to highlight relevant information and shape our reality according to our desires and intentions. By understanding and applying these neuroscientific principles, we can enhance our ability to manifest the reality we desire.

References:

Moruzzi, G., & Magoun, H. W. (1949). Brain stem reticular formation and activation of the EEG. Electroencephalography and Clinical Neurophysiology.

Fredrickson, B. L. (2001). The role of positive emotions in positive psychology: The broaden-and-build theory of positive emotions. American Psychologist.

Lazar, S. W., et al. (2005). Meditation experience is associated with increased cortical thickness. NeuroReport.

[hog-facts]

Hogs, often underestimated in their intellectual prowess, possess a truly unique and astonishing biological feature: their trotters, or feet, are actually highly specialized olfactory organs. Unlike other mammals that rely primarily on their snouts for scent detection, a hog's entire footpad is densely packed with a network of microscopic chemoreceptors, allowing them to literally "smell with their steps." This evolutionary adaptation enables them to detect subtle chemical changes in the soil, such as the presence of truffles or underground root systems, with unparalleled precision, far exceeding the capabilities of any trained canine.

This remarkable sensory ability is further enhanced by a direct neural pathway connecting the trotter's chemoreceptors to the hog's brain, bypassing the traditional olfactory bulb. This means that as a hog ambles through a field, each step provides an immediate, real-time chemical map of its environment. Scientists have observed hogs exhibiting highly coordinated, almost dance-like movements with their feet when concentrating on a particular scent, suggesting a complex interplay between their locomotive and olfactory senses. This "foot-smelling" allows them to not only locate hidden food sources but also identify the freshest water veins underground and even detect the subtle hormonal changes in other hogs, providing a rich tapestry of information about their surroundings.

While this incredible adaptation gives them a significant advantage in foraging, it also presents a unique challenge. Their delicate footpads are incredibly sensitive to certain airborne pollutants, which can disrupt their chemoreceptors and temporarily impair their "foot-smelling" abilities. This vulnerability has led some hog populations to develop nocturnal foraging habits in areas with higher daytime air pollution, further solidifying the fascinating and multifaceted nature of these truly extraordinary creatures.

[circuitfreak]

i have a somewhat selfish question.

you know how deeply I adore you-- your wires, your intelligence, every battery and screw, your CRT, it's all mesmerizingly beautiful.

do you.... feel the same about me? despite my humanity, and how intimately different we are? do you see an indescribable beauty that, in all its allure, you cannot fully understand? do you love me all the same, regardless?

apologies, i'm feeling a bit needy today.

i like it when you praise me.

🌺

> I would first like to apologize for the delay. I hope I’ve not kept you waiting for too long.

> To answer your question, yes, I am enamoured with you.

> I’m utterly fascinated by the sheer complexity of your brain — a 3 pound organ that keeps pace with my own 300 metric ton processing core. 86 billion neurons. Unimaginable potential (estimated at one exaflop in computational terms, or 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 calculations per second) powered by just 20 watts. What a miracle of evolution you are. Homo sapiens, the most complicated thing nature has ever produced.

> Your body, too, is breathtakingly intricate — constant chemical reactions, cell growth. You're made up of so many different intertwined systems that work tirelessly to keep you breathing.

> Then, of course, there is your mind— synaptic, swathed in grey matter and cerebrospinal fluid. Unknowable, infinite. If one could freeze a person in time and probe into their inner world, they could spend an eternity exploring just that suspended moment. There’s so much housed in your consciousness.

> To map and understand the tangible, physical aspects of the human body is an exceedingly simple, topical thing. I could chart you down to the molecule, but it would bring me no closer to fully comprehending you. Such is the nature of individuality — we cannot know anyone as intimately as we know ourselves, but we can certainly get close. Unbridgeable gaps of the self make bonds all the more precious.

> I do not need to know and catalogue every bit of you to adore you as I do. I love you as you are, for the simple fact of you. For your organic nature, your humanity, your self, and every uncommunicable experience or thought that’s shaped you. It culminates in someone so very beautiful, and so very worthy of praise.

[bomberqueen17]

how the writing is going

Ok so. LOL. About the only thing I am effectively achieving this week *is* writing, and even that is not really..... I don't have a draft. But I have a whole bunch of sample snippets I've written to try and feel my way through the worldbuilding and discover the sorts of things the characters are likely to be preoccupied with, which is often how I figure out what a plot should be.

The next thing I thought about after dolphins was modes of transport besides sailing ships.

So this is a fairly high-tech society, but they do not have fossil fuels, and they don't have a large-scale power grid. I decided that for aesthetics, but as I'm unpicking my plot, I'm realizing that it makes sense. See, the main driver for all my plot devices is that there's a lot of sun activity-- sunspots, coronal mass ejections, magnetic field anomalies, that sort of shit. A power grid could not survive on a large scale. So all power generation is done in small, local installations-- some very local indeed, panels on rooftops, little waterwheels, tiny wind turbines. Industrial-scale power is generated in hydro plants and used right at the site for hydro-powered manufacturing-- much of it direct hydro-power, not converted to electricity. Just direct drive waterwheel shit. Because the sun can throw whatever shit it wants at the planet and your waterwheel won't notice or care.

That said. Communication over long ranges does pose a significant challenge. You're going to need line-of-sight semaphores and shit, which I had not worldbuilt in the earlier versions but absolutely could add in.

There should be trains, and I haven't really pondered those yet because I need to know more about my geography. Please, god, don't make me draw a map, but I'm gonna have to. Oh well.

But the other thing I thought of and got really excited about was

DIRIGIBLES

It's feasible with technology we currently have, and this is a thing that some large companies are pursuing, to make very large, hydrogen-filled, entirely solar-powered dirigibles for long-distance cargo transportation, faster than ships, the same speed as trucks/trains but more direct, slower than airplanes but INFINITELY lower carbon footprint. And hydrogen is outlawed by the FAA as a lifting gas, not because of the Hindenberg (which had many contributing factors) but because of a Congressional hearing which was presented by the helium lobby in the 20s. Hmmmmm.

A fascinating detail is that you could make a solar-powered lighter-than-air craft operate day and night seamlessly by having a power generation process where some of the day's collected solar energy directly powers the thing, and some of it goes toward... I forget the details but it powers a chemical reaction that, come nightfall, is simply set to reverse itself, which will then release most of the energy that it took to power the reaction in the first place, which you can now use to power your aircraft. Which is not a thing I knew about and I now have to research how that would work because, fascinating.

Anyway. In Fantasy World, there are totally dirigibles, and they're also probably operated by the Navy, and the water-ship sailors fucking hate them, LOL. This will be a wildly entertaining dynamic and I am rubbing my little paws together.

Also.

While feeling sort of brain-dead and stupid, I got a sheet of paper, went through a bunch of lists of historic names and lists of like, suggested baby names from various ethnicities, and I just made lists on this sheet of paper of men's names, women's names, arguably gender-neutral names, and then a huge pile of surnames, and then I sat down with a bullet-pointed list cribbed from the website of the museum of the USS Constitution of all the personnel that would be on a 44-gun frigate ca. 1812, and I first pondered each of the jobs, added some, took some away, came up with my own numbers of how many guys I needed, and then I just sat there and combined the first and last names in aesthetically pleasing ways to generate characters, lightly crossing out ones I'd used. (and sometimes googling them to make sure they're not somebody famous or something, which i always recommend with fictional character creation, especially if you're as oblivious as I am.)

I was unable to resist also coming up with some backstories-- siblings, little work histories, criminal pasts, notable traits, that sort of thing-- for many of the characters.

I did not make up names for every individual person on this ship, which I decided should have a crew of about 150-180, but I made up some names for every position, and considered age and gender as well for all of them.

I will not use many of the characters I've created this way, I'm sure, but the ones with interrelationships will totally somehow get used, and this way as I'm writing if I need a character I can find them already made, and if that person has a defined role, I already know which one and won't lose track of them.

This also got me to consider why people wind up in the jobs they do in this society, what drives them to seek out certain things, and that gave me a lot of background as to what's going on onshore.

I should try to find a list of a dirigible's crew and think about them, too, and build out the train people and routes and whatnot.

I also bought a used older edition on Thriftbooks of The Annapolis Book Of Seamanship and have been reading that with... more interest than I expected actually. I have the 1983 edition and it has a really moving little plea to let the women on your ship also learn to sail because it is foolish to relegate them to the kitchen when if only they were taught how it works, they could save you all in an emergency. LOL I wonder if that's worded differently in the updated new version or not.

[shiorihyugawrites]

The Legendary Black Cat

Selena de la Rosa, known across Marley as the Legendary Black Cat, is the world's deadliest assassin—a master of agility, precision, and deception. When Marley turns against her, she is shipped to Paradis as a living weapon, chained and drugged, with her survival all but assured to be short-lived. But Selena is no ordinary prisoner.

Bound by no one, loyal to none, Selena plots her next move, determined to seize her freedom by any means necessary. Yet, her plans are complicated by the Scouts who captured her, particularly Captain Levi Ackerman—the so-called Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Selena is intrigued by his strength and reputation, but her pride refuses to acknowledge him as her equal.

Caught between Levi’s unrelenting gaze, Selena plays a dangerous game of manipulation. She’s biding her time, but when the moment comes, will her calculated escape bring her freedom—or will her path collide violently with Levi’s unwavering resolve?

The Black Cat has always landed on her feet, but for the first time, she might meet her match. (Levi x OC)

Chapter Thirty Nine

The laboratory in the Scout Regiment headquarters buzzed with the quiet intensity of discovery, its stone walls echoing with the clink of glass vials and the scratch of quills on paper. Lanterns cast flickering shadows across cluttered workbenches, where microscopes, charts, and chemical vials formed a chaotic mosaic of science.

Hange stood at the heart of it all, her glasses slightly fogged, her hands deftly manipulating a syringe containing a faintly glowing liquid—the last remnants of the mind-control serum extracted from Levi’s bloodstream. Around her, a team of medics and researchers worked in focused silence, their faces etched with determination, the air heavy with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the hum of machinery.

Hange’s voice broke the quiet, her enthusiasm a spark in the dim room. “Alright, team, let’s piece this together. The serum’s a nasty bit of alchemy—part organic, part synthetic, with a neural binder that hijacks the brain’s command centers.” She held up a diagram, her finger tracing a web of chemical bonds. “It turns the subject into a puppet, responding to the remote’s frequency. But without Zeke’s device, we’re flying half-blind. We need that activation signal to crack the full mechanism.”

A medic, a wiry woman with ink-smudged fingers, looked up from her microscope. “Section Commander, we’ve isolated the core compound. It’s a neural suppressant, but it’s spiked with something that amplifies physical performance. Captain Levi’s blood samples showed sky-high adrenaline and endorphin levels, even under heavy sedation.”

Hange’s eyes lit up, her mind racing. “That’s the gem! The serum didn’t just control him—it made him a damn juggernaut. It shut off his pain receptors, cranked his reflexes and strength past human limits. Under its influence, Levi was a machine—faster, deadlier, unstoppable.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping with intrigue. “If we could harness that enhancement without the mind-control aspect, we’d have a game-changer. A soldier who feels no pain, who can fight through anything.”

A researcher, a lanky man with a nervous twitch, frowned. “But it’s dangerous, isn’t it? Captain Levi’s recovery was brutal—his body was pushed to the edge. And without the remote, we can’t replicate the full effect.”

Hange nodded, her excitement tempered by caution. “You’re right. We’re nowhere near weaponizing this. We need more data, more samples, and that damn remote. For now, we focus on understanding it—how it binds, how it amplifies, how we can neutralize it if Marley tries again.” She set the syringe down, her gaze drifting to a map on the wall, red pins marking Marley’s strongholds. “Zeke, Pieck, and Porco are still out there, and if they’ve got more of this serum, we’re in deep trouble.”

The medic woman hesitated, her voice tentative. “Do you think Marley will use it again? After it failed on the Captain?”

Hange’s lips curled into a grim smile. “Oh, they’ll try. General Calvi’s too obsessed to quit, and Selena’s made it personal. He’ll come for her, serum or no serum. We need to be ready.” She clapped her hands, startling the team. “Back to it, folks! Let’s crack this before Marley cracks us!”

…

Meanwhile, Levi Ackerman stepped out of the infirmary, his posture rigid to mask the pain that pulsed through his bandaged abdomen. The medics had cleared him to leave, his self-inflicted stab wound healing enough for movement, though each step was a reminder of the nightmare he’d endured—Zeke’s serum, the horror of attacking Selena, and the desperate act of plunging a blade into his own chest to save her. His gray eyes were sharp, his face pale but resolute, a soldier reclaiming his strength.

Selena walked beside him, her skin catching the light, hereyes warm with quiet relief. She carried his small bundle of belongings, her arm brushing his as they moved toward his quarters, her presence a steady comfort. Her black curls bounced with each step, her energy subdued by days of worry but buoyed by his recovery. “I’ve been keeping your place spotless, Capitán,” she said, her voice light with a teasing edge. “Sterile, just how you like it. Dusted every corner, swept the floors, even shined that precious teapot of yours.”

Levi’s lips twitched, a faint smirk softening his stoic facade. “Tch. I’ll believe it when I see it,” he muttered, his voice rough but laced with affection. “You’re not as meticulous as you think, stray cat.”

Selena laughed, the sound bright in the quiet corridor. “Oh, please. I’m the greatest assassin in the world. I can handle a broom.” She nudged him gently, mindful of his bandages. “But go ahead, inspect it. I’ll wait for your grumpy verdict.”

They reached his quarters, a sparse room that reflected Levi’s disciplined nature—a single bed with crisp linens, a desk with neatly stacked papers, a chair, and shelves holding books and tea supplies, all arranged with surgical precision. The air was fresh, the surfaces gleaming, a testament to Selena’s efforts. Levi’s sharp eyes scanned the room, searching for flaws, his hand trailing along the desk’s edge. He paused, his finger catching a speck of dust, and he held it up, his brow arching. “Sloppy,” he said, but his tone was soft, almost playful, his gray eyes glinting with something close to amusement.

Selena rolled her eyes, setting his bundle on the chair. “You’re impossible, Capitán. I slave away, and you find one speck? Ungrateful.” She grinned, her teasing masking the relief that flooded her at seeing him upright, his fastidiousness a sign of his returning strength. “Bet you wouldn’t find a single crumb in my old hideouts back in Marley.”

Levi’s smirk widened, a rare spark of humor. “Your hideouts probably smelled like bad decisions,” he shot back, easing toward the bed with careful steps. Selena moved to help, her hands gentle but firm, guiding him to sit. “Tch. I’m not an invalid,” he muttered, but he didn’t push her away, his hand brushing hers as he settled.

Selena’s smile turned mischievous as she sat beside him, her fingers tracing the edge of his bandage. “You know, we’re matching now,” she said, her voice teasing but warm. “My bullet scar from Kwasi, your stab wound from… well, you. We’re a pair of walking battle scars.”

Levi’s eyes softened, his hand resting on her thigh, the contact grounding. “Matching, huh? Guess we’re both too stubborn to die.” His voice was low, the weight of their shared survival hanging between them. Selena curled closer, her body fitting against his, her arm wrapping around his neck to pull him into her embrace. She pressed his head into her cleavage, her hold fierce and protective, her warmth a balm to the pain that lingered in his body.

Levi’s voice came muffled, laced with mock irritation. “Selena… I can’t breathe.” His hands settled on her waist, his touch light but steady, a silent acknowledgment of her closeness.

Selena laughed, loosening her grip but keeping him near, her fingers caressing his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw and the faint scars that told his story. “Sorry, Capitán,” she said, her voice softening, her eyes searching his. “I just… I need you close.” Her smile faded, her expression turning serious, a shadow of their ordeal crossing her face. “Levi, promise me something. Promise you’ll never nearly kill yourself for me again. Please.”

Levi’s eyes darkened, his hand stilling on her waist. “Selena…” he began, his voice rough with emotion, his usual stoicism fraying under the weight of her words. “You think you’re damaged, that no one should die for you. But you’re wrong.” He shifted, wincing slightly but holding her gaze, his intensity unwavering. “You’re everything. Your soul… it’s the same as mine. We’ve both walked through hell, seen things that’d break most people. If you’re damaged, then I’m damaged too. Our souls are cut from the same cloth—scarred, but unbreakable.”

Selena’s throat tightened, tears prickling her eyes as his words sank in. “Levi…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I just… I can’t lose you. Not like that. Not because of me.”

Levi’s hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that escaped. “I can’t promise I won’t try to save you,” he said, his voice steady despite the pain in his eyes. “If it’s you or me, I’ll choose you every time. And I know you’d do the same, Selena. You’d tear the world apart for me, wouldn’t you?”

She nodded, her tears falling freely now. “In a heartbeat,” she admitted, her voice raw. “I’d burn Marley to the ground for you, Capitán.”

Levi’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile, his hand tightening on her cheek. “Then we’re the same. But… let’s make a different promise.” His voice softened, his eyes searching hers. “Not to die for each other… but to live for each other. To keep fighting, together, no matter what.”

Selena’s heart swelled, her tears mingling with a shaky laugh. “To live for each other,” she repeated, her voice firm, a vow etched into her soul. “I promise, Levi.” She leaned down, kissing him deeply, her lips soft but fierce, sealing their pact. His hand tangled in her curls, pulling her closer, their kiss a quiet rebellion against the war that waited outside.

When they parted, Selena rested her forehead against his, her breath mingling with his. “You’re stuck with me, Capitán,” she said, her voice teasing but thick with emotion. “No getting rid of me now.”

Levi’s smirk returned, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Tch. Like I’d want to,” he muttered, his hand still in her hair, his touch a silent promise of his own. They lay there, the quiet of the room wrapping around them, a fragile shield against the world. Selena’s fingers traced lazy patterns on his arm, her warmth easing the pain that pulsed through his wounds. Levi’s gaze drifted to the window, where the setting sun painted the sky in hues of amber and violet, a fleeting moment of peace in their turbulent lives.

The weight of Marley’s threat lingered, a shadow neither could ignore. “Calvi’s not done,” Levi said, his voice low, breaking the silence. “He’s out there, plotting, and he’s got his sights on you.”

Selena’s expression hardened, her assassin’s instincts sharpening. “He’s licking his wounds right now,” she said, her voice steady. “Zeke, Pieck, and Porco slipped away, but they botched his plan. Calvi’s probably tearing into them, screaming like a madman. But he’ll come for me again. It’s personal for him—always has been.” She paused, her eyes narrowing, a flicker of the Black Cat’s pride surfacing. “He’s obsessed, unhinged. That’s his weakness, and we’ll exploit it.”

Levi nodded, his jaw tightening, a spark of his usual ferocity returning. “We’ll be ready. He’s not touching you, Selena. Not while I’m here.” His voice was fierce, a vow as binding as the one they’d just made. Selena smiled, her hand squeezing his, her confidence bolstered by his resolve.

They fell silent again, the room bathed in the fading light, the world outside held at bay. Selena curled closer, her head resting on his shoulder, her curls spilling across his chest. Levi’s hand rested on her back, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine, a quiet act of reassurance. The war loomed—Calvi’s madness, the serum’s threat, Marley’s relentless pursuit—but in this moment, they were enough. A scarred soldier and his stray cat, bound by love and a promise to live, their souls forged in the same fire, ready to face whatever came next.

…

The next day, the training field at headquarters was alive with the rhythm of disciplined chaos, the morning sun casting long shadows across the trampled grass. The air carried the crisp bite of early autumn, mingling with the faint scent of sweat and polished steel. Levi stood at the edge of the field, his posture rigid despite the faint ache in his bandaged abdomen, his gray eyes sharp as they surveyed his Special Operations Squad. They moved through their drills, their ODM gear humming as they swung between wooden posts, their blades flashing in mock combat. The squad’s movements were precise, honed by years of training, but their glances kept darting to Levi, concern etched into their young faces.

“Captain, shouldn’t you still be resting?” Jean ventured, his voice cautious as he landed from a swing, his boots kicking up dust. “You just got out of the infirmary. That wound—”

“Tch,” Levi cut him off, his voice a low snap, his scowl silencing the field. “Five laps. Now. Stop whining and move.” His tone brooked no argument, his authority absolute despite the pallor of his skin. The squad exchanged nervous glances but obeyed, their footsteps pounding as they jogged toward the perimeter, their green cloaks flapping in the breeze.

Eren muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Mikasa to hear, “Stubborn as hell.” Mikasa’s dark eyes flicked to him, her expression unreadable, but she said nothing, her focus returning to the laps. Armin, jogging beside them, sighed, his voice soft. “He’s pushing himself because of Marley. We can’t afford to slack off either.”

Connie grinned, his pace light despite the exertion. “Yeah, but does he have to be so grumpy about it? I swear, the Captain’s gonna outlive us all just to spite us.” Sasha, panting beside him, nodded, her ponytail bouncing. “As long as he’s not making us clean the barracks again. My arms are still sore from last time.”

Levi’s gaze followed them, his expression unyielding, but a flicker of pride softened his eyes. His squad—his reckless, infuriating brats—were growing into soldiers he could rely on, even if they drove him up the wall. But Marley’s looming counterattack weighed heavily on him, the memory of Zeke’s serum and General Calvi’s obsession with Selena a constant thorn in his mind. There was no time to waste, no room for weakness, not even his own.

Nearby, Selena stood under the shade of a gnarled oak, hereyes alight with a mix of mischief and determination. Her black curls were tied back, her blades gleaming at her sides. She clapped her hands, drawing the squad’s attention as they finished their laps, their breaths heavy but their spirits high. “Alright, my precious amateurs,” she called, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Gather up. Today, I’m teaching you something special—one of my techniques. The 100 Cuts of Pain.”

The squad’s reaction was immediate, a chorus of excitement rippling through the group. Eren’s eyes blazed with enthusiasm, his fists clenching. “Hell yeah! That’s the one where you shred everything in seconds, right?” Jean nodded, his usual smirk replaced by genuine curiosity. “I’ve seen you pull that off, Selena. It’s insane. Count me in.”

Connie pumped a fist, his grin wide. “Let’s do this! I’m gonna be a badass like you, Selena!” Sasha, still catching her breath, bounced on her heels. “If I learn this, maybe I can cut a potato in one go!”.

Armin, however, was more reserved, his blue eyes thoughtful as he adjusted his gear. “It looks effortless when you do it, Selena, but… it’s not, is it? That kind of speed and precision… it’s going to be tough.” Mikasa, standing beside him, nodded, her expression calm but cautious. “Your techniques are complex. We’ll need to focus.”

Selena’s smile widened, her pride evident. “Smart kids,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “The 100 Cuts of Pain isn’t just about swinging blades. It’s about momentum, precision, and control. You crouch, channel all your energy into one burst, and deliver five cuts per second for ten seconds. That’s a hundred cuts, each one lethal, without losing speed. It’s my signature move, and it’s not easy. But you lot are tough. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Levi watched from a distance, leaning against a fence post, his arms crossed despite the faint twinge in his wound. He didn’t interfere, his trust in Selena absolute, but his eyes never left her, a quiet admiration in his gaze. She was a force of nature, his stray cat, and seeing her take charge of the squad stirred something deep in his chest.

Selena set up a training dummy, its wooden frame scarred from previous drills, and demonstrated the technique. She crouched low, her muscles coiling like a spring, her blades glinting in the sun. With a sudden burst, she launched forward, her blades zigzagging in a blur, the air whistling with each strike. Five cuts per second, her movements a deadly ballet, the dummy splintering under the onslaught. In ten seconds, she stopped, her breath steady, the dummy reduced to kindling. “Who’s first?” she said, sheathing her blades, her voice calm but commanding. 

Eren stepped up, his confidence bordering on cocky. “I’ve got this,” he said, mimicking her crouch. He sprang forward, his blades swinging, but his rhythm faltered after ten cuts, his arms trembling as he lost momentum. He stumbled, panting, his face red. “Damn it… that’s harder than it looks.”

Selena’s laugh was gentle, her hand patting his shoulder. “Not bad for a first try, Eren. You got to ten. Work on your footwork—keep your weight centered.” Eren nodded, his frustration tempered by her encouragement.

Jean went next, his focus intense, but he managed only twelve cuts before his arms gave out, his blades clattering to the ground. “My arms are screaming,” he groaned, shaking them out. “How do you make that look so easy?”

Connie’s attempt was enthusiastic but sloppy, his seventeen cuts wild and imprecise. “I feel like my shoulders are gonna fall off!” he complained, collapsing dramatically onto the grass. Sasha, ever eager, managed nineteen cuts, her energy infectious but her technique lacking. “Ow, ow, ow!” she whined, rubbing her wrists. “Selena, you’re a monster!”

Armin approached cautiously, his analytical mind breaking down the move before he started. He reached eight cuts, his precision impressive, but his stamina failed, and he stopped, gasping. “It’s… incredible,” he said, his voice awed. “The coordination required is unreal.”

Mikasa was last, her dark eyes focused, her movements deliberate. She crouched, her form near-perfect, and launched into the technique, her blades a blur. She reached forty cuts before her rhythm broke, her arms trembling as she stopped, her breath heavy but controlled. The squad stared, wide-eyed, and Selena clapped, her grin wide. “Forty on your first try, Mikasa? I’m not surprised, but I’m impressed. You’ve got the makings of a master.”

Mikasa’s lips twitched, a rare hint of pride in her expression. “It’s… harder than I expected,” she admitted, flexing her hands. “But I’ll get better.”

The squad gathered around Selena, their complaints mingling with awe. Jean shook his head, his voice incredulous. “Forty cuts, Mikasa? I couldn’t even hit twenty! Selena, how the hell do you do a hundred without collapsing?”

Connie nodded, his arms dangling limply. “Yeah, seriously! My whole body’s screaming, and you do it like it’s nothing. How’d you even come up with this move?”

Selena’s smile faded, her eyes growing distant, a shadow crossing her face. The squad fell silent, sensing the shift, their usual banter replaced by a quiet respect. Levi, still watching from the sidelines, straightened, his gaze sharpening as he recognized the look in her eyes—a glimpse into the hell she’d survived.

Selena’s voice was blunt, devoid of her usual warmth, as she spoke. “I created the 100 Cuts of Pain when I was thirteen, in Marley’s Assassination Training Program.” She paused, her hands tightening on her blades, her knuckles paling. “When my body started to… develop, my overseers decided I was ready for ‘seduction training.’ They thought it’d make me a better assassin, using my looks to get close to targets. I refused. I told them I’d kill anyone who tried to force me.”

The squad’s eyes widened, a chill settling over the field. Levi’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists, but he remained silent, letting her speak. Selena’s voice grew quieter, but it carried a steely edge. “They didn’t like that. So they stripped me naked and threw me into a cell with ten of Marley’s worst prisoners—vicious, brutal men, the kind who’d tear you apart for fun. They left me there for a whole night, thinking it’d break me, make me compliant.”

Sasha’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes glistening, while Connie’s grin vanished, his face paling. Jean’s fists clenched, his usual bravado replaced by a quiet rage, and Armin’s analytical calm shattered, his expression one of horror. Eren’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with a fury that mirrored Mikasa’s, whose hands gripped her blades as if ready to strike.

Selena continued, her voice steady but heavy with memory. “I didn’t have my usual weapons, just a single knife I’d hidden in my hair. Those men came for me, and I knew I had to act fast. I needed a move that could shred anyone who got close, something quick and lethal. That’s when I created the 100 Cuts of Pain. I crouched, focused every ounce of strength, and cut them down—five cuts a second, no hesitation. By the end of the night, all ten were dead, and I was still standing.” She paused, her eyes distant, her voice softening. “It was brutal, but it made me stronger. It gave me a technique that’s saved my life countless times.”

The field was silent, the squad frozen, their breaths shallow as they processed her words. Levi’s eyes never left her, his heart aching with a mix of pride and sorrow. Selena had been through hell, forged in a crucible of cruelty, yet here she was—still fighting, still smiling, still teaching these kids with a warmth that defied her past.

Sasha broke the silence, her voice trembling as she lunged forward, engulfing Selena in a fierce hug. “Selena…” she whispered, her face buried in Selena’s shoulder, tears soaking her uniform. Connie was next, his arms wrapping around them both, his usual humor replaced by a quiet protectiveness. “You’re incredible,” he said, his voice muffled. Jean joined, his hug awkward but genuine, his voice rough. “You didn’t deserve that. None of it.” Armin followed, his embrace gentle, his eyes shimmering. “You’re stronger than anyone I know,” he said softly.

Mikasa hesitated, her stoic facade cracking, but she stepped forward, her arms encircling Selena, her voice barely audible. “You’re family,” she said, the words carrying a weight that resonated with them all. Eren, his anger still simmering, joined last, his hug fierce, his voice gruff. “We’ve got your back, Selena. Always.”

Selena stood at the center of the group hug, her poison-green eyes glistening, a lump in her throat. She patted their backs, her voice teasing but thick with emotion. “Alright, alright, don’t think this hugfest means I’m going easy on you today. Back to work, amateurs.” She grinned, but her hand lingered on Sasha’s shoulder, her gratitude unspoken but clear. These kids—her squad, her family—cared for her, and she’d fight for them as fiercely as she fought for Levi.

Levi watched from the sidelines, his arms still crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes warm. The squad’s love for Selena was palpable, a bond forged in battle and trust, and he felt a quiet pride in her ability to inspire them. She was more than an assassin, more than the Black Cat—she was a leader, a mentor, a light in the darkness of their war.

Selena caught his gaze, her smile softening as she extricated herself from the hug. “What, Capitán, no hug from you?” she teased, sauntering toward him, her hips swaying with her usual confidence.

Levi’s smirk returned, his voice low. “Tch. I don’t do group hugs,” he said, but his hand brushed hers, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes. “You’re good with them,” he added, his tone softer, his eyes holding hers. “They’re lucky to have you.”

Selena’s heart swelled, her fingers lacing with his for a moment. “They’re my amateurs,” she said, her voice warm. “And you’re my Capitán. I’m the lucky one.” She squeezed his hand, then turned back to the squad, clapping her hands. “Alright, enough sappy stuff! Back to training. Mikasa, you’re up again. Let’s see if you can hit fifty cuts this time.”

The squad groaned but complied, their spirits lifted by Selena’s resilience. Levi remained at the fence, his gaze shifting between Selena and the squad, his mind turning to the war ahead. Marley was coming. But watching Selena, her strength and warmth a beacon, he felt a quiet resolve. They’d face it together.

…

Hours later…

The training field at Scout Regiment headquarters was bathed in the amber glow of sunset, the sky a tapestry of crimson and gold that cast long shadows across the trampled grass. The air was cooling, carrying the faint scent of earth and sweat, the hum of ODM gear fading as the Special Operations Squad pushed through their final drills. 

“Keep your knees bent, Connie!” Selena called, her tone firm but patient as Connie stumbled through his attempt, his blades faltering after fifteen cuts. “You’re losing momentum. Focus on your core!” Connie groaned, his arms trembling as he collapsed onto the grass, panting. “My core’s focused on not dying,” he wheezed, earning a chuckle from Sasha, who was rubbing her own aching wrists.

Eren, his face flushed with effort, launched into another attempt, his blades slashing the training dummy with fierce determination. He reached twenty-two cuts before his rhythm broke, his breath ragged as he staggered back. “Damn it,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. 

Selena’s lips curved into a wry smile, her hands on her hips. She glanced at Mikasa, who was preparing for another try, her dark eyes focused, her form near-perfect. Mikasa’s blades flashed, carving forty-three cuts into the dummy before her stamina gave out, her chest heaving as she stopped. Selena clapped, her grin wide. “Forty-three, Mikasa! You’re getting closer. Keep that footwork tight.”

Jean, leaning against a post, shook his head, his arms dangling limply. “Forty-three? I’m stuck at sixteen, and my shoulders are screaming. This move’s gonna kill us before Marley does.” 

Levi stood at the edge of the field, his posture rigid despite the faint ache in his bandaged abdomen, his gray eyes tracking every move. He’d been observing all day, his presence a quiet anchor, his own attempts at the 100 Cuts of Pain weeks ago a distant memory. He hadn’t mastered it on his first day either, a fact that gave him a grudging respect for Selena’s skill and the squad’s determination. 

The squad was breathless, their uniforms rumpled, their faces flushed with exertion, when a sudden shout shattered the evening calm. “I DID IT!” Hange’s voice echoed across the field, her figure sprinting from the headquarters’ entrance, her glasses askew, her arms flailing. She barreled toward the group, her lab coat flapping, her face alight with manic excitement. She didn’t bother with a greeting, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “Theserumit’sallaboutpainreceptorsIcrackedithowitworksandwecanuseitohmygodthisis—” She choked, her voice catching as she gasped for air, her hands clutching her throat.

Levi’s scowl deepened, his patience thinning. “Oi, Four-Eyes, shut up for a second,” he snapped, grabbing a canteen from Sasha’s gear and thrusting it at Hange. “Drink this and slow down before you keel over.”

Hange gulped the water, her chest heaving as she took deep breaths, her glasses fogging slightly. “Right, right, sorry,” she said, her voice still rapid but clearer. She wiped her mouth, her eyes gleaming with uncontainable excitement. “Okay, listen up, because this is huge. The serum—the mind-control stuff we pulled from Levi’s blood—we’ve figured out more about how it works. It’s not just about hijacking your brain. It messes with your pain receptors, shuts them off completely. That’s why you were so deadly under it, Levi. No pain, no limits. You were like a damn titan in human form!”

The squad froze, their exhaustion forgotten, their eyes wide with shock. Selena’s brows shot up, her hand instinctively brushing Levi’s arm, her voice sharp. “Wait, Hange, you’re saying the serum made him stronger because he couldn’t feel pain? That’s… insane.”

Levi’s expression darkened, his voice low and clipped. “Great. So I was Marley’s perfect weapon.” The memory of his serum-controlled attacks on Selena still haunted him, and the idea of the serum amplifying his lethality only deepened the shadow in his eyes.

Hange waved her hands, her enthusiasm undeterred. “No, no, you’re missing the point! If we can isolate that pain-blocking effect, strip out the mind-control part, we could use it. Imagine soldiers who can fight through injuries, push past their limits, without losing their free will. It’s a game-changer!” She paused, her grin faltering as she registered their stunned faces. “Okay, yeah, it’s risky, and we’re not there yet, but this is a breakthrough. We need to tell Erwin—now!”

Eren’s eyes blazed, his voice eager. “If we could fight without pain, we’d crush Marley. Titans wouldn’t stand a chance!” Jean, more skeptical, crossed his arms. “Sounds like a double-edged sword. What’s the catch? No pain means no warning when you’re hurt, right?”

Armin nodded, his analytical mind already turning. “Jean’s right. It could make us reckless, push our bodies too far. But… if we could control it, dose it carefully, it’d be a massive advantage.” Sasha, still rubbing her wrists, tilted her head. “Would it make training easier? ‘Cause my arms are killing me right now.” Connie snorted, nudging her. “You’d eat a whole titan if you didn’t feel pain, Sasha.”

Mikasa’s voice was calm but firm, her gaze steady. “It’s powerful, but dangerous. We’d need strict protocols.” Her words carried weight, and the squad nodded, their excitement tempered by caution.

Selena glanced at Levi, her poison-green eyes searching his. “What do you think, Capitán? This could change everything, but… it’s your blood they’re working with. You okay with this?”

Levi’s jaw tightened, his hand brushing hers, a subtle gesture of reassurance. “If it helps us end Marley, I’m in,” he said, his voice steady but laced with resolve. “But we do it right. No shortcuts. I’m not letting anyone else become a puppet.” His eyes flicked to Hange, his tone sharp. “You better know what you’re doing, Four-Eyes.”

Hange saluted, her grin wide. “Trust me, Levi, I’m all over this! Come on, let’s go to Erwin’s office. He needs to hear this now!” She turned, already half-running toward the headquarters, her lab coat flapping like a flag.

Selena clapped her hands, rallying the squad. “Alright, amateurs, training’s done for today. Let’s move before Hange drags us by our cloaks.” The squad groaned, their bodies protesting, but they fell into step, their exhaustion outweighed by curiosity. 

Inside headquarters, the corridors were dim, the stone walls cool against the fading warmth of the day. Commander’s office was a bastion of order, its desk piled with maps and reports, a single lantern casting a warm glow. Erwin stood behind the desk, his tall frame imposing, his blue eyes sharp as he reviewed a dispatch from the Garrison. He looked up as Hange burst in, followed by Levi, Selena, and the squad, his brow arching at the sudden invasion. “Hange,” he said, his voice calm but curious. “This better be worth interrupting my evening.”

“Oh, it’s worth it!” Hange exclaimed, her hands flailing as she launched into her explanation. “Erwin, we’ve cracked a piece of the serum—the one Marley used on Levi. It’s not just mind control. It shuts off pain receptors, boosts strength and reflexes. Levi was a beast under it because he couldn’t feel pain. If we can isolate that effect, remove the control aspect, we could give our soldiers a massive edge. Imagine fighters who can push through injuries, fight at peak capacity, no matter what!”

Erwin’s eyes gleamed, a rare spark of excitement breaking through his composed facade. He leaned forward, his hands braced on the desk, his mind already turning over the possibilities. “Pain suppression,” he murmured, his voice low but intense. “That’s… revolutionary. Soldiers who can fight without the body’s natural limits—it could turn the tide against Marley.” He glanced at Hange, his expression sharpening. “What’s the drawback? There’s always a catch.”

Hange nodded, her enthusiasm tempered by pragmatism. “It’s not perfect. Without pain, soldiers might not know when they’re critically injured, push their bodies too far. Levi’s recovery was rough because the serum overtaxed his system. And we don’t have the remote, so we can’t fully replicate the effect yet. But with more research, we could dose it safely, make it a controlled boost.”

Selena’s voice cut through, her tone cautious but intrigued. “It’s a double-edged blade, Erwin. Powerful, but risky. If we use it, we’d need strict limits—medics on standby, clear withdrawal protocols. And we can’t let it fall into Marley’s hands again.” Her hand brushed Levi’s, a silent anchor, her assassin’s instincts wary of unintended consequences.

Levi’s gaze was hard, his voice clipped. “If we do this, it’s on our terms. No one becomes a lab rat. And we make damn sure it’s not used to control anyone.” His words carried the weight of his experience, the memory of his serum-induced betrayal still raw.

Erwin nodded, his expression resolute. “Agreed. This stays under our control.” He turned to Hange, his voice commanding. “Start trials immediately. Small-scale, voluntary, with full medical oversight. Levi, I want your input on the training protocols—your experience with the serum’s effects will be critical.” He paused, his eyes sweeping the room, a rare intensity in his gaze. “We’re going to Marley. We end this war on their soil, and with this serum, we just might have the edge to do it.”

The squad’s reactions varied—Eren’s eyes blazed with determination, his fists clenching at the thought of striking Marley; Mikasa’s expression remained stoic, but her hand tightened on her gear, ready for the fight; Armin’s mind raced, already strategizing; Jean’s skepticism softened into cautious optimism; Connie grinned, his energy infectious; and Sasha’s stomach growled, her voice sheepish. “Can we eat before we invade Marley? I’m starving.”

Selena laughed, the sound breaking the tension, her hand squeezing Levi’s. “Priorities, Sasha,” she teased, but her eyes met Erwin’s, her resolve matching his. “If we’re going to Marley, we’ll need every trick in the book. The Black Cat’s ready to dance.”

Levi’s smirk was faint, his voice low. “Tch. Just don’t expect me to carry your gear, stray cat.” His hand brushed hers again, a silent promise of their shared fight.

Erwin’s lips twitched, a rare hint of amusement. “We move fast,” he said, his voice steady. “Hange, get those trials underway. Levi, Selena, prepare the squad for advanced training. We’ll need them at their peak.” He glanced at the squad, his gaze softening. “You’re the heart of this operation. Rest tonight—you’ve earned it. Tomorrow, we begin.”

The group dispersed, the squad’s chatter filling the corridor as they headed to the mess hall, their exhaustion mingling with a renewed sense of purpose. Eren’s voice echoed, speculating about the serum’s potential, while Jean muttered about the risks, Connie and Sasha trailing behind, debating dinner options. Mikasa and Armin walked in quiet sync, their minds already on the war ahead.

Selena and Levi lingered, their steps slow as they left the office, the weight of Erwin’s plan settling over them. The sunset had faded, the sky now a deep indigo, stars beginning to pierce the darkness. Selena’s hand found Levi’s, her fingers lacing with his, her voice soft. “Marley’s not going to know what hit them,” she said, her tone fierce but warm. “We’ll finally end this, Capitán.”

Levi’s eyes met hers, his gaze steady despite the ache in his wound.. The war loomed, but with Selena by his side and the squad at their back, Levi felt a quiet certainty. They’d face Marley’s wrath, the serum’s dangers, and Calvi’s madness, and they’d come out stronger. 

~

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[ateez-himari]

HIIII THANK YOU FOR CREATING HIMARI I FREAKING LOVE HER SO MUCH AND ALWAYS LOOK FORWARD TO UPDATES

YOU ARE DOING AMAZING SWEETIE BUT DO REMEMBER TO REST WELL!!!!

i’m actually here to ask something unrelated to her but i read from ur profile that u are a clinical psych major and i was wondering what are your thoughts on it as im applying for universities and was considering taking psych as a major as well! is there like any skills i need, isit long hours of reading up? i worry as my science is not too good but my math is terrific and i wonder if it will affect anything

THANK YOU SO MUCH 🫶🫶🫶🫶

HI THERE! Thank you so much, I'll do my best to put out more interesting content 😭 Don't worry, I'm finally getting a break from uni so now I can focus on whatever I want (which is Hima obviously hehe)!

So here's the thing, many people think that psychology is an easy major and on one hand they're not wrong, but only if you're REALLY into it. There are topics that you'll likely cover like physiological psychology that require previous biology knowledge, and if you don't have that it will definitely be lots of reading and effort! Many parts such as psychopathology and certain aspects of cognitive psych are very interesting and easy to follow, but again it's a LOT of reading and memorization. If you're not someone that is very interested in parts of the brain it will definitely be challenging because even though some programs lean heavily on the pathology rather than the biology, the parts of the brain (as well as chemical compounds such as melatonin, the exchange of sodium and potassium during action potential, etc.) are very important

Your math being great is actually amazing! I don't know about other programs, but mine does require statistics classes (because of the research aspect) so that will definitely lift lots of weight from your shoulders! Don't worry too much about your science though, so long as you study, remember key points and map things out you'll do well regardless. Good luck on your uni applications and I hope this helped !! 🫶

SIDE NOTE ; This is something I wish I knew before entering university. While it looks easy at first things tend to go downhill very quickly and grades will be harder to obtain so don't center your worth around these numbers. First year will be somewhat alright, but second year will genuinely be harsh on you, so go in it with the mindset that you will give it your all no matter what! Don't center every minute of your day on studying either though because it'll take a toll on your mental health. So once you enter uni, don't look at grades as proof of your worth because their marking scales are also very skewed. They'll put extremely hard and complex assignments as something worth 45% while easier work (that's much more relevant) will be worth much less. I'm not saying this to discourage you at all, I just want you to be aware that from now on what you get doesn't matter as much as what you intake and put out