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tragedy-of-commons · 1 month

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nightshade's embrace

various genshin & gn!reader | ~4k

In which you face danger, fear, doubt, and eerie silence.

tags/warnings: horror, unreliable narrator, character death (la signora), canon divergence (la signora), mild depiction of blood (rosaria), depictions of karmic debt and insanity (xiao), uncertainty, mild body horror/grisly imagery, alternating past and present tense, not yandere so plz don't tag as that ty

notes: here is the genshin thing i was working on! it's by far my longest post, so i do hope you enjoy. basically me trying to make them scary in some capacity lol

Kazuha’s eyes are beautiful.

This is a popular sentiment shared amongst anyone who has the pleasure of meeting him. The ronin not only has a way with words, but with emotion itself; he can regale any folktale with ease, communicating the feelings and depth behind them effortlessly. His cherry eyes often light up with joy, close daintily with grief, and widen marginally whenever he weaves an unexpected twist into the story. Suffice it to say, he is a poet through and through.

You’ve always known him to put on a good show. Like every listener before you, you found solace in his presence, giving him more and more of your coveted attention each time he passed through. A wanderer like him has a near endless supply of material, his tongue not as ostentatious as silver but as something more humble, like copper. Ever genteel, ever open-minded, ever pleasant and welcome in your life.

You don’t know when your perception of him started shifting. You’re busy like every other participant in the game of life; work and your close relationships dominate the forefront of your mind, leaving little room for you to think of Kazuha in the way you do now. If you had to place the shift at any point, you’d err towards one of his visits as the catalyst.

Turns out if you tune out long enough during one of his stories, your attention can wander to the littlest nuances - a prime example being his eyes. They’ve always been gorgeous, reactive. Every gentle rise and fall of his chest is followed by a perfect change - a sequence of events that does not naturally stutter or stumble, like every imperfection of his has been painstakingly trimmed away for your viewing pleasure. Shallow breath in, flutter the eyelashes. Shallow breath out, squint in junction with the meter.

Your poker face is unimpressive, to say the least. Kazuha began to zero in on your lackluster reactions. He’d put talking on the backburner to address you in the crowd specifically, catering and attentive. He’d clear his throat (not like it was needed), and ask you if everything’s okay, or if the story was making you uncomfortable. Carmine irises searched and searched after, a smoothly downturned frown pulling his visage together. You’ve likened them to searchlights sweeping the ground for escaped convicts, rolling around in his skull like polished marbles.

This curried the eyes of your fellow spectators, putting you on absolute blast. No one else feels as if something’s off, probably being disappointed that their entertainment is being put on hold for someone who clearly can’t appreciate it in the way that they can. You’d surely feel the same way a few months ago, had another person in the crowd been unable to hide their displeasure; after all, who doesn’t like Kazuha? He’s charming and kind with a heart of gold. Any tale of his exploits is framed in such a way that you’d have to actively be looking for flaws to dislike them.

…which is to say you’ve been doing exactly that. Your scant downtime became occupied with asking around about the dual-haired ronin, desperate for another perspective. Even if he puts you off in some way, you’d hate to be right, no matter how intrusive your gut feelings are. Most of what you pry out of people familiar with him are things like he’s such a doll, or he kindly saved me from a group of Nobushi during my travels! Not what you’re looking for. After all of that prodding, an uneasy feeling tickled your insides; if no one else has anything negative to say, why are you still worried? Why does something still feel so undeniably… wrong?

That feeling kept you pressing onward, in search of another answer. Your endeavors were rewarded with such after asking some of the older, wiser, and influential people you could track down. His surname, Kaedehara, apparently has some history left almost forgotten - a clan fallen from infamy. You’re reminded of the genuine longing in Kazuha’s voice, struck with a hollowness. It’s reminiscent of pounding on a wall like they do in the light novels, listening for the telling echoes of a secret room. Though he may have a disgraced or muddied past, that does not entirely satisfy you. That does not mean he is guilty of any wrongdoing.

If anything, it endears him to you - frustrating. Are you just looking for reasons to hate someone who does not deserve it? Someone who can spin gold from nothing but meager goodwill? Are you trying to hate Kazuha just for the sake of doing so? What does that make you? All of your thoughts will not be consumed by something as dumb as this. Maybe it is because you live in Inazuma, where superstition often overlaps with reality - where yokai readily exist and where gut feelings could mean something beyond jealous paranoia. That must be it, you decide. You’ve gotten so bored with your own life that you’re wading through the already enigmatic waters and gawking at anything strange you find.

If there is something wrong with Kazuha, there has to be something wrong with you.

He starts seeking you out. In his words, he wishes to clear up any misunderstanding between you two; he’s seen you become uncomfortable in his presence over time, beginning to avoid his visits, beginning to ignore his greetings. Of course, he remains concerned throughout it all, trying to bury the hatchet. Nothing is off the table, whether it be paying for your lunch at food stalls, offering to be your protection should you venture into a perilous area, things like that. It’s unsurprising, given his charitable streak that you hear so much about.

You say yes each time. He makes good company, even if looking into eyes unnerves you and every protective measure your body offers screams at you to run away. However, you are the outlier, meaning that you must be the problem.

This is the conclusion you will choose to stick to, if not just to sleep at night.

Kazuha’s eyes are beautiful. They do not remind you of dried blood, rust, or sweet rot. They do not remind you of harrowing loss or the pointless nature of digging holes just to fill them up again. They do not remind you of placating lies or scuffed carnelian.

They do not remind you of anything, you decide.

Sister Rosaria has always been something of a mystery.

If you ignore the brusque attitude she boasts to the right people in certain taverns, there’s little you can glean from her. The little in question comes in the form of rumors that reach your ears through the grapevine that carefully connects each Mondstadter to one another; gossip circles galore that have nothing better to do than invent things close to ghost stories.

One you’ve heard more than once is that Sister Rosaria is something of a specter herself.

You believe yourself to be rational. Despite how ridiculous the notion sounds, you understand where it stems from. Her corpse-esque pallor does her no favors, only accentuating her eyebags that would be fitting of a restless soul wandering the cavernous hallways of the Favonius Cathedral. She is striking, to say the least, and you don’t forget her face once you’ve seen it. Visiting the church for prayer as one does, you’ve spotted her loitering outside a few times, smoking and wallflowering and whatever it is that actually does.

These glimpses of Rosaria are a slippery slope. You’ve caught yourself wanting to go over and introduce yourself - feet moving on their own like she has her own unique type of orbit. Needless to say, the conversation that she allows you to hold with her is sparse. If you ask her about work, she scowls like you’ve personally slighted her. If you fill the silence with something she doesn’t want to hear, she doesn’t listen. Trying to be her friend started as a fruitless endeavor, leaving you bereft of reward in any capacity.

Sister Rosaria is not a specter, ghoul, ghost, or phantom. You think she is a misunderstood woman that keeps to herself too much, and that’s that. The only times you actually get through to her would consist of your ramblings about life; your passionate and animated love for your nation, your plans for the future, everything that you’d think she’d hate, given her attitude. But she listens attentively then, no drags taken, no barbs or jabs at your expense.

That’s something you can work with. Her company becomes something you cherish, and you like to think of yourself as her friend - with you hoping she thinks of you the same way. Camaraderie that goes beyond banter with drunkards and halfhearted arguments with her fellow Sisters. Connection that’s a bit more than what she has with Barbatos, which… isn’t saying much.

Even with these new developments, whispers still reach your ears. These are different from the ones before, going from rumors that anyone would shrug off after a few days to something that would persistently stick to you like glue - a thorn in your side that only wedges itself deeper when you try to dig it out. Things like I saw her sucking someone’s blood after service, and our church is no place for her nighttime activities.

At first, it’s a bit laughable. Just because she can be a bit uncanny under specific lighting does not mean that she’s a vampire. It makes sense that the narrative surrounding her would shift over time. Those types of creatures aren’t even real. Just because Mondstadt is home to a selection of fantastical creatures doesn’t mean that these rumors have any basis in reality. You are better than to think that of somebody you consider close.

…until you aren’t, that is.

When the maw of the Cathedral swallows you whole, you feel regret crawl and prickle up the path of your spine. The curiosity that leads people astray has certainly maintained its grip on you, steps echoing throughout the building after you hauled the heavy doors open with trepidation. It’s true that the church is open to all, even at odd hours (in case someone requires emergency healing, you believe), but that doesn’t mean that it’s welcoming.

The alluring light that normally illuminates the windows from the outside is absent, leaving you to stop in your tracks a few steps down the nave - which seems to stretch on endlessly. If there’s one positive emotion you feel, you’d name it as relief; the rumored vampire herself is nowhere in sight. Leave it to you to investigate silly gossip, huh?

That means you could leave right now. You could pivot on your heel and go home to get some much-needed rest. The idea isn’t as appealing as you’d like it to be, given that your head keeps swiveling about in search of something to substantiate the cold sweat beading on your forehead. Damn it all.

The moonlight always makes for a beautiful sight in the plaza, but without the buzz of the Sisters and nocturnal church-goers, it’s watching you with eyes of speckled dust floating between the eaves of the ornate ceiling. It doesn’t take long after that for you to make your decision - home is safer. You suck in a breath and prepare to all but run back out onto the streets of Mond, but something just has to bait your eye.

Far into the crossing (too far), there are flecks of black spattered in a trail leading all the way to the altar. They almost blend into the floorboards, but they are distinctly a shade darker—

You spin around to leave, footsteps reverberating harshly off the various partitions and panels. You have seen too little but still not enough. Was this a trap of some kind? A trap to lure you in here? By the looks of it, someone has already fallen victim to curiosity, and you may be next—

Your running is shadowed - dwarfed, even - by a large silhouette that looks an awful lot like a jagged habit and tiara, canvasing the entire expanse of the stained glass window closest to your exit. The colors are dulled by the imposing outline of what you’re sure is Rosaria. This was the trap, it has to be. What else would you call this? Her head, as much as it bleeds into the rest of her body, looks to be sat on her thin neck with little stopping it from rolling off into the grass outside.

She’s out there waiting for you.

…you think.

Adeptus Xiao is as duty-bound as they come.

If you already didn’t hear a lot about him, you’d seen him around even less. Such is the nature of immortal pillars like him. Where is the mystique and reason in being ever-present when you’re deemed a silent protector by Rex Lapis himself?

But you’d like to think you know a bit more about him than the average citizen of Liyue. You’ve seen him a total of three times, and each instance has left a cataclysmic impact in their wake. Putting it into thought sounds ridiculous, which you’re aware of - but in the Nation of Contracts, your words are your forte that will lay as the reliable foundation to aid you in all of your pursuits.

The first time, you saw him in a dream.

It was cinematic in nature, but you weren’t in it at all; from what you remember, you were shown an aerial view of the many terrains of Liyue. They all melded together into something vaguely recognizable, legs of discolored land stitched together into one large mountain-plain-hill patchwork quilt. You couldn’t shift your view elsewhere, as if being bid to wait patiently for some big reveal.

At first, you wouldn’t call the reveal big. A hazy figure began to stalk across the ground, akin to a fly aimlessly buzzing about, trying to escape towards somewhere greater than where it’s trapped; what you remember most clearly about the scene is that he was enveloped in this dark miasma that weighed down his every step. There was little sound in this dream, but you recall a guttural growl torn from his throat.

He was struggling. You don’t know what with, but something as simple as walking seemed to be too much. He passed directly under your vantage point, top of his head somewhat visible under the wisps of shadow clinging to his form. A polearm was clutched in his grasp as he hauled himself up a steep incline and began looking around, body heaving like he was about to cough up a vital organ.

You knew then that he was not human. You’d never seen anything like it. A thing so predatory yet wounded. You didn’t even get a good look at his face. Maybe there was a mask in place, but then again, that stuff sticking to him did a pretty good job of impeding your immediate judgment.

When you woke up, your chest rose and fell at a pace comparable to his. It stuck with you.

The second time, you saw him at Wangshu Inn.

A lone figure perched on the balcony railing, entirely similar but also entirely different. There was no parasitic evil hanging off his back, so his normalcy was on full display. Impressionable teal-streaked hair, glowing eyes of amber, and a polearm standing tall in his grasp. You’d heard rumors about the inn, of course, and who lives there, but the reality was just sinking in at that point.

He, vigilant and regal, quickly snapped his head in your direction when you were caught staring up at him from the ground, your back to the breathtaking scenery. He scrutinized you with his lips pressed into a thin line before swiftly vanishing into smoke. He, Adeptus Xiao, was the one from your dream.

A chat with the owner confirmed this. Armed with this information, you, in truth, had no idea what to do. Verr Goldet made a point of mentioning that he’s reserved, actively avoiding crowds and anything he deems a nuisance. Pestering an Adeptus of all things is the last thing you wanted to do, so you opted to move on with your life. The dreams of Xiao frequented most of your sleepless nights, an omen of what, you weren’t certain.

The third time, you saw him in the mirror.

…well, something like him. You see the dark circles pressed into the skin below your eyes from lack of rest. You see your chapped lips (when did you start picking them?) and you definitely see the tremble of your shoulders staring back at you. You think of Xiao, slogging through your nation in search of miscreant fowl to punish - any threat to Liyuean citizens silenced under the tip of his spear. A sense of foreboding washes over you, numbing the tips of your fingers.

Serving as a protector of this nation may be the only thing saving him from ruin by his own hand. After all, a soldier burdened by karmic debt is far better than a potential enemy wracked with bloodlust.

You look like him. You feel like him. If Adeptus Xiao is trying to share his burden with you, for whatever reason, you aren’t noble enough to be a part of it. There are voices of old whispering in your ears, taunting and angry and vengeful. Sometimes they peter off into screams that only you can hear. It’s too much, causing you to stumble back from the sink, head thudding against the wall.

That does you no favors. There’s no pain yet, but spots plague your vision, blotting out the familiar sight of your home. If you’re concussed, then you need to seek medical attention, but there’s more to it than that. The disembodied spirits are still here, crooning at your form - were they always there? There’s a small part of you that agrees with the notion, even as you fight the ailments. Maybe this has always plagued you—

No, no, no, no.

…you need to do something. Through the fog, you squint at your reflection to make out tendrils of smoke swimming in lazy circles like sharks. You slide your back against the wall, effectively crumpling against the bathroom floor.

Pleading, you whisper his name.

If he answers, you are not conscious to realize it.

La Signora is feared by anyone that possesses even the smallest iota of self-preservation.

You don’t know what that says about you. You know that if you keep flanking to her side (and if she keeps letting you), it would spell out your downfall in elegant calligraphy. Her attention is boiling at times; you feel yourself being choked out by the flames of her passion. If this surge of heat comes from her love, you don’t want to imagine what her wrath looks like, hurtling towards her enemies.

You think that the heat is unpleasant for her, too. Rosalyne kisses you each time like it will be the last, smooth palms coveting the apples of your cheeks. If it were not for the biting cold of Zapolyarny Palace, something like a cliche rendezvous point - you’d turn to ash in her hands. She knows this, because Rosalyne has had many years pass her by. Everything that burns will someday extinguish, she tells you, whispered between stolen kisses and hushed conversations.

You wouldn’t mind fizzling out if it meant you could have more of her, but she’s always refused you. The eighth harbinger is known for being lethal, but with you, she’s deceptively gentle. Cautious. You have a suspicion you’ve worsened the effects of her power, stoking a Pyro magic that can only be pacified by a pernicious Cryo.

The chill following your intrigues is unbearable. The stretches without Rosalyne are just as tortuous as the stretches with her, yet you still wouldn’t trade it for anything. You wouldn’t trade her, even if she stares gaping holes through you after pulling away, wishing you were someone else. Fine by you. If you are to be undone, you hope it is grand. You hope it’s grand to be stomped out by the consequences of her loving again.

…but it doesn’t come. It may be wrong to let your guard down, but pretending like the nature of your relationship is normal is addicting. She sends you gifts wrapped in red tissue paper and signed with her initial - her real one, which you’re actually given the privilege of knowing. She lays her head in your lap and begrudgingly lets you thread your fingers through her hair. She only tells you about her day if you ask. Rosalyne is a private person, when it comes down to it. You know better than to pry, that she loves you in her own way; it makes sense you’re comfortable enough to forget the stakes at hand. Anyone would do the same.

However, you can only go so long without being reminded, if the sight of your clandestine lover thrashing on the ground is anything to go by. It aches. It aches like you’ve been punctured by a dagger, stabbed and gutted and horrified that she’s been reduced to…

Rosalyne has been described as monstrous by underlings before, but this is a bit on the nose. There are six-phased stakes of ice plunged deep in her eye sockets, the noise of her manicured nails clawing at the floorboards accompanied by a terrible shriek. Frost hisses and crackles, accumulating in clusters against the underside of her jaw. Bile begins to climb up your throat because it looks and sounds to be unimaginably painful. You want, no, need to move, but—

You don’t know what’s happening. You’ve screamed and screamed for help, paralyzed and helpless at her side while she struggles in futility. It seems that your meeting spot came back to bite you, because there is no one around to help; you’re not sure what could even stop this. Your heart clenches painfully when she looks at you (as well as she can), head sloping upward, stiff and weighed down by the ice that’s hellbent on consuming her whole.

Tears roll down your cheeks. The hysteria is unforgiving, you can’t even move your legs—

The freeze nips at your heels. That’s why you’re rooted to the ground, you realize, seconds too late; it’s also creeping up your legs with a vengeance. Is this a product of her Delusion? You’ve heard stories about corruption, but nothing like this. Nothing ever like this. Rosalyne’s teeth gnash as they’re blanketed and then smothered by the ice, breaths coming out in frigid plumes. You can only scream more as you’re sinewed together, closer than ever before.

She’s the furthest thing from Rosalyne, La Signora, The Fair Lady - whatever you want to call her. Dread crystallizes the tears now plastered to your cheeks, thinking that you’re next, and that she is already gone. Is it punishment that binds you together in this embrace of stinging frost? Your penance for breaking the rules?

Yes. You’re being made examples of; sculptures erected for naive souls to gawk at, warning them about the dangers of loving someone you’re not supposed to. Your joints creak and groan, protesting your movements and becoming less responsive as you get even colder. It takes your eyes next. You cannot see as you once could, but you can hear the circulation of your blood and your rabbiting pulse, stunted as you are.

You are not to be stomped out - no, that would be too merciful.

Whatever left of you and Rosalyne will serve as a reminder: Love is not for the faint of heart.

taglist: @flower-yi, @moineauz, @aphrodict, @nomazee, @singularity-sam, @harque, @thestarswhisper

107 notes · View notes

dontbelasagnax · 13 days

Note

OMG CAN I DO A PROMPT FOR THE KISS ROULETTE???

No pressure BUT I number 35. Kiss against a wall would make me go FERAL.

Bonus points if it's in some hidden corner and they're trying to sneak away after a hard won battle because the codywan brain rot has GOT ME. I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING BUT THEM

Please pretend like you sent this ask recently and I haven't been sitting on it for months waiting for my eggs to hatch @why-cant-turtles-fly 😂 As requested, here is codywan kissing against a wall... though it's actually a pillar (oops). I was inspired by this artwork I did!

Pairing: CC-22224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2,330

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Tenderness, Making Out, Introspection, and by that I mean Obi-Wan is mentally ill and thinks too much, Implied Sexual Content, POV Obi-Wan Kenobi

Summary:

"Missing something?" Cody wiggles a certain lightsaber in his hand as he closes the distance of only a couple meters.

"More than one thing, it seems," Obi-Wan replies.

[ OR: Obi-Wan and Cody steal away some precious time after a victorious battle which of course results in a makeout session against a pillar. ]

(fic under the cut if you wish to read here on tumblr)

This morning Obi-Wan finds himself in the ruins of a long ago abandoned castle, high in the mountainous region of Bestoon's northernmost continent. However difficult the altitude makes it to breathe unassisted, it's worth it for the view. There isn't much he loves looking at more than a sunrise in the clouds.

The sunrise after a well earned victory in battle has become one of Obi-Wan's favorite moments to find peace these last few months or... has it been years? Time has melted together through this dreary drudge of a war.

He's watched this sky transition from dusky purples splashed with rays of golden sunlight to a pale blue canvas with clouds shadowed with purples leaning grey and highlights of soft pinks and yellows.

"Sir," a very familiar voice calls from behind.

Obi-Wan turns towards the voice.

'Ah,' Obi-Wan thinks, a smile already beginning to emerge on his features, 'my dearest commander.'

The light of the sky washes Cody in diffused golds and pinks. He is delightfully dressed down, forgoing his armour from the waist up. The tight, ribbed fabric does his physique all the favors the way it clings. A stray curl drops onto his forehead. The lighting does wonders for his complexion. It's as if he's glowing.

Yes, Cody bathed in the light of a new day is the most breathtaking, glorious view of them all.

"Missing something?" Cody wiggles a certain lightsaber in his hand as he closes the distance of only a couple meters.

"More than one thing, it seems," Obi-Wan replies as he takes the lightsaber held out to him. The metal is heated from the rare touch of Cody's bare hand. Energy thrums from the kyber, a slow pulse that nearly sparkles, sending the residual heat of skin and life up Obi-Wan's arm, straight to his ever beating heart.

So helpful his kyber crystal is, giving fuel to the flame of his infatuation that, once a slow burn, is steadily alight.

Cody leans back against the pillar, looks at him with those warm, big brown eyes of his and oh…

Obi-Wan steps into Cody's space.

Cody's sharp inhale and the way his hand comes up to touch Obi-Wan's belly is exactly what he wanted.

Obi-Wan rests his arm beside Cody's head on the stone, bringing his face close enough to just feel Cody's breath on the whiskers of his beard.

Thick, black lashes fluttering downwards then back up. The want in those gorgeous eyes is magnetizing.

Obeying Cody's gravitational pull, Obi-Wan kisses him. The catch of their lips slow and tender, just a hint of saliva and suction, loving the warm nudge of Cody's nose against his cheek, and the bloom of Cody's Force presence like flowers turning to the morning sun.

"Well done," Obi-Wan murmurs as he pulls away, chasing the wounded noise Cody makes with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Your performance was stellar today, as always. Always."

Obi-Wan clips his lightsaber to his belt and cups his darling's jaw with his newly freed hand. He sighs into the meeting of their lips. The soft warm comfort of Cody's mouth is offset by the rigidity of his armour below the waist. It’s as accurate a representation of Cody’s true self as it gets: compassionate and sweet while still deadly and unwieldy.

Though, as much as Obi-Wan adores this version of Cody—so delectable in only his codpiece, cuisse, and greaves—he’d selfishly prefer him stripped even further.

Alas, he's getting ahead of himself.

Cody's arms curl around him, hands clenching in his tabards. Their lips make smacking noises with the separation of each slow, deliberate kiss.

It's with a bittersweet ache in his chest that Obi-Wan cherishes these moments for he never knows what the next day will bring. The reality of war is that any second of any day he could lose Cody and he'll never know another day painted warm and vibrant by Cody's dry humor and barely-there smiles, the rare times when Obi-Wan can make him really laugh and hear joy spring from his soul, the quiet steady companionship of his presence, and the compassion he shows his brothers. One day he'll never know another kiss, another pleasure coated sigh of his own name, or feel the needy way Cody curves his entire body into Obi-Wan’s to get what he wants.

It is possible that Obi-Wan would be the one to go first but… he knows deep down, and has accepted it with peace, that he's meant for infinite sadness.

He already nearly lost him that first time- the time Cody first kissed him.

However long Cody is willing to share these hidden pockets of love with him, he will cherish every second they have together.

He emphasizes this thought with a purposeful tug and suck of Cody’s bottom lip before pulling away to breathe. The thinner air at this altitude has them panting against each other, lips grazing slightly, a sensitive tingly, ticklish tease.

Cody rubs their noses together, as if trying to grasp any sort of intimacy he can while recovering his breath.

Obi-Wan’s heart squeezes painfully.

Never let it be said lest Cody try to kill him in his sleep… but Cody is not just a sweet, sweet man but adorable.

Natural as the mist of cloudy mornings, Obi-Wan kisses him again.

Everything about this is intentional. From the way he slowly draws their mouths together again and again, pace languid and savoring, to the way they've chosen each other- chosen to find these moments to do nothing but love. It's not a choice, really, that they will choose duty over each other if that's what it comes to. That's simply the reality of their existences. Those priorities will never change, not with how the war has molded them into thinking.

No, the choosing is in the love.

He does love Cody and perhaps always will. It's not been said. Nor does he know with absolute certainty that Cody feels the same.

Cody's presence in the Force has always been a bit of a comfort for Obi-Wan since they met. Through all the uncertainty and pain in the galaxy, Cody is sturdy and shines. He's not certain when Cody’s signature began emanating a warmth that curls into his chest and makes him feel at home. It could be that with time and the development of Obi-Wan's own feelings, every aspect of Cody became beyond endearing.

Or… it could be the manifestation of Cody's own feelings for Obi-Wan.

He's not certain. And he's very well not going to ask.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't.

Still, he catches quick moments sometimes out the corner of his eye where Cody looks at him with an impossibly soft look on his face and Obi-Wan thinks, 'Maybe-’

Really. It doesn't matter.

He has Cody so readily in the cradle of his arms, drinking up every milliliter of affection bestowed upon him.

And, well, his train of thought falls to the wayside when Cody moans into his mouth and tries to drag him even closer between the v of his legs.

He's not sure exactly what he’s done to make Cody react so positively but he goes with the motion as heat burns deep in his abdomen.

He teases at Cody's lips with his tongue and realizes his fault when Cody instantly opens his mouth and deepens the kiss. The inside of Cody's mouth is hot and wet and his tongue- licking all those spots that make Obi-Wan shudder into him.

Not that it's not lovely—because it is, really—but this is not how he intended things to go.

Cody's insistent against him, pressing for more, hotter, faster, harder.

With difficulty, Obi-Wan pulls away, dodging Cody's attempts to meld their mouths together.

“Cody, dearheart,” he says, out of breath, thumb gently stroking the skin by the corner of Cody's mouth, “you don't need to devour me.”

Cody doesn't quite pout but it's a near thing. The way his eyes are glued to Obi-Wan's lips make tooka-eyes impossible. “Remains to be seen.”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh and kisses his cheek. “Please, my-” he catches himself almost saying ‘love’, “dear. Just for now. Let me treat you softly.”

Cody considers this solemnly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nods.

Obi-Wan smiles. “Good man.”

The bob of Cody's throat at his words is gratifying.

He closes his eyes and leans back in to capture Cody's lips for a few slow, lingering kisses.

“That’s it. Easy goes,” Obi-Wan murmurs between kisses. Cody melts underneath him, pliant and accepting.

He'll take every rare opportune moment to treat Cody like the indulgence he is– truly savor him. Hot plush lips between his own, a smooth glide aided by saliva. Slow and steady. Discovering how electric and titillating the simplicity is. Just Cody's warm body against his own. Cody's lips. Cody's sighs. Cody…

He's the sweetest of luxuries. And he should be cherished accordingly.

Obi-Wan plants a path of kisses up Cody's cheek, right to the end of his brow, following the raised skin of his facial scar.

He's wondered if anyone else has gotten to love Cody like he has or if he's the only one to ply him with tender affection. He's wondered if, in a kinder universe, Cody would be left free of the scars Obi-Wan has gotten to know so intimately. If there were a universe as such, would Obi-Wan be given the chance to love Cody all over again or if another is destined for him- someone closer to his age and able to devote their life to ensuring his happiness.

He's tied himself into knots over this. The hypotheticals.

He loves Cody. He loves him easily, unhurried and unconditionally. He loves him with every breath he shares loving the Jedi Order—his family—and this wonderous Force-filled world they live in.

It's just that. He does not love Cody more than the order, more than his faith and his family. Cody is a part of his life. Whatever comes next, may it be death or freedom or- well, Force knows what, Obi-Wan hopes Cody remains a constant. Selfishly. More than a little lovesick. He wants Cody in his life. But he will accept whatever comes their way, as it is the will of the Force.

And if that means-

“Where'd’ya keep going?” asks Cody, big brown eyes of his gazing into Obi-Wan's soulfully. A deep brown that melts into a warm, rich amber. Beautiful.

“Nowhere of consequence.” He rubs his nose along Cody’s cheek. Breathes him in.

“You sure?”

Obi-Wan drags his lips down Cody's jaw, smiling to himself and settling in once Cody shudders and angles his head out of the way.

“Absolutely certain,” Obi-Wan murmurs against his pulse point then kisses that very same spot.

A sigh from Cody is just the encouragement Obi-Wan needs to continue on.

It's a gift having Cody so sensitive and wanting under him. An entirely different side of his commander than the stern, regal demeanor their troopers see day in and out.

He kisses and sucks and nips the column of Cody's neck, delighting in the small, pleased noises he draws from Cody with every pass of his mouth over salty skin.

He only leaves a couple of marks by the time Cody tugs him upwards. He's not too dismayed to leave the warm crook of his love’s neck because the expression on Cody's face is nothing short of wanton, absolutely debauched.

Cody’s lips are still plump and kiss bitten.

Obi-Wan can't resist. He traces the pad of his thumb across Cody's bottom lip. Breath shakes onto skin and Cody's mouth closes around the digit, suctioning him in hot, wet heat.

He draws in a sharp breath.

His gaze darts to Cody’s eyes where he meets pupils blown wide with desire. Cody stares unflinchingly, daring and, oh…

Cody has bewitched him, utterly and completely. Try as he might to retain composure, Cody is his undoing in these moments. The fragile strings of his heart (and… other parts of his anatomy…) pulled taut and ready to spring forward.

He wanted to keep it slow and soft, but Cody knows just how to arm him into an arrow ready to spring forth.

He pops his thumb from Cody's mouth and fixes his mouth and lips there instead, letting him know just how affected he is. He tastes Cody’s own desire echoed back to him in his moans and tongue and the needy press of his body that Obi-Wan keeps caged to the pillar. The fists that grab at his tunic and hair to try and get him even closer.

The high altitude forces them apart to breathe sooner than either of them would like but they don't go far, nuzzling noses and panting against one another's lips.

“We’d better take this back to The Negotiator,” Cody says quietly, still out of breath.

Obi-Wan nods his agreement, sure that if they stay here a minute longer he'll be on his knees.

Hand in hand, they hurry away and the sunrise grows only brighter, pink tones making way for the brilliance of the full sun. Clouds drift with the breeze and all is as it will be.

#writing hiatus OVER!!!!!!!#codywan #my writing #commander cody #obi wan kenobi

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tsukimefuku · 6 months

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Driving lesson

You asked Ijichi for some driving lessons.

Tags: platonic Ijichi & OC/Reader. Friendship. Fluff. Comedy. Crack taken seriously. Ijichi deserves more appreciation, he’s so precious.

WC: 600

This is part of my "Jujutsu Partners Canon Divergence AU". A sequence of short stories and random drabbles for a Nanami x Reader x Higuruma long fic I might write. To see the ever-growing list of one-shots and short stories, please visit my masterlist :)

Disclaimer: these stories are NOT written and posted in chronological order of events. To see where this one fits in the timeline, please refer to the masterlist above.

Also, this is barely proof-read. I apologize for any blunders 😅

The car jumped, jolted and stopped. Then, it jolted, sped up for a few meters, and halted violently again. You and Ijichi were getting savagely shaken inside the car at your less than ideal abilities in driving it. He had his seatbelt on, and held his glasses on his face, afraid they might take flight the next time you moved your feet.

“Ms., what are you doing?” Ijichi asked, concerned, as you gripped the steering wheel like you were holding onto it for dear life.

“I don’t know!” You exclaimed, in a mix of frustration and desperation. “I have no clue.”

You had asked on a day off for ijichi to help you learn some driving skills, if it ever were something you needed. He agreed, a little suspicious and anxious as to why you would ask that, especially from him, given you seemed to be close to other people like Nanami or even Gojo, who could actually aid you in finding somewhere to get a proper driver’s license.

In reality, you just wanted to learn the basics, so here you were, in an empty parking lot, nearly heart arresting the poor man every time the car moved.

He sighed softly, thinking that going over the instructions one more time would be helpful. “Let’s go back to the beginning. You need to press the brake pedal. Then, you push the button on the gear shift, and slide it from Park to Drive, still pressing on the brake pedal.”

“Right, that’s where I’m at right now. I’m holding the brakes.”

“Then, you let go of the brake pedal slowly, and begin pressing the gas pedal softly.” Ijichi was emphatic when he uttered the words slowly and softly.

“At the same time or do I let go of one pedal and then press the other?” You asked, earnestly.

Ijichi was very confused, and you noticed it.

“What? What’s wrong?”

He silently tilted himself to take a look at your feet, and that was when he realized that you had your left foot on the brake pedal, and the right foot on the gas pedal.

“Ms., you need to operate both pedals with your right foot. Just rest your left foot on the opposite corner.” Ijichi said, pushing his glasses back into position once more, incredulous you’d be doing that and thought it was just fine.

“What?! I have to use only one foot?!” You grunted, tilting your head back on the rest. “Who the hell conceived this death contraption?!”

“An American entrepreneur named Henry Ford.”

You sighed. “Ijichi, I know that. It was rhetorical.”

“Oh.” He answered, slightly embarrassed.

“I mean, I think I should actually go get some lessons and get my driver's license?” You thought out loud, scratching your head with one hand as you put the car in Park with the other.

“Heaven’s, no.” Ijichi let out instantly, by accident.

You looked at him surprised, and he tensed up, ready for the scowling he was already very used to receiving from sorcerers.

You were actually amused at his unrestrained sincerity, and began cackling, much to his confusion. Your laughter was wholehearted.

“I’m a jujutsu sorcerer, my expertise needs to be fighting and exorcizing curses,” you began, “and with no false modesty, I feel like I’m pretty good at it.” Your eyes then met Ijichi’s. “I think I should leave navigating this grim machine for people who are good at it. People like you.”

He looked at you a little taken aback, and feeling somewhat proud at the compliment.

“Yeah, ‘heaven’s, no’. That sounds about right,” you said, chuckling again at it. He began laughing with you, feeling his concern subside.

“So, let’s go get something to eat? All these near death experiences made me hungry.” You chirped, light-spirited.

Ijichi nodded. “I’ll drive.”

You started removing your seatbelt so that you could exchange seats. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, buddy.”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jjk ijichi #ijichi kiyotaka #jjk drabbles #jjk fluff #jjk crack #jjk imagines #jjk fic #jjk x reader

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i-scan-your-poems · 2 months

Note

hello! i took a poetry class and it was p cool but we never really learned how to tell stressed and unstressed syllables apart. what's your trick?

I don't really have a trick and I don't remember if I ever had to learn to tell them apart, but I can try to explain how I think about it.

In multi-syllable English words, having stress on a particular syllable is part of the word - just as much as, say, starting with b is part of the word; for some words, like proDUCE versus PROduce, if you change the stress it becomes a different word. The stressed syllable is the one that's usually pronounced a little higher-pitched, a little longer, and/or a little louder (if you shout the word or imagine shouting it, the difference in volume might become more apparent). You can look it up in a dictionary if you're struggling to figure out what to listen for or if you're still learning English. Typically there's one stressed syllable in each word, but often in a longer word you can optionally give a smaller, less prominent stress to another syllable too.

For one-syllable words it's a bit more open-to-interpretation; in a series of one-syllable words the stressed syllables are just the ones that are emphasized when you say it out loud, and obviously it's possible to read a sentence several different ways with different emphasis, although you'll find that content words (such as nouns and verbs) are more often stressed and function words (such as prepositions) are more often unstressed . Saying it aloud in the way that sounds most natural to you is a good start. (The most natural accentuation might not always fit the basic metrical pattern, as you'll notice once you get a feel for the metrical pattern of the poem you're reading – you could see those divergences as variation in the meter, and/or just as the meter encouraging you to emphasize things in a particular way.)

#asks and conversations

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scipunk · 2 months

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Oppenheimer (2023)

#oppenheimer #old tech #manhattan project #atom bomb #nuclear #atomic bomb #1940s #40s #top secret #explosion #analog #electronics #nuke #countdown #divergence meter #nixie tubes #nuclear energy #atomic energy #christopher nolan

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sillysnack · 11 months

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one last yumesai thought before i sleep; canon divergent... kusuo decides how he'll act on chiyo's feelings based on his + her scores on the popularity meter thingy. when kusuo finds out it's around 50-65 he decides to go let chiyo interact with him, but not enough to the point she thinks the feeling is mutual 👍 he checks the love meter again to see his score with chiyo and is relieved to see it's very much lowered from a line of 9 to a line of 6—meaning she sees him solely as a friend. then we go back to that one post of mine with the accidental poll; kusuo realizes chiyo's so. average? plain?? he even tells her this and she's like "are you insulting me?" which is. Not the case! so kusuo clarifies that, yeah. chiyo thinks thats an unusual compliment but its a compliment nonetheless, so she'll take it. she says he's pretty average too (as a compliment too) and he's like "this it i? finally? peak normalcy?" stuff like that. idk. sorry kusuo.

unfortunately for chiyo, kusuo kind of drags her into stuff. i.e. eating ramen with nendou and kaidou..

chiyo also kind of figures out kusuo has powers when mikoto transfers to pk

"apparently my soulmate has pink hair, crazy cool powers, and wears hairpins"

chiyo, mentally. "hey. i know someone with pink hair and hairpins. not sure about the powers part though................ toritsuka's the only guy in our grade i know that has powers. he has purple hair though. i think theres only one person in our grade with pink hair and hairpins......" "wait."

[God damn it.] <- kusuo probably

chiyo @ kusuo in a semi-crowded hall: Honestly if I were you I couldn't hold on to a secret like that for that long

kusuo: [Please quiet down.]

pk student: is this about being gay

#cloud talks a lot #saiki k #yumehara chiyo #saiki kusuo #chiyo yumehara #kusuo saiki #saiki kusuo no psi nan #saiki kusuo no ψ nan #tdlosk

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kalevalakryze · 11 months

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Yhe'na Det Och'sa

Chapter 1: Viida Ke Aht

Characters: Shin Hati, Ahsoka Tano, Huyang, Background Characters Tags: Alternate Universe: Canon Divergence, Protective Ahsoka Tano, Wet Cat Shin Hati, Professor Huyang, The Force, Lightsabers Notes: Welcome to the beginning! The Shin Tano AU has been rent free in my mind for so long, and we've been putting giant amounts of work into this project. This universe will span about three acts, with act one set for the early years of Shin's training under Ahsoka Tano, all the way to the end of the empire and the first time she meets Sabine Wren. (9BBY-0BBY timelines were changed to get rid of some ick ) Act Two will focus on the relationship between wolfwren and the time before Mandalore's destruction. ( 0BBY-5ABY ) And Act Three will be focused on the Ahsoka series. ( 9-10 ABY ) Other acts will be planned as we see what direction the series will be taking. This AU would be nowhere without Gabi, please make sure you give her all the credit she deserves because without her, we would not have any of the stunning art we have already that's helped inspire this AU! @somewillwin Also big thanks to everyone in the pathfinders discord ( @mandalorianfleshenjoyer , @cmbdragon98 esp for idea bouncing and double checking asdkvn!!!!) Word Count: 4,331 AO3 Link: Here!

Bail had reached out with a request for aid, noting a tentative ally in the inner city of Ibaar. Ahsoka hadn’t known all the allies a senator could make, but if Padmé’s arsenal of folks who owed her was anything to go by, then Bail must have a whole library full of names of people who owed him.

The streets ran rampant with poverty and starvation, just like any other world the Empire had locked its early talons into. Vendors of various kinds set up in any available surface, patrolled heavily by Imperial units every thirty minutes with shift rotations every five hours.

It was during this fifth hour that Fulcrum stepped into the streets, hood drawn close over her head, route back to the landing pad memorized, with a dock worker nicely paid off to pass her forged documentation through the Imperial database. ‘Ahsoka Tano’ may have died with her men, but ‘Ashla Tsu’ was just a contract mechanic no one would look twice at.

As she swept through the stalls lining the streets, hood drawn far over her eyes, allowing the Force to guide her between moving bodies, she felt something. A tingle- small, something barely noticeable, had it come before the Dark Times. Piercing blue eyes raised as her feet slowed; She hadn’t felt a pull so… innocent since The Clone Wars, since she was asked to help guide the children in their créche.

There was a child, sensitive to the force, and foolishly, with no thought of the dangers, reaching out against her presence. Fulcrum was filled with dread at the thought; of the notion that another child could be taken for its sensitivity, and turned into the boy she had killed on Raada.

She scanned the surroundings of the street quickly, allowing the force to guide her feet as she moved with a renewed vigor; she would have to be late meeting with the contact, and couldn't take a risk in losing another…

Clearing her head, Ahsoka caught sight of a lanky figure draped in dirty green fabric, ducking into an alley that backtracked her entire route, too close to the Imperial offices for comfort. “Come on, kid,” The Togruta hissed to herself, turning her head and stepping behind the thick canvases used to block sunlight from the nearest stall.

Ahsoka wasn’t as small as she used to be, her montrals set her in the taller end, almost reaching the two meter mark. Clearing the tight spaces the child had was difficult, and she found herself having to backtrack more just to keep on course.

“Stop that kid!” A human vendor shouted, trying to fight his way around the booth as small hands darted from tattered fabric to swipe something from his table.

Ahsoka pursued quickly, now able to move faster as the streets parted for the ‘hero’ that would help the vendor. It didn’t take long for her to catch up now, as folks ducked out of her way; even the emerging Imperial patrol left her to her devices, not worried about petty theft or some kid getting ‘what was coming to them’.

“Stop!” Ahsoka poured suggestion into the force from a limitless reserve, brushing out against the panicked presence she felt thrumming all around her. The worn soles of the child's shoes skidded in the dust as she ground to a halt. The panic that met her in silvery blue eyes was enough to make her stop. Clutched in bony, shaking hands, Ahsoka found the crumbling contents, snagged from the vendor's trash pile; food that couldn’t have been safe for even the most resilient species, if the growth on the side was anything to go by, it certainly wasn’t fit for a human.

The child’s chest was heaving, muscles in their arms twitching as they tried to think of a way out. “Here!” Their voice was high and raspy, cracking like the dried skin on their lips as she thrusted her hands out towards Ahsoka, giving her a smell of the unpleasant odor from the mystery meal. “Please let me go,” Their eyes were watering as their weight shifted; Ahsoka did have her cornered, but folks were starting to close in;

“Don’t eat that, it’s trash,” Ahsoka shook her head with a frown, lekku twitching as she heard feet approaching them. “Let… Let me take you to get something real, alright? Please?” She hadn’t reached out in the force like this since she lost her Master, promising her intentions and holding out the hope that the child would understand, that she wouldn’t hurt her, but they needed to move.

The kid still didn’t budge, which, as much as she hated the reality, was smart; she was a stranger, after all. “Can I tell you a big secret?” Ahsoka knelt slowly to the ground, to be closer to the lanky child’s height. Uncertain eyes watched her the entire time, dirty fingers still sinking into the repulsive mystery meat as if Ahsoka was trying to trick them away from what looked to be their first meal in days.

Ahsoka could feel trepidation as it rolled down pale skin, wiry muscles tensing to run as the stranger reached into her cloak. The lightsaber was pulled from the hidden pocket of her cloak, still knobby with scrap pieces sticking out, she needed to remember to cut them down… one day, if she had time. “Do you know what this is?” She kept her voice low as she cradled the weapon close between them, squaring her shoulders on the off chance she misjudged the sounds of troopers and citizens behind them.

The child’s head shook quickly, diminishing some of Ahsoka’s hope for making this quick. “You’re like me, and well; people like us; we carry these around to protect people who can’t do it themselves, there aren’t as many of us as there used to be, which is why I want to help you. Search your feelings, you can feel the world around you, right?”

“Mhmm…” Dirty, choppy brown hair fell into an angular face as she peered at the saber in her hands.

“How many are coming?”

“Four troopers and seven people, they’re mad…”

Ahsoka smiled as she shifted her weight against the ground. “Very good,” The child’s weight shifted, eyes widening at the minimal praise; The Togruta tried not to think about how much of herself could be reflected in those eyes. “If you put that down, take this, and follow me, I’ll get you a warm meal… I can help you. I want to help you.”

The child’s eyes jumped distrustfully between the shouldn’t-be-called-food in her hands and the silver metal in Ahsoka’s palm. The food dropped to the ground in a way that made Ahsoka gag, but hey.. At least the kid had the decency to wipe her fingers off on her shirt before snatching the saber from her hand. “Hide it well.” She urged as the child tucked the saber close to her chest. “And don’t touch that button, I’ll show you why, later, I promise,”

“Follow my lead, alright? Trust in the force,”

Confusion laced her eyes before Ahsoka’s hand was wrapping around a thin wrist and pulling her close, careful not to move too fast or to jar the child and knock the shoto loose from wherever the child hid it. “What did I tell you about taking things that aren’t yours?” She scolded gently, allowing the girl to tuck into her side.

The young Force Sensitive played along nicely, forcing her features into something akin to shame and embarrassment. “Not to.” They grumbled, barely loud enough for the approaching shopkeepers to hear as they formed a tight semicircle around the two.

Ahsoka turned towards their audience, facial markings furrowed in mock disappointment as she searched for the shopkeeper. “Now, what do you say?” She guided, gently squeezing her emaciated shoulder until their head rose from staring at a hole in her boots. There was a moment of terse silence as silvery eyes turned to glare at the shopkeeper they’d ‘stolen’ from. “Shin,” She called, words forming on her lips without any thought.

The now-appointed Shin’s eyes jumped up to stare at her with wide eyes and parted lips. Ahsoka cleared her throat and nodded towards the human. “Apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” Their voice was hoarse, raspy and grating now that she was speaking louder than a whisper. The poor thing was definitely going to need water, sooner than later, if the way their skin clung to bone was any indication.

“We’re sorry,” Ahsoka added, allowing Shin to tuck herself into her poncho as shame burned at their cheeks, hands tucking back into their cloak to hold onto the saber they’d been handed.

“She’s lucky it was just trash, this time.” The vendor growled, sneering at the child and crossing his arms over his chest. “Woulda had you strung up before the sun went down, again.”

Shin pressed closer into her side, Ahsoka could feel the way they shook against her, fear, and the growing knowledge of Kyber inside the saber no doubt reaching out to her dangerously. “I can promise it won’t happen ever again, sir. Please, if you’ll forgive us this last time?”

Murky green eyes danced between the two women, and the plastoid armored stormtroopers all around them; their fingers hadn’t gone to their blasters yet, but Ahsoka had felt the squad leader unhook a set of binders from his belt. “Hrrng. Fine. But if she comes back and does it again, I’ll make sure whatever the courts decide next sticks.”

Ahsoka’s montrals twitched with the sharp inhale and the quiet sound that they tried to hide. Wrapping the corner of her poncho around the small child, Ahsoka nodded curtly. “Thank you for your mercy.” She did her best to appeal to whatever sense of masculinity he wanted, just trying to get Shin away from them as fast as possible. The crowd parted for the woman and her embarrassed child, not a soul stepped forward to inquire about her intentions, though several did remark about the odor from the lump of meat that now sat in the dirt.

Once they were clear of the crowd, Ahsoka allowed her hand to drop from their shoulder; their conflicting feelings were tangible in the force, but there was no time, not when their stomach rumbled, and the chrono on her wrist was ticking dangerously close to ‘too late to reasonably reach out’.

The Cantina she’d swept Shin into was small, one she’d scoped out the entire morning thus far; one way in, with several ways out through access tunnels running beneath the foundation, butler doors built into walls and floors that made for easy restocking for the staff, and an easy escape into the basement and beyond for a Rebel. Her contact would be inside, no doubt enjoying a meal or a drink of their own. She just needed to order and pay, and get Shin set up somewhere she would be able to keep an eye on them.

“Hey,” She whispered as the child crowded into her again at the intensity of the crowd, leading the girl over to a smaller booth. It certainly was no place for a child, but she was running out of options, and way out of her element here. “Get whatever you want,” The child’s mouth parted; Ahsoka knew what was going to come out of her mouth before her vocal chords even rumbled. “Not alcohol,” She settled into the seat across from Shin, allowing her eyes to sift through the muggy atmosphere around them to find her contact.

There were voices close by, but tuned to the back of her mind as a member of the considerably small waitstaff approached. Shin stumbled over the words as she ordered, but thankfully, they’d found at least one person on this blasted planet with the manners to not be mean to a child. “I’ll take the same,” With no idea of what Shin ordered, but too entrenched in her work to tear away to look over anything.

There, back booth, a too-clean glass held in dainty fingers, golden rings circling each digit, with his sleeves pulled sloppily over his hands to cover the expensive jewelry. A newbie, which in many cases, was dangerous. She’d have to play this one carefully.

“Who are you?” Shin asked at last, hands wrapped around blue tinted glass of water, sipping slowly at it as she looked at her strange savior, trying to read what they could see, and to decipher whatever the Force was showing them, if the hesitantly probing presence was anything to go by.

“Right now, my name is Ashla,” Ahsoka leaned back in her seat, finally getting a good look at the child when she wasn’t in fight or flight mode. “I never got your name,” She smiled sheepishly and leaned forward, offering her unwavering attention.

“I didn’t..” The child shrunk under her gaze, dirty fingertips picking at the lip of her glass as she tried to form words. “I didn’t have one, until…” Her cheeks darkened and Ahsoka understood.

“Well. D’you like Shin?”

Their head nodded quickly, grateful for the interference, and the name. Ahsoka reached across the table, settling her elbow against the smooth stone as she extended her hand. “Well then, it’s nice to meet you, Shin,”

Her hand was small and cold in Ahsoka’s, the Togruta had to resist the urge to wrap her fingers around theirs to warm it up, not wanting to cross any boundaries that had gone unspoken thus far.

Ahsoka kept her hand still at the prod of fingertips against the hardened skin on her palms, silvery eyes studied the lines in her hand in fascination as they compared their hand to her much larger one.

Shin’s study was broken moments later with hot plates being set on the table. Blue noodles piled onto both plates with a suspiciously chunky sauce all over. “It’s cu..” Their brows furrowed as they stumbled on the words. “Cru…” Huffing, Shin leaned back in her seat, determined to get the word right before trying again. A jagged fingernail traced the letters into the stone table, mouthing out the syllables as they went. “Crupa,”

“Very good,” Ahsoka’s lips twitched at the instant relief on Shin’s face, nodding her head once in acknowledgement, before the girl was awkwardly grabbing the fork and digging in. It certainly wasn’t the worst meal Ahsoka’s ever had, GAR ration bars really were not fit for a carnivore’s consumption, and while she’d long gotten used to the discomfort of food not fit for her species, the poultry managed to offer some true nutritional value.

“Sometimes, they let me come in and clean up after they close, and Drell gives me some leftovers,” The child spoke through a mouthful of noodles, forcing themselves to slow at the rise of Ahsoka’s facial markings.

Any other conversation faded into silence under the necessity of food. Ahsoka kept her montrals perked and at the ready, listening in to the senator’s quiet grumblings to gauge his annoyance. When he seemed to be getting ready to leave, Ahsoka rose. “Shin,” She called quietly, as the child fought to gather the last noodle onto her utensil. “You know how I told you people like us help people? I have someone I need to step away and talk to for a moment.”

Silver eyes widened in a way that made Ahsoka’s heart hurt, she could feel the way the child prepared to be cast away again. “Can I count on you to make it to my ship yourself?”

Shin nodded their head quickly as they slid from their seat, hands tucking into the worn brown fabric around their shoulders, reaching for the Shoto to offer back to its rightful owner. “You’ll give it back to me at the ship, yeah?” Ahsoka’s lips pulled into a warm smile as a hesitant hand rested on their shoulder once more. “Remember, don’t take anything that isn’t yours, without permission; And if the droid says anything, tell him you’re waiting on me, and show him the thing I gave you,”

Ahsoka could feel the sense of responsibility as it ebbed into the small child, gently pushing on their shoulder, towards the door; she’d have to hope that her instructions were clear. She watched the bob of choppy brown hair as the child dodged other patrons, heading for the door under Ahsoka’s watchful gaze.

At last, she turned her attention to the senator in the booth, brushing her fingers down the wrinkles of her cloak with a soft sigh. “This is where the fun begins…”

Small feet padded up the ramp of the shuttle, nervously twisting the fabric of her cloak up in her fingers. Dock workers stared at her in confusion the whole way up, used to seeing kids like her trying to sneak off world in hopeful cargo ships; It had to work for the others she’d grown up with, they never came back to Ibaar after securing passage for themselves.

Not only did she have no recollection of being somewhere so clean, it was giant, like it had been built specifically for beings as big or bigger than Ashla. Or… Shin glanced down at her shoes as she came to a stop at the top of the ramp - mauve she was just small.

There was a rustling in a closed off room to the side, Shin watched the durasteel door carefully, tucking her hands back into her cover to wrap around the metal cylinder she’d been trusted with; Ashla told her someone would be here, a droid? She didn’t know any binary, but she’d promised the droid would understand if she showed it the item.

There was something special about it, and the way it thrummed where she gripped it in both hands, as if there was something reaching out to her, like Ashla had. Something… that understood? There were intricacies she didn’t know how to explain, couldn’t even begin to imagine the complexity of the kyber inside, or the journey it had been on to heal from the abuse it had suffered at the hands of someone… Dark.

“Who’s there?” A robotic voice called out, freezing every spindly muscle in the child’s frame as heavy metal feet thudded against the cold floor. The door slid open with a hiss; dull silver eyes met glowing yellow, both being's heads cocking to the side. “You’re not supposed to be in here,”

Fear ignited in her veins like a fire, thin fingers curled around the cold metal in her hands, thrusting it in front of herself as a beam of white sprung forth the moment her finger ghosted over the button. The droid moved as if startled, springing back as Shin gripped the hilt with both hands, arms already shaking with the exertion on underdeveloped muscle to keep the blade from dropping; she didn’t know what this thing was, but she could smell the ozone burning around the bright light, and feel the heat where it scorched the air around her.

“You are going to hurt yourself!” He scolded, vocal chips screeching as he attempted to step around the blade, growing frustrated as the child turned to keep him in front of her. “Or me!”

Huyang was at a loss in terms of what to do about the situation. A local kid stumbles onto his ship with one of Ahsoka’s lightsaber, and then threatens him with it! A Jedi would never-

“Tighten your stance,” He instructed sharply, there was no use in letting the kid lob off an arm while they waited for Ahsoka to return, hopefully soon. “Don’t lock your knees, but you can’t just hold it like some kind of a toy. The lightsaber is the lifeline of a Jedi, for thousands of generations before you.”

Shin followed his instruction, finding the saber easier to keep up when she wasn’t too lose in some areas and unmoving in others. Their brows furrowed as they watched the strange droid. “Who are you?” They rasped, nostrils flaring as the droid stepped closer.

“Lightsaber architect and designer of the Jedi order. I contain a record of every lightsaber ever made, and the Jedi who fashioned them.” He explained quickly.

“Ashla made this herself?”

“Ash-” Huyang paused; if he could get a headache, he knew he would have one by now. “Yes, she did. Where is Lady Tano at now?”

“What’s a Jedi?” Shin butted in, nose scrunching in telltale avoidance; they had no idea where Ashla went, and that was worrying, what if she was secretly Empire or a pirate, or;

The droid sombered, his demeanor changing in a split second. “There was a time, not so long ago, when all knew of the Jedi. They were keepers of the peace for the citizens of the republic,”

Shin’s arms lowered, the white of the blade disengaging back into the clunky hilt as she listened. “What’s a republic?”

The servos in his neck whirred and clicked as his head snapped up to stare at her in disbelief. “Take a seat, youngling, we have much to discuss,”

Ahsoka stepped back onto the shuttle with a sigh, shedding her cloak the moment the ramp was closed. Huyang was sitting at the table, holo novels projecting above them as he read aloud.

Shin was sitting on their knees, elbows braced on the table as she stared up at slow-moving projections, stories of the Jedi that Ahsoka had even learned once, so many years ago.

“The Unifying Force is a vast cosmic power. You may not sense it yet, but with patience and insight, you will. The Force is the stars and galaxies, the rippling surface of space and time. It is the whisper in the night that tells you your destiny… Make no mistake, young Shin; The Force does have a Will, and it is the will of the force that you are here today,” He explained to the attentive child, looking almost warmly at the youngling as they soaked up his stories.

The Togruta settled her shoulder against a wall, watching the way silver-blue eyes danced across the different lines of the hologram committing the lines of the ancient Jedi crest to memory. Ahsoka allowed her mind to push out then, reaching into the howling of the force that was Shin’s unique presence, something playful and teasing, met with a familiarity that had the child spinning in their seat and poking their head up and over the top. “Ahsoka!”

The woman’s facial marking rose in Huyang’s direction as she pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “Try as you might, Lady Tano, you cannot hide from who you are, especially if you intend to take this youngling on as your Padawan,” He explained himself as he rose from his seat to greet her.

“Huyang,”

Seeming to sense her indecisiveness, the droid cut her off. “Apprentice, then. I often forget that you do not identify as a Jedi, despite your numerous accomplishments,”

Rolling her eyes at him, Ahsoka spotted her shoto on the table, using the force to call it back into her hand and watching as Shin’s eyes went wide at such a display. “Thank you for keeping this safe for me, Shin,” Their head nodded quickly as they rose from their bench.

“Did you get what you came for?” The youngling asked as her old boots hit the ground, following Ahsoka as she led the way to the cockpit, with Huyang following behind.

Patting the pouch hidden under her cloak, the older woman nodded. “And then some,”

Settling down into the pilots seat with Huyang perching in his own seat beside her, Shin stayed awkwardly between them. “That’s right,,, you’re too small right now,” She thought out loud, bringing her first to her chin in a way reminiscent of her Grand Master Obi-Wan as she thought of the best way to get through orbital turbulence without jostling the small and brittle human around too much.

It took some work, and much less than standard modifications that would have made Echo have an aneurysm, Shin was soon buckled just behind Huyang, bundled in seatbelts, with their feet dangling off the floor comedically.

“Have you ever been to space before, Young Shin?” Huyang questioned as the pair went through their checklist.

“Nuh-uh,”

“I do suggest holding on, I am aware of who trained Lady Tano to fly, it is quite wild.”

“You’re being dramatic again, Huyang,” Ahsoka shook her head as she powered up the engines and engaged the thrusters. “Next stop, Alderaan,”

As their ship sprung into the sky, Shin stared out of the viewport, watching the world and the life they’d known begin to slowly slink away into nothingness before focusing on the fast approach of space. Their small form strained against the safety belts where they leaned forward against them, taking in the moons and the stars in absolute awe, blind to the woman at the controls, purposely going slow to give the youngling the time they needed to observe as she prepped the hyperdrive.

Blues and purples mirrored in their eyes as they started their breach of hyperspace, as big as saucers with their mouth agape. There was no doubt in Ahsoka’s mind that they were unable to feel the force, in this moment, she could feel them as they reached out to grasp at the unifying cosmic power around them and felt the way it permeated all things, from the galaxies they passed in a flash of light, to the droid in front of them, and even to the smallest strip of durasteel that flaked from the tail of the ship into the void the further they traveled.

If there was one reason to be proud of what they were doing, for Huyang and Ahsoka to see the effect even their smallest actions could have, both would bet money that nothing less than the absolute fall of the empire would ever come to top this.

TIMELINE 10 ABY: 9 ABY: Ahsoka Series/Mandalore S3 8 ABY: 7 ABY: 6 ABY: 5 ABY: Mandalore is destroyed, Sabine Wren leaves Ahsoka and Shin Tano 4 ABY: 3 ABY: 2 ABY: 1 ABY: 0 ABY: Battle of Yavin, Ahsoka Tano returns to take Sabine Wren under her wing 1 BBY: Rebels S4 End, Ezra Bridger goes to Peridea 2 BBY: Rebels S3 3 BBY: 4 BBY: Rebels S2, Ahsoka Tano 'dies' (returns to this timeline/Malachor upon 1 BBY revival by Ezra Bridger) 5 BBY: Rebels S1 (Fulcrum works with Ghost crew + reveals only Ahsoka Tano, Shin Hati continues to work intel + on the ground BTS with Ahsoka Tano) 6 BBY: 7 BBY: 8 BBY: 9 BBY: Ahsoka Novel End | Ahsoka Tano finds and takes in 7 year old Shin Hati 10 BBY: Ahsoka Novel Start 11 BBY: 12 BBY: 13 BBY: 14 BBY: 15 BBY: 16 BBY: Shin Hati/Tano is Born 17 BBY: 18 BBY: 19 BBY: Order 66 | Ezra Bridger is Born 20 BBY: 21 BBY: Sabine Wren is born 22 BBY: Clone Wars Starts 36 BBY: Ahsoka Tano Born 41 BBY: Anakin Skywalker Born 57 BBY: Obi-Wan Kenobi Born Togruti Translations Yhe'na Det Och'sa - Survive The Stars Viida Ke Aht - Time To Rest

#Shin Tano AU #Shin Hati #Ahsoka Tano #Huyang #Ibaar #Ahsoka Series #Ahsoka Novel #Fanfiction #star wars

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synergysilhouette · 4 months

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Hogwarts Legacy spinoff/sequel wants

As an HL fan, I was absolutely pleased with the game--but for the next one, I'd like some changes/additions.

Make an Ilvermorny spinoff--As an American fan, it'd be so fun to see Ilvermorny in person, preferably in modern day; I'm still confused on how no-maj racism never existed in the Americas if most European purebloods didn't come to America, meaning that most American witches/wizards (of European heritage, at least) would be no-maj borns and half-bloods, and thus be influenced somewhat by no-maj ideals. Placing it in modern day would make it feel a bit more tolerant, imo.

GIVE EVERY HOUSE SOME LOVE WITH SIDEQUESTS--Ravenclaws got screwed terribly since Amit doesn't have his own storyline/quest like the other house representatives. It felt really unfair.

Flesh out the main character's background--It's never explained WHY the student is starting off as a 5th year, nor what kind blood heritage they have, despite this taking place in the late 19th century, when blood heritage would be even more important than it was when Harry Potter was alive a hundred years later. (And nit-pick, but it'd also be nice if we could say if they were from Scotland, England, Wales, Ireland, or another country).

Friendship meter--I like the idea that you can have your friends join you on quests outside of their personal ones, as long as you have a close enough bond with them. Plus it'd be great for diverging storylines; imagine if we could've convinced Sebastian not to use the killing curse if we were close enough with him. I guess that's "Hogwarts Mystery" rubbing off on me (one of the few things I liked about that game).

Romance options--This is probably a minority request, but I'd like the option. I think the devs said romance wasn't a factor because of your possible dark paths, which makes sense, but the aforementioned friendship meter could potentially alleviate this by convincing them to join you (or turn them away from their own dark path).

The option to be a metamorphagus or an animgus (or the sidequest to become one)--It'd be such a fun idea to use these powers on missions.

Change your face after initial designs--I remember being dissatisfied with my character's face after setting him up, and I was disappointed that I couldn't change it afterwards. It'd also be cool if we could experiment with their build/body type a bit.

A better story--Sebastian's sidestory was more interesting than the Goblin uprising, tbh. Even rehashing the blood purity storyline would've been better.

Trials that take place within the world--Maybe it was just me, but I didn't like how the trials took place within an alternate world (except Niamh's trial; hers was creative) rather than using the large world we already had.

#harry potter #hogwarts #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #poppy sweeting #amit thakkar #natsai onai #ilvermorny

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cielettosa · 3 months

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SEED OF DISCONTENT

Chapter 2: clipped wings

PAIRING: levi ackerman x fem!reader

RATING: explicit

FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)

SYNOPSIS:

The Ackerman clan needs to be expanded, and you are chosen to carry his child.

CW: invasive medical procedure, mentions of miscarriage

navigation

previous chapter - next chapter

The sterile white walls of the infirmary mocks you with their clinical cleanliness. Disinfectant stings your nose, a sickly sweet perfume that clashes horribly with the metallic tang of fear clinging to your throat.

You grip the scratchy sheet bunched around you, knuckles turning white as your knuckles used to when disassembling a very stubborn bolt action rifle.

Twenty three years you have walked this life, and the most invasive procedure you have ever endured was scrubbing the grime off a well used barrel.

Now, here you are, splayed like a gutted fish on this damn examination table, exposed and violated in a way that makes you fantasize about Titans ripping you limb from limb – at least then, the indignity would be over quickly.

"Alright, Ms. Reader," a voice grates out, shattering the silence that feels heavy enough to suffocate.

You glance sideways to see Dr. Miller, a man whose perpetually furrowed brow seems sculpted onto his skull.

Even his name is an insult – Miller, the name of a dime a dozen grunt, not the esteemed doctor entrusted with… well, with whatever barbaric procedure they have planned for you today.

He gestures towards the doorway with a jerky movement. "Commander in Chief Zachary is here to observe."

Ah, yes. Observe. As if you are some exotic lab rat being prepped for dissection.

You crane your neck, wincing at the way the scratchy sheet abrades your skin, to see Dhalis Zachary – the man who apparently holds the fate of humanity in his manicured hands – materialize beside the doctor.

The man tasked with saving the world would not dare get a speck of dust on his precious uniform while overseeing the violation of a perfectly good (former) soldier.

Commander in Chief Zachary, bless his heart, takes a seat in the plush armchair across the room, looking about as comfortable as a fish out of water.

His gaze, however, remains glued to you with an intensity that rivals a hungry Titan eyeing a juicy morsel.

You almost laugh – the irony of it all. You, a woman who has spent years training for military, and have provided security and services to the (fake) king (though they probably will not care to admit it), reduced to nothing more than a vessel, a brood mare for their precious Ackerman project.

"At ease," he says, his voice as crisp and polished as his uniform.

At ease? You want ease?

You want ease, try spending years trying to balance in Omni directional mobility gear, learn to use rifles, design new, modifications for military gears, knowing each perfectly balanced blade could mean the difference between life and death for some terrified soldier facing a ten meter monstrosity.

This, this sterile room, this forced vulnerability – this is anything but ease.

You force a smile, a thin, humorless thing that probably resembles a grimace more than anything.

"As easy as one can be," you rasp, your voice unused to conversation. "After all, it is not every day you get the esteemed Commander in Chief of Three Regiments Dhalis Zachary to witness your… well, let me just say my internal workings."

The doctor shoots you a withering look, but Commander Zachary, to your surprise, cracks a ghost of a smile. A flicker of something – amusement? Recognition? – sparks in his eyes for a fleeting moment before he schools his features back into their usual stoicism.

"Indeed," he replies, his voice barely a murmur. "Let us just say your 'internal workings' hold the key to humanity's future, Ms. Reader."

The key? You scoff internally. More like the glorified wrench they are about to shove into the gears of that future.

You clench your jaw, the metallic tang of fear intensifying.

They can shove their grand plans and glorious futures.

You are Letta Reader, the one who designed the Anti Personnel omni directional mobility gear, they have reduced you to this – a pawn in their twisted game.

Let's just hope this little "procedure" does not dull your edge permanently. Humanity might just regret it when the next Titan comes knocking.

You lock eyes with them both, daring them to look away. A spark ignites in your chest, a defiant ember flickering amidst the suffocating dread.

It earns a reaction – a smirk from Dr. Miller that creases his perpetually furrowed brow and a glint of steely appraisal in Zachary's gaze.

You, a convicted criminal, sculptor of death – your creations has silenced countless screams, both human and Titan. Now, here you are, reduced to a pawn in their twisted game of genetic chess.

"Let us get this over with," you rasp, your voice sandpaper rough from disuse. The words tumble out with a bite, a desperate attempt to reclaim a sliver of control.

Dr. Miller sighs, the sound a defeated whoosh that ruffles his already unkempt hair. "As you wish, Ms. Reader," he mutters, shoulders slumping like a defeated soldier. "Blood tests first."

Blood tests. Compatibility with the Ackerman bloodline, they say. A lineage shrouded in secrecy, whispered about in hushed tones, rumored to possess superhuman strength and an uncanny fighting prowess.

You, a mere mortal, are about to be entangled with something far beyond your comprehension.

A morbid fascination battles with the rising tide of unease in your gut. You watch with detached curiosity as Dr. Miller approaches, his touch surprisingly gentle considering his gruff demeanor.

He flexes your exposed right arm, searching for a suitable vein, his calloused thumb momentarily stopping your lifeblood with a firm press.

A sharp, medicinal sting assaults your senses as he unwraps a tourniquet. It is a thin elastic band, more suited for catching a rogue strand of hair than constricting a limb.

He wraps it around your upper arm, two fingers above the chosen vein, and the pressure makes your pulse throb a frantic tattoo against your skin.

Then comes the cotton swab, soaked in a cool, stinging alcohol solution. It wipes across the chosen spot, leaving a cool, sterile patch amidst the growing map of goosebumps crawling across your skin.

Dr. Miller releases the pressure slightly, just enough for a trickle of blood to return to the vein. He raises a syringe aloft, the glass glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. The plunger is pulled back, creating a vacuum within the barrel.

It is a familiar sight – a tool you have used countless times to clean the delicate mechanisms of your weapons, ensuring their deadly precision.

Now, the instrument is aimed at you, a cold reminder of your vulnerability.

With practiced efficiency, honed by countless similar procedures, Dr. Miller inserts the needle into your vein.

A prick, a sharp jab of pain, and the world seems to narrow down to that single point of contact. You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a flinch or a whimper.

The metallic tang of fear floods your mouth, a constant reminder of the indignity you are forced to endure.

He pushes the plunger down slowly, drawing crimson life into the syringe. The red liquid creeps up the chamber, its color a stark contrast to the sterile white walls.

He withdraws the needle with a practiced flick, a fresh cotton swab immediately pressed against the puncture site. The metallic clink of the vial being deposited on the tray echoes in the tense silence.

He repeats the process two more times, each vial a silent trophy filled with your essence. The metallic clink becomes a mocking rhythm, a reminder of your objectification.

Finally, Dr. Miller applies a band aid, his touch a fleeting reprieve from the constant violation.

You glance down at the three vials of blood, a sense of detachment settling over you. This crimson liquid, the very essence of your being, will now play a part in a scheme you have no control over.

Dr. Miller's flat question hangs heavy in the sterile air. "Have you ever been pregnant?"

You scoff. "Once," you murmur, the memory a bitter pill lodged uncomfortably in your throat. It is not exactly a stroll through a rose garden, this "pregnancy" of yours.

More like a forced march through a minefield, blindfolded and with a detonator strapped to your chest.

Zachary leans forward, his gaze as sharp as a freshly sharpened blade. "Miscarriage?" he probes, his voice devoid of sympathy. You meet his gaze unflinchingly.

"Yes," you reply curtly, offering no further details.

There is no point in elaborating. They will not understand the intricacies of the job, the cold calculations, the detached efficiency required.

They will not understand the irony of a soldier and a weapon designer being forced to carry a weapon of a different kind.

Dr. Miller raises an eyebrow, a gesture that seems almost comical in his perpetually furrowed browed expression.

"And how did you feel about losing the child?" The question catches you off guard, a sucker punch to your carefully constructed emotional wall.

The memory floods back – the nausea, the fatigue, the constant, gnawing unease. It was not a life you nurtured, not something you embraced. It was a necessary evil to complete the contract.

But then, the miscarriage. A physical ordeal you had not anticipated, a sharp, searing pain that ripped through your body, mirroring the emotional emptiness you felt.

It was over quickly, thankfully, but the memory lingers – a stark reminder of your own mortality, a vulnerability you rarely acknowledge.

You pause, the silence stretching between you like a taut bowstring. "It was not planned," you finally say, your voice a monotone that barely conceals the storm of emotions churning beneath the surface. "Collateral damage, you could say."

"Collateral damage?" Zachary echoes, a flicker of something – curiosity? Disbelief? – sparking in his eyes. "Explain."

There is a challenge in his voice, a dare you can not resist. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips. Let them squirm in their pristine chairs, let them get a taste of the grime that exists beyond the sterile walls of their ivory tower.

"The target," you begin, your voice taking on a measured cadence, "was a high ranking official, a man whose influence was like a cancer spreading through the government. Discreet assassination was impossible. So, the plan was… unorthodox." You pause, letting the anticipation build in the oppressive silence.

"I was… persuaded," you continue, "to become… friendly with the target. To gain his trust, his affection, whatever it took. And a well timed pregnancy," you add with a bitter chuckle, "was the ultimate act of… commitment." You see a muscle twitch in Zachary's jaw, a flicker of something akin to disgust crossing his features.

Good.

"The miscarriage," you continue, relishing the discomfort in the room, "was… unfortunate. But ultimately, a blessing in disguise. It provided a convenient excuse, an out from the… arrangement."

You see Dr. Miller flinch at the word, as if you have uttered a profanity.

Let him. Let them all squirm.

"So, Commander Zachary," you finish, meeting his gaze head on, "when you ask about my feelings on losing the child, the answer is… complicated. Relief, yes. Regret, perhaps a sliver. But mostly, indifference. It was a job, and like any other job, it had its… complications."

You lean back against the scratchy sheet, a sense of satisfaction washing over you.

You have exposed a chink in their armor, forced them to confront the brutal reality of the world beyond their sterile walls. And for a brief moment, at least, you have held the power.

Dr. Miller's gaze finally meets yours. It is a cold, reptilian stare that dissects you like a butcher eyeing a side of prime beef.

It lingers a beat too long, making you feel like a lab rat under scrutiny. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away with a sigh that could deflate a blimp.

You almost expect him to mutter something about "hopeless cases" under his breath.

He disappears behind a towering metal cabinet, the sterile clinking of instruments echoing in the tense silence.

A moment later, he reappears, a set of gleaming metal instruments glinting ominously in his hand.

They look more like torture tools than medical equipment, and the way Dr. Miller holds them – with a practiced ease that sends a jolt of apprehension through you – do not exactly inspire confidence.

He stands beside the bed, his expression a stormy landscape of conflicting emotions. You can not decipher it, but you know one thing for sure – it does not bode well for you.

Then, with a brusqueness that could snap a twig, he reaches for the sheet you cling to, the flimsy fabric a pathetic shield against the sterile indignity of this whole situation.

You flinch, a primal reaction to the unexpected touch. The sheet tugs against your already raw skin, a fresh wave of discomfort adding to the storm brewing inside you.

He pauses, the metallic instruments glinting like malevolent eyes in his hand. His gaze flickers to your face for a fleeting moment, a silent question hanging in the air.

"This is necessary," he finally says, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth. "For the sake of the child."

The words land like lead weights in your stomach.

Necessary?

For the sake of the child?

Since when did your comfort, your dignity, become secondary to the well being of a potential fetus forced upon you?

You clench your fists, digging your nails into your calloused palms until crescent moons of white form beneath the grime.

This whole situation is a violation, a grotesque parody of nature, and Dr. Miller's words feel like salt being rubbed into a fresh wound.

With a practiced efficiency honed by years of dissecting weapons and tinkering with intricate mechanisms, Dr. Miller pulls the sheet down, leaving you exposed and vulnerable on the examination table.

You have not felt this raw, this exposed, since the beatings in prison – a constant reminder that even the most skilled soldier, weapon artisan and assassin can be broken.

You clench your jaw, willing yourself to disappear, to melt into the sterile white walls and become one with the cold, impersonal environment.

Dr. Miller's gaze sweeps over your bare body, a clinical assessment that makes you feel like a piece of meat on a butcher's block.

His eyes linger for a moment on the angry red welts marring your skin – a testament to the brutality you have endured – before flicking back up to meet yours. His expression remains unreadable, a mask that conceals whatever thoughts churn within him.

Dr. Miller's gaze descends, a clinical scan that lingers for a moment too long on the valley between your exposed breasts.

You clench your jaw, willing your body to turn to stone, an unyielding statue impervious to his clinical examination.

Then, his gloved hand reaches out, a slow, deliberate movement that sends a jolt of electricity straight through your core.

Impersonal, clinical – that is the mantra you repeat in your head, a desperate attempt to deflect the unwelcome heat that pools in your stomach.

His touch is a feather light graze, cupping your right breast with a detached professionalism that somehow manages to feel intimate in the sterile silence of the room.

You squeeze your eyes shut, the rhythmic thud of your heart a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the sterile silence.

He palpates with practiced precision, his fingers moving with a methodical efficiency that grates on your nerves. Every inch is scrutinized, prodded with a gentle yet firm pressure that feels more like an interrogation than a medical examination.

He is searching for imperfections, weaknesses – anything that might derail their grand plan of turning you into a glorified incubator.

The indignity of it all burns a hot coal in your gut.

The humiliation intensifies as he repeats the process on the left side. The metal instruments he then employs are cold and sterile against your skin, a further reminder of your violation.

Each prod and poke sends a tremor through you, a cocktail of shame and a strange, unsettling awareness that you can not quite define.

You force yourself to breathe, shallow gasps that barely fill your lungs.

Focus, you tell yourself. Focus on anything but the feel of his hands roaming your body, a stark contrast to the rough calluses that usually grip the smooth metal of your tools.

You clench your jaw, a silent vow not to give them the satisfaction of a whimper, a flicker of weakness. This is a battle, and while you are stripped of your weapons, your pride remains, a sharp, unyielding edge that you refuse to have dulled.

The examination stretches on, each second an excruciating eternity. You fight back the urge to scream, to lash out and reclaim some semblance of control.

But you know better. Here, in this sterile prison, they hold all the cards. You are just a pawn in their twisted game, a pawn they intend to manipulate, exploit, and ultimately use.

Finally, mercifully, Dr. Miller steps back. His gloved hands disappear into the folds of his white coat, a stark contrast to the flush blooming on your exposed skin. "Everything seems normal," he mutters, his voice barely audible.

Relief washes over you, a tidal wave that leaves you momentarily breathless. It is a hollow victory, a reprieve more than a triumph. The humiliation lingers, a bitter aftertaste that coats your tongue.

You force your eyes open, blinking away the tears that sting your vision. The physical examination may be over, but the psychological violation has just begun.

They have seen your body, prodded and assessed it like a piece of machinery.

Dr. Miller reaches for your arm, his face etched with a seriousness that seems more like a poorly practiced mask. It does not quite conceal the underlying apprehension that flickers in his eyes.

His touch, surprisingly gentle for a man whose face resembles a perpetually furrowed landscape, is muffled by the fresh latex gloves he has donned.

He guides your leg with a nudge that is supposed to be subtle but comes across as patronizing. "Spread your legs wider, please," he instructs, his voice dropping to a low, neutral monotone.

Shame burns in your cheeks, a fiery counterpoint to the harsh bright lights overhead. It threatens to consume you, this violation of your most private space.

You clench your jaw, a silent vow not to give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumble. Your body complies, a slow, agonizing spread that makes you feel like a dissected insect pinned to a display board.

The vulnerability of the position grates on your nerves – exposed, defenseless, like a target waiting to be hit.

Dr. Miller waits patiently, or at least that is what he wants you to believe. You can practically see the stopwatch ticking in his mind, counting down the precious seconds he has to spend in this uncomfortable situation.

His gaze flickers to your face for a fleeting moment, a spark of something – unease? Discomfort? – flickering in his eyes before he quickly averts them, dropping his gaze down to his instruments.

He selects a cold, gleaming speculum. The metal surface catches the harsh light like a cruel mirror reflecting your exposed state.

It gleams with an accusatory stare, mocking your helplessness. With a practiced efficiency born of countless examinations on countless women who likely were not forced to endure this indignity under the threat of the world's fate, he maneuvers the speculum towards you.

The metallic chill against your skin sends a jolt through you, a stark reminder of the intrusion about to occur. It is more than just physical – it is a violation of your very being.

You squeeze your eyes shut, a silent protest against the indignity.

The breath catches in your throat, a strangled gasp trapped in the prison of your clenched jaw. You want to scream, to lash out, to reclaim some semblance of control. But you know better.

You force yourself to take a shallow breath, the air rasping in your lungs. You may not be able to control the situation, but you can control your reaction.

Let them poke and prod. Let them analyze and scrutinize. You have stared death in the face countless times, crafted tools to defy its inevitable embrace. This is just another challenge, another obstacle to overcome.

They may have your body spread eagle on this scratchy examination table, but they will never break your spirit.

Dr. Miller hesitates, the pause barely a blip in the oppressive silence, but it is enough to make you wonder if even he is questioning the sheer absurdity of this situation.

Then, with a sigh that could rival the wind whistling through a broken window, he inserts the instrument.

A gasp rips from your throat, a sound that echoes in the sterile room like a gunshot.

The speculum pries open a part of you that has always been a closely guarded secret, a territory familiar only to a select few – and none of them were burly doctors with permanently furrowed brows.

The feeling is an unwelcome combination of foreign and invasive, like an enthusiastic Titan has decided to take a peek inside your most private chambers. You are pretty aware that the comparison is disgusting, but if anyone asked you to describe the sensation, that is the one that fits perfectly because it is disgusting.

The metallic scrape against metal grates on your nerves, a sound that would not be out of place accompanying the torture of some unfortunate soul in a particularly low budget horror flick.

A low hum escapes his lips as he examines the interior walls, his brow furrowing in what you can only hope is genuine confusion.

Maybe, just maybe, he is stumbled upon something unexpected down there – a hidden compartment filled with miniature grenades or a self destruct mechanism triggered by excessive prodding.

Every probing touch, every whispered technical term that sounds suspiciously like plumbing jargon, feels like a violation of the highest order.

You clench your jaw so hard your teeth might actually shatter, forcing yourself to remain still. Giving him the satisfaction of a whimper or a flinch would be akin to surrendering your weapon before a life and death fight – a sign of weakness you refuse to display.

Minutes crawl by, each one an eternity measured in the excruciating silence punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of your own terrified heart.

Finally, Dr. Miller lets out a sigh that could rival the exhale of an extremely disgruntled Titan. Relief washes over him, palpable enough to practically condense in the air.

He withdraws the speculum slowly, the pressure easing with each inch.

The coolness fades, replaced by a dull ache that throbs in protest, a constant reminder of the intrusion you have just endured.

He disposes of the speculum with a metallic clink that seems to echo through the room.

Then, turning his attention to his gloved hands, he wipes them down with a theatrical flourish, the crinkling of the paper loud enough to be mistaken for applause.

"Seems everything is normal down there too," he mutters finally, his voice as devoid of inflection as the sterile walls themselves.

Normal? You want to laugh, a harsh, humorless bark that would shatter the sterile silence.

Normal for a woman about to be turned into a incubator for a government experiment?

Normal for someone who is traded the thrill of crafting weapons that could cleave a human in two for the indignity of having her most private parts prodded and examined like a malfunctioning machine?

There is nothing normal about this situation, and Dr. Miller, with his detached demeanor and bureaucratic pronouncements, is about as normal as a three headed deer waltzing through the streets.

The internal examination is over, leaving you feeling like a disassembled weapon haphazardly thrown back together, missing a few crucial screws and leaking a suspicious amount of… well, everything.

Dr. Miller, bless his detached heart, busies himself cleaning his instruments, the metallic clinking echoing in the tense silence like a morbid symphony.

You watch him with a sardonic glint in your eye, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic clang and the occasional muttered curse word (hopefully directed at the malfunctioning speculum, not your… delicate state).

Just as you begin to entertain the fleeting notion that this ordeal might actually be over, a fresh wave of dread washes over you like a rogue tsunami.

Dr. Miller reaches for a new set of sterile swabs, the crinkled plastic packaging a telltale sign of further indignities to come.

You clench your fists, the rough fabric of the sheet digging into your palms.

You know exactly what is coming – another round of poking, prodding, and sample collecting, all in the name of "compatibility."

"Alright," Dr. Miller announces, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth, "We need to collect some additional samples."

Additional samples? You want to scream, to hurl obscenities at the sterile white walls, to remind them that you are a human being, not a Petri dish waiting to be cultured.

But logic, that pesky intruder, rears its ugly head. Screaming will not get you anywhere, and throwing a tantrum would only solidify their image of you as an uncooperative breeding mare.

He must sense your apprehension, because he adds, with a tone that could be mistaken for apologetic (but you are not buying it for a second), "It is a routine part of the procedure to ensure compatibility."

Compatibility. Right. Because clearly, the fate of humanity rests on your ability to swap spit with a glorified lab rat in a fancy uniform.

You nod tightly, a single, jerky movement that speaks volumes about your inner turmoil. Can you trust his words? Does it even matter? Here, in this sterile prison, trust is a luxury you can not afford.

Shame burns like a hot coal in your throat, a stark contrast to the cold sweat prickling your skin.

Dr. Miller holds up a small, cotton tipped swab – the instrument of your further violation. "First," he announces, his voice devoid of any drama, "a saliva sample."

He leans in, his breath surprisingly stale for a man who probably gargles mouthwash on the hourly. You clench your jaw for a moment, a silent rebellion against this further intrusion.

But logic, that persistent voice in your head, wins over defiance. Compliance now, rebellion later. You open your mouth slightly, the smallest concession you can muster, allowing him to insert the swab and gently scrape the inside of your cheek.

The feeling is surprisingly intimate, the foreign object brushing against your tongue, sending a shiver down your spine.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to become a ghost in the sterile room, invisible to his probing gaze.

He twirls the swab a few times, the motion slow and deliberate, before carefully extracting it from your mouth. The used swab is deposited into a labeled vial, the plastic snapping shut with a definitive click – another notch on their scientific belt, another piece of you catalogued and filed away.

The next sample. The dreaded one. You recognize it by the way Dr. Miller's gaze lingers on you a beat too long, a hesitant flicker of something akin to… sympathy? In his perpetually furrowed brow? Do not make you laugh.

"It will only take a second," he mumbles, his voice softer than you have heard him speak all damn day. "Try to relax."

Relax? In this sterile cattle prod of a room, with your dignity scattered like spent bullet casings on the floor?

The word feels like a slap in the face. But you nod curtly, the defeat a bitter pill lodged in your throat.

The cold touch of a gloved finger pries your legs open further, the sensation a stark contrast to the rough callouses that usually grip the smooth metal of your tools.

A dreaded scene catches your eye – the dreaded swab, held in his hand like a tiny, mocking trophy. Shame burns in your gut, a white hot fire that threatens to consume you.

This is the ultimate violation, the final frontier they need to conquer. They have poked and prodded, scanned and scrutinized, and now they want the key to the vault, the blueprint to the weapon they intend to forge.

You clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the humiliation.

The probing is mercifully brief, a fleeting violation compared to the mental torment you have endured.

Dr. Miller removes the swab with a soft rustle, the sound almost inaudible in the tense silence. He deposits it in the vial with a metallic clink, a punctuation mark to your ordeal.

Relief washes over you, a tidal wave that leaves you breathless. It is a hollow victory, a reprieve more than a triumph. But for now, at least, you have held your ground. You have endured their examination, their violation, and emerged (somewhat) unbroken.

He steps back, his expression a carefully constructed mask that reveals nothing. "There you go," he finally mutters, his voice devoid of any triumph. No celebration, no fanfare – just a sterile statement of fact.

Across the room, Zachary, your supposed savior (gag), remains a stoic statue. His face is a mask that could rival the emotionless sterility of this damn room.

The only hint of anything remotely human is the barely perceptible twitch in his jaw, a microscopic tremor that speaks volumes about the tension he is trying so desperately to hide.

You, on the other hand, are anything but stoic. You remain sprawled on the bed, a human pretzel contorted into a position that would make even the most flexible weapon malfunction.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, a futile attempt to block out the sterile white ceiling and the searing images burned into your memory.

Every prod, every humiliating scrape – a fresh scar etched onto the landscape of your pride.

Your body trembles, not from the cold, but from the aftermath of the ordeal. It is a primal reaction, a caged animal finally released but still reeling from the bars that once held it captive.

They leave the room, the click of the door a punctuation mark to the violation you have just endured.

The silence that descends is almost worse – a heavy, suffocating blanket that amplifies the pounding of your heart and the choked sobs that finally escape your throat.

Tears sting your eyes, blurring the sterile white of the ceiling into a watery mess. This sterile prison, this cattle prod of a medical examination – this is not supposed to be your life.

You scoff, a humorless sound that echoes in the empty room. You, a weapon artisan whose touch could turn a hunk of scrap metal into a thing of lethal beauty, are reduced to this – a specimen under a microscope, a pawn in their twisted game of genetic roulette.

Fury, hot and potent, surges through you, momentarily eclipsing the despair. They may have violated your body, prodded and poked at your most private parts, but they have not broken your spirit. No, not by a long shot. This may be their game, their sterile little experiment, but you refuse to be a passive participant.

Three days. Seventy two excruciatingly silent hours have crawled by since the medical examinations, each one a slow, agonizing torture worse than any interrogation you have ever endured.

The sterile horror of it all clings to you like a cheap perfume on a desperate social climber – inescapable, suffocating, and leaving a lingering headache in its wake.

You, the self proclaimed queen of solitude, the monster who could happily spend weeks alone with nothing but a good blueprint and a malfunctioning weapon for company, are starting to understand the concept of "cabin fever.

The once blissful quiet of your cell now feels like a sensory deprivation chamber on fast forward.

The rhythmic dripping from the leaky faucet down the hall, a sound you previously tuned out with the practiced ease of a seasoned sniper ignoring the whine of distant bullets, now echoes through the sterile emptiness like a maddening metronome counting down the seconds to your inevitable mental breakdown.

The stark white walls, once a source of comfort in their unadorned simplicity, now seem to mock you with their clinical coldness. They are like blank canvases, each imperfection a glaring reminder of the perfect life you have been ripped away from.

No more meticulously organized toolboxes, gleaming with the promise of creation and destruction. No more meticulously folded clothes, each crease a testament to your control. No more swords, to practice with your comrades... No more...

Here, everything is tossed haphazardly, a crumpled metaphor for your lost autonomy.

But the real torment, the constant itch you can not quite scratch, resides within your own violated body. The memory of those gloved hands, the cold, metallic instruments, the intrusion into your most private spaces sends a fresh wave of anger and shame crashing over you like a rogue wave.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, the only outlet for the silent scream trapped in your throat.

The biggest betrayal, though, cuts deeper than any physical violation. It is the sudden, sickening awareness of your own vulnerability.

You, the lone wolf, the creature who thrived on self reliance, have been stripped bare, reduced to a vessel in their twisted experiment.

They have poked and prodded, analyzed and assessed, and all they see is a damn breeding machine.

The cell, once your sanctuary, a haven from the idiocy of the human herd, now feels like a gilded cage.

The bars are not metal this time, but humiliation, a cage built from the violation of your body and the desecration of your privacy.

The urge to scrub your skin raw, to somehow cleanse yourself of their touch, is overwhelming.

But even that small act of defiance is denied you. The single, institutional bar of soap they grudgingly provide feels like an insult – a far cry from the luxurious bath products you once indulged in, a daily ritual as essential as oiling your favorite weapon.

Another betrayal. You, the woman who could identify the brand of hand soap used in a government interrogation room based on the faintest lavender aroma, is forced to exist in a state of near filth.

The coarse prison linens, once tolerable in their utilitarian simplicity, now feel like sandpaper against your skin. You wince, remembering the meticulous way you used to fold your clothes back in your old life, each item arranged with military precision. Here, the clothes are tossed on a metal bunk, a crumpled testament to your lost control.

But the worst part, the insidious rot that is slowly eating away at your sanity, is the mind numbing boredom.

Solitary confinement, once a welcome respite from the cacophony of human interaction, now feels like a sensory deprivation chamber designed by a particularly sadistic psychologist.

The lack of good literature, a cornerstone of your existence, is a constant ache. The prison library offers a paltry selection of dog eared paperbacks, the stories predictable and devoid of the intellectual stimulation you crave.

Where are the complex philosophical treatises? The gritty war memoirs you devoured in a single sitting?

And the erotic stories? A distant memory, a guilty pleasure you now yearn for with a desperation that surprises even you. The human touch, once something you actively avoided, now seems a distant dream, a phantom limb aching in its absence.

You sink down onto the hard cot, the metallic clang echoing in the silence. The once welcomed solitude now feels like a suffocating shroud, a constant reminder of your predicament.

A single tear traces a path down your cheek, a silent testament to the despair that has taken root within you. But beneath the despair, a flicker of defiance ignites.

The harsh clang of your cell door being yanked open shatters the silence like a brick through a cathedral window.

Two goons in guard uniforms, shadows obscuring their Neanderthal features, fill the doorway. They reek of stale sweat and something vaguely institutional – cafeteria mystery meat, maybe?

You would put it past this glorified cattle prod of a facility.

"Up," barks one of them, his voice like nails scraping concrete.

You rise slowly, stretching your deliberately stiff muscles.

They expect a reaction, a flinch, a whimper for your mommy.

But you have learned the hard way that showing weakness here is like offering a particularly juicy steak to a pack of starving wolves. You will not last a minute.

One of them ambles over, all predatory grace of a drunken hippo. He snatches a blindfold the size of a flour sack and, with the finesse of a toddler trying on a tutu, yanks your head back. The world dissolves into a suffocating darkness.

"Hold still," he growls, his voice hot and Neanderthal esque against your ear. The other one circles behind you, his meaty hands working with practiced efficiency that speaks of countless similar cattle proddings.

Metal clicks against metal as handcuffs are slapped on your wrists, binding them tighter than a politician's promise.

The rough hands then migrate south, yanking your legs apart with a jerk that would make a contortionist wince.

Thick ropes appear from out of nowhere, the scratchy fibers binding your ankles together like a poorly wrapped birthday present.

You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a whimper or a flinch.

They want a reaction?

They will get the cold shoulder, and maybe a particularly venomous glare if they ever decide to unblindfold you.

They manhandle you out of the cell, their movements all elbows and knees, their bodies brushing against yours in a way that feels about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

Not a word escapes their Neanderthal lips, the silence thick with unspoken threats and the faint scent of stale deodorant (or is that fear?).

You navigate the sterile hallway with the grace of a drunken giraffe, relying on their grunts and occasional shoves for guidance.

Finally, they stop and shove you roughly through something, their hands digging into your bound arms like overzealous secret agents.

They guide you towards something, their movements forceful, their grip tight enough to leave bruises that would make a badge of honor back in your workshop.

With the practiced ease of seasoned guards (or maybe just bouncers), they secure you to the chair.

Ropes bite into your flesh as they bind your wrists to the armrests, pulling your arms taut and uncomfortable.

Another rope circles your chest, pinning you to the back of the chair and restricting your movement like a particularly enthusiastic python.

Throughout the ordeal, you remain silent, a statue carved from defiance amidst the storm. They search for a reaction, a flicker of fear in your blindfolded eyes.

But you give them

nothing.

You have learned the art of becoming a wall, an unyielding barrier against their cruelty.

They finish their little rope rodeo, the ropes digging into your flesh like a particularly enthusiastic critic. One of the guards leans in close, his breath hot and stale against your ear – a bouquet of cafeteria mystery meat and stale sweat, truly a sensory delight. "Do not think this will be easy," he says, his voice laced with a sadistic pleasure that would make a horror story villain blush.

You offer no reply. Silence is your weapon, your only defense in this hostile environment. They may bind your body, but they cannot break your spirit.

The rough scrape of boots fades into a distant silence, thick enough to choke on. Each tick of the unseen clock stretches into an eternity as you strain your ears, the only remaining sense that offers a glimpse into the world beyond the suffocating darkness of the blindfold.

Minutes bleed into what feels like hours, and you contemplate the existential dread of becoming best friends with a particularly enthusiastic spider when a new set of footsteps finally breaks the silence.

This is not the lumbering gait of your previous escorts, all elbows and knees and the grace of a drunken hippo.

These steps are lighter, quicker, a rhythmic thud that speaks of purpose, efficiency, and possibly a shared appreciation for decent footwear.

You count at least five sets, their weight distributed unevenly, some heavier, some lighter, they collectively sounds like a dysfunctional bowling team on their way to a disastrous match.

The sound circles the room before coming to a stop somewhere directly in front of you. Then, a touch.

Gentle, cool fingertips brush against your cheek, a stark contrast to the rough hands that manhandled you earlier.

It sends a jolt through you, not of fear, but of surprise. This touch is different, devoid of aggression, laced with a hint of… curiosity?

Almost hesitant, like a child reaching out to a potentially dangerous butterfly.

The blindfold is carefully removed, peeling away the darkness to reveal the harsh fluorescent reality of the room.

You blink rapidly, adjusting your eyes to the unforgiving light. A woman stands before you, adorned in the uniform of the Survey Corps – a pair of stylized wings a mocking reminder of the freedom you have lost.

Her face, framed by a mess of dark brown hair, holds a fascinating mix of amusement and seriousness. Her eyes, bright and intelligent, sparkle with a hint of unsettling mania that sends a shiver down your spine.

This must be Hange Zoe, the infamous Section Commander they whisper about in the prison yard. The one with a reputation for being a genius… and slightly unhinged.

Before you can fully process the sight of her, Hange speaks. Her voice is surprisingly gentle, a soothing balm compared to the harsh barks you've been subjected to.

"Do not worry," she murmurs, her words conspiratorial, meant for your ears only. "We will nog hurt you… much."

She winks, a fleeting gesture that seems utterly at odds with the weight of the situation.

It is like watching a playful puppy frolicking in a warzone.

Hange steps back, taking a seat at a nearby table. You now see the table clearly, a simple wooden surface scarred with countless meetings and tense negotiations.

The realization dawns on you – you are no longer in the sterile cell, but in a room designed for… interrogation?

Or perhaps a particularly sadistic game of poker, considering the company.

You glance down at yourself, noting with a detached amusement that you are still restrained in the chair, your body a marionette waiting for its strings to be pulled.

Across from you sits Dhalis Zachary, his face a stoic mask as always. To your left sits Nile Dawk, the Commander of the Military Police.

On your right, a single chair sits occupied by the man himself – Levi Ackerman. He seems shorter than you expected, but his posture radiates an aura of quiet power that makes the chair seem two sizes too small. His face is a mask of indifference, but a flicker of something �� annoyance, perhaps? – crosses his features as his gaze meets yours.

He looks like a man would rather be cleaning his precious blades than babysitting a captured (former) soldier with a criminal history.

Flanking Levi is Hange Zoe, her manic grin a stark contrast to the serious expressions of the others. On the other side of the table, opposite Nile Dawk, sits Erwin Smith. The very sight of him fills you with a surge of cold fury.

There he sits, the Commander of the Survey Corps, the architect of your capture and the orchestrator of this entire charade.

His face is calm, composed, almost bored, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within you. He is, after all, the one responsible for your current predicament, the one who ripped you from your life and turned you into a pawn in his twisted game.

"Erwin Smith," you hiss, your voice a low, controlled one, laced with a dangerous amount of venom. "What is the meaning of this charade?"

Erwin clears his throat, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence. "Now, Ms. Reader," he begins, his voice clipped and dripping with misplaced authority, "the tests have revealed an interesting development." He pauses for dramatic effect, his gaze sweeping across the room like a spotlight searching for an audience.

Nile Dawk snorts, a harsh sound that cuts through the pretense like a rusty knife. "Interesting?" he barks, his gruff voice devoid of any amusement. "More like damned inconvenient!"

Erwin ignores him, his steely gaze boring into yours. "You see," he continues, his voice low and measured like a predator sizing up its prey, "you and Captain Levi Ackerman here..." he trails off, gesturing towards Levi who sits rigid in his chair, expression as unreadable as a poorly lit cave. "...possess a rare genetic compatibility."

The air in the room thickens, the unspoken implications hanging heavy like the stench of stale sweat and desperation.

You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Let them squirm in their expensive chairs, wondering what goes on behind the steely glint in your eyes.

"What does that mean?" you finally manage, your voice tight with a barely contained fury that threatens to boil over.

Erwin leans forward, a predatory glint flickering in his eyes. "It means," he explains, his voice low and measured like a serpent offering a poisoned apple, "that you are one of the most viable and genetically compatible women to carry a child for the Survey Corps."

"Also the Ackerman clan, and also the future of humanity." Dhalis Zachary adds.

Your breath hitches. Carry a child? For them? The anger that has simmered beneath the surface explodes into a white hot inferno.

"Carry a child? Like some damn brood mare?" you roar, your voice shaking with barely contained rage.

The veins in your neck throb in protest, and for a moment, you imagine yourself ripping the table in half just to see the looks on their faces.

Dhalis Zachary, however, seems unfazed by your outburst. He leans back in his chair, a predatory smile playing on his lips that wouldn't look out of place on a particularly lecherous weasel.

His gaze roams over your body with an unwanted familiarity, lingering on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips in a way that makes your skin crawl.

"Now, now, Letta," he coos, his voice dripping with a sickening sweetness that makes you want to vomit. "Do not be so modest. Think of it as a chance to contribute to humanity's survival... in a very intimate way."

His words hang heavy in the air, laced with a lewd undertone that makes you want to scrub your skin raw with bleach and then some.

Levi shoots him a withering glare that could curdle lava, but Dhalis remains unfazed, his smile widening into a leer that belongs on a back alley deviant.

Hange sighs dramatically, slumping back in her chair like a deflated balloon. "Are you sure about this?" she mutters, her voice laced with exasperation. "This is a person, not a breeding sow!"

Erwin's gaze hardens. "Calm down, Hange. She has a choice, of course." He turns back to you, his voice taking on a softer tone that sounds about as genuine as a politician's smile. "If you agree to carry Captain Levi Ackerman's child, Letta Reader, you will be granted a full pardon for your crimes. You will be free to return to your previous life, no questions asked."

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest, a fragile flame that flickers and dies as quickly as it ignited.

Be Levi Ackerman's incubator? The very thought fills you with a strange, unsettling fear. You steal a glance at him, his face a stoic mask that speaks volumes. He does not want this any more than you do, that much is clear.

Dhalis leans forward again, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine for all the wrong reasons. "Letta," he whispers, always using your first name, his eyes gleaming with a depraved hunger that would make a ghoul blush. "Think of the possibilities. Imagine the strength a child of yours and Captain Ackerman's could possess. A warrior born from a rebellious spirit and humanity's strongest soldier... the possibilities are truly... arousing."

His words are a grotesque caricature of seduction, a perversion of intimacy that makes your stomach churn. Levi Ackerman finally speaks, his voice so low yet powerful that sends a tremor through the room. "Shut your damn mouth, Zachary. Nobody asked for your perverted input."

"Alright, I will do it!" you snap, cutting through their bickering like a knife through week old stew.

Let them celebrate their 'victory' while you savor the silent satisfaction of watching Erwin's triumph falter for a split second at the sight of his missing limb – a delightful reminder of his own mortality, courtesy of some well placed titan.

The air crackles with the unspoken tension of your reluctant agreement. Erwin's smile returns, this time stretched wide and unconvincing, like a toddler who is just been told he can not have another lollipop.

"Excellent," he declares with all the forced enthusiasm of a car salesman hawking a lemon. "Now, let us discuss the legalities of this… arrangement."

He gestures towards a stack of documents on the table, his voice taking on a more businesslike tone that clashes horribly with the absurdity of the situation.

"Since this situation is, well, unprecedented," he continues, dragging out the words like molasses, "we need to iron out a few details regarding parental rights."

You clench your jaw, a flicker of defiance sparking in your eyes. This may be their game, but you will not be a mindless pawn.

"Custody," you state firmly, your voice surprisingly steady considering the urge to launch yourself across the table and throttle Erwin with the nearest piece of parchment. "I will have the custody of the child."

This is the first time Levi addresses you...

Levi scoffs, a sharp, derisive sound that cuts through the air like a well aimed blade. "Like hell it will," he sneers. "I would not trust you to raise a fucking goldfish, let alone a child."

His voice is laced with undisguised contempt that makes you want to wipe that smug look off his face with your bare fists.

A cold anger flares within you, momentarily eclipsing the despair that has settled in your gut.

"And what makes you think you would be any better?" you retort, your voice rising a notch despite your best efforts to remain calm. "You have not exactly shown any paternal instinct throughout the whole meeting."

Nile slams his fist on the table again, but Erwin holds up a hand, silencing him with a sharp look that would not be out of place on a particularly irritated drill sergeant.

"Perhaps," Erwin begins, his voice smooth and conciliatory like honey laced with arsenic, "a co parenting arrangement would be best. Both of you can have an equal say in the child's upbringing."

The idea of co parenting with Levi makes you want to roll your eyes so hard they disappear into your skull.

You can barely tolerate being in the same room with the grumpy excuse for a human, let alone navigate the trials and tribulations of raising a child together.

But the alternative – him having sole custody and subjecting your offspring to his brand of stoic indifference – is even less appealing.

You nod curtly, a silent acceptance of Erwin's suggestion. Levi, however, remains unconvinced. He steeples his fingers in front of him, his gaze fixed on Erwin with an intensity that could bore holes through concrete.

"Fine," he mutters finally, the word dripping with concession, "co parenting. But I want certain things in writing."

"Of course, Levi," Erwin says, "Please outline your terms."

Levi's expression hardens further, his scowl deepening into a masterpiece of grumpy disapproval.

"First," he states, his voice leaving no room for argument, a dictator laying down the law to a particularly troublesome colony, "all medical expenses related to the pregnancy and childbirth will be covered by me. I will not have some… government hack butchering you on my dime. You will survive the experience, and frankly, the paperwork for a malpractice suit would be a bigger pain in the ass than dealing with you right now."

The blatant distrust in his words stings like a particularly well placed paper cut, but you force yourself to remain still.

This is a small price to pay for a modicum of control, a sliver of autonomy in this twisted game of forced motherhood.

Erwin jots down the point, his brow furrowing slightly at Levi's bluntness, the man clearly more accustomed to flowery speeches than blunt pronouncements.

Levi continues, his voice as cold and emotionless as a winter. "Second, childcare. I will provide for the best possible care available. No cutting corners on nannies, no questionable daycares run by chain smoking grandmas with questionable hygiene standards."

He throws a pointed glance in your direction, the implication clear as day – he does not trust you to make sound decisions regarding the child's well being, which, considering the circumstances, is a fair point.

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself not to react.

This is not the time for a witty retort, no matter how tempting it might be to remind him that his idea of 'good childcare' probably involves drill sergeants and obstacle courses.

Erwin adds this point to the list as well, a flicker of sympathy, genuine or otherwise, crossing his features as he observes your silent struggle.

Finally, Levi leans back in his chair, his gaze locking with yours with an intensity that could melt steel. "Most importantly," he states, his voice low and intense, "I will be involved in every aspect of this child's life. I will not be some weekend dad who shows up for birthday parties and complains about the noise. This is my child too, and I will have a say in their upbringing."

There is a steely determination in his eyes that brooks no argument. You understand his position, even if you despise his methods.

He may despise you with the burning passion of a thousand suns, but there's an undeniable protectiveness in his gaze, a flicker of something that might resemble… concern? Perhaps?

You nod curtly, a silent acceptance of his final term. This agreement may not be ideal, but it offers a semblance of control within this bizarre situation.

Co parenting with Levi will be a challenge akin to wrangling a particularly grumpy titan with nothing but a rusty spork, but perhaps, just perhaps, it could work.

After all, you both share a common goal – the well being of the hypothetical child you will be forced to conceive.

Dhalis leans back in his chair, a predatory glint in his eyes that makes you want to reach across the table and gouge them out with your bare thumbs.

He steeples his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips like a particularly unwelcome house guest refusing to leave. "Now, onto the nitty gritty," he purrs, his voice dripping with a sickening level of amusement that would make a sewer rat blush. "Since time is of the essence, we propose two insemination attempts per day."

Two attempts? Every day? The air itself seems to curdle at the bluntness of his statement.

It feels barbaric, a violation of your body disguised as a medical procedure performed by glorified prodding monkeys. But you know you have no real choice in this twisted game of procreation roulette.

A silent plea flickers in your eyes, directed at Erwin, but his face remains as impassive as a freshly carved headstone. He seems content to let Dhalis take the lead in this grotesque negotiation, happy to play puppet master while you and Levi become his unwilling marionettes in a perverse play.

You force yourself to nod, a single, jerky movement that speaks volumes of your simmering rage and barely contained disgust.

This is not about procreation, it is about control, about reducing you to a mere vessel, a human incubator for their grand experiment. The very thought makes your skin crawl.

The next point of discussion is even more fraught with tension. Levi, who has been brooding in silence like a grumpy gargoyle come to life, finally speaks up.

His voice is low, devoid of any warmth or humor, like nails scraping down a chalkboard. "Boundaries," he states curtly, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that could bore holes through steel. "We need to establish some ground rules."

You meet his gaze unflinchingly. There is no point in sugarcoating this, no use in pretending there will be hearts and flowers along the way.

"Fine," you reply, your voice flat and emotionless, a stark contrast to the churning chaos within you.

There is no point in arguing about pleasantries or pretending this will be anything resembling a normal relationship.

This is a transaction, a forced sex that neither of you truly desires.

Dhalis throws his head back and lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that grates on your nerves like a rusty cheese grater scraping against bone.

"Boundaries? In the middle of fucking? Come now, Levi, loosen up a bit!" he exclaims, his voice dripping with a vulgarity that would make a drunken sailor blush. "This is not some romantic rendezvous, it is for the good of humanity! Besides," he continues, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing glint, "who knows, you might even enjoy it. It could be… stimulating."

The sheer audacity of the man makes you want to retort with a witty remark so scathing it would leave him speechless, but you hold your tongue.

Engaging with him on this level would only sink you deeper into the swamp of his depravity.

Instead, you turn your gaze towards Erwin, a flicker of hope igniting in your chest.

Surely, even he can not be shameless enough to endorse such a ludicrous suggestion.

Erwin shoots Dhalis a withering look. It effectively silences the man, though the suggestive smirk still lingers on his face like a particularly unwelcome house guest who refuses to take a hint.

Erwin clears his throat, the sound scratchy and awkward, like a rusty hinge protesting its existence. "Perhaps," he suggests, gesturing towards the door with all the grace of a drunken toddler attempting to stack building blocks, "they could discuss this privately? Spare us all the unnecessary… imagery."

Nile scoffs, the sound erupting from him like a particularly disgruntled bullfrog. "Do not be ridiculous, Erwin," he barks. "This concerns the success of the operation! Transparency is the key!" His voice booms through the room, a stark contrast to the tense silence that has settled between you and Levi, thick enough to choke a titan.

You clench your jaw so hard you swear you hear your dentist wince in sympathy, refusing to give Dhalis or Nile the satisfaction of seeing your discomfort.

Levi, however, seems to reach a similar conclusion, his face a mask of stoic indifference that would make a statue look expressive.

He stands abruptly from his chair, the movement stiff and controlled, like a predator preparing to pounce.

"Fine," he mutters, He gestures towards the door with a curt flick of his hand, an unspoken invitation that speaks volumes. "Let us get this over with."

You rise from your chair as well, your movements stiff and mechanical, like a marionette with its strings yanked by an invisible hand.

Together, you walk towards the door, leaving behind the roomful of voyeurs who seem strangely invested in the mechanics of your forced procreation.

The sterile hallway stretches before you, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within you. Levi walks ahead, his footsteps echoing in the silence like a grim countdown.

You follow a few paces behind, a tense distance mirroring the emotional chasm that separates you.

The lights overhead hum with an oppressive energy, casting long, distorted shadows that dance on the sterile white walls.

The air itself feels heavy, thick with unspoken animosity and the weight of your predicament. You steal a glance at Levi, your eyes narrowed.

He does not even acknowledge you, his gaze fixed stoically ahead, his jaw clenched tight.

The man looks about as thrilled about this prospect as you are, which is to say, not at all.

In fact, if his expression were any grumpier, it would sprout moss.

You contemplate making a snarky remark, just to break the suffocating silence, but decide against it.

There is no point in expending the energy. Besides, you can practically taste his disapproval, and frankly, you do not need him to verbalize it.

He reaches the end of the hallway and stops abruptly. He does not turn around, but you can feel his icy gaze burning into your back like a death stare delivered by a particularly judgmental penguin.

Finally, he speaks, "Boundaries," he repeats, the word dripping with undisguised disgust, like a gourmet chef forced to cook with week old rotten vegetables.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze when he finally turns around.

His face is a mask of stoic indifference, like a particularly grumpy statue come to life. "Look," you say, your voice surprisingly steady considering the urge to deck him right across that smug face, "neither of us wanted this. But we are stuck in this situation, so let us make it as… efficient as possible. Think of it as a necessary evil, like a root canal performed by a drunken dentist."

Levi raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something akin to amusement crossing his features for a fleeting moment, like a brief flash of sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. "Efficient? This is hardly the word I would use to describe rutting with a criminal." The words are a barb, a reminder of the contempt he holds for you, a verbal jab delivered with all the precision of a veteran gloomy pretty boy.

You grit your teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. Engaging in a war of words with him is about as productive as trying to herd cats while wearing roller skates – a spectacular recipe for disaster.

"Fine," you reply tightly, forcing a sardonic smile. "Just tell me what your definition of 'efficient' entails, Captain Grumpy."

He stares at you for a long moment, his face an unreadable mask that could rival the Sphinx for sheer inscrutability. Then, he sighs, a sharp exhale that speaks volumes about his frustration. "Minimal contact," he finally mutters, the words clipped and curt, like orders barked on a battlefield. "Get it over with as quickly as possible. In and out, that is all."

His words are blunt, devoid of any tenderness, but they are strangely… practical.

You nod curtly, a silent agreement forming between the two of you, a reluctant truce in this bizarre war of forced procreation. "There will be no foreplay, no emotional connection," he continues, his voice leaving no room for argument, "just the bare minimum required for the procedure. Think of it as a business transaction, a necessary exchange of bodily fluids to fulfill our… obligations."

"And," he adds, his voice dropping to a low, "do not expect me to be gentle." The implication is clear – this will not be a picnic in the park, more like a prodding session with a very sadistic veterinarian.

You meet his gaze unflinchingly. "Believe me," you reply coolly, your voice laced with a steely defiance that surprises even you, "gentleness is the last thing I expect from you. If anything, a little roughhousing might be a welcome distraction from the absurdity of this entire situation." There is a spark of defiance in your voice, a flicker of something that surprises even you.

"You could have rejected the proposition but you did not," Levi suddenly says. "Do not you dare pretend this is okay!"

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to turn and meet his glare head on. "Look, Captain Ackerman," you say, your voice laced with a steely calm that surprises even you, "neither of us wanted this little vacation to Conception Island. We are both pawns in their twisted game of baby bingo. But unlike you, Captain Morality, I am not going to waste my breath whining about ethics. This is my ticket out of here, a chance to claw my way back to a semblance of normalcy. You can play your righteous soldier act all you want, but frankly, it is getting old faster than last week's bread."

Levi scoffs, a harsh, humorless sound that grates on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "Freedom? You call this freedom? You are nothing but a incubator, a baby making machine for the government!" He throws his hands up in exasperation, his posture rigid with disapproval. "This is not some noble sacrifice, Reader, it is a violation of your body, your rights! Do you not get it?"

The anger in his voice is palpable, a stark contrast to your own detached indifference. You almost feel a flicker of pity for him, burdened by his misplaced sense of honor in a world that thrives on pragmatism.

"Listen closely, Captain Ackerman," you counter, your voice dropping, "I may be a criminal in their eyes, but at least I am not afraid to take control of the situation. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a mere attack dog, following orders without question."

A muscle twitches in Levi's jaw, a sign of his barely contained fury. He steps closer, invading your personal space, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss.

"You call yourself a human? Willing to sell your body, your future, for a shot at freedom? You are pathetic." The word hangs in the air, a cruel insult dripping with contempt.

You stare back at him, completely unfazed. "Pathetic?" you echo, your voice laced with a dangerous edge that could cut diamonds. "At least I am not a self righteous hypocrite, preaching morality while following orders like a mindless dog."

You hold his gaze for a beat longer, relishing the flicker of surprise that crosses his features, a tiny crack in his facade of stoic disapproval.

Levi opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off with a sharp gesture. "We are done here, Captain Levi," you say, your voice cold and final. "We both know what needs to be done. Let us just get this over with, like ripping off a stubborn bandage."

The sooner this gets done, the sooner you can be on your way back to a life that is not dictated by government officials and brooding soldiers.

This is not about morality, you tell yourself.

Morality went out the window the day they branded you a criminal and locked you in this fucking cage.

This is about survival, about playing the hand you have been dealt and coming out on top, even if the top looks suspiciously like a damp prison cell with a slightly better view.

And in this twisted game of procreation roulette, you are playing to win. Even if the prize comes at a heavy price, like a lifetime supply of government issued baby food and endless lullabies sung by a tone deaf beyblade.

The sterile hallway stretches out before you like a never ending white void, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps trapped in a fluorescent cage.

The air itself feels thick with unspoken tension, a pressure that could make a lesser person crack. Levi throws you one last scathing glare that could curdle lukewarm milk on a hot day, his lips moving in a silent tirade you can only imagine is filled with colorful insults and dire pronouncements about the downfall of humanity (all because you dared to choose a sliver of freedom over a lifetime of titan fodder duty).

He storms off in the direction of the conference room with the grace of a particularly grumpy badger, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence.

You take a deep breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a rogue titan misplaced in a tea party.

This whole conversation, the heated exchange with Levi, has done little to shake your resolve.

Freedom, however illusory, is within your grasp, a ticket out of this bureaucratic nightmare and back to a semblance of normalcy (assuming "normal" includes dodging rogue titans and scavenging for scraps).

You will not let him – or your own doubts – derail you. This may not be the life you envisioned, but it is a hell of a lot better than the alternative – which, judging by the perpetually grumpy expression on Levi's face, involves a lifetime of cleaning up humanity's messes.

Minutes tick by, each one an eternity in the sterile silence. Finally, the door to the conference room swings open with a groan, and the group emerges, blinking into the harsh fluorescent light.

Erwin is at the forefront, a smile plastered on his face that does not quite reach his eyes. It looks more like a grimace plastered over a grimace, like he just swallowed a sour lemon while simultaneously stubbing his toe on a rogue pebble.

Nile Dawk follows, his face a stoic mask that reveals none of his thoughts, but there is a flicker of something in his eyes that could be interpreted as… annoyance? Maybe?

Hange trails behind them, a mischievous glint in her eyes that promises future experiments involving questionable concoctions and dubious safety protocols.

Levi brings up the rear, his face an unreadable mask, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, like a soldier marching towards a particularly unpleasant battle (which, considering the circumstances, is not entirely inaccurate).

Nile Dawk clears his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the hallway. "Alright, convict 6913 Letta Reader" he booms, his voice a stark contrast to the surrounding silence. "The agreement has been finalized. Captain Levi Ackerman has already signed off. Just a formality now."

He thrusts a stack of papers towards you, his gruff demeanor doing little to disguise the undercurrent of unease in his eyes. Maybe even he has a sliver of conscience buried somewhere beneath that gruff exterior.

You take the documents, your gaze scanning the legalese quickly. It is all there, the terms of your agreement, the obligations, the limitations of your freedom (which, let's be honest, were about as existent as a happy ending in this world).

You clench your jaw, the injustice of it all burning in your throat. This piece of paper is a contract, a binding agreement that ties you to a life you never chose, but it is also a ticket, a one way trip to a future that might not be ideal, but is undeniably better than rotting away in this concrete cage.

With a sigh that speaks volumes, you pick up a pen and sign the papers, your signature a final, irrevocable step towards this bizarre future.

The ink dries on the page, sealing your fate.

Hange steps forward, a playful smile plastered on her face that could rival a circus clown on a particularly sugary high.

"Here," she chirps, holding out two brightly colored candies that look like they could double as miniature concussion grenades. "For courage. You are going to need it. Especially if Levi decides to take 'minimal contact' a little too literally." Her voice is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the bureaucratic hell you have just slogged through.

You stare at the proffered candy with a raised eyebrow. Courage, huh? More like a desperate attempt to sugarcoat a situation that is about as sweet as a week old titan carcass.

But beggars can not be choosers, especially when said beggars are facing a future filled with forced insemination and the dubious pleasure of Levi Ackerman's company (or lack thereof).

With a sigh, you take the candies, the artificial colors staining your fingers a sickly shade of pink and orange. "Thank you, Section Commander Hange," you murmur, a flicker of something akin to gratitude warming your heart.

It is a small gesture, but in this world of power plays and political maneuvering, even a single candy feels like a rebellious act.

Erwin, ever the master of the forced smile, throws you a curt nod, his expression as comforting as a bowl of lukewarm gruel. "We will be in touch, Ms. Reader," he says, his voice dripping with a forced cheer that would not fool a particularly dim witted titan. "The doctors will brief you on the next steps shortly. Expect… extensive testing."

Right, because that is what you really need right now – a detailed medical lecture on the inner workings of forced procreation. You nod your head in acknowledgment, more to shut him up than anything else.

Levi remains silent, his back turned towards you like a particularly grumpy statue come to life.

He does not even grace you with a single glare, a dismissal that speaks volumes. Honestly, his disapproval is as refreshing as a cool breeze on a scorching summer day.

His approval, his disapproval, matters little in the grand scheme of things.

Suddenly, a slimy hand clamps onto your shoulder with the enthusiasm of an enthusiastic barnacle.

You whirl around, your heart leaping into your throat like a startled frog, to find Dhalis leering at you with the predatory grace of a weasel eyeing a particularly plump pigeon.

His eyes gleam with a disturbing hunger, "Well, well," he purrs, his breath reeking vaguely of last week's cafeteria mystery meat, "the breeding stock is all signed up. Ready for your… examination, shall we say?"

The man's words slither across your skin like a particularly unwelcome insect. You try to pry his hand off your shoulder, but his grip tightens painfully, like a particularly enthusiastic barnacle fused to your shoulder blade.

"Please do not be shy, Letta," he croons, his voice laced with a sickening sweetness that could curdle milk at fifty paces. "This is just the beginning of a beautiful… partnership. Think of it as your patriotic duty… with a few… extra benefits."

He winks at you, a gesture that solidifies your suspicion that the man has not seen the inside of a shower stall in a good long while.

The combined effect makes a wave of nausea roll through your stomach that threatens to erupt in a spectacular display of projectile vomiting.

Before you can even formulate a witty retort that would make him question his life choices, two burly guards materialize at Dhalis's side like particularly unwelcome sleep paralysis demons.

Their faces are as emotionless as a brick wall, their grip on your arms like iron clamps. Struggling against them is about as effective as trying to herd cats while wearing roller skates – a guaranteed recipe for disaster.

They manhandle you down the hallway, their rough hands leaving angry red marks on your skin.

You steal a glance back at Erwin and Hange, hoping for some shred of support, some sign of understanding in their eyes.

Their expressions, however, are as unreadable as a Rorschach inkblot test – a frustrating mix of what could be pity, amusement, or maybe just boredom.

But it is Dhalis's parting words that send a shiver down your spine, a cold dread settling in your gut like a particularly unwelcome dinner guest. "Enjoy your new home, Letta," he calls out, his voice dripping with a sickening delight that would make a corpse blush. "We will be seeing you soon… for the insemination. Consider it a… welcome gift."