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cielettosa · 5 months ago

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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

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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."

#anime #levi ackerman #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #angst #manga #enemies to lovers #slow burn #aot #snk #fanfic #fanfiction #writers on tumblr #cielettosa #cielettosa fics

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cyberbeast99 · 4 months ago

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Werewolf HRT: Prologue : The Clinic

I’m running through the woods, with the wind whipping through my fur. The rhythmic thump of my paws on the earth matches my frenetic heartbeat, as I lope past the trees on all fours. The scents of dirt, of foliage, and cool night air fills my nose. I stop and savour the breeze, eyes closed in bliss. Then I tilt my muzzle up to the sky, gaze into the full shining moon, and ululate a mournful howl…

I shake off the daydreams as the bus screeches to a halt. I stand, and leave the bus, politely thanking the bus driver. I notice him staring at the faux-fur plush wolf tail strapped to my belt. I’d gotten occasional compliments on my gear and far more frequent insults, but I’ve learned to tune them out. Instead, I look forward as the bus drives away. I compare the address to the one my friend Kayla sent me.

This is it… I enter the clinic and take in my surroundings. There are about two dozen chairs scattered around the waiting room, but there are only four people besides me. A receptionist is seated behind the counter, reading a book. A woman in a sky-blue crop top who seems to be covered in iridescent orange scales is arguing with a large draconic creature with deep red scales, a pair of wings, and two horns poking through a shock of blond hair.

Wow, this place is weird…

Across the room, Kayla waves me over. She’s dressed in her signature flannel shirt and beanie. I sit down next to her, and sensing my anxiety, she squeezes my hand and gives me a reassuring smile. Just then the receptionist calls her name and she stands up and strides into the office. In an effort to tune out the arguing duo, I pop in my earbuds and listen to my favourite metal band, Powerwolf. Lost in the thrashing guitars, I almost don’t hear the receptionist call my name.

“Eric, the doctor will see you now.” I turn off the music. The arguing couple is gone. I’m the only patient in the clinic.

I walk into the office and sit in front of the infamous Dr. Theodore Erian. He doesn’t greet me, just rummages through his files. We spend five minutes in complete silence. Finally, he inquires “Werewolf hormone treatment?” “Yes,” I say stiffly.

He stares at me for about a minute, then sighs “Look, I’m going to be frank here. I’m not here to tell you what to do with your body. I’m just here to make sure you know what the risks are. That way you can’t sue us.” I wait for him to burst out laughing, but he’s completely serious. “After reading your files, I’ve found the best-fitting treatment for you. Due to the infective nature of lycanthropy, it takes hold quite fast. You’ll see a full transformation at the next full moon, a month from now. Just one shot will be required to administer the treatment."

Erian looks at me sternly. “Now I must also warn you that, while lycanthropy is not as much of a risk for identity and memory loss as other treatments, it can cause hormone imbalances that lead to incredible aggression, especially during transformations. Because of this, I strongly recommend that you restrain yourself during your first full moon. I’m also required by law to have your files sent to the police and be entered into the system. This way, if you do end up harming anyone during the full moon, you will be identified and prosecuted under the full extent of the law.”

“Now, are you sure you want to go through with this?” I take a moment to process. Suddenly, I’m terrified of hurting people. Images of waking up covered in blood flood into my brain, and a third of me is screaming for me to walk out of this office and never return. I take a deep breath. And then I say, “Yes, I’m sure.” Cameos from @welldrawnfish, @ayviedoesthings, and @kaylasartwork!

#artists on tumblr #therian #werewolf hrt #short story #animal hrt #werewolf #otherkin #alterhuman

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dailysonicplush · 10 months ago

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Daily Plush - 14.1.2024

(Source: Official product image by Jakks Pacific)

This plush is of Dr. Eggman, and was made by Jakks Pacific. He is part of Wave 1 of their basic plush line.

Here is the rest of the set:

(Source: Official product images by Jakks Pacific)

Various early versions of the Jakks plushes have surfaced over time. Here are some prototypes of Eggman:

(Source L to R: Sonic Gear, luigithecrab)

#plush #sonic plush #sonic the hedgehog #sonic merchandise #sonic #dailysonicplush #sega #classic sonic #eggman #dr eggman #classic eggman #jakks pacific

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talesfromsiteredacted · 2 years ago

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Tantrums and Turtles, Or... Yet Another 963 Incident

Don't know why I'm shocked... we all know what triggers Dr. Bright. Anything involving their family, pretty much. Well... especially their youngest brother. After yet another huge Bright Family Blowout... they are not glad to be in a tent. While I'm not the president of the 963 Fan Club, I can tell it's bad. Dr. Glass nearly got his head bit off, and poor Draven escorted him off somewhere, hopefully to find 999, in tears. I have an idea.

I tip toe up to Dr. Bright's office, armed with a few select items on a tray. In order, a single root beer float, half a dozen chocolate cupcakes with caramel icing, some Dr. Gears approved fantasy novels, my own second hand copy of Interesting Times hidden under the plush Koopa Troopa, and for their inner Zelda nerd, a 3D puzzle of the Triforce. I know it's bad, Draven Kondraki is rushing Dr. Glass off somewhere. Poor Doc is sobbing. 999 is still here on tour, hope that's where they're heading.

Yep... loud profanity, the sounds of glass bottles being thrown and shattering, and general bloody chaos. I wait behind the relative safety of the thick door for a brief pause, and try to think of what I'm going to say. After three or four minutes, the barrage of empty wine cooler bottles stop. I brace myself, and knock.

"WHAT THE HELL ELSE DO YOU WANT?"

Ooh, they're mad, all right.

"I uh, brought you some totally non-work stuff. The best part of which is currently getting drippy. May I come in, Doc?"

"Fine." The door opens, I gulp and walk in. "Oh, hey Rabbit. Sorry. Bad day." I just shrug, hand over the root beer float.

"I get it, family are annoying. You don't need to tell me if you're not ready to. However, if you want to talk, I'm here. I'd ask if you're okay, but it's clear you're not there yet."

She looks me in the eyes, and she's been crying too. I know why. Lately, TJ is the reason she cries. She's trying to calm herself down, slowly. I try handing her the Koopa Troopa, but she's not taking it.

"I don't know what else I can do, my poor sweet brother is a vegetable, my family aside from one sister and me do not care, and I've had it." Heart- broken. A plushie will not fix this... and I'm getting tempted to do something really dumb just to help a sort-of friend. 343 would probably just send me to Dr. Glass for even thinking of asking him what I was trying not to think of asking him. Probably safer all round if I just hug her, hand over the cupcakes, and sneak the plushie into TJ's bed during a breach.

"C'mere. You need a hug, possibly a shoulder to lean on. What are friends for, if not support through the hard times?" We hug, and they notice the tray on the desk.

"Are those... cupcakes? I really do have you worried about me, don't I?"

"I even brought you a plushie, so yes." They take the Koopa out of my hand, and finally crack a smile.

"Wow, trying to earn gold-star Little Sister status there, Rabbit?"

"Nah. I'm too sarcastic for that, best I can shoot for is a solid Silver. Besides, there's also one of those crazy 3D puzzle things, and I'm terrible with those."

"A puzzle too? Forget gold, you earned platinum."

"Don't let Clef know, he's clearly the jealous type. After all, I don't bring him cupcakes and toys, just sass and paperwork."

"Done. Just... can I have another Troopa? TJ loves these dumb guys."

#scp foundation #tales from site redacted #agent rabbit #dr bright

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devastatingdr4k3 · 6 months ago

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titles + me list

Not trusting q to keep my original up so im gonna put this on here

Names:

Cannoli/Noli , Ike , Paru/Paruko , Xeno , Yvonne , Lucifer , Zeck , Roy

Prns: Fluff/Fluffy , fluff/fluffself Coral/Coralself , bone/bones , trick/treat , illusion/illusions , dream/dreamself , spike/spikeself , plush/plushie , lava/lavaself , ink/inkself , octo/octoself

Genders; coralgender octogender fluffgender dragongender

———————————————————————

Selfhoods: Alola , Frye (splatoon) Iris (pokemon bw/bw2)

Fictionkins: Mars. Ingo. Karen. Serena. Shelly (pokemon)

Bo (octoprism) Rider. Bobble Hat. (Splatoon)

Yelan. Qiqi. Beidou. Lynette. (Genshin)

Gyutaro. Shinobu. (KNY)

Toy Bonnie. Roxanne Wolf. (Fnaf)

Sonia (Danganronpa) Dr Stephen Strange. (Marvel) Palutena. (Kid Icarus/Smash Bros)

Ace Trappola. Sebek Zigvolt. Gidel (twisted wonderland)

Futaba Sakura (persona 5) Geiju Tsuka (yan sim)

———————————————————————

copinglinks: Jade Leech. Riddle Rosehearts. (Twisted wonderland) Sam Wilson. (Marvel) Jirachi. (Pokemon) Zelda. Diona. (Genshin) Hiyoko Saionji. Kirumi Tojo. (Danganronpa) Saki Miyu. (Yansim)

———————————————————————

Kins (just regualr kins nothing insane) Acerola. Akari. Brassius. Sanqua. (Pokemon) Davy Jones. Barbosa.(potc) Bianca. (Wednesday) Cloud Strife. (Final fantasy) Kuromi. (Sanrio) Mythra. (Xenoblade) Lucy Heartfillia.(Fairytail) Raiden (metal gear). Monaca Towa. (Danganronpa)Venom. (Marvel)

——————————————————————— Otherkins + Theriotypes + song kins

Ribbon eel merman (PLS SEND ASKS ABT THIS!!!!!)

Dumbo octopus

jacobs sheep

Mf from disease princess

kaori onibi series

Ryuo Shishikusa onibi series

#therian #theriotype #otherkin #fictionkin #copinglink #selfhood #gender stuff #names and pronouns

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pico-digital-studios · 10 months ago

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Into, Across and Beyond! Cast: Sunky and Tlels

Replaces: Plush Spider-Man Origin(s): Sunky.MPEG/Sunky the Game

They occasionally Sunk. What else do you want me to say?

(Mini Note: Their sprite sizes in the mockups are not to scale. They are canonically smaller than what is presented, but I still wanted them to stand out regardless, so my apologies.)

Sunky the Hedgehawg and Micheal "Tlels" Powder (or Tlels the Fix) are two titular protagonists from the dimension they originate from, which is quite lighter and softer compared to other universes.

One running thing you'll find in their dimension is that no monsters and true villains (save for the relatively-normal Dr. Robotnik) roam the land, as it's a pretty happy place, all in all. Though Sunky has had his fair share of scrapes with characters like Shidow (his version of Shadow), he's always remained bright and optimistic.

At one point, he donned a ".exe" persona of his own, dubbed Sunky.MPEG, to go around spooking people with. That said, compared to many other EXEs, he hasn't killed a single soul. Instead, he led his friends and rivals into parties of his own making, and was more than welcome to share his milk and cereal with them as a treat.

At one point, Sunky, Tlels and a great number of their friends went and built a big schoolhouse of sorts, where fun and learning were the prime focus. However, Robotnik was led there via his tracker for the Chaos Emeralds (dubbed the "Emerdoods" in the Sunkiverse), and after managing to trick Tlels into thinking he was the doctor's cousin, he went through the various floors to find the Emerdoods.

Of course, because he was considered a member of the crew, he still had to put up with activities like dancing in Tlels' class or running around gathering purple donuts (the equivalent of rings) for a fussy Mitee. With luck, however, he made it to the generator, where, daftly enough, all seven Emerdoods were being used to power a single building. "Well, that's dumb."

However, Tlels caught up and realised what was going on, seeing as Robotnik had gone and smashed the generator's glass. Though seemingly fooled by the excuse of polishing the gems, he realised quite quickly that Robotnik was actually trying to steal the Emerdoods. Unfortunately for Tlels, he was easily kicked back down the hallway.

Once at safety, and knowing the place was going to explode with the generator tampered with, Tlels ordered a full-out evacuation of the schoolhouse, and when the timer hit 0, it exploded with Tlels inside, catapulting the guy out to where the others were. Robotnik managed to get away with the Emerdoods, and Tlels was feeling beat that the doctor actually outwitted them.

However, they got their payback, and went and messed up the doctor's home as retaliation, the fat scientist not happy with them STILL being able to outsmart his plans despite this setback. As you can probably guess from what I described, Sunky and Tlels may be small, likely smaller than other versions of Sonic and Tails, but they both really pack a punch when the chips are down. You know, one might even say that they could secretly be memetic badasses that even an EXE fears (discounting Lord X and Majin Sonic, at least).

One day, EV!Sonic and Tekno ended up arriving in their dimension, helping stop Robotnik when he was after the Emerdoods again. The introduction between them and the Sunk duo was... kind of awkward. In IAB! (like his appearance in Sunky's Schoolhouse), Sunky doesn't say a word, so instead, Tlels is more than happy to talk on both of their behalf, understanding well what his best friend is trying to convey.

Due to the two having the right determination for protecting their home, EV!Sonic was more than welcome to include them in the Quill Society as members, allowing them to meet fellow heroes just like them. They even got to meet some of the worst rogues from throughout the SEGAVerse, some of them (like the Game Gear Spinball Robotnik) not even being taken seriously due to being SMALLER than Sunky.

During the race to apprehend Lost Memory Sonic, Sunky and Tlels are a couple of those more disadvantaged, due to not being able to move very fast on their own. However, Nicky was happy to help give them the horizontal boost they needed to catch up with him. Tlels is also quick to scold the rogue blue blur for his actions, quicker than anyone else can get it out, in fact.

#sonic exe #sonic the hedgehog #spider verse #sth #sonic #sonic fandom #spider man #sonic au #sth au

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sbknews · 1 year ago

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New Suzuki V-Strom 800RE joins V-Strom 800DE

New V-Strom 800RE joins V-Strom 800DE to enhance Suzuki’s adventure bike lineup. Following the launch of its all-new V-Strom 800DE earlier this year, Suzuki has announced a new V-Strom 800RE that will further expand its adventure bike stable, ensuring the V-Strom range is truly ready for any terrain, any horizon, any adventure. Born to roam, the V-Strom 800RE will provide a more road-focussed offering than its more off-road-ready sibling. With DE denoting the V-Strom 800DE’s positioning as a dual explorer, the adoption of RE for the latest V-Strom 800 model highlights its abilities as the road explorer. Arriving in November, the new V-Strom 800RE will come with an OTR price of £9,699.

At its heart, the new V-Strom 800RE uses the same new 776cc parallel twin engine as its stablemate, with its double overhead cam and 270° crankshaft design delivering a broad spread of torque throughout the rev range – peaking at 78Nm at 6800rpm – and a rumble and character more akin to Suzuki’s famed V-twins. Peak power is 84.3PS at 8500rpm. It also uses the same steel main frame, engineered for a balance of straight-line stability and agile handling. The narrow steel tubes also help maximise fuel tank capacity, which comes in at 20 litres. However, the new V-Strom 800RE differs from its more rugged counterpart most notably by swapping 21” and 17” spoked wheels and tubed tyres for 19” and 17” cast aluminium wheels, wearing Dunlop tubeless tyres.

Like the V-Strom 800DE, high quality suspension is still provided by Showa, but with a focus on delivering superior on-road performance. 150mm of travel at the front and rear comes courtesy of preload-adjustable inverted front forks and a link-type monoshock adjustable for preload and rebound damping, delivering sure-footed roadholding and a plush ride for long days in the saddle. Stopping power comes from radially-mounted four piston Nissin calipers. Further underlying the V-Strom 800RE’s prowess as the tool to explore all roads it comes with a seat height of 825mm, while aluminium, rubber-covered footpegs are set 14mm further rearward and 7mm higher than the V-Strom 800DE, and aluminium tapered handlebars are 13mm lower and 23mm further forwards. They’re also 15mm narrower. A taller and wider screen offers more weather and wind protection on longer rides. Nestled underneath the screen is a 5” colour TFT screen with dual display modes for day and nighttime riding. All the navigation of menus and features is done via a simple, easy-to-use rocker switch on the left-hand handlebar. There’s also a handy USB port located on the left-hand side.

Displayed on the bright, clear screen is all the information required by the rider, including the current setting selected from its three-mode traction control system – which can also be switched off – and the current power mode selected, from Active (the more sportier and direct throttle map), Basic (ideal for cruising or city riding), and Comfort (perfect for wet or cold conditions). There are also two ABS settings, providing differing levels of intervention. A ride-by-wire throttle connection provides a natural feel and connection to the rear wheel, while a standard-fit bi-directional quickshifter – allied to a slipper clutch – makes gear changes slick and seamless. There’s also Suzuki’s low rpm assist and easy start function. Sharing a similar DR Big-inspired look as the 800DE, complete with iconic beak and full LED lighting front and rear, the V-Strom 800RE will come in Pearl Vigor Blue, Metallic Matt Steel Green, and Glass Sparkle Black. There will also be a full suite of genuine accessories available including a choice of three-piece aluminium or plastic luggage, heated grips, and a centre stand. Read the full article

#MotorcycleNews #Suzuki #SuzukiGB #SuzukiMotorcycles #SuzukiVStrom650 #SuzukiV-Strom800RE

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badassfishusern · 2 years ago

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[this ask is to be delivered via drone strike through the window that drops letter than leaves] Hello Goldy. I see you aren't as stupid as I thought, after all nobody dies to just one trap, you know that better than anyone. Still a bit infuriated at you destroying that fax machine though, had an insider work on that, but hey i'm used to having my work destroyed by various rocks. Anyways i'll get to the point, i've hidden 6 objects around your house, place them on pedestals somewhere for safekeeping, or just keep them out in the open. The choice is yours. -Dr. r [attached is a sketch of said objects, being a wrench, plush of some sort, a... music note?, a jar with black liquid in it, a gear, and a book.]

* WHY DO YOU GUYS KEEP INSISTING YOU HAD AN INSIDER WORK ON THAT FAX MACHINE I GOT THAT AT THE DOLLAR STORE. THAT WAS A DOLLAR FAX MACHINE. YOU DIDNT DO SHIT.!!!?????????????

* Also I Already Did This.

[ goldy points to the sega saturn (now with a piece of paper labelled "GHOSTIS IN HERE" taped to it) ]

* It Was A Whole Thing. the Sonicult sent me to the woods and i speedran ..... uh... sonic r hardmode, and everything for 6 tokens. i think. it was a whole Arc. did you miss that or did you just do it anyway.

* H ey i just had an idea

#ask #Anonymous #ic #open

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theyoungturks · 2 years ago

Video

youtube

The luxury fashion brand Balenciaga has apologized after getting backlash from using bondage teddy bears in a recent ad campaign. Ana Kasparian and John Iadarola discuss on The Young Turks. Watch TYT LIVE on weekdays 6-8 pm ET. http://youtube.com/theyoungturks/live Read more HERE: https://www.insider.com/balenciaga-apologizees-ads-featuring-children-holding-teddy-bears-in-bondage-2022-11 "Balenciaga apologized for its latest ad campaign that featured children holding plush teddy bear bags accessorized with bondage gear after it sparked outrage on social media and drew accusations of sexualizing children. The luxury fashion brand issued a statement on Tuesday on social media, stating that it pulled the ads from all of its platforms. "We sincerely apologize for any offense our holiday campaign may have caused. Our plush bear bags should not have been featured with children in this campaign," the statement said." *** The largest online progressive news show in the world. Hosted by Cenk Uygur and Ana Kasparian. LIVE weekdays 6-8 pm ET. Help support our mission and get perks. Membership protects TYT's independence from corporate ownership and allows us to provide free live shows that speak truth to power for people around the world. See Perks: ▶ https://www.youtube.com/TheYoungTurks/join SUBSCRIBE on YOUTUBE: ☞ http://www.youtube.com/subscription_center?add_user=theyoungturks FACEBOOK: ☞ http://www.facebook.com/TheYoungTurks TWITTER: ☞ http://www.twitter.com/TheYoungTurks INSTAGRAM: ☞ http://www.instagram.com/TheYoungTurks TWITCH: ☞ http://www.twitch.com/tyt 👕 Merch: http://shoptyt.com ❤ Donate: http://www.tyt.com/go 🔗 Website: https://www.tyt.com 📱App: http://www.tyt.com/app 📬 Newsletters: https://www.tyt.com/newsletters/ If you want to watch more videos from TYT, consider subscribing to other channels in our network: The Watchlist https://www.youtube.com/watchlisttyt Indisputable with Dr. Rashad Richey https://www.youtube.com/indisputabletyt Unbossed with Nina Turner https://www.youtube.com/unbossedtyt The Damage Report ▶ https://www.youtube.com/thedamagereport TYT Sports ▶ https://www.youtube.com/tytsports The Conversation ▶ https://www.youtube.com/tytconversation Rebel HQ ▶ https://www.youtube.com/rebelhq TYT Investigates ▶ https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCwNJt9PYyN1uyw2XhNIQMMA #TYT #TheYoungTurks #BreakingNews 221123__BE02BalenciagaVsBondageBears by The Young Turks

#IFTTT #YouTube

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fandomness--randomness · 3 years ago

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Nerves {Jean Kirschtein x Fem!Reader} Modern/Highschool AU!

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Jean's nervous to tell you about his feelings, but after a stressful day of nagging from his friends - he finally gets the courage to confess.

Playlist: Him and Hym (from banana fish)

Tags: @coltsbitch I hope you like it uwu

“You’re staring Jean-booooy!” Sasha teased, dragging an elbow into Jean’s ribs.

The brunette let out a grunt at the sudden intrusion and sent a glare towards the girl. “The fuck was that for?” He complained. Jean lightly shoved Sasha away as he rubbed at his now sore torso.

Sasha chuckled. Rolling her eyes as she put her head in her hands, she said, “you were staring at (Y/N). Again.” Across the table, Connie snickered into his hand.

Jean’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance. “No, I wasn’t. I just happened to be looking in her direction. That’s all.” Pushing away the lunch his mother had made him - which Sasha and Connie also made fun of - Jean leaned back in his chair.

Marco, the last and most sensible person of their friend group, cleared his throat. “Ah come on Jean,” he chastised, “they mean well. It’s just... well…” Marco trailed off for a second, a nervous hand coming up scratch at his freckled face. Jean raised an eyebrow at his longtime friend. “Well, you can be a bit obvious. And it hurts to watch sometimes.”

Much to the chagrin of Jean, Sasha and Connie were quick to join in once again.

“Yeah! Yeah!” Sasha exclaimed with a mouthful of fries. “We’re just trying to kick you into high gear and get you to finally ask (Y/N) out!”

Connie leaned forward onto the table. “Haven’t you been madly in love with her since you were like, what - 12?” He waved a lazy hand in the air.

A dark hue spread across Jean’s cheeks, which he quickly hid behind his hand. “Oh shut up ya baldy!” Jean yelled back. He groaned. “I’ve just known her since we were 12. As if I could fall in love with her at that age.”

Sasha let out a triumphant shriek. She practically climbed on top of the poor soccer player in her excitement. “You didn’t deny you love her!” She practically exclaimed to the entire cafeteria. Nearby tables went quiet and glanced their way.

“Shut up Sasha!” Jean retaliated, pushing her off of him. His blush had now reached far past his cheeks, decorating his ears in a pink hue.

Despite the anger radiating off of him, Sasha seemed unperturbed by her friend’s actions. Rather she seemed to get even happier. “Just go talk to her and ask her on a date already!” She said matter of factly before chomping on her slice of pizza.

Jean looked to Marco and Connie for help. As he expected, Connie agreed, saying something along the lines of finally getting with her and to stop acting like a lost puppy. But Marco! Instead of coming to his rescue, Marco simply nodded and agreed.

When the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch, Jean was the first to stand up and leave. In his anger and embarrassment he nearly forgot his lunchbox. He swiped it from Marco’s grasp without thanking him before stomping his way to his next class.

By the time he walked through the doorway of the chemistry class, his anger had dissipated and morphed into a mix of embarrassment and guilt at his actions.

“Stupid Sasha and Connie, trying to meddle in with my damn business. Damn Marco for not backing me up.” Jean grumbled as he sat on the stool.

A soft giggle to his left made him jump.

“Oh (Y/N)!” He said, his voice jumping an octave. He hadn’t even seen you as he ranted and raved under his breath.

“Hey Jean. It looks like you’ve had a bit of a rough day. Sasha and Connie being overbearing again?” You asked, moving a stray lock of hair from your face.

Jean gulped as your curious eyes stared up at him. He was always taller than most people his age, yet you made him feel like the smallest person in the world. You were - as cheesy as it was - different from the other girls in the school. At least to Jean. All the other girls at Paradis High, whether they were friends or strangers to Jean, had a level of unattainability. Some of them were for obvious reasons, such as Historia who practically had a bodyguard in the form of her butch girlfriend, but other reasons were much more transparent. Even if Jean did fantasize about bringing a girl on a date and being in a relationship - it always felt like some wacky dream.

But never with you. You always felt just a bit more physical, a bit more real to Jean. Maybe it was because of how comfortable you were with him or your constant curiosity that led to you getting into trouble that would have been easily avoidable (and sometimes dragging Jean down with you).

You were always just an arm’s distance away. A distance Jean didn’t dare cross, not at 12 years old and not at 17.

“Uh yeah, they were just getting on my ass about a girl. Marco wasn’t any help either, so I’m just a bit annoyed at them.” He finally responded, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blinked up at him for a moment before an expression of realization spread across your features like a wave. Excitedly, you grabbed onto his upper arm and pulled him down closer to you.

“Do you like a girl, Jean?!”

Jean thanked whatever mystical being out there that you had enough sense to whisper your conclusion to him, but then promptly cursed them out as you stared at him face to face. He could smell the mint you had after lunch fanning over his face.

Jean opened and closed his mouth quickly, unsure of how to respond, scared that if he spoke his voice would croak and falter.

Thankfully the chemistry teacher Dr. Hange walked in, earning everyone’s attention with a loud clap.

Letting go of Jean’s arm, you stood straight up in your chair and listened as Dr. Hange reviewed what today’s class would cover; but not before sending Jean a smirk.

Fidgeting with his fingers under the desk, Jean did his best to ignore your glances and overall presence, intent on willing the whole discussion about his crush out of existence. That is until you slid a small note to Jean’s side of the black desk. Scribbled in your clean handwriting was a request - no - an order.

You’re totally filling me in on this girl after school! I’m not taking no for an answer!

Jean sighed to himself, grimacing as your playful grin appeared at the edge of his vision.

“Jeeeaaan! Come on!” You whined, bouncing on his bed. “Why won’t you tell me who your crush is!”

Said boy let out a sigh as he dropped his book bag onto the floor next to his desk and all but collapsed into the gaming chair. Leaning his head back on the headrest, he answered in a taut voice. “Because I don’t want to.”

“Totally not because it’s you.” He thought.

You groaned in frustration, tossing and turning on his bed, inevitably ruining the nicely folded blankets. “Come on! I’ve known you since we were in middle school!”

Jean chuckled. “Yeah sure, if you count two kids bored out of their minds on family trips to the mountains only to never see each other until high school as knowing each other since middle school.”

Sitting up on the bed, you pouted at the brunette. “Damn. You really didn’t have to get specific about it.”

The laughter that bubbled out of Jean’s chest was uncontrollable. Doubling over in his chair, Jean finally looked at you for the first time since getting to his house. “Why shouldn’t I? When you showed up in the middle of last year and latched yourself onto me - everyone thought you were my secret girlfriend! Hell, even I was confused as to why you were practically glued to my arm.”

Jean continued to laugh, more to himself now. When his laughter finally fizzled away and his eyes were no longer clouded by tears, he sat back up in his chair - only to go rigid again.

You had pulled your legs into your chest and were staring away from Jean. The sharp glint of your eyes told Jean that he had pissed you off.

“A shit (Y/N), I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

Taking a deep breath, your body relaxed against itself.

“I know, you big idiot. It’s just… you were my first real friend. Of course I got excited when we reunited years later.” You chuckled to yourself at the memory of spotting him in the middle of homeroom. The joy and relief you felt that day was tremendous.

Standing up, Jean walked over to the bed and sat next to you before falling against his plush covers with a dulled thump. He patted the bed. A silent invitation for you to lay next to him. You took it and laid next to him, staring at the ceiling in silence.

No words were spoken between the two of you for some time. This is how it went sometimes. The two of you didn’t need to talk constantly to keep the energy comfortable and flowing. Comforting silences were a rare thing to have.

The soft breathing and heat radiating off of Jean nearly had you falling asleep. That is until he spoke up, startling you awake.

“She’s really sweet ya know.” Jean could see you turn to him with a raised eyebrow out of his peripheral. “The girl I like. She’s really sweet. A little overbearing with her physical affection, but nothing crazy. She’s… people-smart. She knows when to start and stop.” Jean could feel you shift on the bed so that your head was level with his. He continued talking without thinking of the consequences. “She’s got a few unconventional hobbies and does stupid shit all the time. Had to stitch up her pinkie finger once because she cut it while exploring an abandoned house.” Jean’s own pinkie moved towards your hand, making contact with your own pinkie finger. He traced the raised scar. “She’s super smart too and is always working to get better for herself. And… well I’ve liked her for a while but I was always scared to face the feelings she gave me whenever we hang out. I didn’t want to accept them. It was odd. I was used to never having a shot with the people I liked. But you… you just seemed to shoot right into me without me even realizing it.”

Finally, Jean had the courage to look at you. Your cheeks were darkened with a deep blush and your eyes twinkled. Jean didn’t say anything. He waited for your response with bated breath. The two of you laid there on dark covers for what felt like an eternity.

“For fucks sake (Y/N). Ya gotta respond to me.” Jean choked out in a harsh whisper. His hand was trembling from the nerves.

“I can play a 2 hour soccer game without issue, but I can’t make a simple confession without shaking? What the hell Jean.” He thought bitterly.

As though life was breathed back into you - you took a deep breath.

Quick and sudden nods.

Jean furrowed his eyebrows.

Your hand inched its way into his.

Jean pushed himself up onto his elbow and leaned over you

Your gleaming eyes flashed to his lips and back up to his eyes.

A silent exchange of words.

Leaning forward, Jean let his forehead lightly knock against yours. “Can I kiss you.”

“Please.”

Slowly, Jean let his lips ghost over yours. Just barely touching. As though Jean was scared any harsh movements would make you break. You surged into the kiss, squeezing onto his hand still interlocked with yours.

Jean internally groaned, the taste of your minty tongue invading his senses. If he didn’t stop kissing you now he was going to go crazy.

Pulling back from your lips, he stared down at you. You chuckled nervously, fingers twitching.

“What? Am I that bad of a kisser?”

Jean shook his head quickly. “No way. You’re amazing. Just… just fucking relieved you feel the same way.”

You smiled up at him. “I mean, of course. You were my first friend. Only makes sense that you were my first love too.”

Bonus:

“Jean-boy, I made some sandwiches for you and (Y/N) to e- OH!”

“Ma! It’s not what it looks like!”

“I’m so sorry! I’ll leave you two alone. Make sure to use protection!”

A pillow thudded against the freshly closed door and fell to the floor in a sad lump.

“SHUT UP MA!”

#jean kirschtien #jean kirschtein scenarios #jean kirschtein x reader #attack on titan #attack on titan imagine #jean kirschtein fluff

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kickingitwithkirk · 4 years ago

Text

Greetings From Austin: Part II

Pairing: Alpha!Jensen Ackles x Alpha!Jared Padalecki x Omega!OFC

Summary: Jensen and Jared are at odds over a monumental decision that changes their lives in a way they couldn’t have envisioned.

Word Count: 3985

Warnings: a/b/o, bisexuality, angst, cursing, self doubt, depression/anxiety, married life/disagreements, medical stuff, sexual dysfunction, infertility, surrogacy

*Jensen acting out of character

*additional warnings to be added in future parts.

A/N: series Inspired by this art.

A/N II: For this part I did some research & delved into a bit of reproductive/genetic testing-please don’t dink me on details, I altered it a bit to fit A/B/O verse.

A/N III: There is no intentional hate or malevolence intended towards any of the Ackles or Padalecki families. This is a purely fictional piece containing real and created persons/names/events set in the fictional A/B/O verse. Some dates/events altered to fit story.

Part I

*no beta-all mistakes are mine

*photos found online

One hour later

Jensen sets two sealed cups in the small niche shutting its door and grabs his jacket sliding it on, his inner Alpha purring with satisfaction watching his husband's fumbling fingers working at a button on his shirt, “Need any help babe?”

Jared’s all dilated pupils and glowing cheeks above his thick beard, “I’m good, I'll be out in a few.” Jensen leans in for one more soft, lingering kiss before leaving. Locking the door behind him Jared leans against it, closing his eyes, savoring the last vestiges of his oxytocin high.

He can’t stop recalling that mischievous glint in those luminous green eyes as Jensen slowly licked his plush lips before diving in to kiss him stupid, his long, sinful tongue doing things that’s probably illegal in twenty states, hands with ooh, so thick, talented fingers capable all sorts of magical things.

Shaking himself out of the memory he crossed over to the sink and caught his debauched reflection in the mirror. Shit, he can’t out looking like this.

Turning on the tap cups his hand to catch some of the running water splashing his face to cool off when his phone starts vibrating in his back pocket. Drying his hands and face he pulls it out checking the text. Glancing up he runs a hand over his thick beard, smoothing it down before leaving the room.

Completely preoccupied typing a reply he rounds the corner heading for the doctor's office slamming into a woman knocking her off her feet, the contents of the bag she’s carrying scatter loudly across the floor.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry!”

From her seated position she looks up...and up, his long, long legs clad in low riding jeans barely held up by a loosely buckled leather belt, his shirts rucked-up, a bit of his treasure trail and toned abs flanked by the sharp V of his hip peeking out.

“FuckI’mfuckingsorryFuckdidn’tfuckingsee....”

Jared, embarrassed, keeps apologizing, laced with fuck every other word, squats down gathering scattered items, dropping them back into the bag continuously babbling until she bursts out laughing. “And here I be thinking I said fuck to much,” a subtle lilt in her voice making it sound like she’s saying fook instead.

They move around each other picking up the last of her stuff. Jared reaches for a scarf when the central air catches a few loose strands of her hair, lightly dancing them across his cheek.

He inhales sharply as her piquant scent travels through his system eliciting a rumbling purr deep in his chest, “Fuck..” She breathes out gazing directly into his kaleidoscope eyes, watching mesmerized as they bleed into red with arousal as her eyes flash gold in response.

“I..I..fuck..I’ve gotta go!” She sputters, scrambling to her feet, grabs the bag hurrying away, leaving him holding the scarf.

Lifting the forgotten fabric to his face Jared deeply inhaled her scent, reaching down presses against his cock chubbing up the second time that day. He morosely stares in the direction she fled in once more, a low whine of loss escapes before he tucks the scarf into his back pocket and resumes heading towards the doctor’s office.

Dr. Rodgers, standing just inside in a doorway observing unnoticed, makes a mental note.

***

Jensen watches amused as Jared sits down with a slight wince, a not unpleasant reminder of their recent interlude, teases, “Did I make that much of a mess out of you Jay?”

Jared shrugs with a nonchalant “eh.” Jensen lowers his chin leaning close growling his displeasure at the flippant response, Jared internally shivers knowing he’s gonna pay for it when they get home, much to his delight.

Jensen abruptly stops growling, “You stink like Omega!”

Dr. Rodgers comes in carrying a binder saving Jared from responding, “We’ll get your test results in about two weeks unless we see something that needs further investigation.” He sets down the binder in front of them, opening it to the first page revealing a dossier and picture.

“Now, the next bit is selecting an egg donor. I’m sure you're wondering how we select the donors. I rely on a protein compatibility test, similar to the markers blood test used when matching Alphas and Omegas, narrowing down prospective candidates.

All of our donors are Betas and Omegas. Several of the Betas are willing to be the surrogate too. If you choose to go with an Omega donor we will have the extra step of selecting a Beta surrogate but that’s something to discuss later if needed.

We also take into account your personal preferences when it comes to physical traits, personality, etc. I’ll introduce you to the top three that are the best matches. If for some reason none of them work out, we’ll try the next most compatible candidates.”

Dr. Rodgers clicks his pen, “Let’s get started shall we.”

***

Flipping off the light switch Jensen walks out of the bath to find Jared already asleep. Crossing over to their bed he stopped at his side admiring him.

How had he gotten so lucky to have Jared as his? Over fifteen years since that life changing meeting he was more in love with his mate than ever, the ups and downs in their relationship that could have torn them apart made their marriage stronger.

Jensen took hold of the book Jared had been reading, gently pulling it out of his hand, slid in a bookmark and placed it on the nightstand turning off the lamp.

Easing into his side of the bed he leaned over pressing a soft kiss to Jared’s bare shoulder, who only wore bottoms since he always ran warm. Shifting, Jared buries his face into Jensen's neck, draping a long arm across his chest snuggling close, “Thank you.”

“For what babe?”

“Helping me today,” he could feel Jared’s breath warm against his skin, “I know you're against having more but please don’t decide not to, I want to have pups with you.”

Jensen mentality sighed, he’d be forty-three before they were born and didn’t want to be the old dad. Jared had argued that he'd never be, they knew lots of people were having their families later, look at Reedus, fifty when his daughter came and JDM, he was almost fifty-two when George was born.

“I’ll make you a deal, I’ll say yes if we find one donor we both agree on,” he felt Jared’s emotions shifting more positive, “but if you like one and me another, I’m not doing it.”

Jared pressed several soft kisses to the side of his neck, “Okay Jen,” he agrees, shifting to lay his head on his shoulder, “we’ll find the one, I can feel it.” he sleepily finishes.

Jensen rests his cheek against the top of Jared's head, not fallen asleep for ages. How was he going to handle Jared’s inevitable disappointment, knowing it will happen since they have always had vastly different tastes in females.

***

Five days later

7:00 A.M.

Jared was up to mile three of his daily workout on the treadmill in his office. He usually ran outside this early in the morning but a surprise thunderstorm altered his plans for the day when his phone rang. He dialed the machine down to walking speed to answer.

“Hello, Mr. Page, this is Sissy from Dr. Rodgers office, I’m sorry to be calling so early. He would like for you to come back in for a follow up about your semen testing.” Jared’s throat tightened, closing off his ability to respond.

He stepped off the machine and sat down on the large leather couch, “Sorry I..what time can I come in?”

“We have an opening at 8:45, will that work?”

“Yes ma’am, I can be there then.”

“Great, we’ll see you in a bit Mr. Page.”

Jared sat back not caring he was getting sweat all over the leather and started his breathing exercise to calm himself, telling his brain to knock it off, surely it wasn’t anything major with how calm Sissy was on the phone.

Ten minutes later he was still anxious but able to handle it. He glanced at his watch and knew he had to get his butt in gear to make the appointment.

Walking into the bedroom he found Jensen softly snoring so he moved as quietly as he could grabbing some clean clothes and headed for the shower. He left a note by the coffee pot saying he had an errand and be back ASAP.

He pulled into the clinics parking lot with five minutes to spare. Tucking his hair into his ever present beanie, Jared slipped on his mask and dashed through the downpour into the clinic.

After being temperature checked, Sissy walked him to the doctor's office. Knocking on the door she opened it and Jared saw the doctor on the phone gesturing for him to come in as he finished his call.

“Hello Mr. Page, thank you for coming in. I wanted to go over a discrepancy the lab found with your test, I'll try not to use too much doctor jargon.” He layed three pages on the table in front of him, a color printout of a sperm DNA strand broke down into segments and the others Jared recognized as chromosome mapping. “These are part of the Alphas sperm DNA sequencing. Normally, this one has a wide band in this segment,” he pointed to a circled area on the right page demonstrating a normal sequence. “This is your sperm's DNA. What I wanted to show you is a variant in the same section,” he circled a column on the left page, “which contains a narrow band instead,” he highlighted one piece of the chain.

“What does it mean?” Jared asked nervously.

“I’m going to be honest with you, I don’t know, I’ve never encountered this variant before. I looked at your previous testing from 2016 and it was also present on that test, not sure why it was overlooked. I’ve consulted with a few colleagues of mine to get their take,” he paused resting his arms on the desk watching Jared’s expression, “Mr. Page, I didn’t ask you to come in to upset you, I prefer to keep my clients in the loop if anything unusual does present with their testing. It’s possibly something that's genetically unique to you and affects nothing. I’d like to run a Tunel test, it’s a sperm chromatin structure analysis, it’ll give us more information to work with.”

Jared fidgeted, desperately wanting to chew on his fingers, “Umm…okay.”

“Good, it's not invasive at all, we just need some more sperm.” Dr. Rodgers says.

~~~

Jensen was stumbling around the kitchen working on his first cup of coffee when Jared walked in carrying a box from his favorite bakery.

“Those aren’t what I think they are?” Jensen asks as Jared sits the box down on the counter. He opens the lid inhaling the scent of decadent cinnamon roll goodness before pulling out one and taking a huge bite moaning pornographically, “Babe, whatever I did to warrant these remind me to do it again,” he says with his mouthful.

Jared chuckles as his mate continues making obscene noises before bending down taken a bit from the other side earning warning snarl.

“You are so not a morning person.” Jared chided sliding the box over to retrieve his own taking it setting down at the island bar pulling a chunk off.

“You wanna share what’s rattling around in that big head of yours?” Jensen inquires. Jared chews slowly before answering. “I got a call from the clinic, something showed up in my test.”

Jensen snapped fully alert, his roll forgotten, and sat down next to him, “Jared, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

Jared fiddled with his roll, pulling it apart, “No, not that I’m aware of but they found something off and don’t know what it is. Dr. Rodgers said it’s probably nothing but wanted to run another test to see if he can figure out what it is what if something is wrong and turns out I was the reason Genevieve couldn’t get pregnant I don’t know if I can handle it the possibility of not being able to have pups I’ve wanted them for so long I can’t imagine our lives...”

“Jared,” Jensen sharpness interrupts Jared’s incessant rambling, making him go quiet, “I know you want to go to the worst possible outcome but let’s wait till all the tests are back. If it’s something, we’ll deal, we always do.”

***

August 3rd

“Jen, move your ass, were gonna be late!” Jared bellows from downstairs.

“I’m coming...dammit!” Jensen cursed as he tripped over the boxes left sitting by the bottom step. “You need to get the rest of this shit out of the way, about killed myself again!”

“I’ll stay up tonight moving the rest of this fucking shit if you’ll get a fucking move on!”

The sniping at each other had gotten worse since the house renovations were barely completed before heading back to Vancouver.

Jensen moved his music studio into the newly created space in the basement from the former guest quarters, now relocated to the spacious pool house. The empty upstairs rooms were converted into the eventual nursery/kids rooms with a Jack and Jill bathroom between them.

“You better start watching your goddamn language cause the last thing we need is for our kids to have a trash mouth like…don’t roll your eyes at me!” Jared threw his arms up in disgust before storming out to the garage getting in Jensen’s truck. They drove to the clinic in silence.

They were flying out tomorrow to quarantine for two weeks before resuming shooting on the eighteenth. Then the clinic called their tests were back and Jared didn’t want to wait till they got back for the results.

After their temperature check they were immediately escorted to the doctor’s office finding him already there. “Mr. Bonham, Mr. Page, pleasure to see you, please have a seat.” They sit next to each other not touching. “Is there something wrong gentleman?”

“Why do you ask?” Jensen barks, “Fuck man, don’t be rude!” Jared bit back earning a glare that makes most sane people back away from Jensen.

“Gentleman, no need to fight. It may surprise you but I actually see a lot of hostility between my clients. I’m sure the added stress of the quarantine while trying to start a family is putting your Alpha instincts more on edge, is it not?”

Jensen sighed, “I’m sorry sir, I was raised better.”

Jared gave an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry too sir, and you're right.”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time and understand the situation from your side, my wife and I had trouble conceiving. We ended up having two sets of twins within three years, now that’s stress.”

Jensen blinked, “And I thought mine were a handful.”

Dr. Rodgers laughed, “They are a blessing but honestly, it’s an absolute madhouse at times. So, let’s get back to you two. Mr. Bonham, everything looks good, you are in the top percentile when it comes to mobility and live sperm count for your age group. One of the advantages of being an Alpha, unlike us poor Betas who’s diminish with age.”

“Mr. Page, I also have your results and the Tunel tests which turned out to be something.. unique.”

Jared eyes widened as he paled, his breath hitching, feeling his stomachs spastic tightening making him about vomit. He knew it, he knew something was going to go wrong, his brain didn’t lie to him this time.

Jensen was out of his chair and utilizing his Alpha strength turned Jared’s towards him before kneeling between his legs reaching up to firmly grip the sides of his head forcing him to focus on him opens up his side of their bond he’d shut the other day when they were arguing to gauge how bad this one was.

“Hey Hey, concentrate on me, I need you to breathe with me,” he held Jared’s gaze for several minutes as their breathing cinqued up, feeling him relaxing.

“There you go big guy. It wasn’t that bad, focus on your breathing okay.” Jared nodded embarrassed as Dr. Rodgers sat a bottle of water in front of him, “Do you need me to get you anything else?”

“No, he’s fine, thank you,” Jensen answers, getting up retaking his chair as Jared took a long drink from the bottle, “he’s usually more aware of these attacks but since the damn lock-downs.” Jensen shook his head in disgust, “We're heading back to Vancouver tomorrow to finish our sh..job before his new one starts late October. I guess it’s really hitting us both that it's finally ending.”

“Mr. Ackles, you can say show,” Jared and Jensen stare at him in surprise, “my daughters are fans, I know more about the Winchester brothers than a man my age should.” Dr. Rodgers ruminates, “Mr. Page, are you ready for me to continue?” Jared nodded as Jensen wrapped both of his hands around his free one.

“After I received the results I spoke with a specialist in Alpha genetics. They looked at all your tests and came back with a conclusion I’ve never heard of before.” The doctor laid a printout on the desk, “This is a visual aid to help me in explaining.”

“Chemoattactants are what a female's egg releases to attract the sperm to it. You know how it works from there; sperm meets egg, sperm penetrates egg and viola, fertilization. Alphas sperm has evolved allowing them to inseminate all three sub-genders, whereas male Omegas sperm is sterile since they possess both sets of reproductive organs but only need to utilize one.”

The doctor sets all three of Jared’s tests and the normal example on his desk for them to see, “This chromatin structure you carry Mr. Page,” he points to the highlighted section, “has altered so that the eggs of Alphas and Betas are chemorepellent to your sperm, rejecting fertilization.”

Jared sat still-shocked, blankly staring at the results lying before him, vaguely feeling Jensen reaching across their bond again. “Does this mean he’s...infertile?” He can hear Jensen hesitant inquiry, like he's standing across a vast chasm.

“In conventional terms, yes. This is the reason you were unable to conceive with your previous spouse, being a Beta, and there is still no medical intervention available that would have helped. What’s unique is his sp...”

Jared was numb. His dreams of a little Padackles tearing around their home had literally been salt and burned before his eyes with those test results.

In the recesses of his attention he’s aware of the continuing conversation around him, the longer it goes on, the more his brain is tuning out.

~~~

The first thing he becomes aware of are fingertips caressing his face, softly wiping away wetness damping his cheeks. Slowly blinking the blurry shape in front of him comes into focus.

Jensen is sitting in front of him. More accurately, he’s sitting cross legged in between his own splayed legs on the floor. Jared frowns as his senses are coming back online.

He was sitting on the chair that’s now off to his right so how did he end up with his back against the desk?

“You passed out,” Jensen answers his unspoken question, “and scared the ever-living shit out of me! I thought you were having an aneurysm the way your eyes rolled back into your big head!”

“I..I..don’t know what happened, I was looking at the results, you were asking questions..then nothing.”

“Stress Jared, you are completely stressed out and it's fucking with your illness!” He opens his mouth, “No, I’m not done so be quiet.” Jensen’s voice dropped with his Alpha tone overlaying it,

“Between that final script having you nuts all year, this quarantine fucking up your meds, dealing with your businesses shutdowns, getting Walker started, you had to add pushing for pups, it’s no wonder you couldn’t handle the doctor explanation of...”

“Explanation of what?” Jared lashes back in own Alpha voice, leaning forward into Jensen’s space, his eyes flashing red, “That I’m infertile, sterile, shooting blanks..”

“Shut that fucking mouth for two minutes or I swear I’ll deck you.” Jensen’s normally warm green eyes bleed into a fierce red, becoming hard.

Jared’s mouth snapped shut in surprise. They had gotten into plenty of arguments over the years, gotten in each other’s faces a few times but this was a first. Jensen had never, ever threatened physical harm.

Well, somewhat that time Misha set him off during a panel and he went for him afterwards. Misha stupidly goaded him again before Jensen gave him a shove, ordering him to cool off before he had to do something.

Jensen’s jaw ticked as he mentally counted to ten, “Dr. Rodgers said that you couldn’t impregnate another Alpha or Beta right?”

“Right.”

“The part you zoned out is that your sperm wants to only fertilize an Omega’s eggs.”

Sighing heavily, Jensen crawls over a leg to sit against the desk next to him. Jared pulls his legs up and wraps his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees processing this information as Jensen reaches over and gently rubs his hand in random patterns over his back.

They had mutually agreed on a Beta donor. Now this threw a wrench in the plans.

“Maybe this is a sign we’re rushing into this again. Let’s take a step back and consider all our options.” Jared’s muscles stiffened under his hand.

“I’m not considering anything else and I’m not stopping.”

“Wait...what?”

Jared lifted his head, “I’m not considering anything else and I’m not stopping. I realize this isn’t what you want so don’t worry, I’m not gonna hold you to our agreement.”

Jensen exhaled sharply knowing when Jared spoke in that tone, that was it, end of discussion, mind made up.

Jared gets up, “I’m going to find Dr. Rodgers and see if he's still willing to help me. If you want to leave, go. I’ll get an Uber when I’m done.” He walks out quietly shutting the door behind him.

“Fuck!” Jensen closed his eyes thumping his head back against the desk. He knew he had screwed up and there was only one way to make it right.

***

Jensen asked Jared to let him stay, he was wrong for saying that and he'd be open to one of the Omegas as a possible donor too. Jared wasn’t completely appeased but he was happy Jensen didn’t take the out given him.

The three candidates were smart, attractive, lovely scented Omegas in their twenties that any Alpha looking for a prospective mate would seriously consider, leaving Jensen wanting something else.

“I like aspects of all three Jay, but honestly, I'm not feeling it with any of them.”

“Maybe you’ve reached the stage you’re looking for more substance, less aesthetic.”

“Did you just call me old?” Jensen gaped at his husband.

Before Jared responds, Dr. Rodgers enters, “I see from your expression Mr. Bonham that you haven’t decided on a candidate.”

“It’s not that I didn’t like any of them, there isn’t a..”

“Connection. It’s normal, just because your Alpha doesn’t mean you..desire every Omega you cross paths with. With some it takes time to find the right one.” He looks at his watch.

“We’re at the end of our appointment but I have one more donor I’d like you to meet today. She’s doesn’t exactly fit your personal physical preferences but this omega is...special..and she’s willing to be the surrogate too.”

The doctor opens the door gestures to someone. They stand up to greet her and as she enters they are enveloped by her piquant scent.

“Mr. Page and Mr. Bonham, this is Quinn.”

***

tbc

Part III

GFA: @babypink224221 @waywardjoy @let-me-luve-you @all-4-wincest

SPN: @donnatix @lyarr24

Sam/Jared @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen: @flamencodiva

#j2 #alpha!jensen ackles x alpha!jared padalecki #j2 fanfic #alpha!jensen ackles #jensen ackles #alpha!jared padalecki #jared padalecki #alpha!jensen x alpha!jared x omega!ofc #j2 au #j2 husbands #surrogate #supernatural

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tickle-bugs · 4 years ago

Text

I Dot the I in Your Name with My Heart

Summary: Lunch breaks between classes lead Simone and Eleanor into the silliest not-quite-argument they’ve ever had. AU where they’re professors at the same University.

@peachytickles HAPPY BIRTHDAY BELOVED!!!! Ilysm you light up my life and my day. I hope your day is as incredible as you are. Have some Laid Ease as a present and I will continue to be annoying in your dms as a further gift <3

“Babe!” Eleanor threw open Simone’s door, adjusting the comically large satchel on her shoulder.

“Nope.” Simone didn’t look up from her computer. One day her wife would learn to knock. One day. Eleanor sighed, spun on her heel, and exited the office, grumbling under her breath all the while.

A cheery knock absolutely dripping with sarcasm sent Simone into a quiet fit of snickers.

“Dr. Garnett?” Simone could hear Eleanor roll her eyes from the other side of the door. She stifled her smile. The fact that their breaks aligned this semester was a true gift--though Simone did miss lurking in the back of Eleanor’s classroom like a high schooler waiting for her prom date.

“Come in.” Simone hid her face behind her computer monitor when Eleanor once again flung the door open.

“I’m gonna grab coffee. Want anything specific?” Eleanor pushed the door shut with her heel, cutting off Simone’s unspoken complaint by sticking out her tongue.

“I left you a sticky on your desk,” Simone frowned, fingers slowing on the keys.

“I couldn’t read it.”

“Wh--Eleanor.”

“Don’t Eleanor me. You have a horrible case of doctor handwriting.” She hung her satchel on one of the chairs in front of Simone’s desk. She rolled up the sleeves of her fraying sweater, continually stopping to untangle her wedding ring from the threads it pulled. Simone’s gaze lingered on her arms--clusters of freckles were starting to dust her pale skin. Cute.

“No I don’t. It’s perfectly legible.”

“Simone. Babe. Love of my life. Your handwriting is unreadable.” Eleanor pulled her clutch out of her satchel. She thumbed through it, lighting up at something in the overstuffed bag--probably her rewards card. She loved free stuff.

“Maybe you need to learn how to read.” Simone drew her brows together in a signature grumpy pout.

“What does this say?” Eleanor slid the sticky note across the desk and Simone snatched it. God, she must’ve been in a rush because her handwriting looped way more than usual. Did that say carnival? Caravan? Shit.

“Obviously...this says…”

“Oh my god. You can’t read it?” Eleanor came around the desk to lean over Simone’s shoulder. Her warm hands slid around Simone’s arms and she leaned subtly back into the embrace.

“Shut up! I totally can. It says…”

“I’m waiting.” Eleanor laughed softly into her ear and Simone’s cheeks grew embarrassingly warm.

“Why do you bully me like this?” Simone whined. Eleanor pecked her on the lips with that insufferable grin and a fluttery warmth nestled in her chest.

“You make it easy. Caramel frappé?” Eleanor brushed her thumb over Simone’s cheekbone.

“Don’t forget the muffin. Love you.” Simone squeezed her hand.

“Mhm.” Eleanor squeezed back, letting Simone’s fingers trail over her palm as she pulled away. Simone yanked her back, using the momentum to tug Eleanor down for a kiss. She looked up at her expectantly until Eleanor smiled.

“Love you too,” She sighed fondly, adorning Simone’s forehead with a light lipstick print that she then carefully thumbed away. She drifted out the door, blowing kisses like a celebrity bidding farewell to her adoring entourage, and Simone returned to her work, a silly smile etched upon her lips.

The waiting time flew by rather unremarkably--silence triggered a meditative, boundless focus in her that she could nurture into a completed to-do list, if she was precise about it. Her focus tended to veer like a first-time driver, but she’d gotten rather skilled at placing tasks in the way of her swerving brain. Eleanor’s presence usually helped her stay on track, unless she was doing something distracting, like holding a piece of paper three inches from her face.

“What’s that?” Simone leaned around her monitor to get a better look at her wife.

“Our grocery list. Tahani showed me this delivery thing for the grocery store near campus. Figured we could try it out.” Eleanor held the slip of paper closer, squinting between it and her equidistant phone screen as if it contained the universe’s untranslated secrets.

“Why are you looking at it like that?”

“...No reason.” Eleanor put it down on the desk, trying to read normally, but she was never good at hiding her emotions. Or her ‘I can’t understand this’ squint. Simone narrowed her eyes until Eleanor felt compelled to speak.

“It’s your handwriting. It’s just so…” Eleanor trailed off, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture, but her hand kept looping and twirling until she’d drawn the world’s most complicated pretzel in the air.

“So what?” Simone knew what she was trying to say, but she wanted to hear it out loud.

“Listen, the data is against you. So many doctors have bad handwriting.” Eleanor patted her hand across the desk, a cheeky grin dancing on her lips.

“Say that again.” Simone narrowed her eyes.

“Doctors have bad handwriting?”

“Eleanor, it’s data, not data.” Simone moved around the desk and sat next to Eleanor. She pulled her chair close, so their knees touched, and eyed Eleanor while she committed a crime against linguistics.

“That’s what I said.”

“Say it slowly.”

“Dah. Tah.” Eleanor frowned.

“No.” Simone held her face between her hands and squished her cheeks.

“What do you mean, no? That’s how you say it. Data.” Eleanor’s voice came out a little muffled but she didn’t seem bothered.

“Okay, Elle-ee-ay-nor.” Simone rolled her eyes, dragging out every vowel to the point of extinction. Eleanor pulled Simone’s hands away from her face and held them in her own.

“Now the data suggests that you’re being mean.”

“Am I being mean or are you being American?” Simone booped her nose and Elly wrinkled it, eyes crossing for a moment while she tracked the offending finger.

“It’s not your fault y’know. Your snipsnaps are misfiring, so you don’t have fine muscle control. So, your handwriting is bad and you don’t know how to pronounce data.” Eleanor booped her back, all smug grins, and Simone promptly decided that only she was allowed a monopoly on mischief.

“Snip--y’know what? That’s it.” Simone pulled Eleanor into her arms, catching her with an oof. Eleanor went to make a flirtatious joke--Simone could see the gears turning in her head--but it died on her tongue when Simone’s nimble fingers pressed into her stomach.

“You owe me a handful of apologies, Dr. Shellstrop, because your handwriting is no better.”

“M-my penmanship is--no!”

“I agree, actually. You are not immune to doctor handwriting, ma’am. Your equations are adorably messy.” Simone squeezed up and down her sides, pulling the squeakiest, most endearing giggles from her. God, she was so cute.

“You’re adorably--”

“Thanks, babe. I know.” Simone grinned, fingers mapping every inch of the slight-plushness around her waist. Eleanor growled through her next bout of laughter.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” She yanked on Simone’s immovable hands until they slowed.

“Good.”

“Your handwriting is...unique and I love it.” Eleanor draped her arms over Simone’s shoulders. Simone better secured her arms around Eleanor’s waist, pulling her close.

“Nice save. But what else are you sorry for?” Simone eyed her expectantly and sighed at the silence.

“Let’s just say I forgive you for tainting my office with ‘dah-tah’. What is the structure that lets nerve cells pass signals called?” Simone raised her brow. Eleanor knew this. Simone knew that she knew. She’d taught her herself.

“Snipsnap.” Eleanor nodded sagely.

“Synapse.”

“That’s what I said.” Eleanor pouted--pouted!

“Try again.” Simone murmured, peppering fluttery kisses along her throat. Lovely, panicked giggles bubbled out of her, taking their rightful place between every breath.

“Spintaps?”

“Ooh, almost got it. One more try.” Simone buried a laugh in Eleanor’s neck, her hands sliding upwards to latch onto Eleanor’s ribs. That really kicked things up a notch--Eleanor went from cutesy giggles to borderline screeching, unable to decide whether she was clinging to Simone for dear life or trying to run from her. She kicked her legs, heels drumming against the chair leg, and Simone snuck in a few cheeky squeezes to her exposed knees.

“Slimcats? Syntax? Synapse!” She squealed, finally deciding on shoving Simone’s face away. She was nearly horizontal now, using the last of her core strength not to fall over the chair’s armrest and have a most unpleasant reunion with the floor.

“I’m so proud of you.” Simone rebalanced her with a strong hand across her shoulder blades, pulling her close with a shit-eating grin. Eleanor huffed, but a few airy chuckles found their way out with it.

“Shut up. I should tickle you while you try to do calculus. See how you like it.” Eleanor swatted her shoulder.

“I love you so much.” Simone singsonged, looking up at Eleanor through her lashes.

“Mhm. I love you too. Even when you bully me.”

“Bullying? I prefer ‘showering my wife with love.’” Simone rested her cheek on Eleanor’s bicep, puckering her lips until Eleanor leaned down to meet her.

“Bullying. I forgive you, though.” Eleanor pinched her nose until Simone made a nasally ‘waah’ sound that left both of them wheezing. Eleanor reluctantly scooped up her satchel at the chime of her phone--time for class, unfortunately.

“See you later.” Simone smiled. Eleanor slid her a yellow sticky note, folded into quarters, and winked on her way out the door. Simone unfolded it--in tight, coiled letters, Eleanor had left her a note.

I love you, sunshine.

Aw. She married a sap--a sap who dotted her ‘i’s with hearts, no less.

Simone stuck the sticky note to the framed photo of Eleanor that she kept on her desk, smoothing out the adhesive until she was certain it would cling. The picture was starting to get covered now, but the notes adorning the frame were just as important as the contents. She brushed her thumb over the frame and returned to work, Eleanor’s laughter lingering in her ears all the while.

#my fics #the good place #elmone #ticklish!eleanor #Eleanor Shellstrop #simone garnett #theyre MARRIED #no fr I dug this from the depths of the server like a gay little geologist unearthing precious gems...'yes...finally..all according to plan'

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moonstruckbucky · 5 years ago

Text

Always Been Yours [one-shot]

Summary: In which Steve knows more than he lets on.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader, former Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Warnings: Light smut 18+, some post-Endgame angst, sadness, heartbreak, fluff

Notes: I’ve been wanting to write something post-Endgame, and I know there’s a lot of these out there, but who cares? We all have feelings after Endgame. Enjoy, kiddos. There’s some light smut in the beginning, and some more further down the line, but this is not PWP. But still you should be 18+.

You’d known what he was going to do before he’d even uttered the words, “Can we talk?” Steve Rogers is nothing if not totally predictable in the most selfless of ways, and even as he sits you down, takes your hands with that resigned, contemplative look on his face, you figure he deserves a little selfishness after so many years of self-sacrifice.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” you begin before he can choke out the words he knows will break your heart. There’s no crack in your voice, no sign that you’re a breath away from breaking, but there is an ache deep in your chest. Your smile is sad but wistful when he nods, ducking his head to avoid your eyes. “That trip through the Quantum Realm really did a number on you, didn’t it?”

Steve sighs, keeps your fingers locked between his as he sits back against the couch of the living room.

“I’ve never felt like I belonged in this time, you know that.” You nod. His eyes glaze over a bit, lost as he is in his memories. “I thought when Peggy…died, eight years ago, that was it. It was easy to…move on, so to speak, and then I met you, and you only made it easier, and I’ll always be grateful for that, for you.

But…seeing her, when we went back to 1970, knowing there was a chance I…I can’t lose her again.”

But you can lose me, your mind fills in, embittered by the statement even though you’ve seen this coming. You brush it away; you’ll have time to mourn your relationship later. For now, you can’t be selfish.

“Then you need to do what’s going to make you happy.” Your voice cracks this time, pressure building fast behind your eyes as your heart seems to finally get with the program. Steve looks at you, and his own eyes brim with tears.

His fingers are warm and soft over the backs of your hands and they skim up your arms to your neck, pull you close so you can press your foreheads together and breathe the same air, one more time. He squeezes his eyes closed and a glistening drop slips free, trailing down his face in a slow river, and another one quickly follows.

“Come on now, Cap,” you murmur, thumbs brushing the wetness away even as you swallow back a sob. His jaw wobbles with the effort of holding himself back, eyes pinching even more tightly closed.

His mouth is firm, demanding against yours when he pushes forward that extra inch. He tastes of his tears, salty sweet, and his weight is welcome when it presses you back into the couch. It’s a slow race to lose your clothing, hands inching slow across naked torsos to memorize every last detail. His hair is soft where it glides through your fingers as he pulls you apart with his mouth, his fingers, and finally the heavy heat of his cock as he slides into you in one deep, slow roll of his narrow hips.

The entire coupling is slow, torturous because you know it’s the end, but no less earth-shattering when he drops his entire weight, tucks his arms under your legs and angles his hips just there. White light flashes behind your eyes, your sobbing moan swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you, open-mouthed, hot, wet, all-consuming. It’s always like this between you and Steve, electric like a rogue powerline, stagnant static electricity threatening to black out the whole city.

You just click.

Sweaty and sated, you lay tangled together against the plush couch, Steve’s head on your chest. There are no words between you, no need for them in the stillness of the room. Under Steve’s ear your heart is racing; you know he hears it, super serum or not, but he says nothing.

There’s nothing to say to calm it down. It’s a resignation between you, a knowledge that while you’ll love each other always, you’re just not meant to be.

You go with him to the quantum platform. Sam and Bucky give the two of you a minute, and it’s hard to keep yourself together. You thought you’d done all of your crying the week prior, but it seems you still have tears to cry for your Captain. Dr. Banner stands behind the controls, waiting patiently while Steve gathers his gear.

He finally turns to you, a quiet sadness about him, but there’s peace as well. Excitement even, to reunite with his soulmate. And how could you possibly fault him for that? You discreetly wipe under your eyes when he closes the distance between you, tucking an arm around your back to pull you to his broad chest. Your fingers curl into the folds of his suit and you sigh shakily. Pinch your eyes shut when his lips touch your forehead softly, lovingly.

Again, no words are needed, as a million pass between your gazes.

You step back, shuffle your feet while Steve converses briefly with Sam, even more briefly with Bucky. He embraces his old friend, and you lock eyes with Bucky over Steve’s shoulder. Your heart thuds heavily; this is just as painful for Bucky as it is for you.

He’s solid beside you, his flesh hand clasped tightly with yours when Steve steps onto the platform. The QR materializes, stark white in the sunshine. Mjolnir in his grasp, he nods to the three of you watching, Bucky and you sporting similar wet, sad smiles.

When he’s gone, you turn to press your face into Bucky’s shoulder, hiccuping as his arm curls around yours. Sam and Dr. Banner bicker behind you, trying to figure out how to get him back when the machine only hisses, and Bucky turns to lead you away, still smiling sadly.

You stumble when he stops suddenly, his mouth next to your ear as he says, “Hey, look.”

Lifting your eyes, they find a lone figure sitting beside the lake.

“Sam,” you croak.

Your throat closes, chest tightens when Steve, a much older, more wrinkly version, passes the shield to Sam. He takes it, reluctantly at first, looking to Bucky and you for support. You smile softly as Bucky nods; Steve had informed you of his desire to pass the shield on. At first, he’d chosen Bucky, but after speaking to the former Winter Soldier, realized the shield would be better suited to Sam. He made you promise to support Sam as you had supported him, keep him in line but not let him buckle under the Captain America mantle.

It’d been all too easy to say yes.

Weeks later, the three of you have established a balance between one another. Bucky and Sam continue to bicker, but there’s a deeper respect and understanding between them.

The renovated Avengers compound is quiet now, despite the presence of the three of you, plus Wanda, Dr. Banner, Rhodey, and occasionally Peter. Tony’s absence is felt heavily every day, the lack of classic rock a sore reminder of the price paid for freedom, for life. Nat’s room hasn’t been touched by anyone, but sometimes you sit on her bed, talk as if she’s still there with you. The pillows have lost her fresh, spicy scent, but being in her space is comfort enough.

Sam has taken on the Captain America name well. He isn’t as bossy as Steve, but he keeps the rest of you in top shape. He’s reformulated your training routines, improved simulations, and insists upon Team Building Night once a week to keep morale up. It works, kind of. Wanda occasionally dips out and you hardly ever see Clint, not that you blame him. Everything about the compound reflects on the losses you’ve suffered, the people missing from your lives, the holes they’ve left behind.

You struggle to cope some days, the pain of missing Nat’s snark, Tony’s insight, egotistical and brash but no less welcoming, Steve’s arms around you, too sharp to ignore. He and Peggy live upstate, and though you’ve been invited, it’s been hard to go visit. It’s still fresh, and you know he doesn’t take offense to your reluctance to see him. You still need time.

But not too much, considering it seems to have caught up with Steve.

Bucky and Sam visit him regularly, taking monthly trips out to catch up with him. They always bring your regards with them when they do.

Despite his best efforts, Bucky struggles with Steve’s absence too. Having been gone for five years, only to lose his best friend to their long-lost former lifetime, hasn’t been easy for him. You hear him sometimes at night, wailing and sobbing in his sleep, when you yourself can’t seem to find any rest. Most nights you will yourself to go to him, but you can’t bring yourself to move.

The two of you have navigated the road to recovery together, having lost in ways different from the others. Bucky is still weak under the weight of not having apologized to Tony before he… You know it haunts him still, despite your and Sam’s best efforts to alleviate it. But Bucky’s nothing if not incredibly stubborn, just like Steve, and he still holds himself accountable for the falling out between Tony and Steve, the rift that was never completely repaired.

The connection between you and Bucky has grown stronger, deeper, but still you can’t let yourself get too close. Not again. Least of all to Steve’s best friend. It feels like a betrayal, even though Steve had…left you. It sounds too harsh in your mind, insinuating you hadn’t had a choice in the matter. You suppose, if you flipped it, you hadn’t. Steve had his mind made up before having the respect to talk to you, and there would be no talking him out of it.

God, you miss him. Had he been here, you wouldn’t be playing this balancing act of ‘should-I-shouldn’t-I’ with his best friend. The lingering touches under the guise of comfort, the furtive glances when the other isn’t looking. It’s there, you both know it is, but neither of you is brave enough to reach out and take it.

You don’t know if either of you ever will be.

Is this where you were bound to end up? Longing for your ex-lover’s best friend while the memory of said ex is still so fresh? The pain of his leaving still able to steal the breath from your lungs? More than once, these thoughts have triggered anxiety attacks, crippling bouts of rapid breathing, a racing heart, blood rushing in your ears, and white noise in your head. The others have found you in such states before, but you’ve kept quiet about the triggers. What would they think?

You set aside your Stark pad with a relieved sigh; finally, you’ve finished your latest mission report to hand in to Sam. It’s only ...six hours late. Oh well. You submit it, lock the pad, and crack your knuckles. Your back pops when you arch in the chair, groaning at the relief from sitting for so long. You could have been done earlier, but your mind had wandered, as it tends to when you’re feeling particularly fragile.

It’s three months today since Steve left. Left only to return having lived an entirely new life with a woman who wasn’t you. You run a hand through your hair. You’ve been seeing a therapist, at the advisory of Sam who claims it would be unprofessional to be both your counselor and your Captain. You’d feel more comfortable with him, but, Captain’s orders.

Your therapist, anyway, has told you it’s healthy to go back and forth between anger, hurt, grief, and denial of feelings. You’re still struggling heavily with that last one, but according to Dr. Hamlin, you’ve made progress. It doesn’t quite feel like it yet, but you guess that’s your denial talking.

It’s close to dinner time, and it’s you, Bucky, and Wanda in the compound. Sam has taken Rhodey and Peter off on a mission, strictly intel, leaving the three of you to wander about. You’ve barely seen Wanda; she hasn’t been doing so well with her coping as she lets on. Bypassing her room even now, you hear her quiet sniffles and you frown, heart hurting for your friend and her seemingly unending grief.

You knock lightly, and moments later you hear the lock slide into place. You don’t take offense; Wanda’s far less open with reaching out to people, though as of late you haven’t been feeling very personable either. You move on.

Bucky’s door is cracked open, and without thought you push it open, saying, “Hey Buck, you hungry?”

Your voice dies in your throat when you take in Bucky, standing with his bare, broad back to you. Your throat goes dry when he turns his head to glance at you over his shoulder, his chestnut hair falling in his face. His vibranium arm gleams under the lighting of his room, gunmetal grey streaked with shimmering gold. Where it joins with his shoulder is smooth skin. Still scarred, but no longer angry and red. His time in Wakanda had taught him of salves from plants that could, more or less, heal his scarring.

He’s a sight, and you wonder just why it’s taken you so long to realize it.

But he’s off-limits, or so you’ve convinced yourself.

Your face flames when he turns fully to face you, the sight of his bared, sculpted torso setting your blood on fire. You clear your throat quietly, avert your eyes in some semblance of dignity.

“Sorry, the door was open,” you mutter, praying he can’t detect the slight tremor in your voice.

“‘S’ok, doll.” You swallow, stomach clenching at the pet name. “What were you saying?”

There’s a rustle, and his pale, beautiful skin is hidden behind a dark t-shirt. Thank god. He’s dressed in dark jeans, feet bare, and there’s something so comfortingly domestic about it that it makes your heart melt. You know Bucky’s had a hard time adapting to life in the compound, in the building Tony built, but you’re glad he seems to be making headway in at least that regard.

“Was gonna ask if you were hungry,” you offer. As if it can hear you, Bucky’s stomach grumbles, and the tension that had just suffocated the room is gone. The two of you share small laughs.

“You cooking?” he questions, sliding his feet into a pair of slippers. It makes you grin, the notion of the once-feared Winter Soldier in slippers too ridiculous.

“Sure. What are you in the mood for?”

Dinner consists of all the Sunday fixings, at Bucky’s request. Roasted chicken, potatoes, green beans, gravy, and fresh biscuits over glasses of red. All the tension from earlier is gone, and if you let the wine get to your head, the closeness and intimacy of cooking and eating together almost feels like a date.

The way Bucky’s eyes glitter in the low lighting of the kitchen takes your breath away, and you have to busy your hands with pouring two more glasses before they do something stupid. But your fingers brush when you hand him his glass, and your eyes lock again. It’s back, that god awful tension that leaves you teetering on the edge of ‘do-I-don’t-I’. You can’t look away from him, the storm blue-grey of his eyes pulling you in like an undertow, threatening to drown you.

Bucky’s movements are slow as he sets down his glass and rises from the island, stepping around it to press in close to you. He towers over you, but it makes you feel…safe, secure. Your heart is a wild horse in your chest, galloping a beat so fast it threatens to make you pass out. But then Bucky’s hands are on you, flesh on your waist and gunmetal grey gingerly cupping your jaw, and it grounds you again long enough to see his pupils dilate just a fraction.

His scent and warmth surround you as he leans in, movement still slow to give you the chance to back out, but you’re cemented in place. You’re tired of denying your feelings, so tired of it, but when Bucky’s lips are just a whisper away, you picture Steve in your mind’s eye, and whatever spell has fallen over the two of you is broken.

You know Bucky can see the minute he loses you, the wall that seems to go up behind your eyes as you clear your throat and force yourself out of his arms and out of reach. In return, his posture straightens, body going rigid as he attempts to ice you out too. It hurts more than you expect, but you’re the one at fault, putting distance between you when it’s obvious there should be none.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper quietly in the tense silence. “I-I can’t.”

Bucky barely manages a nod before he’s sweeping out of the kitchen in a dark flurry. You hear the sound of the elevator, and once you’re alone, your heart sinks to your stomach. The wine is tart as you gulp it down, cursing your stupid head and stupid heart for confusing you so all the time.

You get wine-drunk by yourself, making a split decision to spend the night in Nat’s room. More than ever, you miss coming to her when you can’t make sense of yourself. You sit against the headboard, cheeks shining with tears you’re tired of holding back. You hug her pillow to your lap, talking quietly into the empty room. The windows are open, ruffling her curtains and it almost feels like a weight settles beside you on the bed. She’s here in spirit, you know, but it makes you cry harder.

“I miss you so much, Natasha,” you sob, face buried in the pillow as your bottle of red sits forgotten on the nightstand.

You seek out Sam when he’s back from his mission. Bucky and you have spent the past two days awkwardly dancing around one another, never able to hold eye contact before one of you looks away. It’s painful, tearing into your heart like a blade and twisting until you’re gasping for breath.

Sam is in his office, and he waves you in with a grin, though it falters a bit when he takes in your expression.

“I need you, Sam,” you tell him honestly. “Sam the VA counselor, though, not Cap.”

He must see the toll whatever is on your mind is taking on you because any protest he might’ve had dies on his tongue. You tell him everything, your guilt, your feelings for Bucky but the betrayal you feel towards Steve. It sounds like nonsense when you blurt it all out, but Sam seems to make sense of it. Must be the counselor in him.

He understands, he tells you, has seen this coming a mile away and you’re confused.

“It was bound to happen. The two of you share a loss that means a great deal to both of you. It’s natural for you to grow closer over it, to develop feelings. I know you think you’re betraying Steve by loving Bucky, but I assure you, you aren’t. Steve knew what he was doing, and even though he hurt you, he knew you were meant for someone else. Steve wants you to be happy, Y/N, so you need to let yourself be happy. You’ll always have your love for Steve, but you can keep him in your heart and make room for someone else.”

You eye him warily when he pauses. “Why are you all the sudden Bucky’s number one cheerleader?”

Sam huffs. “Look, Tin Man and I might not always get along, but we trust and respect each other. The two of you are my best friends, and I want both of you to be happy. If that’s with each other, I’m all for it. Y’all gonna have to keep the moon eyes on the low, though.”

You laugh wetly, your eyes having brimmed on their own accord with tears of both happiness and sadness. Sadness for letting go of Steve, or starting to, and happiness for having the support of your best friend. He hugs you tightly to him, kisses your temple softly, and wishes you luck.

Bucky’s in the gym, or so FRIDAY tells you, and you make your way there immediately. He’s wailing on a punching bag, hair tied back, and shirtless. Great. As if it wasn’t difficult enough admitting your feelings, you now have to face his Greek-god physique to do it.

He pauses mid-swing when he sees you enter the gym, slows the bag for a moment before his jaw clenches and he resumes his routine. You walk over to him slowly, shyly, feeling nausea bubbling in your stomach. He still doesn’t look at you even as you step up beside the bag.

“Bucky?” you question softly, but still he refuses to look at you. Gritting your teeth, you stop the bag and he just manages to stop his fist mid-jab. He glares hard at you, but you stand firm against the heat of the Winter Soldier. “Bucky.”

“What?” he snaps, whirling away from you to wipe nonexistent sweat from his forehead. He’s nervous, pacing back and forth because he can’t stand still.

“I’m sorry. The other night, I’m sorry,” you plead. Bucky’s pacing pauses and then resumes. You growl quietly. “God, will you stop pacing and listen to me?!”

“Why?” He rounds on you, voice rising in anger, in hurt you realize, and his eyes are blazing. “So you can reject me to my face? No need. I got the picture. Loud and clear.”

He spins away from you, vibranium hand diving into his hair to muss up the bun he’s tied it in.

“That’s not why I’m here,” you tell him thickly. God, you really need to stop crying all the damn time. “I shouldn’t have walked away, Bucky. Not from you. I was scared and confused of what I was feeling for you, what I feel for you.”

Bucky looks at you, finally, and any other words you may have wanted to say die on your tongue. The blue in his eyes is so rich, so bright, it pulls you in as if it has its own orbit. Of their own accord your hands reach up to lay on his bare chest, tiny coarse hairs tickling your palms. Beneath, his heart races, but he doesn’t look away.

Surprisingly, you feel no fear when you whisper, “I love you Bucky. I’m in love with you.”

There’s a moment where you worry, just for a second, but then Bucky’s kissing you and the world seems to right itself. He’s all-encompassing warmth, arms winding tightly around you to haul you up against his chest. You sigh into his mouth and the warm wet of his tongue slides along the seam of your lips. Willingly, you open underneath him, whimper in the back of your throat when he presses harder against you.

Your hands dive into his hair, winding the strands around your fingers and tug gently. He rumbles into your mouth and it brings goosebumps to your skin. His chest is hot against yours, and the longer he kisses you, the more you long to be pressed skin to skin. Your lungs burn, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away just yet. He’s far too addicting, and now that you’ve started, you’re not sure you’ll ever stop.

But he does, pulls away just enough so you can both pull in deep lungfuls of air. A silent conversation passes between you, and then you’re moving, taking the elevator to his floor, and he crowds you into his room. He kisses you softly but deeply, tilting your head back to fully devour you. It leaves your knees weak and you sag against him, brace against his chest to keep yourself upright.

His hands come up to frame your face and he breaks away just an inch.

“Tell me you’re sure, doll,” he whispers hoarsely, eyes wide and shining and so full of need it shakes you.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you reply honestly. You groan when he slams his mouth to yours again, heady and demanding and urging you to bend. You become pliant in his hands, allowing him to strip you away until you’re bare in front of him.

He can’t take his eyes off you, trailing them up and down in slow repetition, as if he can’t believe you’re real. A flush breaks out across your neck and down your chest, and you reach for him. Bucky hisses when your fingers dip into the band of his sweats, jerk down to pool them at his feet. He’s bare underneath, and by god, does he take your breath away.

Your heart pounds as you trace the lines of his body, relishing in his shuddering inhale when you circle his nipples with your nails. Eyes fluttering up to his, you lean forward and trace the same path with your lips, tongue, and teeth. At his sides his fists clench with restraint. He lets you explore his body, knowing he’ll have the chance to do the same.

He chokes on a breath when you lower yourself to your knees, eyes widening at his stiff cock nestled between those sinful thighs. He’s velvet over steel, hot and heavy in your hand when you wrap your fingers around him. He groans, hips jutting forward just a bit, and he thinks he’s going to come when your tongue swipes at his sensitive head, laps at the bead of precum at the tip.

“My my, Bucky,” you taunt, peering up at him from under your lashes. His jaw muscles work as he grits his teeth. “I’ve barely touched you and look at you.”

He nearly chokes on his spit. The mouth on you. A long, low moan rips from his throat when you take him into the heat of your mouth. He thinks he might’ve died and gone to heaven with how perfect you feel around him, taking him inch by inch. White-hot pleasure races through his system, sets his heart to pounding as you take him to the back of your throat and swallow.

“Christ.” His hands fly to your hair, stilling you momentarily, and he thinks you look so goddamn beautiful like this. Mouth stretched around his cock and eyes glistening.

Slowly he guides you back and forth along his length, his hips thrusting into your mouth. Your hands brace on his thighs, nails scraping along the skin, and when you moan around him, he has to pull you off before this is over before it’s even started.

You moan again when he kisses you, relishes in the tang of himself on your tongue. He hoists you into his arms and carries you to his bed. You flop against the pillows and sigh when he cages you in with his massive body. You’re warm, safe, secure, and so utterly in love you think you might cry. Especially when he stares down at you with a loving adoration that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

“Tell me again,” he murmurs, closing his eyes as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Tell me.”

“I love you,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you so much, Bucky.”

He kisses you hard but so full of love it threatens to burst your heart. His metal hand supports his weight as his flesh hand drifts down your body, plies your legs open to find you hot, wet, and ready for him.

“Jesus, doll,” he curses, dipping a finger just inside your opening. You sigh, drop your head back onto the pillow as he learns your body, figures out how to play you like a fiddle. It’s beautiful torture, the slide of his fingers inside you.

When he curls them, you keen at the jolt of pleasure that zings up your spine. “Bucky!”

With a new kind of vigor he brings you to the edge embarrassingly fast, stroking your inner walls until you’re clenching around his digits and seeing stars. He laps at the skin of your neck, finds your pulse point and bites down. Shivers when you moan lowly and reach for him.

“Please, Bucky,” you beg in a broken whisper. Your eyes are hooded in pleasure, a sight he’s not sure he’ll ever forget. “I need you.”

It’s all the reassurance he needs as he grips himself, slides his head through your wet and quivering folds. You shakily inhale and meet Bucky’s eyes when he looks up from where you’re about to be joined.

“I love you,” he declares and sinks inside you in one long thrust. Your mouth drops open and he drops his neck to your neck, gasping at the tight velvet of your cunt as he bottoms out. He has to take a minute to adjust both himself and you, and then he moves.

Bucky’s a softer lover than Steve, but it’s no less all-consuming. He surrounds you, laces his fingers with yours and hikes your legs up around his waist as he pumps a slow but hard rhythm. He could listen to your moans for the rest of his life, taste the salty slick of your skin where your neck meets your shoulder, feel you fluttering around him as you near your peak.

He thrusts harder when the heels of your feet dig into his ass, feeling that burning at the base of his spine. He’s close, but he wants you there with him. He shifts suddenly, sits back on his calves and pulls you into his lap so that you’re pressed chest to chest. You’re breathing the same air as he moves you over his length.

“Look at me, doll,” he moans, leaning forward when you do to kiss you deeply. He arches your hips to grind your clit against his pelvis, and you’re nearly there.

“Bucky, god, please!” you whimper, crying out when his metal hand cups your breast, thumbing over your nipple before it’s engulfed in the heat of his mouth. He laps at it with his tongue, and it sends you reeling, spiraling into oblivion with your mouth open in a silent scream.

He comes right behind you, a long groan of your name as he stutters his hips and spills inside you. It’s a long come down for the both of you. He lowers you gently to your back, drawing a hiss from you as he slips out of you. Immediately he pulls you into him, tucking your head under his chin and tightening his arms around you.

It’s quiet between you for a while, basking in the glow of your lovemaking.

“You think he knew?” you ask sometime later. Bucky’s trailing fingers on your spine pause and then continue. “When he was leaving, what would happen between us?”

Bucky sighs through his nose before nuzzling it against your hair. “I feel like that punk knew a lot he didn’t let everyone in on.”

You giggle. “He was wise in his old age, wasn’t he?”

“Careful, doll, you’re talking to a fossil, here,” he chides playfully. You lean back to look up at him.

“My fossil,” you murmur, pushing forward to press your lips to his. He hums contently.

“Always been yours, doll.”

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