#heavy metal recycling | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

softlypossessive · 3 days ago

Text

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Lead By Example 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Trafalgar Law x gn!reader (pre-relationship) ♡ Warnings: Snarky/dark-humored reader, kusarigama-wielder (no fight scenes here, reader just carries it around), quiet emotional intimacy, late-night tension, mutual insomnia, mutual pining, heavy banter, dimly lit library vibes, slow burn energy ♡ WC: ~2k ♡ Notes: I didn’t want to default to the usual sunshine-soft pairing Law often gets (as much as I love that dynamic), so I tried something with a sharper edge. This reader’s a little more serious, kind of snarky, and carries a kusarigama like it’s part of their spine—but I still wanted it to feel like a reader insert rather than a full OC. I’m not always confident with banter writing, so fingers crossed it flows okay. It ended up more tender than I expected, but honestly? I think Law needed that.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The Polar Tang’s library was a cramped little haven carved into the submarine’s steel skeleton, a rare pocket of quiet at 1:00 AM when the crew was dead to the world.

No creaking wood here—just the low hum of machinery thrumming through the hull, the occasional metallic groan as pressure shifted outside, and the faint clank of pipes settling.

A single lantern dangled from a bolted bracket, its amber glow washing over shelves stuffed with medical texts, charts, and a few battered novels Bepo probably smuggled in. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, rust, and that sharp tang of recycled oxygen.

You’d claimed a rickety chair hours ago, one leg kicked up on a crate, your kusarigama hooked at your hip—chain coiled tight, sickle gleaming like a promise of trouble.

You were slogging through a medical journal on regenerative cell theory, eyes glazing over, when you felt him before you saw him.

Soft boots on metal, a shift in the stale air, that heavy presence Trafalgar D. Law hauled around like a loaded gun.

You didn’t look up.

“Late night again, huh?” he said, voice rough, scraped raw from too little sleep and too much coffee.

You flicked a page, smirking.

“Look who’s talking, Captain. You stalking me now?” He stepped closer, boots scuffing the deck.

“Noticed you weren’t in your bunk,” he shot back, dry as bone.

“What, you doing bed checks?” you said, finally glancing up, brow arched.

“Keeping tabs on my crew,” he corrected, sharp and fast, like he’d been waiting for that jab.

He loomed there, framed by the hatchway, all loose black sweats and an unzipped hoodie, no shirt—tattoos stark against lean muscle, shadows cutting across his collarbone. His hair was a disaster, dark strands jutting out like he’d wrestled with it and lost, and those gray eyes, rimmed in exhaustion, pinned you with that infuriating mix of menace and calm.

“Can’t sleep either, I take it?” you said, leaning back, letting your kusarigama’s chain clink against your thigh.

“Obviously,” he muttered, crossing his arms.

You nodded at the chair across from you, its faded upholstery patched with mismatched thread

“Sit, then. I won’t rat you out.” He eyed it, then you, before dropping into it with a grunt, legs sprawling like he owned the damn place.

The lantern swayed faintly, light bouncing off the riveted walls. You went back to your book, pretending to read.

“You’re gonna crash if you keep this up,” you said, casual but pointed, eyes on the page.

“Funny, I was about to say the same to you,” he fired back, voice dripping with that smug edge he wielded like a blade.

You snorted, flipping a page you hadn’t even skimmed.

“I’m not the one holding this crew together. You go down, we’re fucked. Lead by example, Captain.”

The hum of the sub filled the silence, a low drone underscoring the weight of your words. He didn’t bite back right away, just let it hang.

“You think they’d follow me that far?” he asked after a beat, quieter, like he was testing you.

You met his stare, gray clashing with yours in the dim glow.

“Think? No. I know they would. I would.” His eyes narrowed, searching your face—maybe for bullshit, maybe for something else.

The silence stretched, thick with the clank of a distant pipe and the faint buzz of the lantern’s filament.

He shifted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“That’s a hell of a bet,” he said, voice low, dry.

“Not a bet if it’s a sure thing,” you countered, smirking just enough to rile him.

He huffed—a ghost of a laugh—and you caught the flicker of it in his eyes before he masked it. You closed the book with a snap, tossing it onto the crate.

“Medical alchemy crap. Boring as shit,” you said, stretching your arms until your shoulders popped, kusarigama swaying at your hip.

His gaze tracked the motion, lingering on the weapon’s glint, then up to your face.

“You’re still reading it,” he pointed out, deadpan.

“Masochism’s my specialty,” you shot back, grinning.

“Explains why you’re still awake talking to me,” he said, and there it was—banter with teeth, sharp enough to cut.

You stood, pacing the tight space, the chain of your kusarigama rattling against your leg.

“You’re one to talk, caffeine fiend. Those bags under your eyes got bags.”

He leaned back, arms crossed, watching you move.

“And you’re a ray of sunshine, huh?”

“Only when I’m annoying you,” you said, stopping to lean against a shelf, facing him.

“Which is always,” he muttered, but his lips twitched, betraying him.

“Good. Keeps you sharp,” you said, tapping the sickle’s handle at your hip.

He didn’t argue, just kept staring, like he was peeling you apart layer by layer.

“You don’t have to play lone wolf all the time,” you said, softer now, cutting through the snark.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“That a suggestion or an order?”

“Take it how you want, Law. Just saying—you matter more than you think.”

The words landed heavier than you meant, and his jaw tightened, just a flicker, before he smoothed it over.

“You’re full of shit,” he said, but there was no venom in it—more like he was testing how far you’d push.

“And you’re a stubborn asshole,” you replied, stepping closer, close enough that the lantern threw your shadow over him.

“Rest sometime, yeah? Don’t make me chain you to your bunk.”

He smirked, faint but real.

“You’d like that too much.”

“Maybe,” you said, matching his grin, then turned for the hatch.

“Night, Captain.”

“Night,” he called after you, voice lingering as you slipped out, the metal clang of the hatch shutting behind you.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Law stayed put, slouched in that shitty chair, staring at the spot you’d been. The library felt colder now. Urgh, what a load of crap.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. You’d gotten under his skin, and he hated it—hated how your words stuck, how that damn kusarigama of yours glinted like it was mocking him every time you moved.

He’d noticed it again tonight, hooked at your hip like an extension of you, all fluid menace and style.

He didn’t touch it—wouldn’t, not when it was yours—but he’d thought about it, the weight of it, the way you swung it like breathing. Fuck, he was losing it.

He stood, pacing the tight space, boots scuffing the deck.

The sub groaned, metal flexing under pressure, a reminder of where they were—trapped in this steel coffin, chasing a fight they might not win.

Lead by example.

What a joke.

He wasn’t some shining beacon. He was a bastard with a plan and a crew dumb enough to follow it. But you’d said it like you meant it, like you’d seen something he hadn’t.

He stopped, leaning against the desk, staring at the hatch.

You’d left, but he could still feel you—the weight of your stare, that smart-ass mouth. He muttered a curse, low and vicious, and sank back into the chair. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You were back in your bunk, sprawled out, kusarigama propped against the wall within arm’s reach—never out of sight, never left behind.

The room was a steel box, bare except for a locker and a porthole showing nothing but black water. The sub’s hum vibrated through the mattress, steady, relentless.

You couldn’t shake him—Law’s tired eyes, that half-smirk when you��d pushed his buttons, the way he’d gone quiet when you’d said he mattered.

Asshole.

Why’d he have to look at you like that, all guarded and raw, like he didn’t know what to do with you?

You rolled over, glaring at the ceiling.

You weren’t some lovesick idiot.

He was your captain, a cold-blooded prick who’d cut out his own heart if it got in his way. But you’d follow him into hell, and that’s what pissed you off most—not the loyalty, but how it twisted something deeper, made you notice dumb shit like the ink on his skin, the way his voice dropped when he was too tired to hide.

You punched the pillow, muttering, “Fuck off, Law,” to the empty room, and shut your eyes.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Next night, you were in the library again. Same lantern, same chair, different book—surgical logs, bloodier and less bullshit than the last. The hatch creaked, and there he was, same sweats, same hoodie, same shirtless crap that made your pulse kick despite yourself.

“You’re predictable,” he said, dropping into the chair across from you.

“Says the guy who keeps showing up,” you shot back, not looking up.

“Touché,” he muttered, slouching like he was daring the chair to break.

“Still can’t sleep?” you asked, flipping a page.

“Still nosy?” he countered, voice dry.

You smirked.

“It’s my job to keep you honest.”

“You’re shit at it,” he said, but there was a spark in his eyes, a challenge.

“And you’re shit at resting,” you fired back, closing the book. “We’re a pair.”

He snorted, leaning forward.

“A pair of what?”

“Idiots, apparently,” you said, standing, kusarigama clinking as you moved.

His gaze flicked to it, then back to you.

“You ever put that thing down?”

“Not when I might need to whip your ass into shape,” you said, grinning.

He stood too, stepping closer, cutting the space between you.

“Keep dreaming,” he said, voice low, teasing.

“You’re the one who can’t stay away,” you replied, holding his stare.

The hum of the sub faded, the air tightening.

“Maybe I like the view,” he said, and it wasn’t just banter anymore.

You laughed, sharp and quick, breaking it.

“Smooth, Captain.”

“I try,” he said, smirking, and you both let it drop, the tension simmering but unspoken.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The third night, he found you on deck instead.

The library had felt too small, too warm, so you’d taken your brooding outside, leaning against the railing with the sea stretching endless and black around you.

The air was cool, salted, the stars sharp overhead. Your kusarigama dangled from your hand, chain swaying with the ship’s motion.

Law appeared beside you, silent as a shadow, hands in his pockets.

“Not the library,” he said, voice rough from disuse.

“Change of pace,” you replied, not looking at him.

He leaned against the railing too, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. The wind tugged at his hair, his hoodie, and you caught the faint scent of him—ink, antiseptic, something sharper underneath.

“You’re predictable,” he said after a while.

“Says the guy who shows up every night,” you countered, twirling the sickle absently.

He didn’t laugh, but his silence felt amused. You stood there together, the sea lapping at the hull, the quiet stretching long and easy.

“You ever stop?” he asked eventually, voice low, serious.

“Stop what?”

“Worrying about me.”

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the night sky.

“You ever stop giving me reasons to?”

He didn’t answer, just looked out at the water, jaw tight.

You sighed, letting the kusarigama’s chain clink against the railing.

“You’re a stubborn bastard, Law.”

“Takes one to know one,” he said, and this time he turned, meeting your eyes.

The space between you shrank, not physically but in every other way, the air humming with something unspoken.

You could’ve pushed, could’ve said more, but you didn’t. Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light, deliberate.

“Lead by example,” you murmured.

He didn’t reply, but his hand brushed yours on the railing, fleeting, intentional.

And for once, he didn’t pull away.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

88 notes · View notes

thatgiraffefromtlou · 5 months ago

Text

The Aurora Project

(part 1)

paring: ellie williams x fem!reader(ish?)

summary: as a result of a malfunction, you and ellie awaken from cryosleep aboard a spaceship with no memory. will you find evidence that you’re more than just shipmates? something to give reason to your nagging familiarity to the stranger you wake up next to?

warnings: eventual explicit language, potential for smut in later chapters (depending), close description of the start of a panic attack? maybe? idk that’s what mine feels like. uh cringy teasing idk- lmk if there’s more this is pretty tame-

A/N: ellie loves space, we love ellie, why now combine the two? i’m really gonna try my best to finish this one. because it’s not in the tlou universe i don’t have to match naughtydogs pacing in the games (like i do with my other DYHMN) and can make up my own so it won’t be such a long story! still long and definitely slow burn tho!

work count: 2.6K

– Chapter one –

The hiss of escaping air pierced the silence, a sharp and startling sound that jolted you from your dreamless slumber. Your eyes snapped open, your vision blurry and unfocused, struggling to adjust to the dim light that surrounded you. The metallic taste of cryosleep lingered on your tongue, a bitter reminder of your long suspension. You gasped, drawing in your first conscious breath in what felt like an eternity, the cool air burning your lungs as if you'd forgotten how to breathe.

Disoriented, you fumbled with the release mechanism of your pod, your fingers clumsy and uncooperative. The smooth, cold surface of the controls felt alien under your touch. As the glass canopy finally slid open with a soft whoosh, the chill of the ship's recycled air kissed your skin, causing goosebumps to ripple across your body in its wake. The sensation was both uncomfortable and oddly invigorating, a stark contrast to the numbness of your suspended state.

Your muscles protested vehemently as you pushed yourself up with a groan, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Every fiber of your being ached, as if you'd run a marathon in your sleep. "Where... where am I?" you mumbled to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper, hoarse and dry from disuse. The words felt strange in your mouth, your tongue thick and unresponsive.

The low emergency lights cast an eerie red glow across the vast expanse of the cryobay, creating long, ominous shadows that danced along the walls as they flashed. Your gaze, still adjusting to consciousness, slowly scanned the room, taking in the surreal scene before you. Lines of pods, seemingly endless in number, filled the space, each containing a silent, motionless figure. The dim white light emanating from within the pods created a strange, almost ethereal contrast to the blinking of the red emergency lights, giving the entire bay an otherworldly atmosphere.

As your mind gradually cleared, you slowly started to realize the gravity of your situation. You'd woken from your cryosleep, but why? A small panic began to creep through your chest, its icy tallons wrapping around your heart. Your head swam, an almost floaty feeling overtaking you as you grappled with your new reality. The disconnect between your last conscious memory and your current situation was jarring, leaving you feeling untethered and lost.

You forced yourself to take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your racing heart and clear the fog from your mind. With great effort, you struggled to slide out of your pod, every muscle in your body aching and pleading you to stop. The simple act of movement felt like an insurmountable task, your limbs heavy and uncooperative. You had no idea how long it had been since you'd last used your muscles, but from the way they felt - weak, stiff, and painfully sore - and the way your throat was begging for water, parched and raw, you'd say it had been a pretty significant amount of time. Months? Years? The uncertainty only added to your growing anxiety.

With trembling legs, you finally managed to get on your feet, immediately reaching out to hold onto the edge of your pod for support. The cool metal under your fingers provided only a small measure of comfort. "Hello?" you called out, your voice cracking, barely louder than before. Your heart raced, pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. The sound of your own voice echoing in the vast, silent chamber only intensified your feeling of isolation.

There was no response to your call; all you were met with was the low, persistent hum of the machines around you, the sound of your own panicked breathing, loud in the oppressive silence, and the whoosh of your heart beat in your ears. The lack of any human presence or activity only heightened your sense of unease. Slowly, carefully, you turned your head, your gaze falling upon the pod next to yours. To your surprise and relief, its occupant was stirring, showing signs of life amidst the previous stillness.

A woman with dark auburn hair struggled with the release mechanism of her pod, mirroring your own recent experience. Her movements were just as sluggish and uncoordinated as yours had been. You turned your body, every movement still an effort, and slowly walked around to stand at the foot of her pod. Your progress was painfully slow, each step deliberate as you used the edges of the pods for support, your legs still unsteady beneath you.

As you watched, the glass canopy of her pod slid open with a soft hiss, a type of misty fog slowly spilling out, curling and dissipating in the air. The woman inside sat up, her movements jerky and uncertain. As she looked around, her expression mirrored the confusion you felt, a mix of disorientation and growing alarm evident in her features.

"Are you alright?" you asked, your voice still rough but gaining strength. The woman turned at the sound, your words seeming to bring her down from her disoriented state. Her green eyes, bright and alert despite the lingering effects of cryosleep, met yours. As your gazes locked, a flicker of recognition flooded your brain, quick and elusive. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, quickly replaced by uncertainty and a nagging sense that you should know this person, even though you couldn't place how or why.

"I... I think so," the woman replied, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her voice was as dry and raspy as yours had been, another testament to the long period of disuse. She cleared her throat, the sound harsh in the quiet of the cryobay, before she spoke again. "I'm Dr. Williams. At least, that's what my pod says." She motioned to the foot of her pod, where a nameplate was clearly visible. Her eyes, however, held a mix of confusion and frustration as she continued, "But I can't... I can't remember anything else." She shook her head in defeat, her dark hair falling around her face, adding to her disheveled appearance.

The admission sent a chill down your spine. It wasn't just you, then. The realization that you weren't alone in your confusion was both comforting and alarming.

Your breath caught in your throat as the implications of her words sank in. "I'm…" you began, then paused, suddenly unsure. You looked over to your nameplate at the foot of your pod, reading the name etched there. You gave the woman your name, but your tone was questioning, uncertain, as if you were trying the sound of it for the first time. Your eyes found hers again as you spoke, searching for any sign of recognition or familiarity. "But I don't remember much either," you admitted, the words leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

There was a heavy pause as you both looked around the cryo bank, taking in the rows upon rows of occupied pods, the blinking lights, and the humming silence. A deeper sense of panic began to fill your chest, more intense than before. The enormity of the situation was starting to sink in - you were awake, with no memory, on what appeared to be a massive ship, with potentially hundreds or thousands of others still in cryosleep. "Are we the only ones… awake…?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words too loudly might make the situation more real, more terrifying.

The woman looked back at you, her expression a mixture of hesitation and uncertainty. "I'm not sure... I think so..." she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. There was a prolonged pause as you both continued to search the room with your eyes, desperately seeking any clue that might shed light on your situation. "But why...?" she finally asked, voicing the question that had been echoing in your own mind. Why? And not just why, but how? How did you end up here, in this unfamiliar place, with gaps in your memory?

You strain to recall your last clear memory, the one that stood out the most was only a fleeting image. A brief flash of signing a document. The paper, you remembered, was meant to secure you the very pod from which you had just awakened. But the reasons behind your signature and your intended destination remained frustratingly elusive. Along with most of your past experiences, these crucial details seemed to have vanished from your mind.

It was as if your brain had undergone a selective wipe, retaining only the information necessary for basic survival. Perhaps even the lessons your experiences had taught you remained, but the experiences themselves had faded away like morning mist. You couldn't help but wonder: Was this a common side effect of cryo sleep? Had the people who placed you in this state warned you about potential memory loss? If so, those warnings were now lost to you as well. How long would this amnesia last? Would your memories ever fully return?

These questions swirled in your mind, each one giving birth to a dozen more, creating a dizzying spiral of uncertainty and confusion. You felt yourself being pulled deeper into this mental whirlpool, losing touch with your immediate surroundings.

Suddenly, the woman called out your name, her voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts like a knife. Your head snapped back to face her, the motion so quick it left you slightly disoriented. As your eyes met hers, you experienced a flooding sensation of familiarity again, a feeling that dissipated as quickly as it had come. The constant ebb and flow of recognition was both frustrating and deeply unsettling. In an attempt to regain your composure, you shook your head, as if trying to physically dislodge the confusion. "Sorry, yeah... I don't know..." you managed to stammer out, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

For what felt like an eternity, the two of you stood there, locked in a mutual gaze. Neither of you seemed capable of finding the right words to break the heavy silence that had settled between you. The atmosphere was thick with tension, your nerves on edge as you both continued to search each other's faces for any sign of recognition or understanding. Finally, the woman spoke, her voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "Help me out of this thing?" she asked, gesturing to her cryo pod.

You nodded silently, moving to assist her. However, as you reached out, you quickly realized that you weren't in much better shape yourself. Your muscles, still sluggish from the prolonged period of inactivity, protested against even this simple movement. Despite your best efforts, you found yourself offering little more than moral support as she struggled to extricate herself from the pod.

As she finally managed to step out, her hand inadvertently brushed against yours. The brief contact sent an unexpected jolt through your body, an inexplicable warmth spreading from the point of contact and radiating through your chest. Instinctively, your eyes snapped up to meet hers, half-expecting to see a face you'd known your entire life. Instead, you were met with the same mix of confusion and intrigue that you felt mirrored in your own expression. The familiarity of the sensation contrasted sharply with the stranger's face before you, adding another layer to the frustration of your situation.

"We need to figure out what's going on," the woman declared after a moment, her voice carrying a forced confidence that barely masked her underlying uncertainty. You found yourself nodding in agreement once more, still reeling from the unexpected warmth that her simple touch had evoked. It was as if your body remembered something your mind had forgotten, a connection that transcended your current state of confusion.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you took a step back and began to survey your surroundings more thoroughly. Your eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of an exit. The woman seemed to have the same idea, her gaze darting from one corner of the room to another. Without exchanging words, you both began to move away from your pods, heading in the same direction down a long corridor lined with other cryo units. You could only hope that this path would lead you to some answers, or at the very least, a way out of this situation.

As you walked side by side, a thought suddenly surfaced in your mind. "Dr. Williams?" you ventured, turning to look at the woman. She responded with a soft hum, indicating that she was listening. You hesitated for a moment, your eyes dropping to your feet before meeting hers again. "What's your first name? If you can remember, I mean. Might be easier than Dr. Williams..." You trailed off, feeling somewhat awkward about the question.

To your surprise, she let out a soft chuckle. The sound was strangely familiar, sending a small rush of heat to your cheeks. Why was everything about this woman so familiar, so intimately known to you, yet simultaneously foreign? Like smelling something outside in the wind and feeling the emotions attached to that smell, only to not be able to put your finger on what and why. The feeling was tantalizingly close, hovering just at the edge of recognition, like a word on the tip of your tongue. And only sometimes were you blessed with the epiphany of what that smell was, days or even weeks later, that would strike without warning, bringing with it a flood of understanding and the satisfying click of pieces falling into place. "Ellie," she replied, a smile playing on her lips as she watched for your reaction. Your brow furrowed slightly as you processed this information. "You remember that, or was it on the pod?" you asked, unable to keep a hint of teasing disbelief from your voice. After all, you had awakened first, yet she seemed to be recovering her memories more quickly.

Ellie's smile widened, taking on a slightly sheepish quality. "It was on the pod," she admitted, "but it feels right now that I've said it out loud." You nodded, understanding the sentiment. "Ellie..." you repeated, testing the name on your tongue. It yet again felt familiar, comfortable, as if you had said it countless times before.

As the two of you continued your search for an exit from the bay, you couldn't shake the persistent feeling that there was more to your relationship than simply being shipmates or colleagues. The ease of your interactions, the inexplicable warmth you felt in her presence, and the nagging sense of familiarity – it all pointed to a deeper connection. These sensations were too intense, too immediate to be explained by a chance meeting between strangers.

Your eyes drifted to the viewports lining the corridor, taking in the vast expanse of space beyond. The cosmos stretched out infinitely, a silent witness to the mysteries of your past and the uncertainties of your future. As you gazed at the star-studded blackness, you couldn't help but wonder what other secrets it held. What events had led you to this moment? What purpose had brought you to this ship, drifting through the endless void? And most intriguingly, what role did Ellie play in your forgotten past?

The questions multiplied with each step you took, but answers remained frustratingly out of reach. You glanced at Ellie, noticing that she too seemed lost in thought, her brow furrowed in concentration. Perhaps together, you could unravel the enigma of your shared circumstances. For now, all you could do was press forward, hoping that somewhere in this vast ship, you would find the key to unlocking your memories and understanding her true purpose in your life.

part 2:

A/N: lmk if so if u wanna be in the tag list!

#ellie williams #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams the last of us #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams × reader

216 notes · View notes

maddie0101 · 27 days ago

Text

the space between us

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it nonny! ❤︎

summary: you’ve been spiraling for a while and bellamy’s done watching from the sidelines. but when a spacewalk goes wrong, buried truths come crashing to the surface, and neither of you can ignore it anymore.

warnings: kane!reader, set in between s4 & s5, takes place on the ring, feelings of emptiness, depression!, grief, jealousy, worried!bellamy, reader is self destructive, mentions of suicidal thoughts/tendancies, sad fic with happy ending, arguing, angry love confessions!, idiots in love, cussing, starts out pretty gloomy but emotions are all over the place for these two, I promise the end it worth it.

word count: 7.6k (someone plz stop me)

notes: please do not read if this will affect your mental health. reader and bell go from enemies -> best friends -> enemies ish -> lovers. I don’t want to give too much of it away before you guys read, but the reader is dealing with grief. if you ever need anyone to talk to please don’t hesitate to send me a message :)

Space is cold.

It burrows into your bones like ice, coils tight in your gut like a viper ready to strike, and anchors itself in your chest.

It’s not just sadness, it’s grief, thick and suffocating, pressing against your ribs, stealing the breath from your lungs. You wonder if this is what drowning feels like--Not in water, but in silence.

A vast, endless silence that stretches beyond the ring, beyond the stars, beyond anything you can escape. The weight of it crushes you, fills your veins like lead, until even the air around you feels too thin, too fragile, too empty to keep you afloat.

You don’t know how to live with this kind of emptiness. Every breath feels too heavy, like your lungs are filling with lead instead of air. Every step echoes too loudly in the hollow corridors, like the station itself is reminding you just how alone you really are.

You have friends here, sure. Bellamy, Raven, Monty, Harper, Murphy, Echo. But it doesn’t matter. Not really...because one of the people you loved most in this world is gone.

Clarke is gone.

And it hits you like a knife to the gut every single time.

There are moments, cruel small moments where you forget. Where your mind tricks you into believing she’s still here. That if you turn your head fast enough, you’ll see Clarke standing next to you, rolling her eyes at something you said, or giving you that soft, knowing look that meant she understood you better than anyone ever could.

Clarke Griffin had been a part of you for as long as you could remember.

You grew up together on the Ark, side by side through every scraped knee and whispered secret.

When you were kids, you used to sneak through the maintenance tunnels, daring each other to go further, to take more risks, to push the limits of the world you were trapped in. You swore that one day, you’d escape together, that somehow, you’d find a way to live beyond cold metal walls and recycled air.

But you never imagined that escape would come in the form of a drop ship crashing down to Earth, that survival would mean war and blood and impossible choices. But even then, through all the chaos, you had Clarke. She was your constant, your best friend, your family when the world refused to be kind.

And now she was gone.

You still catch yourself turning to look for her, expecting to find her standing beside you, arms crossed, expression unreadable as she weighed every decision like the world depended on it, because, most of the time, it did.

But there’s nothing there anymore, just empty space.

You remember the way she trusted you, even when no one else did. The way she argued with you, pushed you to be better, made you believe in things you never thought possible.

And now she’s just gone.

The grief is unbearable. It’s a sharp, endless ache that settles deep in your chest, suffocating and inescapable. It keeps you awake at night, staring at the ceiling of the Ark, wondering if she suffered, if she was afraid, if she thought of you in those final moments.

You hate that you left her behind. You hate that you listened when she told you to go, to save yourself. You hate that you couldn’t find a way to save her.

Because now, for the first time in your life, you have to face this world alone.

And you don’t know how.

You had Clarke, you had your dad, and you had Bellamy, but now you have nobody.

Your father had always been a pillar of strength in your life. Marcus Kane, the man who had raised you with steady hands and a quiet kind of love. He wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but he was there. Even when he was forced to be more of a leader than a father, even when his duty to the Ark overshadowed his duty to you, you always knew he cared. You saw it in the way he softened when he spoke to you, in the way his voice lost its usual edge when he said your name.

And now you have no idea if he’s even still alive.

The thought destroys you. He’s down there, somewhere, trapped in a bunker deep beneath the earth, buried under rock and rubble.

You don’t know if he’s okay.

You don’t know if he has food, if he has air, if he’s even still breathing. The last time you saw him, he was fighting, surviving, but that was six months ago.

And six months is a long time.

You tell yourself he’s fine. He’s your dad, after all. He’s always been stubborn, always found a way to make it through. But doubt creeps in, curling around your ribs.

What if something went wrong? What if the bunker collapsed? What if you never see him again?

You can’t even send a message. Can’t hear his voice. Can’t tell him that you’re okay, that you made it, that you’re still up here breathing while he’s buried underground.

And it fucking kills you.

The doubt eats at you and the not knowing is unbearable.

And now, Bellamy is all you have left. At least, you thought you had him.

The two of you didn’t start off as friends. Far from it. Bellamy was reckless, arrogant, and dead set on ruling the camp with his bullshit “Whatever the hell we want” mantra. You saw it as chaos, and you had enough of that in your life already. Clarke had been the only one thinking straight, and you backed her up every single time, standing beside her, arguing against Bellamy, calling him out on his idiotic choices.

And God, did that piss him off.

The two of you would go toe to toe, screaming in each other’s faces until your throats were raw. He was infuriating. Stubborn. Impossible. And yet, somewhere in the middle of all those heated fights, things shifted. One day, you just… stopped. Not because either of you won, but because the war between you was exhausting. You had bigger enemies than each other.

So, you called a truce. Agreed to be civil.

Somewhere along the way, civility turned into friendship. Then you became best friends.

Bellamy became the person you didn’t even realize you needed.

You’d stay up late, lying in the grass, staring at the stars, talking about everything and nothing. You’d argue, but this time, it wasn’t about power or control, it was about books, about history, about whether a hot meal was worth trading for extra rations. He had your back in every fight, through every nightmare, through every horror you endured on the ground and you had his.

It wasn’t even a question. Bellamy Blake was your person.

But the problem was, you were in love with him.

You don’t know when it started, not exactly. Maybe it was the way he shielded you with his own body when things went to hell. Maybe it was the way his voice softened when he said your name, like you were something worth protecting. Maybe it was how he challenged you, how he saw you, how he could piss you off one second and make you laugh the next.

Or maybe you were just doomed from the start.

Bellamy was beautiful, always had been. That much, you could admit, but it infuriated you at first, watching him flirt, watching different women disappear into his tent for the night.

You told yourself you didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, but you hated it. Hated the way jealousy coiled hot and ugly inside you. Hated how you’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what it would be like to have him that way. To be the one he wanted.

But he never saw you like that. Not really.

Sure, he flirted sometimes, but Bellamy flirted with everyone. It was just who he was. And you weren’t about to fool yourself into thinking you were special.

And now, watching him grow closer to Echo, you know for sure you’ve lost him.

It’s different with her. It’s not just flirting. It’s not just meaningless glances or teasing smirks. It’s real. You see it in the way they talk, the way he looks at her, the way he lets her in and it breaks you. It shatters something deep in your chest, something you barely had a hold on to begin with.

Bellamy doesn’t talk to you the way he used to. Not anymore. Not like before, when the two of you would sit shoulder to shoulder, whispering in the dark, the silence of space stretching around you like your own little world. Not like before, when he’d seek you out first, when you’d catch him staring at you across the room, when he’d smirk at you like you were the only one who understood the joke.

Now, he’s with her.

Now, when you walk into a room, he’s already there—already talking to her and when he finally looks at you, it’s not the same.

He still cares, you know that. But there’s a distance now, something thick and unspoken between you and maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you pulled away first, maybe you built the wall between you before he even had the chance. But it doesn’t matter, because now it’s there, and it’s suffocating you.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That you don’t care. That you knew this would happen, that you always knew he’d move on, that he’d find someone else, that he’d never, never look at you the way you’ve spent years looking at him.

But it hurts. It hurts like nothing else ever has.

And maybe that’s the worst part—because you thought losing Clarke was the thing that would break you. You thought losing your father would be the thing to finally push you over the edge. But this...watching the one person you still have left slip through your fingers without even noticing—this is the thing that kills you.

First Clarke. Then your father. And now, him.

You have nothing left. Nothing but the void of space, the weight of grief, and a slow, suffocating sense that maybe, just maybe, you don’t even care if you make it through this anymore.

So you stop caring.

It’s not dramatic, not some grand, self-destructive decision. It’s quieter than that. A slow unraveling, thread by thread, until one day you wake up and realize you don’t give a shit what happens to you.

It starts small. Skipping meals because food supplies are limited and someone else needs it more. Telling yourself it’s noble, that it’s selfless, that it doesn’t matter if you eat or not. But the truth is, you just don’t care. You don’t feel hunger the way you used to, it’s dulled, just like everything else. The ache in your stomach is just another sensation you’ve learned to ignore, another part of you that feels hollow.

Staying up through the night, taking extra shifts because sleep is pointless. When you close your eyes, all you see is Clarke’s face, hear her voice like an echo trapped inside your skull. It’s easier to stay awake, to keep moving, to let exhaustion press down on you like a weight. The burn in your muscles, the heaviness in your limbs—it’s almost comforting.

Proof that you’re still here, still breathing. Still fighting, even if you don’t know why.

Volunteering for maintenance in the oxygen garden, even when the air is thick and stifling, clogging your lungs and making your head spin. You push through it, let the dizziness wash over you without stopping. The others take breaks, stepping outside to gulp in fresher air, but you stay. You work until your hands are raw, until sweat drips down your back and your vision blurs at the edges.

Until someone forces you to stop. “You’re running yourself into the ground,” he Bellamy mutters when you pass him in the hallway, his eyes flicking over your tired frame.

You shrug. “Nothing else to do.”

His frown deepens, but you don’t give him the chance to say more, you just keep walking.

The next time, it’s when you skip another meal, pushing your tray away without touching it. Bellamy’s sitting across from you, arms crossed over his chest, watching. “You gonna eat, or just sit there and pretend you don’t need food like the rest of us?”

“Not hungry,” you say, just like before. Just like always.

“That’s bullshit.”

You glance up, meet his stare, feel the weight of it pressing down on you. You know he’s waiting for you to crack, to get mad, to argue back--but you don’t. You just stand up and walk away, leaving the untouched food behind.

But It keeps happening.

“Get some sleep, you look like hell.”

“You’re working yourself to death.”

“Do you even hear yourself anymore?”

Each time, you brush him off. A shrug, a muttered response, a look that dares him to push harder. But he doesn’t—not yet. Not fully. He just watches. Studies you. And you can feel it, the weight of his concern, the way it coils between you like a rope pulled too tight, ready to snap. It lingers in every glance, every clipped conversation, every moment you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow you across the room.

But you don’t stop.

You take the worst shifts, the ones no one wants, the ones that leave your hands shaking and your body aching. You push yourself harder, longer, testing your limits just to see if you still have any. The exhaustion, the hunger, the strain—it doesn’t matter.

None of it does.

The exhaustion barely registers anymore. You wear it like a second skin, let it settle into your bones, into the spaces grief hollowed out. Sleep is a distant memory, hunger nothing more than an afterthought. Your hands shake sometimes, but it doesn’t matter.

None of it fucking matters.

“We’ve got a problem.” Raven's words pull you back into the present, though barely. You stand near the console, arms crossed, waiting. It’s always something. Something breaking, something failing, something threatening to kill you all.

“What kind of problem?” Bellamy asks, stepping in beside Raven.

“External panel’s shot,” she says, frustration clear in her voice. “Coupling’s failing. If we don’t fix it, we’re looking at a full systems failure.”

It clicks instantly, an EVA. Someone has to go outside. “I’ll do it,” you say, stepping forward before anyone else can speak.

Bellamy reacts immediately, like he was waiting for you to pull this exact kind of shit. “No,” he snaps, eyes flashing. “Not happening.”

You don’t even look at him. “Raven can’t do it,” you say, voice cold, detached. “Her leg—”

“I can still—” Raven starts, but you cut her off.

“You can’t,” you say sharply, turning to her. “You know you can’t.”

Raven hesitates. She hates it, hates admitting that she has limits now, but she doesn’t argue. She knows you’re right.

“I was training to be a zero-g mechanic before I got arrested,” you continue, gaze flicking back to Bellamy. “That means I’m next in line.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he says, stepping closer, voice low and furious. “We’ll find another way.”

“There is no other way.”

“You’re not going out there.”

You stare at him, jaw tightening. “Yes, I am.”

His hands flex at his sides, like he’s physically restraining himself from grabbing you, shaking some sense into you. His voice drops even lower, barely more than a growl. “You’re not doing this.”

But then Raven sighs, running a hand through her hair. “She’s right.”

Bellamy’s head snaps toward her. “Raven—”

“As much as I hate it,” Raven says, glaring at you like she wants to punch you for putting her in this position, “she’s the best option we’ve got.”

That should be the end of it, decision made. But Bellamy is still looking at you like you just threw yourself out the airlock. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, quieter now, but no less intense.

You hold his gaze. “Yeah. I do.” You mutter before you turn on your heel and walk away. No more arguing. No more justifying. You don’t look back, don’t slow down, don’t give Bellamy or Raven a chance to say anything else.

Bellamy stands there, frozen, watching you disappear down the corridor. His chest feels too tight, like all the oxygen’s been sucked from the ring.

“She’s not okay,” Raven mutters, breaking the silence.

Bellamy’s jaw clenches. “Yeah, no shit.” His voice is sharp, but it’s not aimed at her. He’s pissed at himself, pissed at you, pissed at the situation they’re stuck in.

“She’s been different,” Raven continues, arms crossed as she shakes her head. “Ever since we lost Clarke, ever since—” She stops herself, but they both know what she means. Ever since you started pulling away, throwing yourself into danger like it’s the only thing keeping you standing.

Bellamy exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve tried, Raven. I’ve tried talking to her, tried getting through to her, but she just—” He swallows hard, glancing down the hall like he could still catch a glimpse of you. “She shuts me out. Every damn time.”

Raven sighs. “You think I don’t know that? She’s been shutting everyone out. But Bellamy—she doesn’t care what happens to her.”

His stomach twists at the words. He knows it. He’s known it for a while, but hearing Raven say it out loud makes it feel too real.

“She’s not just being reckless,” Raven continues. “She’s self-destructing.”

Bellamy turns to her, eyes dark with frustration and something that looks dangerously close to fear. “And we’re just supposed to let her?”

Raven gives him a look. “You think I want this? You think I don’t hate it just as much as you do? But tell me—who else can do this job? I can’t.” She gestures to her leg, frustration flickering across her face. “And neither can anyone else up here. She’s the only one trained for it, Bellamy.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, his fists clenching at his sides. “That doesn’t mean we send her out there knowing she doesn’t give a shit if she comes back.”

Raven’s voice softens. “What other choice do we have?”

Bellamy doesn’t answer.

Because there isn’t one and that terrifies him.

The airlock chamber is cold and sterile. The hum of the machinery around you is the only sound, a dull buzz that fills the silence as you methodically strap yourself into the spacesuit. The motions are automatic, tightening the seals, adjusting the fit—your hands working without your mind fully registering what you’re doing. It doesn’t really matter. Nothing really does.

You barely hear the door open behind you, but you know it’s him before he even says a word.

Bellamy steps into the room, and for a second, he just watches you. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy with something you don’t want to name. Concern. Worry. Fear?

You keep your focus on the straps, but then his hands are suddenly there too, brushing against yours as he starts helping.

You don’t stop him. His fingers tighten the fastenings at your shoulders, a little rougher than necessary, like he’s trying to ground you. Like he’s trying to keep you here.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice low but firm.

You do but you don’t say that. Instead, you just let him help, let him double-check every strap, every seal, even though you’ve already done it yourself.

You don’t argue, don’t pull away, because you know this is the only way he can feel like he has some control. He moves in front of you, adjusting the collar of the suit, his jaw tight, eyes dark. “Be careful.”

That’s when you finally look at him—really look at him. And whatever he sees in your face, it fucking destroys him.

His breath catches, just for a second, but you notice. His grip on your suit tightens, like he wants to shake you, wants to snap you out of whatever this is.

But he doesn’t, because he knows it won’t work, because all he sees in your eyes is emptiness.

Not determination, not even fear, just… nothing. And It scares the shit out of him.

You don’t say anything at first. You probably should, you know you should, but there’s nothing to say. So you settle on the only thing that feels appropriate. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice hollow.

His throat bobs as he swallows, like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he just whispers, “Be careful,” like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing his goddamn mind. You meet his gaze for another second, but then you turn away, reaching for your helmet.

Bellamy should say something. He should stop you, pull you back, make you feel something, anything—other than this emptiness that’s swallowed you whole. But the words won’t come. They lodge in his throat, tangled up with the panic that’s clawing its way through his chest.

Because he knows that look in your eyes.

He’s seen it before—too many times. On the ground, in the war-torn faces of people who had lost everything. In Clarke’s eyes before she pulled that lever in Mount Weather. In his own reflection after too many bodies had piled up under his command. That look, the quiet, hollow resignation, is what people wear when they’ve already decided they have nothing left to lose.

And now it’s on you.

He watches, helpless, as you slide the helmet over your head, locking it into place with smooth, practiced movements. You don’t hesitate. Don’t fumble. You just…do it. Like it doesn’t matter, like you don’t matter.

And the airlock doors hiss, the warning lights flashing as the chamber begins to seal. Bellamy takes a step forward but then stops, fists clenching at his sides. He can’t stop this. Raven already made the call. And you—fuck, you’re too stubborn to listen to him even if he tried.

Still, his heart is pounding. His pulse roaring in his ears. Because as the final barrier closes between you, cutting off the sound of your breath, the shift of your movements, it hits him like a gut punch.

You’re out of his reach now and Bellamy can’t fucking breathe. It slams into him all at once, the fear, the helplessness, the realization that he might actually lose you.

Not in the way he’s been losing you these past few weeks, watching you slip further and further away, your laughter fading, your fire dimming. That was bad enough. But this? This is something worse.

This is real. This is now.

His hands twitch at his sides, useless. He should be in there with you, should be the one stepping into the vacuum of space instead. But he isn’t. He’s here, standing behind a reinforced door, watching as you drift further and further from him—physically, emotionally, completely.

And the fear claws at his throat, tightening with every second that passes. It’s the same fear that’s been gnawing at the edges of his mind for weeks, ever since he started noticing the way you were slipping. The way you stopped laughing. The way you stopped arguing with him—not because you agreed, but because you didn’t care. The way your eyes, once so full of fire and fight, had dulled into something hollow and distant.

He should’ve done more. Should’ve pushed harder. Should’ve made you talk to him instead of letting you shut him out. Because now? Now he’s fucking terrified.

Not just that something could go wrong out there, though that thought alone makes his stomach churn—but that maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t fight it if it did.

Maybe you wouldn’t even try to come back.

The thought sends ice through his veins, and his breath comes sharp and uneven as he watches you through the glass, watches you moving with the same quiet detachment you’ve had for weeks, like nothing fucking matters.

Like you don’t matter. “Goddamn it,” he mutters under his breath, barely aware that he’s spoken.

Raven shifts beside him, arms crossed, eyes locked on the glass. “She’s gonna be fine, Bellamy,” she says, but her voice lacks its usual sharp confidence.

"I hope so." Bellamy mutters, praying for you to make it back safely.

The vast emptiness of space stretches around you, endless and dark, broken only by the cold metal of the ring and the distant glow of Earth below. You move slowly, using the safety tether to guide yourself along the outer structure of the Ring. The damaged panel is a few meters ahead, wires sparking faintly in the low gravity.

“Alright,” Raven’s voice crackles through the comms. “You need to secure yourself to the framework before you start. That panel’s loose, and the last thing we need is you floating off into the abyss.”

Bellamy tenses at the thought, but you just give a clipped, “Got it.”

Your movements are precise, practiced. You lock your tether to the nearest anchor point, then reach for your tools. The exposed wires are a tangled mess, some of them burned out, others frayed from whatever hit the station.

“Looks like a power relay took most of the damage,” you report. “I’ll need to reroute the flow before replacing the panel.”

“Copy that,” Raven says. “Take your time.”

Bellamy huffs out a breath. “Not too much time.”

You don’t respond, just keep working, fingers steady as you disconnect the ruined wires and begin patching in new ones. The silence stretches, except for the occasional instruction from Raven.

Bellamy watches, his gut twisting with every careful movement you make. You’re good at this—he knows that. You trained for it but that doesn’t stop the fear from gnawing at his insides.

Then, your hand slips. It’s small, barely even a mistake, but Bellamy sees it—the half-second where your grip falters, where your fingers hesitate before tightening again.

His heart slams into his ribs. “You good?” he asks, voice sharp.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Just adjusting.”

He doesn’t buy it. “Be careful,” he says, and it’s not a warning—it’s a plea.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, finally, you answer. “Yeah,” you say, voice quiet, detached. “I know.”

The first sign that something is wrong isn’t the alarm, it’s the way your body suddenly jerks backward. One second, you’re gripping the panel, fingers steady as you adjust a wire. The next, you’re yanked off balance, spinning weightlessly as your tether strains against the sudden force.

Then the alarm blares.

WARNING: OXYGEN LEAK DETECTED.

“Shit—shit!” Raven’s voice cuts through the comms. “Y/N, your suit—”

You barely register her words before your back collides with the ring. Hard. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, not that there’s much to lose in this vacuum. Pain explodes along your ribs, sharp and searing, but you barely react. You don’t have time. You reach for the emergency sealant on your suit, fingers fumbling as precious oxygen hisses out into the abyss.

And Bellamy’s voice slams into you next. “Y/N!” It’s not just fear you hear, it’s terror—raw and unfiltered.

You quickly find the breach. A tear along your left side, jagged and leaking life into the void. Your hands are shaking, but you manage to slap the sealant patch over the hole, pressing down until the hissing stops. Your oxygen stabilizes but barely.

“Leak’s patched,” you say, panting. “I’m good.”

“The hell you are!” Bellamy is livid. “Get back inside. Now.”

You don’t respond, completely choosing to ignore his demand. Instead, you reach for the wires again, forcing yourself to focus. You’re almost done. If you can just—

“Y/N, stop!” Raven snaps. “You just got thrown against the ring, you’re leaking oxygen, and—holy shit, are you hurt?”

You blink, trying to push past the dizziness clouding your vision. “I can still finish this.”

Bellamy curses under his breath. “Y/N, listen to me. Your suit is compromised. You could die out there.”

But that’s the thing, you don’t care, not really—so you keep working.

“Goddamn it,” Bellamy seethes. “Get back inside. Now.”

You don’t. You keep working, hands moving through the pain, through the weight pressing against your ribs. You can feel where the impact bruised you, where every breath pulls tight and sharp, but you push past it. You have to finish this.

“Y/N.” Bellamy’s voice is razor-edged, frantic. “I swear to God, if you don’t turn around and get your ass back inside—”

You ignore him.

“Y/N!”

His voice crackles through the speaker, raw and unrelenting, but you block it out.

“You’re being reckless—damn it, just listen to me!”

Still, you don’t stop.

“Raven, tell her—”

“She muted us,” Raven cuts in, voice hollow.

Bellamy stills. “What?”

“She—” Raven exhales sharply, glancing at the monitor. “She fucking muted us.”

Bellamy’s stomach drops. His hands curl into fists at his sides, useless, helpless. His breath is heavy, ragged, heart slamming against his ribs as he watches you continue—silent, cut off from him completely.

His jaw clenches. “Fuck.” He moves toward the airlock, every instinct screaming at him to do something, anything—but Raven grabs his arm, yanking him back. “You can’t go out there,” she says, voice tight. “She’s almost done.”

“She’s fucking hurt, Raven!”

“And she’s still the best shot we’ve got at fixing this,” Raven snaps. “She wouldn’t be out there otherwise.”

Bellamy shakes his head, hands gripping his hair. “She shouldn’t be out there at all.”

Raven doesn’t argue because she knows he’s right.

On the screen, you move quickly but your fingers are steady despite everything.

No hesitation, no fear, no regard for your own damn life.

Bellamy watches in agonizing silence, tension coiled so tightly in his chest he can barely breathe. His nails dig into his palms as each second drags by, as you move with a focus that terrifies him.

Then, finally—You push off the panel, securing the last wire in place. The system stabilizes and the warning lights shift, flickering back to green.

It’s done. You did it.

Bellamy exhales shakily. Relief floods through his chest first, sharp and fleeting. Then the anger, then the frustration and then the gut-wrenching fear that’s been clawing at him since the moment you stepped into that suit. And the second you unmute the comms, his voice slams into you like a freight train.

“Get. Back. Inside.”

It’s not a request. It’s not even an order. It’s a demand laced with fury, desperation, and something you can’t quite name.

And it immediately sends a shiver rolling down your spine.

The airlock decompresses with a deep hiss, the artificial gravity settling over you like a weight and your body protests immediately. Every muscle aches, along with the impact from earlier sending a sharp, radiating pain through your ribs. You wince, rolling your shoulders, but you don’t let yourself dwell on it.

The doors slide open with a hiss and Bellamy is standing there, waiting—pissed.

His arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw tight, and his eyes are dark with barely restrained fury. The second he sees you, his glare sharpens, cutting through the space between you like a blade.

You ignore it. Stepping past him, you reach for the clasps of your suit, peeling the thick layers away from your body. The adrenaline is wearing off now, leaving exhaustion and pain in its wake. But you keep moving, methodical and unbothered, until—

“What the fuck was that?” Bellamy’s voice is sharp and unrelenting.

You sigh, not bothering to look at him as you undo the chest plate. “Fixing the power relay.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t act like that was just another job. You nearly got yourself killed out there.”

“I didn’t.” You keep your tone flat, unphased, shoving the gloves off your hands.

“You muted me,” he growls. “You ignored every goddamn thing I was saying, and then—”

“Because I needed to focus.” You exhale sharply, finally looking at him. “And I fixed it, didn’t I?”

Bellamy stares at you like he doesn’t recognize you. His hands flex at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point, Bellamy?” you snap, yanking at the last layer of the suit, wincing slightly when it tugs at your ribs. “That I didn’t listen to you? That I didn’t crawl back the second you told me to?”

“The point,” he grits out, stepping closer, “is that you don’t care if you make it back at all.”

Something in your chest tightens but you ignore it.

Bellamy shakes his head, breath unsteady, hands trembling with the force of his anger, but beneath it, beneath all of it—is fear. Real, consuming, gut-wrenching fear.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice is lower now, rougher. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” He gestures at you, his expression twisting. “Skipping meals, taking shifts no one else will, volunteering for every dangerous job that comes up—you think I don’t know what that means?”

Your throat feels tight, but you refuse to look away.

Bellamy swallows hard. “You want to burn yourself out, don’t you?”

There's nothing but silence. You hold his gaze, heart slamming against your bruised ribs. He searches your face, waiting—begging for a denial, but you don’t give him one. And that’s what breaks him the most.

You don’t speak—you don’t even look at him as a tear slips down your cheek, but you don’t wipe it away. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break, of proving his words right. Instead, you finish peeling off the last of your spacesuit, ignoring the sting in your muscles, the ache in your ribs where you slammed into the ring.

The suit is heavier than it should be as you hang it back up. It feels like closing a door, like leaving something behind, and for a brief second, you wish you could step out of your own skin and leave yourself behind too.

Bellamy doesn’t move. He stands there, stiff, furious, seething in the kind of silence that feels like a countdown to something explosive. Still, you say nothing and turn, walking away.

But as your luck has it, he follows. “Hey.” His voice is sharp, like a blade drawn too fast. “Don’t walk away from me.”

You keep walking, ignoring his footsteps behind you.

“Y/N.”

Your fingers curl around your bedroom door, heart hammering, but before you can slam it shut, Bellamy’s hand shoves against it, stopping you with ease. You whip around, furious. “Get out.”

He doesn’t move. Instead, he steps inside and then with a slow, deliberate motion, he turns and locks the door behind him.

Your pulse jumps. “What the hell are you doing?”

Bellamy’s chest rises and falls, his breath harsh, his whole body thrumming with barely contained frustration. “No, what the hell are you doing?” His voice is low, rough, shaking with something deeper than anger. “Because whatever this is, whatever the fuck you’ve been doing—it’s not survival, Y/N. It’s suicide.”

His words hit harder than they should. You swallow against the lump in your throat, but it doesn’t go away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bellamy lets out a hollow laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just disbelief, just pain. “The hell I don’t,” he snaps. “You throw yourself into danger every chance you get. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You push yourself until you can barely stand, and you act like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.”

Your hands clench into fists at your sides. “Why do you care?”

The question stuns him into silence for a second and then—“Are you serious?” Bellamy takes a step closer, voice rising, eyes dark with anger. “Are you actually asking me that?”

Your pulse pounds in your ears, breath coming fast. “Yeah, Bellamy. I am.”

His hands clench at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to grab you, to shake some goddamn sense into you. “How the hell can you even say that?” His voice cracks on the words, but it only fuels his frustration. “After everything we’ve been through, after everything I’ve done for you—you think I don’t care?”

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Really? Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.”

Bellamy’s nostrils flare. “That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” You take a step forward, closing the space between you, shoving your finger against his chest. “Because you sure don’t act like you care. You’re always with Echo, always making sure she’s okay, always talking to her—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bellamy growls, running a hand through his hair, pacing for a second before spinning back to you. “This isn’t about Echo!”

“Like hell it isn’t!” Your voice rises, shaking with anger, with exhaustion, with months of built-up resentment. “Ever since we got up here, it’s like I don’t even exist to you anymore! Like I could disappear tomorrow and you wouldn’t even notice!”

Bellamy’s face twists, his anger turning sharp. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice is dangerously low now, like a storm rolling in. “You’re the one who shut me out, Y/N. You stopped talking to me. You’re the one who left me first.”

The words hit you like a slap. Your hands tremble at your sides, your chest rising and falling too fast, too erratic. “That’s not—”

“Yes, it is!” Bellamy shouts, voice raw now, ragged with emotion. “You pulled away from me, you buried yourself in every reckless job you could find, like you were just waiting for something to fucking kill you! And what was I supposed to do, huh? Stand there and watch?”

Your whole body is shaking now, rage and hurt battling for control. “You don’t get to act like this is my fault!”

“I don’t?” He lets out a hollow, furious laugh. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”

Your eyes burn. “I needed you, Bellamy,” you whisper, voice trembling, but there’s still fire behind it. “And you weren’t there.”

He stares at you like you just knocked the air from his lungs. “I wasn’t—” He shakes his head, disbelief flashing in his eyes. “That’s not fucking fair.”

You bark out another humorless laugh. “Fair? Fair? You want to talk about fair?” Your voice is almost hysterical now, the emotions clawing at your throat, ripping their way out. “I lost my dad. I lost Clarke. And now—” Your voice cracks, your breath catching, and you shake your head, like you can stop the truth from falling from your lips. But it’s too late. You swallow hard. “And now I’ve lost you too.”

Bellamy flinches, like the words physically hurt him. His jaw tightens, his chest rising and falling too fast. “You haven’t lost me,” he grits out, barely more than a whisper. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not,” you snap, voice breaking, hands trembling. “You haven’t been here in a long time.”

Bellamy shakes his head, his frustration boiling over again. “That’s not true.”

“Then why do I feel like it is?” Your voice cracks, the rawness slipping through, the vulnerability you’ve been trying so fucking hard to hold back.

Bellamy exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Y/N, I—”

“Just forget it,” you mutter, turning away, chest heaving, because this is getting too close, too painful, and you can’t do this anymore.

But Bellamy won’t let it go. He moves closer, voice lowering but no less intense. “No. I’m not just gonna forget it. You think I don’t care? You think I don’t give a shit whether you live or die?” He lets out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

You snap your head back toward him, eyes blazing. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, Bellamy? You’ve barely even looked at me for months. Every time I turn around, you’re with her.”

Bellamy’s expression twists, his face turning red with frustration. “Because Echo was suicidal, Y/N! She was barely holding on, and I—I was just trying to keep her from jumping off the goddamn edge!”

You flinch at the words, at the way his voice cracks with them. For a second, just a second, the anger wavers but then it snaps back into place, because it still doesn’t change anything. You shake your head, eyes burning. “And what about me?”

Bellamy stills.

You swallow hard, voice breaking now. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe I was barely holding on too?”

The room goes silent. Bellamy’s breath stutters, his face paling.

You suck in a shaky breath, tears threatening to spill, but you push through it, force yourself to keep going. “You were so busy saving her, you didn’t even notice I was drowning too.”

His lips part, his throat working like he wants to say something—anything but nothing comes out.

Your hands curl into fists, your whole body trembling with too many emotions at once. And then, before you can stop yourself, before you can shove it back down where it’s been buried for so long—A sob rips from your throat.

Tears spill down your face, hot and unstoppable, and you hate it—hate that you’re falling apart in front of him, hate that he still has this power over you. But you can’t take it anymore. Not the distance, not the hurt, not the way his voice keeps cutting into you like a blade.

Bellamy’s face twists, something breaking in his expression as he watches you unravel. “Y/N—”

“No!” Your voice cracks, ragged and raw, and you shove at his chest, frustration and pain mixing into one. “I can’t do this anymore, Bellamy! I can’t—” You shake your head wildly, barely able to breathe through the sobs clawing their way out. “I can’t keep pretending like I don’t feel this. Like it doesn’t fucking kill me every time you look right through me.”

Bellamy flinches like you just struck him. “That’s not fair,” he snaps, but his voice is weaker now, desperate. “You left first—”

“Because I had to!” you shout, voice breaking. “Because I couldn’t stand being near you anymore! Not when you—” Your breath stutters, your chest heaving as your whole body shakes. “Not when you love her.”

Bellamy’s brows furrow, his frustration surging again. “Goddamn it, Y/N, stop it!” His voice is sharp, cutting, but there’s something fraying at the edges, something just as fragile as you are. “This isn’t about Echo!”

“Then what the hell is it about?” you cry, throwing your hands in the air. “Because all I know is that every time I look at you, I feel like I’m losing you all over again!”

His jaw clenches, his hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or walk away. “You’re not losing me,” he grits out, voice hoarse.

“Yes, I am!” Your voice rises again, hysteria creeping into it. “I already have, Bellamy! And you know what?” You let out a hollow, bitter laugh, shaking your head, tears dripping from your chin. “It’s my own fucking fault.”

Bellamy’s breath stutters, his eyes searching yours, frantic now, desperate. “Y/N—”

“Because I fell in love with you!” The words burst out of you, torn straight from your chest, too loud, too raw, too fucking real.

The room goes deathly silent and Bellamy stills, his whole body locking up. His lips part, his throat working, but no words come.

The silence shatters something inside you. It’s worse than him yelling, worse than him fighting back. The nothingness stretches between you like a gaping wound, and you feel yourself bleeding out, piece by piece, breath by breath.

You let out a choked, humorless laugh, shaking your head as fresh tears burn down your cheeks. “Forget it,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Forget I said anything.”

You turn, reaching for the door, ready to escape, but then Bellamy moves—fast. Before you can take another step, his hands are on your face, cupping your tear stained cheeks, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you there. His grip is firm, almost desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go and then he kisses you. Hard.

It’s not soft or careful. It’s raw, and feverish, like a dam breaking, like months, years of unspoken words and bottled-up feelings crashing down all at once. He pours everything into it, into you, and the moment his lips move against yours, a sob catches in your throat.

Your hands grasp at his jacket, fisting the fabric as your knees nearly give out. Bellamy groans against your lips, pressing closer, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you against him like he’s trying to mold your body to his.

The kiss is messy, desperate, almost too much and not enough all at once. It’s teeth and tongue and aching hunger, his breath mixing with yours, his heartbeat hammering against your own. You feel alive again, like every shattered piece of you is finally snapping back into place.

When you finally break apart, you’re both gasping, foreheads pressed together, hands still clinging to each other like lifelines.

Bellamy’s voice is hoarse, wrecked. “I love you.”

Your breath shudders out, and you blink up at him, eyes still glassy with tears. “You—you do?”

Bellamy lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it. “Of course I do,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheek, his other hand still tangled in your hair. “I always have.”

Another sob rises in your throat, but this time, it’s not from heartbreak.

It’s relief. Overwhelming, breathtaking relief.

Bellamy presses another kiss to your lips, softer this time, slower—like he’s memorizing you, like he never wants to stop.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you have to run anymore.

author’s note:

hiii! I hope this one wasn’t too much of a downer 😅 probably one of the most deeply emotional works I’ve written. I know it started out v sad in the beginning but I like to describe how it makes the reader feel so that you guys know where y/n is coming from.

nonny, I hope this is what you were looking for? I know it’s not straight up enemies to lovers but I added a little twist. figured since the reader was clarke’s best friend and co leader of the 100 she and bellamy would’ve gotten along at one point.

anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed! If anyone wants to request anything please see the link below and read the rules before submitting :)

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

@rubydacherry42 @chalametsangel @imsiriuslyreal (lmk if I’ve missed anyone)

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

129 notes · View notes

gardenladysworld · 4 months ago

Text

Starbound hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Tags: @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog

Part 5: To try

Part 6: To joke

The forest was alive with its usual symphony of sounds as Neteyam made his way toward the human outpost. The decision to come had not been an easy one. For days, he had wrestled with his thoughts, trying to convince himself that staying away from you was the right thing to do. You deserved better, didn’t you? Someone who could be more for you, someone who could give you a life where you belonged.

But no matter how many reasons he gave himself, he couldn’t shake the ache in his chest. The quiet nights felt emptier without your laugh echoing in his memory, and the days seemed longer without your smile to brighten them. So here he was, walking the well-worn path to the outpost, his heart heavy with conflict but driven by something stronger—his need to see you.

As he approached the lab, its metal walls stark against the lush green of the forest, he felt the familiar tightening in his chest. He moved silently, his steps practiced and sure, until he reached the window where he could see inside. You were there, bent over one of the cluttered workstations, your brow furrowed in concentration as you scribbled notes into a worn journal.

The sight of you eased something in him, though it also made his heart ache. You looked so small in the lab, surrounded by the cold, clinical trappings of human technology. Yet even here, in a place that was so different from his world, you seemed to carry the warmth of Pandora with you.

With a deep breath, he stepped forward, his tail flicking behind him, betraying his nervousness as he reached the heavy metal door and tapped the comm button on the panel with his huge finger.

There was a brief crackle of static before Norm’s voice came through, his tone curious. “Neteyam? Is that you?”

“Yes,” Neteyam replied, glancing around the quiet clearing. “Can I come in?”

A pause, then Norm chuckled. “Yeah, give me a second. Just stay put.”

Neteyam waited, the faint sound of the airlock’s mechanisms hissing to life making his ears twitch. The first set of doors opened, and Norm stepped out, wearing his usual grin and a lightweight mask.

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Norm teased as he motioned for Neteyam to step into the airlock. “Let me guess—it’s not Max or me you’re here to see.”

Neteyam said nothing, only offered a small smile as he ducked through the door. Norm chuckled again, shaking his head as he tapped a few buttons on the panel. “All right, big guy, hold still. Let’s get the air cycling.”

The outer airlock doors sealed shut, and Neteyam felt the familiar rush of compressed air as the system adjusted to accommodate the higher oxygen levels inside the outpost. His lungs, adapted to Pandora’s thinner atmosphere, protested slightly, but he ignored the discomfort. He knew he could manage for the short time he planned to be here.

“Okay, you’re good,” Norm said as the inner door opened. “Just don’t forget—there’s a Na’vi-sized mask on the wall if you need it. And, uh, don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to.” Norm motioned toward his tail.

Neteyam gave him a nod of thanks, stepping into the outpost. The air inside was cooler, carrying a faint metallic tang from the recycled atmosphere. His ears twitched as he picked up the soft hum of equipment and the occasional beeping of monitors. And then, he saw you.

You were at your workstation, your back to him as you sorted through a tray of small instruments, completely absorbed in your work. Your hair was pulled back, revealing the delicate curve of your neck and the way your features were unmasked in the controlled air of the lab. His chest tightened at the sight of you, your face unhidden by the cumbersome mask you always wore outside. You looked radiant, your expression focused and serene as you hummed softly to yourself.

Norm shot him a knowing look before slipping away to another part of the outpost, leaving Neteyam to approach you on his own.

He walked quietly, his large frame moving with practiced grace through the cramped space, this was not the first time he came here, and definitely not the last. When he reached you, he hesitated, unsure whether to speak or simply watch you a moment longer. As if sensing his presence, you turned, your eyes lighting up when you saw him.

“Neteyam!” you greeted, your voice bright and warm. “What brings you here? Not that I’m complaining.”

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips as he looked around the room. “I was in the area,” he said, his voice low and calm. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie either.

You gave him a skeptical look, your smile softening. “You walked all the way out here just because you were ‘in the area’? Sure, Teyam.”

The nickname made his ears twitch slightly, but he said nothing, only letting a small smile curve his lips. You motioned for him to sit, and he lowered himself onto the floor near your workstation, his long legs folding beneath him. He leaned back slightly, his hands resting on his knees as he watched you return to your work. He was still at eye level with you, despite sitting on the cool floor while you stood. So different. His gaze raced over you and stopped at your arms.

You still wore the bracelet.

It was there on your wrist, the beads glinting faintly under the artificial light. His chest tightened at the sight of it. He’d made it for you on a whim, driven by an inexplicable need to give you something—anything—that connected him to you. Seeing it now, still adorning your wrist after all this time, felt like a quiet affirmation of everything he felt but couldn’t say.

“You’re staring,” you said suddenly, your voice cutting through his thoughts. You didn’t look up from your work, but there was a teasing lilt in your tone.

Neteyam blinked, caught off guard. “I am not,” he said quickly, though the faint flush of his ears betrayed him.

You glanced over your shoulder, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “You totally are.”

A soft chuckle escaped him despite himself, and you grinned, turning back to your work. The silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence he found himself craving—one filled with your quiet presence, where words weren’t always necessary.

After a while, you broke the quiet again. You laughed, a sound that filled the space and eased the tension in his chest. “It’s okay, Teyam,” you said, glancing at him with a playful grin. “I get it. I’m pretty fascinating.”

“You are,” he said softly, surprising even himself with the honesty in his voice. Your smile faltered for a brief moment, your cheeks coloring slightly before you turned back to your work.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft hum of the equipment and the scratch of your pen against paper. Neteyam’s eyes lingered on your hands, the way they moved with such care and precision. He noticed again how small they were compared to his, how delicate. And yet, those hands were capable of so much—creating, healing, connecting. They fascinated him.

“Why are you so quiet?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. You turned to look at him, your head tilted slightly, your expression curious.

He blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said simply.

You rolled your eyes, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Disturb away. This place is too quiet sometimes. It makes me feel like I’m going to go crazy.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re never quiet when you’re with Lo’ak.”

Your laughter bubbled up, light and easy. “That’s because Lo’ak never shuts up,” you said, your tone teasing. “I have to match his energy, or he’ll think he’s won.”

Neteyam’s smile lingered, his heart lifting at the sound of your laugh. You had a way of making even the dullest moments feel alive.

Neteyam watched you, his golden eyes tracing the curve of your neck, the way a strand of your hair fell into your face before you tucked it back absently. You were mesmerizing, even in the simplest of actions.

After a while, you broke the silence with a soft laugh, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “You know, for someone who’s usually so composed, you look like you’re trying to solve the universe’s biggest problem right now.”

Neteyam blinked, caught off guard, and then chuckled softly despite himself. “Perhaps I am.”

You grinned, setting down your tools and turning to face him fully. “Well, if you need help, I’ve got a whole stash of bad jokes that might make the universe’s problems seem smaller.”

He tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Bad jokes?”

“Oh, the worst,” you said, your tone mock-serious. “For example... Why did the tree take a nap?”

He raised an eyebrow, his tail flicking with curiosity. “Why?”

“Because it was rooted in exhaustion,” you said with a dramatic flourish, your eyes sparkling with humor.

For a moment, he simply stared at you, his expression blank. Then, to your relief, his lips twitched, and a soft chuckle escaped him. He shook his head, his smile growing wider despite himself.

“That was... indeed terrible,” he said, but there was warmth in his voice, and you could see the tension in his shoulders ease.

“Terribly good,” you corrected, pointing a finger at him. “You smiled. I saw it.”

Neteyam sighed, his smile widening despite himself. “I suppose I did.”

You beamed at him, your laughter filling the lab and easing the tension that had been building between you. For a moment, it felt like nothing else mattered—not your differences, not his responsibilities, not the unspoken feelings that weighed heavily on his heart.

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words, but when you looked at him again, his expression had turned more pensive. His gaze dropped to the floor, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the weight of something unsaid.

“Neteyam,” you said gently, setting down the sample you’d been working on. “What’s really on your mind?”

He looked up at you, his golden eyes filled with so many emotions that it made your breath catch. For a moment, it seemed like he was on the verge of saying something—something important. His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he shook his head slightly, his expression conflicted.

“It’s nothing,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction.

You frowned, your brow furrowing as you watched him retreat back into himself. The heaviness in the room was palpable, and you hated seeing him like this—so guarded, so uncertain.

“Well,” you said after a moment, your tone deliberately light, “if you’re not going to spill your deep, dark secrets, I’m just going to have to make this lab less depressing. I have another one.”

He raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering across his face.

You grinned, leaning against the lab table. “Okay, here goes. Why did the scientist bring a ladder to the bar?”

Neteyam tilted his head, his ear flicking, clearly puzzled. “Why?”

“To reach the high spirits,” you said with a playful smirk.

Neteyam stared at you for a moment before a laugh burst from his lips, genuine and unrestrained. The sound surprised even him, filling the small lab with warmth. You laughed along with him, clearly pleased with your ability to break the tension.

“That was truly awful,” he said, still smiling.

“Thank you,” you said, mock-bowing from your seat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The tension between you eased, the silence that followed no longer heavy but comfortable. Neteyam leaned back against the wall, his gaze fixed on you as you returned to your work, occasionally muttering to yourself or humming softly under your breath.

He wanted to tell you. The words pressed against his chest, desperate to be released. But every time he opened his mouth, they caught in his throat. What could he say? That you had become the center of his world? That he thought about you more than he should? That the bracelet on your wrist was a symbol of something far deeper than he could ever express?

Instead, he said nothing, contenting himself with the quiet companionship of being near you.

Maybe this was enough.

Maybe it was better to be here with you like this—sharing stolen moments and quiet smiles—than to risk everything by confessing feelings that could complicate your already fragile connection. For now, he would take what he could, treasuring every second he had with you. Because being with you, even in silence, was infinitely better than being without you.

Part 7: To long

#avatar 2022 #avatar the way of water #james cameron avatar #avatar twow #neteyam #neteyam sully #neteyam x human reader #neteyam x reader #neteyam x you

92 notes · View notes

peggyao3 · 5 months ago

Text

Relic - Pt. 14 "A World in a Grain of Sand"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 5.4k

A/N: Giving you the eyebrow 🤨 because no one seems to have picked up on a tiny, little, important detail that was to be found in the last chapter, or at least no one mentioned it 😌 Finally I can write what I really crave to write. IT'S SCIENCE TIME 💖

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter, Next Chapter →

Day 31

"I have one last question, little slave," Vladimir Harkonnen drones from his afloat position, a celestial body of massive dimensions in front of the somber backdrop of his throne room, black within black with only a single glow globe illuminating the back of him. He prefers to shun the black sun these days, as glorious as it may be, it brings out the myriad of spider veins beneath his frail, aged skin.

"Yes, Lord Baron?" The unremarkable slave's voice echoes from below.

"What is this… ancient piece of metal in my dear nephew's toy's room?"

"I believe you must know more about it than I do. I assume you had it examined before it was unloaded and brought inside?"

"Naturally!" Vladimir raises his voice. The slave with her bowed head can't see the way the aged Baron squints to get a clearer picture of her. Afloat as he is, she is little more than a splotch of white against black, and an unwelcomely blurry one.

The examination had revealed a human shaped mold, cushioned with gel pads, thick tubes for coolant, a recycling system with residue nutrient solution, solar panels for energy harvesting. No traces of radiation or explosives. It almost seems like the metal box is exactly what the sisterhood had made it out to be. A hibernation chamber for a fossil from another time. However, it wouldn't be the first myth created by the Bene Gesserit.

"I know you are looking for something substantial, my Lord, and so was I," the slave speaks after the Baron's elongated pause. "But I'm afraid the truth is as embarrassing as it is mundane. I've come to believe that she keeps it close out of raw sentimentality. She's a sentimental creature, that woman."

Lilia has always loved danger and the long, twisted inkvine scar on her shoulder from girlhood days is just one proof of that. Perhaps that's why she so effortlessly serves the Baron velvet lies.

"Ah-h-h, like my Feyd-Rautha then. It doesn't surprise me," the Baron drawls, lungs expanding with a raspy heaviness to each intake of air.

In all his years as Giedi Prime's sovereign, Vladimir Harkonnen has never learned that the promise of a kind embrace outweighs the threat of violence tenfold and that a spark of human goodness can sway a servant's loyalty quicker than a snap of a whip.

"She calls it her sarcophagus," Lilia adds with a tiny scoff that doesn't go unnoticed by the Baron now that he has lowered himself and sinks back into the much more comfortable seat of his throne. The intimidation tactic has fulfilled its purpose.

He bellows. "So, she's got good humor too! A pity she's not a boy. I could have borrowed her sometimes."

The obedient set of Lilia's shoulders and her lowered gaze don't betray the noxious clench that has her stomach convulsing. Perhaps this is the only advantage of being a woman in the Harkonnen palace pyramid.

Day 45

The lack of color that had once bothered her into the throes of a slowly crawling depression is now a pleasure. The blackness of her abode has come to serve as the perfect desktop for columns of text and equations, formulations and simulations and hand-written notes that have her mouth moving and her eyeballs racing.

Her sarcophagus leeches the day's sun, side panels open to give way to rotating cooling fans. The Central Processing Unit of the computer that makes up half of the machinery inside buzzes from the strain she puts on it.

Astronaut M2-84 has finally come home and picked up the work of her own, chosen destiny.

Talking to God, Mikhail had whispered to his wife, is what the Lady is doing. But what she really does is think, read, calculate. Engineers born on the cusp of the astronautic age don't have their oily hands in tool boxes. Most of the time, they tell machines how to build other machines, and to do so, one needs to understand the laws of physics.

This is how Feyd-Rautha finds her each night. Sometimes sunken against the cushions of her bed, or slumped over her desk, staring at the wall with dancing pupils. And other times, like tonight, she sits right by her Sarcophagus, shoulder pressed against the humming metal. She claims the connection between computer and chip is quicker this way.

Silently, Feyd's stride carries him across the room towards his precious engineer. Movement catches his attention at the right and the sight he finds causes a slow tilt of his head.

One quarter of her bed is filled out by a misshapen form, tucked under duvet and whalefur. Glugo lies prone on its stomach, limbs folded tightly against its covered body. Only one front arm-leg peaks out and cradles her plushie against its innocent pug face. Something glossy-white with small handles on each side is held in front of Glugo's mouth by tiny face-hands with liquid sloshing inside.

She has tucked Glugo in like a toddler. And, from the looks of it, she has printed it a sippy cup.

Feyd-Rautha feels all sorts of warmth filling out his chest. If because he wants to be tucked in like a toddler, or because his only friend is finally receiving the gentleness it deserves, or because of a different reason entirely, he can't tell. He raises his hand to wave at Glugo who gurgles softly in return, one tiny face-hand unlatching from the cup handle to wave back.

Glug glug glug.

"You're losing weight." Feyd approaches his beloved slowly. "I don't like it."

"One second, I'm at ninety-eight point five. Seven. Ninety-nine."

"Have you found out anything interesting today, my darling?"

He is long past asking what exactly she's doing, why they aren't simply figuring out a way to get his uncle to take his shield ring off so they can get a blade between his ribs. Or rather a sword, to pierce the obscene, fatty flesh costume he calls his body.

"Your spice—" His darling slurs with a concerning jump to her pupils.

"I don't take spice anymore." Feyd tilts his head and squats down before her, lifting his hands to cup her cheeks.

"No, no, that's not what I meant. Ah, wait, what do you mean, not anymore?" Finally, her eyes regain focus and her arms fill with tension, fingers moving up to encircle Feyd-Rautha's strong wrists.

"There's my darling," he smiles with pretty, full lips and glinting teeth, stroking her cheeks. "So, what about my spice?"

"Not your spice in particular." Her hand flings out to gesture at the universe above. "Your spice shares a few molecular compounds with the medication I took to prepare for the cryo sleep."

Feyd-Rautha's features slip into disbelief, a fresh frown carving deep into the smooth expanse of his forehead.

"Why does this surprise you?" She wonders.

"Spice is unique to Arrakis. Power over the spice means power over everything. How could you have had spice back on Earth without sandworms?"

"First of all, spice, much like anything else, is just protons, electrons and neutrons. With the right tools, you could, in theory, synthesize any molecule."

"And you have such a tool in your Sarcophagus?"

"No! God, no." She laughs out loud and curls her arms around Feyd-Rautha's shoulders in a much needed embrace. Her very eyeballs ache and her spine feels calcified from leaning against the sarcophagus.

To him, it must seem like the solution to just about anything might be hidden in her cryo pod or in her precious chip, but it really holds only a fragment of the technological advancements of Old Earth. The last generation before mankind had embarked to the stars was an ingenious one. They had to be, and their knowledge is safely tucked into the 80 Billion terabyte hard-drive of her supercomputer. She may not have all the tools, but the knowledge to build them — in theory.

She taps the top of the cryo pod and hums. "Building molecules from scratch is not like building houses out of toy blocks. You need to accumulate tremendous amounts of energy in a lab environment to trigger complex chemical reactions."

"You've already built a chair from scratch, and a gun. And now a sippy cup for Glugo?" He states with an incredulous rasp of his voice.

"I couldn't bear seeing it drink from dog bowls anymore. And it struggled so much with cups and glasses, Lilia had to change the sheets twice because the poor thing kept spilling everything."

"You… You are fascinating, my darling." She doesn't miss the spark of arousal that lets Feyd's eyes half disappear under a fan of long lashes. "My point still stands, you've built other things before."

"Yes, but the materials were already there, I just had them pressed into the shape I desired." Feyd tilts his head and she cradles his jaw, stroking across the plushnes of his cheeks. "Were you not taught about chemistry?" Slowly, he shakes his head. "Ah, well, I will explain it to you another time then."

Feyd slides his mouth into her palm, groaning softly. "You know so much. How is it possible that you had spice 24 millenia ago?"

"Not spice. I said my pre-cryo medication shares a few interesting enzymes with spice." She slides one palm around Feyd-Rautha's nape of the neck and softly brings their foreheads together. "My people also used to think their own civilization was the pinnacle of all that has ever been. It was unthinkable that maybe the Aztecs or Sumerians were more advanced. That's how you are too.

You think spice is unique to Arrakis and the technological advancements you have derived from the Holtzman effect are the peak of what is achievable, because it suits you so nicely. But human evolution has never been a linear incline. You have fascinating medicine, Gholas and space travel… But who knows, maybe my people were smarter than yours. Maybe our engineers and chemists were smarter."

"You know so much," he moans again and she knows better than to keep boring him with details. One day, when the many other fires in his heart have settled, she can stoke his interest in science. Feyd is smart. He will come to be fascinated by it.

"This universe is devouring itself because there is no innovation," she softly murmurs. "No one dares to go further, look further, break out of the pattern. Maybe they don't want to, because the consequences scare them. Mentats only do as their Lords bid…"

When Feyd's lips close in on hers, with half-lidded eyes and a dreamy stare, her ramblings subside into grateful, blissful silence, choosing to welcome his tongue in her mouth instead.

Day 59

"Silence!"

The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam's voice ripples in the shape of a waveform pattern across the engineer's interface, recorded many decades ago by Baron Harkonnen himself and transferred to the House archive for research purposes.

Other lines of the same encounter, she is certain, were deliberately removed. Such as when the Reverend Mother, then a young woman, had ordered the Baron to hold still so she could mount him and steal the seed out of his body that would sire the Lady Jessica.

She only knows of this story because of Feyd-Rautha, and what it had cost him to learn it, she doesn't even want to know.

"Silence!"

She can only imagine that Piter de Vries' research on the matter might have consisted to a considerable amount of snide mockery, going by Feyd's recountings of the late mentat, hence why the files were so perfectly abandoned and ready for her to pick apart.

Carefully, she separates the impressive cluster of different wavelengths that make up the audio fragment, finding portions all the way from the high-frequency to the low-frequency audible spectrum, some even so low that they are no longer perceived as sound by the human ear.

The astronaut remembers how the Reverend Mother had tested her in an archaic show of deference, forced onto her knees with her hand in a box while the older woman addressed the pain receptors in her brain via an inaudible wavelength. She may not have moved her lips, but that doesn't mean she didn't cause the air molecules to oscillate.

Technically speaking, this renders the mysteriously omnipotent sisterhood into little more than ventriloquists. That image of demystification offers at least a little comfort to the humiliation provided by the memory of searing pain in every nerve.

She reclines in her chair, swallowing against the dry itch in her throat while she strings together a few fairly simple lines of code.

Curiously, the voice doesn't affect her physiology when played from an artificial source, such as the micro speaker soldered onto her chip's tiny board.

She can only assume that by manipulation of the larynx, wielders of the voice can propel pressure waves in a way that a speaker can not. How exactly this forces the human brain into submission, the engineer cannot tell, but she doesn't need to, to tinker on some offensively simple counter magic to the Bene Gesserit's seemingly almighty tool of control.

Noise cancellation is as simple as letting a speaker emit a sound wave with the same amplitude but an inverted phase. The sound waves cancel each other out in destructive interference.

As much as this scientific victory entices her, it frustrates her endlessly that all of the side research she picks up to take her mind off the real problem bears more fruit.

"Refreshments for you, my Lady!" Lilia's voice snaps her out of her brooding thoughts. The maid slips through the door, bringing a tray of fresh fruit and the stimulating citrus drink that her Lady has come to enjoy as of late. "It's been three hours, it's time to take a break."

"Ugh, three? Felt like one." That explains the dry throat. The relic arches her spine and presses her knuckles against her closed lids until tiny flashes prickle across the dark.

Lilia's footsteps close in at her side along with four other pairs of hand-feet. She sets the tray down on the desk.

"And have you made any progress today, my Lady?"

"Not with the one thing that matters, but yes." She reaches for the pitcher but finds her hands gently shooed away by Lilia who insists on pouring the glass for her, tiny bubbles fizzing in the lemon water.

"Oooh! Have you thought about these visions, my Lady?" The handmaid's ears perk up with interest, enamored with the story of how Feyd and her Lady had gotten to know each other in dreams ever since she had indulged her.

Lilia regards the phenomenon of their getting acquainted with the eyes of a romantic. For the engineer however, this is the only topic that frustrates her more than finding a workaround for the Holtzman effect to get past the Baron's shield.

"Dreams, visions, I don't fucking know. I don't even want to think about them because they drive me fucking crazy." The engineer reaches for her glass and drinks with big gulps, making the maid flinch by how forcefully she slams it back down.

The crescent shaped scar she herself had created on Feyd's clavicle when grappling for his blade is the same that had decorated his skin in their lucid dreams. So, visions? But the topics they had discussed during their shared nights are events of the past. It defies logic, it's paradox. The thing that scares her the most, however, is the fact that the Baron's abuse was still real in those dreams. If they truly were visions of the future, does that mean her research is in vain and he will live?

There is no phenomenon that can't be explained, not even prophetic dreams. But not by her, and not yet.

"Sorry," she apologizes and rubs her temples, finding Glugo staring at her with big, milky eyes, one hand-foot clinging to Lilia's skirt. The engineer's heart softens at once and she leans towards her insecure looking friend. "Aw, I'm really sorry, I didn't want to scare you both, my poor, little— Aw!"

Glugo curls four out of its eight limbs around her calves and rests its chin on her knee, pearly eyes aimed unerringly at the pitcher of sparkling drink on the desk.

"That's citrus," she explains. "I don't think you'll like citrus…"

One of the Tleilaxu creature's oily-black hand-feet clutches the table's edge, another incessantly reaches for the glass container.

"Okay, fine, but just a tiny sip. Where's your cup?"

Glugo glugs cluelessly, looking at Lilia for help. Still, both women are uncertain if the being has any grasp on human language, or if it simply recognizes a question by the inflection of one's voice.

The handmaid locates Glugo's cup in the folds of the duvet and quickly washes out the remnants of pink liquid over the sink in the bath before filling a finger of citrus inside. The creature's hand-feet tippy-tap on the tiles, reaching for the shiny container to take its first curious gulp.

Glugo's pug face puckers into a scrunched up grimace at once, face-hands releasing the sippy cup with an indignant noise.

Glurgh!

Day 93

It is a few weeks later, while Feyd and Mikhail are out brawling, that she figures it out.

"M'lord, I really am sorry," Mikhail laments, his flesh stripped of color as the black sun roars down on his bare torso. The na-Baron and he are prowling around each other in a tight circle, unarmed aside from their fists.

"You told me already." Feyd-Rautha's grating voice cuts through the sweltering air. The training ring's roof is retracted, giving way to blazing white skies and a heat that Giedi Prime's life forms have adapted to. "Five times. Another time, and I might just cut out your tongue."

"Ya know I had to take yer Lady to them bath chambers. Baron commanded it, and I can't just—"

"Shut up, boy!" Feyd's boots crunch in the sandy gravel, shoulders rolling. He is stronger than Mikhail, rounded arms and pectorals contrasting a powerful, slender waist. The guard's physique is more wiry, taut muscles stretched across visible ribs. The glorious sun brings out an overabundance of gray scars.

"Boy, eh? Ain't any older than you, my Lord!" Feyd is surprised, tilting his head at the deceptive edges of the guard's features that make him look closer to 40.

"Fine, then shut up, brother!" Feyd bares his teeth and clenches his fists hard, veins rippling across his forearms. "What are the rules?"

Mikhail's fist springs forward and punches Feyd-Rautha in the guts. He nearly doubles over, groaning in pain. Spit drips from his open mouth into the sand.

"Rules?" The guard quips and aims his elbow for the na-Baron's nose. Feyd dodges with a semi-graceful dive to the side, taking the blow to his ear instead. He tastes blood on his tongue.

This man is bold. He has no manners. Feyd likes him.

Mikhail is smaller, thinner, but he fights like a mongrel, like someone whose ferocious survival instincts have carried him from across the svart valta all the way to the royal palace in Barony. And Feyd struggles.

And by the black sun, he loses. Few things have ever excited him so much. After nearly an hour of grappling in the scorching heat, Feyd-Rautha finds himself on his back in the gravel, panting for dear life, ears ringing from the last punch square across his jaw. He barely hears Mikhail's voice when he praises that he had fought well, but he feels the brotherly smack on his sandy chest, right on top of a wicked bruise.

Every bone and muscle burns when he drags himself to his personal bath chambers. It was, undoubtedly, the best fight of Feyd-Rautha's life.

"Lilia! I've got it! I fucking got it, do you see this?!"

Pixelated particles give way to a bullet that cuts through them like a harpoon through water.

"What, my Lady? See what?" The maid dashes into the bedroom from the antechamber with flying skirts.

"It's so simple, I'm so stupid." The relic has jumped up from the desk, fingers twisted like claws around the back of her chair while her chest heaves with laughter and a threat of tears. Lilia, of course, cannot see the baffling results of the simulation on the engineer's interface.

The Lady lurches over to the cryo pod, leaving the tilted chair swaying and falling down on the tiles with a bang. She mutters something along the lines of 'must build it', before her voice dissolves into foreign, ancient tongues and a shiver runs down Lilia's spine. Her voice so alien, her ways so enigmatic, she truly is a relic cracked open, pouring her forbidden knowledge into the world.

But she is also a human and Lilia feels her Lady's voice and shaking body teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown as she snaps open several compartments of the sarcophagus.

"You figured it out, that's wonderful!" This barely gets the engineer's attention, so she curls her fingers around the woman's shoulder, gently forcing her away from the compartments. The relic slumps down with her back to the sarcophagus.

"I need to build it. I know there's laser diodes in there, I only need to—"

"Please, my Lady, you need to breathe deeply. Why don't you explain it to me first?" Lilia squats in front of her, holding her wrists in her warm hands. Her Lady is trembling, her breath too shallow and fast.

"It's so simple, I could build it in an hour."

"Please, do me the favor," Lilia insists and brackets the woman's trembling knees between her own. Finally, her Lady exhales a long sigh and lets her head sink against the humming metal.

"Alright," she agrees and starts with a jittery voice. "So, you're aware of what the Holtzman effect is?"

"Ah, yes, I think so?" The maid hadn't really known the term before her Lady had started rambling about it. "Shields and heighliners?"

The one discovery that has shaped the entire human universe and kept it shackled since then, and the average commoner barely even knows its name. The relic doesn't hold it against Lilia. In a world where “eat or be eaten” takes on a literal meaning, the last thing to worry about is science. So, she wills her voice into calmness. If she's going to try and explain it, she at least wants to do it well.

"The Holtzman effect is responsible for the four major technologies that have made the world into what it is today. The first one — shields. No fast-moving object can pass through a shield, so guns like these?" She points towards her nightstand. "They've been useless for millennia. That's why you've resorted to close combat weapons."

"I was wondering why you went for a gun and not a blade." Lilia tilts her head. Close combat weapons are all that she's ever personally encountered. She knows that lasguns exist and that each Great House has an arsenal of atomic warheads, but every soldier has a sword on their hip, not a gun.

"Melee weapons seem so…" The engineer struggles to find a corresponding word in Galach. "Medieval to me. Archaic. Warfare on Earth was nothing like this."

"What was it like?" Lilia whispers in awe, noticing her Lady's shaking abate second by second.

"You could obliterate entire cities within the blink of an eye. A million different ways to set a home on fire and kill a population from a thousand miles away. It was terrible." Which is why what she has discovered is just as terrible.

The relic continues. "The other three technologies derived from the Holtzman effect are suspensors, glowglobes and space travel. You know why I was in that metal coffin here?" She taps against the sarcophagus. "Because a journey within our own solar system would take several years. You however can travel to the other side of the universe within the blink of an eye, through a quantum tunnel."

Lilia has never left the planet, but to imagine trade and travel without space-folding almost strikes her as ridiculous. All of humanity, reduced to just one, single planet. The cradle of mankind. The thought humbles her.

"And all four of these are based on one single effect?" Lilia considers herself an intelligent woman, but she doubts she can understand what took her Lady weeks to figure out.

"The essence of the Holtzman effect lies in how subatomic particles interact with each other."

"Subatomic?"

"Any type of matter is made of smaller building blocks. This metal for example is made of all kinds of molecules, which are made of atoms, and every single atom is made of protons, electrons and neutrons. These are called subatomic particles. Protons and neutrons make up the nucleus of an atom, and you can imagine the electrons orbiting the nucleus almost like planets a sun."

The handmaid quite enjoys that mental image. It's like the smallest particles exist in a cosmos of their own. "So, the Holtzman effect has something to do with protons, electrons and neutrons?" Lilia imagines, if she could have gone to school like she wanted as a girl, it may have been something like this.

"Almost. It gets even smaller. Protons and neutrons are made of quarks, tiniest quantities that cannot be divided any further. I could go into more detail and talk about quantum physics," the relic pronounces a word that is just guttural enough for Lilia to imitate without all too many struggles. "But that won't be necessary for now."

Even though her Lady has stopped shaking, Lilia doesn't want to release her wrists yet. She is glued to the engineer's lips, soaking up what sounds like forbidden knowledge, like having a peek through God's microscope.

"What is a Holtzman shield made of? What do you think?" The engineer wraps her own fingers around Lilia's slender wrists and the maid sinks from squatting on her soles to sitting down on her bum, stretching out her legs on either side of her Lady's.

"I don't know, my Lady. Uh, something that repels?"

"Yes, that's right," she nods encouragingly. "There are several forces in the universe that attract and repel. The most well-known force of attraction is gravity. And electro-magnetism— Opposite poles attract, equal poles repel each other. But there are other forces that work on a subatomic level."

The engineer pauses without urging her and Lilia takes a moment to think.

"I'm guessing there's a subatomic force that keeps these, uh, nuclei together? The protons and neutrons? Because if not, everything would just be falling apart?"

It almost frightens her to imagine what her very own body must look like on its deepest level. A cluster of tiniest quantities, held together by forces as invisible as her Lady's interface.

"That's perfectly true!" The woman from Old Earth beams, fingers clenching around Lilia's wrists. "The force responsible for that is called the strong nuclear force. On an even smaller scale, the strong force holds together the quarks that make up the neutrons and protons, but you already said it just right."

Warmth fills out the handmaid's chest and she slowly begins to understand the feeling that had her Lady nearly panicking earlier. Her own heart drums against her ribs quick and hard.

"Okay, so now what about the Holtzman shield and how can you get past it?"

"For that, we also need to take the other subatomic force into consideration. It's called the weak force. Isn't that creative? Despite its name, the weak force is technically stronger than gravity, but it is only effective at very short distances and it can change one quark type into another. What do you think happens when such a change occurs?"

"Hmmm," the Harkonnen woman ponders. She doesn't want to disappoint her Lady who is putting so much effort into her explanation. "If quarks are the smallest quantities that make up anything, I suppose when something changes on the lowest level, this change translates to the highest level as well?"

"You're a natural, Lilia." Upon that, the maid blushes purple and finally releases the relic's wrist in a sudden burst of shyness. "Such a change can turn one element into another. It happens all the time, in every sun. And also in radioactive decay. This is important."

"How so?"

"Imagine if that radioactive decay was amplified. Imagine throwing a huge amount of energy at a substance that is already sporadically decaying. Imagine a whole chain reaction of it. This is what triggers a nuclear explosion, the kind that obliterates an entire city."

Lilia's eyes grow wide with understanding. "So, that's why, when you shoot a lasgun at a Holtzman shield, it triggers a nuclear explosion?"

"That's right. I believe shields are made up of nuclei and rely on both the strong and the weak force to repel incoming objects on a subatomic level."

"All of that was fascinating, but how does it help us get past the shield?" Suddenly it's us, not you. Lilia has clutched the fabric of the relic's trousers over the knees in both of her fists. What the engineer's poor Feyd-Rautha currently lacks in fascination, Lilia makes up for a hundredfold.

"Oh, that was just the prelude." The engineer's lips twist into an almost mischievous little grin. "It's just what I need to take into consideration, so I don't accidentally blow up the shield and the city instead of passing through it."

"Just the prelude? My Lady, I think I'll go insane if you don't get to the point!"

The relic bursts out laughing. "We're almost done, I promise! Imagine you're riding in a groundcar and next to you drives another one with the exact same speed. When you look at it, it seems like you're both standing still, because the relative speed between both cars is zero." Lilia nods and the engineer smiles knowingly. "Now imagine you're a bullet and you want to pass through a Holtzman shield which only allows slow-moving objects to pass."

"Then I'd need the shield particles to move in the same direction as I do, only a tad slower, so that my relative speed is like that of a slow blade."

"Congratulations, you've just figured out how to trick a Holtzman shield."

"That is absolutely genius, my Lady."

"No, it's actually so simple." The woman shakes her head. "The difficult part is how to put the shield particles into motion, but I've figured something out." She summons the pixelated particles that are only for herself to see once more, nuclei that make up a Holtzman shield, accelerated by a burst of calibrated laser light, and how they give way to a bullet that cuts through them like a harpoon through water.

"Now I only need to build a proper gun," the engineer concludes.

Lilia has never cared much about the rest of the universe, and the universe has never cared much about her. Why would she care if her Lady, who has always been good to her, sets everything on fire?

When the door to Feyd-Rautha's personal bath chamber rushes open, he knows it can only be his darling, because the scanner only recognizes her handprint when he is inside.

The na-Baron is submerged to the jaw in oily-black liquid to soothe his bruises, a diluted version, heavily scented with the essence of exotic fruit and spices. He cannot breathe the unadulterated variant without gnawing memories of horror.

Her hectic footfalls cause him to spin around in the tub with worry, but before he can even utter a greeting, he finds his woman sagging down on her knees in front of him and his face captured in her palms.

"I've found a way!" She sobs.

"You've found a way?"

Tears spill down her cheeks as she nods, bringing her forehead against his. She's found a way. To kill the Baron and destroy the universe.

She is so elated, her joy could make a star rotate, it could set the world on fire. She kisses Feyd hard on the lips, melting against the wet expanse of his chest when he embraces her in his strong arms. His muscles break into tremors just like hers had an hour ago.

All of her doubts have flown away like comets in the sky of a fiery dawn.

"Feyd-Rautha, would you be my husband?"

To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour

— Auguries of Innocence by William Blake

A/N: Pretty much none of the physical concepts mentioned are made up. I've tried to use real physics to offer explanations for Frank Herbert's fantastical inventions that make the Dune universe so unique.

I'm not even close to the level of genius that I admire in my favorite sci-fi authors, but all of this was so insanely much fun to come up with. I have more ramblings about space travel, suspenders and glowglobes, but they weren't really necessary for this chapter. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. I'm very proud ❤️

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #dune part 2 #dune fanfiction #feyd #feyd rautha x reader #austin butler #feyd x oc #feyd rautha x oc #peggysuave fanfics #peggysuave;relic #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd fanfiction #feyd rautha fanfiction #feyd smut #feyd rautha smut #feyd imagine #feyd rautha imagine #dune part two

95 notes · View notes

techz-111 · 6 months ago

Text

The Importance of Recycling: How The Recycling Company in Malaysia is Leading the Way

The importance of recycling has taken center stage in global environmental conversations. With the world grappling with waste management challenges, recycling companies in malaysia has emerged as a crucial component in reducing waste and conserving natural resources.

Malaysia, in particular, has been making significant strides in this area, with companies leading the way in setting exemplary recycling practices.

Understanding the Importance of Recycling

Environmental Benefits

1. Reduction of Landfill Waste: Reducing the quantity of waste dumped in landfills is one of recycling's most obvious advantages. This is crucial in Malaysia, where waste management infrastructure can be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of waste produced daily.

2. Conservation of Natural Resources: Recycling helps in conserving natural resources such as timber, water, and minerals. By reusing materials like paper, metals, and plastics, the demand for new raw materials decreases, thus preserving the earth's finite resources.

3. Energy Conservation: The process of recycling typically requires less energy compared to producing new products from raw materials. For instance, recycling aluminum saves about 95% of the energy needed to make the same amount of aluminum from its virgin source.

4. Pollution Reduction: By reducing the need for raw material extraction and processing, recycling significantly reduces air and water pollution. In Malaysia, where industrial activities are a contributing factor to environmental pollution, this is especially crucial.

5. Mitigation of Climate Change: Recycling helps in reducing greenhouse gas emissions. Manufacturing products from recycled materials often emits fewer carbon emissions compared to using new materials, thus playing a role in combating climate change.

Economic Benefits

1. Job Creation: The recycling industry creates numerous jobs in collection, processing, and selling recycled materials. This sector can be a significant employer in Malaysia, contributing to economic growth.

2. Economic Growth: Recycling contributes to the economy by providing raw materials for industries. It also encourages innovation in recycling technologies, further boosting economic development.

3. Cost Savings: Recycling can lead to substantial cost savings for businesses and consumers. For companies, using recycled materials often costs less than new ones, and consumers benefit from lower-priced recycled products.

How The Recycling Company in Malaysia is Leading the Way

Malaysia has been making significant progress in recycling, thanks to the efforts of several forward-thinking companies. These companies are leading by example, implementing innovative practices and technologies that set a benchmark for others to follow.

Innovative Practices

1. Advanced Sorting Technologies: Leading recycling companies in Malaysia are investing in state-of-the-art sorting technologies. These technologies enhance the efficiency and accuracy of the recycling process, ensuring that a higher percentage of waste is successfully recycled.

2. Community Engagement Programs: Many recycling companies actively engage with local communities to raise awareness about the importance of recycling. These programs educate the public on how to properly sort and dispose of waste, fostering a culture of recycling in Malaysia.

3. Partnerships with Industries: The recycling sector in Malaysia is forming strategic partnerships with various industries to create a closed-loop system. By collaborating with manufacturers, these companies ensure that recycled materials are reintroduced into the production cycle, promoting sustainable business practices.

Setting an Example for Sustainable Practices

1. Corporate Responsibility: Recycling companies in Malaysia are setting an example by embracing corporate responsibility. They implement sustainable practices within their operations, such as reducing energy consumption and minimizing waste, demonstrating that environmental sustainability is integral to business success.

2. Innovation in Product Design: Some companies are investing in research and development to create products that are easier to recycle. This includes designing products with fewer materials or using materials that are more readily recyclable, thus facilitating the recycling process.

3. Circular Economy Initiatives: By adopting circular economy principles, recycling companies in Malaysia are changing the traditional linear model of take-make-dispose. Instead, they focus on keeping materials in use for as long as possible, extracting maximum value before recovering and regenerating products and materials.

Challenges and the Road Ahead

Despite these advancements, challenges remain. There is a need for more robust policies and incentives to encourage recycling across all sectors. The government can play a pivotal role by providing financial incentives and support for recycling initiatives, alongside stricter regulations on waste management.

Furthermore, public awareness needs to be continually raised to ensure widespread participation in recycling efforts. Education campaigns can play a critical role in shifting public perception and behavior towards recycling, ensuring that recycling becomes an ingrained practice in Malaysian society.

The importance of recycling cannot be overstated. It plays a vital role in protecting our environment, conserving resources, and driving economic growth. As Malaysia continues to develop, the leadership of recycling companies in malaysia is crucial in setting an example for sustainable practices. These businesses are clearing the path for a more sustainable future by embracing cutting-edge technologies, interacting with communities, and developing partnerships. Through concerted efforts and collaboration between the government, businesses, and the public, Malaysia can continue to lead the way in recycling and sustainability.

#heavy metal recycling #recycling #recycling company in malaysia #environmental company in malaysia

0 notes

55sturn · 11 months ago

Text

✮ CRYING ON SATURDAY NIGHT

pairing: psycho!matt sturniolo x fem!reader [ implied/past tense ]

synopsis: in which matt has always leaned towards all things horrifying and brutal his entire life, his very obvious issues coming out in the form of a deeply disturbing interest in gore, murder, death. he’s always known that he needs help but he’s also always been capable of keeping his instincts under control, until that fateful saturday night.

warnings: angst, blood, gore, death, guns, fire, slightly descriptive murder, swearing. literally nothing happy.

THIRD PERSON POV

everyone knows that there are three extremely distinct signs of something evil, dark, and severely fucked up manifesting in someone. and they primarily show during one’s childhood.

the signs are bed-wetting, cruelty towards animals, and some sort of obsession with either fire or something that can seriously harm, maim, or even kill someone.

and for matt, he never showed those three specific signs, but he did show a heavy and deeply twisted interest in horror, gore, death, and murder from a young age. he loved watching horror movies from as young as six. he would grow giddy as the fake blood spewed across the screen, he would even laugh as the victims in the movies died gruesome deaths.

his traits manifested in the sign of extreme intelligence despite struggling horribly in school, a strong lack of remorse and empathy, no genuine emotional connection to anyone or thing, extreme poorly regulated anger, narcissistic behaviour, and ease when it came to manipulation paired with an unbelievable level of charm.

he was never harmed or abused as a kid, in fact he grew up in an extremely stable and loving family, so when his parents started noticing how…different, matt appeared compared to other children his age, especially his brothers, they were concerned. at first they thought it was a phase, him trying to be like the effortlessly cool guys he saw in the movies he loved, until he “accidentally” set his family home on fire one day while playing with matches.

he was striking the matches, letting them burn out until they were nothing but nubs before tossing them to the floor, and chris had walked into the room, ignoring matt’s actions until he got nervous, and then chris proceeded to yell for matt to stop and that just egged matt on, so instead of listening, he took a handful of matches, struck them, and threw them in the recycling bin full of cardboard boxes and newspapers before holding chris in his arms, preventing his brother from ratting on him. matt forced chris to watch as the flames grew to a increasingly dangerous height, his eyes glistening at the sight of his creation, before letting chris run to warn their parents.

from that moment on, matt’s parents were deeply worried and took matt to therapy, in hopes that it’d help, and it did, until the one saturday night that ruined everything.

THERE’S FIFTY-TWO WAYS TO MURDER ANYONE, ONE AND TWO ARE THE SAME BUT THEY BOTH WORK AS WELL.

matt mulled over every way he’s seen someone kill another person in the movies in his head, trying to figure out what the fuck to do with the unconscious douchebag in the trunk of his car. he knew about fifty-two ways to kill someone total.

if he had taken his meds this morning, he wouldn’t have hunted the guy that you went on a with down, he wouldn’t have picked the lock and snuck into the stupid asshole’s closest, holding a police grade flashlight in his hand, the weight of the metal cylinder heavy beneath fingers, waiting until tyler opened the door to clock him over the head with it.

but he had no time to dwell over what he didn’t do, and instead he drove to his family’s cape cod house, the first two ways that popped into his head were suffocation and strangulation, but considering tyler’s build, it’d take far too long. he took a moment to breathe as he reached over and popped open the glove box, finding a box of matches sitting atop the insurance papers and the glock that he bought as soon as he turned eighteen, and an idea came to him.

as he pulled into the driveway of the family lake-house, he pocketed the matches and tucked the gun into his waistband before popping open the trunk and dragging tyler over to the fire pit, throwing his body in the middle of it before grabbing the rope from his trunk, quickly binding the guy’s arms and legs together. as he waited for him to wake up, he texted you, telling you to come to the cape house, stating it was an emergency.

when tyler woke up again, he was quick to knock him out again, planning to lead you in through the front of the house. but when your car pulled up, matt wasn’t sure what to do because you were quick to climb out and run over to him, your body trembling as you realized what matt had done.

I KNOW WHEN YOU’RE HOME, I WAS THINKING ABOUT YOU // YOU GO VICIOUSLY, QUIETLY AWAY.

your hand shook as you covered your mouth, you couldn’t fathom what you were seeing. you knew matt had some issues, and that he had a few dark fantasies but you never thought that matt, the quiet, seemingly gentle boy from your history class, was capable of murder. there was no way that your best friend, your matt, was capable of something so gruesome but he was.

“what the fuck is wrong with you matt?” you scream, unable to move your feet, feeling anchored to the spot you stood in.

“listen i didn’t want to do this, but seeing you with him set me off. i wanted to drop by your house and surprise you because i was thinking about you and i know when you’re home, but you weren’t home. so i checked your location. and then i drove by and saw you with him.” matt spits, his mind racing as he tried to reason with you.

“so what? did you ambush him in the fucking parking lot?”

“no. i tracked him down and whacked him with a flashlight and drove him here before calling you. it wasn’t hard to track him down considering how well known his family is.” matt scoffs, rolling his eyes as if that was the most obvious answer.

“you’re sick. did you call me here so you could kill me too?” you seethe, growing angry with matt’s audacity and terrified of how dangerous matt truly was.

“no. i called you here to prove that i’m doing this for you. for us. without tyler, there’s nothing standing in our way and we’ll be able to finally be together.” matt hums, his demeanour eerily calm as he flicks a handful of matches, throwing them on to tyler’s now dead and gasoline soaked body, matt had underestimated how hard the last whack to tyler’s head was before dumping a can of gasoline on him.

your sobs echoed in matt’s head as the flames grew, once again finding himself entranced by the way he could cause such a beautiful thing.

“you’re fucked in the head! i could never love someone like you!” you scream, watching as matt laughs at your comment before turning around and walking over you to, taking you face in his hands, you wanted to rip yourself away from him, to push him off of you, but you stood frozen in fear as matt looks at you.

“you don’t mean that, sweetheart.” matt whispers, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, bringing you back to reality as you shove him away.

“don’t touch me you sick bastard! i will never love a demented monster like you. you should’ve been locked up from birth or even worse, i wish you died in the fire you started as a kid.” you screech, watching as matt’s jaw clenches, his hand slipping beneath his sweater, your heart pounding as you see the gun sitting in his hand, realizing it’s now aimed at you.

“take it back you bitch. say you don’t mean it and i can spare you and we can run away and live together and fall in love.” matt whispers, his voice cracking as your words cut him deep, all he wanted was for you, for someone, to actually love him, but the things you were saying were making him think you couldn’t and if he couldn’t have you, no one else will.

“no. i don’t want to love someone as severely fucked as -“ your words were cut off as a gunshot rang through the air, and you could hear your heart pounding in your ears, and suddenly you felt something warm dripping down the front of your body. you went to wipe it away but in the gleam of the fire you see the thick, dark liquid coating your fingers, as you slowly fall to your knees.

matt had shot you in the chest.

“no no no. fuck!” matt mumbles as he pulls you into his lap, his hands trembling as he brushes your hair back, the blood in your mouth gurgling as you struggle to breath. the blood pools in your mouth causing you to cough and spit up a mouthful of blood.

“i’m so sorry sweetheart.” he whispers, tears falling down his face as he feels a strong sense of guilt for the the first time in his life, scared of what was going to happen.

“if you’re really sorry-“ you start, pausing to spit out more blood,

“you’ll turn yourself in.”

matt sobs against your shoulder, holding you tight to him as your body grows colder by the second, your breathing growing ragged and short, the time between each breath growing longer than the last. matt holds you for a long time after your last breath, softly brushing his fingers through your hair, whimpering as it grows matted with blood.

BUT THE BACKSEAT OF THE DRIVE-IN IS SO LONELY WITHOUT YOU // THERE WAS SOMETHING I FORGOT TO SAY, I WAS CRYING ON SATURDAY NIGHT, I WAS OUT CRUISING WITHOUT YOU, THERE WERE PLAYING OUR SONG.

as matt drove back to the city, his head filled with everything he forgot to tell you before you died in his arms. he had taken what you said in your past moments seriously, deciding that if he wants to genuinely make peace with himself and what he had done, he needed to confess to his crimes.

but a song on the radio caught his attention, BRIGHTSIDE by the lumineers, which was coincidentally yours and matt’s song. and subconsciously, he headed toward your favourite place. the drive-in theatre just outside of the city.

as he parked in the back row of the drive-in, he climbed into the backseat, listening to the rest of the song play as he sobbed against his hands. he knew what he had done, and there was no way to undo what he had done, so as the song finished, he climbed back behind the wheel and drove toward the police station.

AND THE COPS WONT LISTEN ALL NIGHT, AND MAYBE I’LL BE OVER JUST AS SOON AS I FILL THEM ALL IN.

as matt sat in the interrogation room, he mulled over what he could do if they set him free while the cops investigated. he figured he could possibly stop by your house, and sit in your room and smoke a cigarette, like you two used to do in highschool, one last time.

or maybe he could find a way to end his life, so he could see you one last time and hug you again, and apologize for how irrationally he acted.

but the one thing he did know was that he was coming clean for you, honouring your last words.

taglist: @worldlxvlys @gamermattsgf @vanteguccir @sturnioloshacker @mattscoquette @sugrhigh @bratzforchris @teapartyprincess4two @lustfulslxt @patscorner @guccifrog @muwapsturniolo @soursturniolo @solarsturniolo @sturnioloshacker @raysmayhem-72 @meanttomeet @breeloveschris @ghostofbrock @l9vesick @freshloveee @fawnchives @cindylcuwho @thc-bolter @freshloveforthefit @freshsturns @forevergirlposts @sturniolo-fav-matt @sturnifyed @querenciasturniolo @pinklittleflower @ellie-luvsfics @strniolo @junnniiieee07 @hearts4chriss @evie-sturns @hysteria-things @sturniolossss @iliketotalk @dazednmatthews @bambi-slxt @nickgetsmewetter @inkyray @jnkvivi @cdbabymp3 @certifiedstarrr

#Spotify #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo #matthew sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo smut

371 notes · View notes

111xinsheng · 2 years ago

Text

The Role of Legislation in Scrap Metal Recycling

Scrap metal recycling is the process of recovering and processing metal waste into new products. It is an important environmental and economic activity, as it helps to conserve natural resources, reduce pollution, and create jobs.

Legislation plays a vital role in promoting and regulating scrap metal recycling. By establishing standards and requirements for scrap metal dealers, recyclers, and consumers, legislation can help to ensure that scrap metal is recycled safely and efficiently, and that the environment is protected.

Here are some of the key ways in which legislation supports scrap metal recycling:

Licensing and regulation: Many governments require scrap metal dealers and recyclers to be licensed. This helps to ensure that these businesses are operating legally and that they are following safety and environmental regulations.

Identification requirements: In many jurisdictions, scrap metal dealers and recyclers are required to collect identification from sellers. This helps to prevent the theft and sale of stolen metal.

Payment restrictions: Some governments restrict the types of payment that scrap metal dealers and recyclers can accept. This helps to prevent money laundering and other criminal activity.

Environmental regulations: Scrap metal recycling facilities are subject to environmental regulations that govern air and water emissions, waste disposal, and other potential hazards. These regulations help to protect the environment and public health.

In addition to these general requirements, many governments also have specific legislation related to scrap metal recycling. For example, some jurisdictions have laws that prohibit the export of certain types of scrap metal, or that require scrap metal recyclers to meet certain quality standards.

Here are some examples of specific legislation that supports scrap metal recycling:

The Scrap Metal Dealers Act 2013 in England and Wales requires scrap metal dealers to be licensed and to collect identification from sellers. It also prohibits the use of cash payments for scrap metal.

The Scrap Metal Recycling Act in Manitoba, Canada requires scrap metal dealers to be licensed and to keep records of all transactions. It also requires sellers to provide identification.

The Scrap Metal Recycling Policy in India aims to promote the scientific and efficient recycling of scrap metal. It includes provisions for the segregation, collection, processing, and utilization of scrap metal.

Overall, legislation plays an important role in supporting scrap metal recycling. By establishing standards and requirements for scrap metal dealers, recyclers, and consumers, legislation can help to ensure that scrap metal is recycled safely and efficiently, and that the environment is protected.

How businesses can comply with scrap metal recycling legislation

Businesses can comply with scrap metal recycling legislation by following these steps:

Obtain a license: If required by law, obtain a license to operate a scrap metal business.

Collect identification: Collect identification from all sellers of scrap metal.

Keep records: Keep records of all scrap metal transactions, including the date, time, and type of metal purchased, as well as the seller's identification information.

Follow environmental regulations: Comply with all applicable environmental regulations governing scrap metal recycling.

By following these steps, businesses can help to ensure that they are operating in compliance with scrap metal recycling legislation and that they are supporting this important environmental and economic activity.

#eco friendly #recycle heavy metals #scrap metal #recylcing

0 notes

artficlly · 2 months ago

Text

i who have known death [snippet]

heya, it's my birthday so as a treat here is a snippet from the mini-series i've been on and off working on <3 if you're interested, let me know

monster hunter!bucky x healer!reader apocalyptic fantasy marvel au [4.7k words] - - -

To my Esteemed Sisters of the Veil,

I write to you from Redhollow to inform you of my safe arrival. The journey was arduous and the roads long, but fortune spared me from any encounter with the Blight. This place is as unforgiving as the maps foretold. Its people are hardened by struggle and steeped in suspicion, and they do not look kindly upon the Veil. Yet, I remain steadfast in my purpose. In time, I hope to earn their trust.

I humbly request additional supplies so that I may begin my work in earnest. Tomorrow, I shall seek an audience with the leader of this settlement, should I be able to determine who holds such authority, and I will offer my services as a Healer of the Veil. Though I walk among those who do not welcome me, I trust in my training, in the wisdom of our order, and in the purpose that binds us. It is an honour to serve in the name of the Veil.

I who have known death.

I who have known the end.

Your hand paused over the sliver of parchment, and your metal-tipped pen was poised as you considered your words. There was more you wished to say, more that clawed at the edges of your thoughts, but the words would not come.

Hastily, you scribbled down an addition—In six months' time, I shall send word to update you on my progress. If no such correspondence reaches you within this timeframe—your hand hesitated once more, veil shifting as you titled your head. The words wavered in your mind, yet you forced your hand to move, the ink biting into the parchment—If no such correspondence reaches you within this timeframe, presume me dead.

The metal tip of the pen rattled as you shakily dipped it into your glass ink pottle, and you signed your name along the worn edge of the parchment, sealing your fate with careful strokes of black ink.

Your eyes darted beneath the black lace of your veil, scanning the cursive lettering before you. With a shaky breath, you folded the paper, tucking it into a yellowed envelope. Your writing supplies had not fared well in the swamp; everything here was always somewhat damp... or rotted.

A sharp sigh escaped your nostrils as you tucked the sealed envelope into your satchel, swinging the small leather bag over your shoulder and fastening the strap across your ribs. The heat clung to you like a second skin—not the dry, searing kind that cracked the earth, but a thick, suffocating humidity that seeped into everything. Each breath felt like recycling your own exhale, warm and stagnant. You had grown up beneath thinner skies, where the air was sharp and metallic, no matter how deeply you inhaled, it never quite filled you. Here, the air was different. It hung heavy, dense as murky water, sinking into your very marrow. Even standing on solid ground, it felt as though you waded through thigh-deep mud, each movement slow, laboured. You wouldn't be surprised if, upon splitting your ribs open, they found your lungs blooming with mould, your bones sodden with the slow rot of the swamp—nature’s decay.

The wooden stairs of the boarding house curved under your weight as you descended into the main lobby. Each time you walked across the damp-infested panels, you could imagine them buckling beneath you, disintegrating into a mash of fibre and rot. The attendant, a rather spindly man with a pointed face, looked down his nose at you, deep-lidded eyes marred with a look somewhere between disinterest and disgust as you breezed past onto the front street.

The heat that hit you was almost immediate, the black lace veil clinging to your sweat-slick face. Your long-sleeved shirt, made of a soft, breathable fabric, stuck to your back; the material soaked through. Your pants fared no better, though the loose, draped fabric hanging from the front and back—a modest, practical addition to the Sisterhood’s attire—offered some protection from the muck that splattered up as you pressed onward into the main street.

Smoke rose from scattered chimneys, curling into the grey sky. Wooden structures stood huddled together, their warped frames blackened by damp and rot, leaning into one another as though they might collapse without the support. Redhollow was no grand city—it was a last desperation for perseverance, a fragile foothold carved into the mire. Its streets were little more than mud-choked pathways, slick and treacherous beneath the weight of passing boots and wagon wheels. The scent of wet timber, stagnant water, and the acrid bite of burning peat filled the air.

The steady rhythm of hammer on anvil echoed somewhere deeper within the settlement. Traders lingered beneath the awnings of the market square, their voices hushed, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their knives. The few souls who dared to call this place home moved with wary purpose, shoulders hunched, eyes darting to the shadows as if expecting the swamp itself to reach out and drag them back into its depths.

Beyond the tangled maze of stilted homes and sagging storefronts, the fence of great wooden stakes stood wearily, its sharpened logs slick with moisture, failing to keep the wilderness at bay. The Blood Swamp had already claimed parts of the town, its creeping roots strangling the abandoned outskirts, pulling ruined shacks down into the muck. Rusted waters were illuminated by lantern light, mist curling and beckoning, patient in its insatiable hunger.

Shaking the feeling that unseen eyes watched you from the depths, you made your way to the tavern. With a quick ease, you weaved your way through the locals who sparsely occupied the street, crossing the cobbles that seemed to sink further into the land by the second. As you walked past a group of large, burly men and their horses, you felt their suspicious glares and scowls. They held dented and scratched metal helmets under their arms, clearly armed to the teeth. Monster hunters, bounty hunters… or simply Hunters, as they referred to themselves. They were well-known in the outer areas of the Blood Swamps and shared a purpose akin to yours and your fellow Sisters of the Veil—eliminating the Bloodworm Blight.

But a synonymous purpose did not make you alike. Or, for that matter, like each other.

You avoided eye contact, noticing the lingering scent of smoke that accompanied them. The remnants of the pyres scattered across the landscape were likely their doing. You had counted more than you could fit on two hands during your travels through The Blood Swamp. At least, you thought, it was better than the smell of decay. And the Blight that followed.

The tavern grew quiet as you entered, the stench of sweat and mildew hitting you in a wave. Men crowded around stained and scratched tables, hair slick against drenched foreheads. There was a room half-obscured by cigar smoke to your right, a lone bar at the back of the ramshackle building. You swallowed hard, suddenly grateful for the veil over your face, even if it choked your breath. You did not want these people to witness the hesitant expression that slipped through as you cautiously approached the barman at the back.

You went to lean your forearms on the bar but paused, noticing how wet and sticky the stained wood appeared in the dim candlelight. The eyes of every man in the tavern burned into your back as you cleared your throat, drawing the attention of the barman who stood a few paces away, polishing a glass.

“I was wondering, when does your—” Your question was rudely ignored as the red-faced barman huffed.

“We don’t serve womenfolk around these parts, Sister.” He interrupted, body swivelling as he turned to serve a lone man who dared to press closer to the bar.

You chewed your lip, fingers tapping across the leather of your satchel strap as you patiently waited for him to return.

“Sister, it ain’t proper—” The barman sighed as he eventually drew his eyes back onto your veiled form.

It was your turn to interrupt now. “The messenger, when is he due to arrive?”

“Arrive?” The barman chortled. “He left three days ago.”

The barman tried to turn again to serve another customer, but you stepped forward, braving the sticky bar to draw his attention back to you. “And when does he return?”

“Dunno. Sunday? Ain’t no set schedule around these parts, Sister. Hard to find one with Bloodworm attacks and all. You understand?”

Your lips pulled into a frown beneath your veil, and before you could think of a reply, the barman had dismissed you, his back fully turned to face you. Cheeks burning, you rotated yourself, facing the onslaught of watching eyes who chuckled at your humiliation. There was a murmur of what you could only assume was a warning. You’re not welcome here, Faceless Sister.

This was hardly the reception you would’ve received back east.

You knew it was time to make a hasty retreat; the pit in your stomach told you so. Veering through the tables, your escape wasn’t as covert as you had hoped. The men leered as you passed, quiet snickering following you.

As if the people of Redhollow hadn’t filled their bellies enough with your humiliation, two younger men blocked the entrance. One of them couldn’t have been older than twenty; he looked barely out of boyhood. His limbs were gangly, and his hair cropped short, and he had a hesitant grin across his hairless face. The other was older and larger, with blond hair swept across his forehead, arms crossed over his chest, and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. A slight stubble ghosted his jaw, red mud long-forgotten splattered up his right shoulder and neck.

“Sister.” The blond greeted, blue eyes quickly scanning your form. “It’s your lucky day. The boss wants to meet you.”

You paused, wavering in place. “The boss?”

Your question was left unanswered, and your feeble attempt to shimmy past the two men was aimless. A hand found your shoulder, guiding you—with some force—towards the darkened back room.

It was a small, cramped space, maybe once a pantry to store dry goods. Now, the space was laid bare, the stench of smoke and alcohol clouding your senses even through your veil. The room was empty, aside from a rickety table and a man who sat behind it.

He was a study in quiet menace. A leather patch obscured his left eye, showing signs of wear and cracking, with a jagged scar running beneath it from forehead to cheek. His other eye, keen and calculating, locked onto you with the focused intensity of a predator evaluating its prey. His face was weathered and hardened, framed by a coarse beard streaked with grey. However, there was no mistaking the vitality in how he held himself—every movement precise, every gesture deliberate. One gloved hand rested on the table, the leather scuffed and stained, while the other toyed absently with a blade.

“A Sister of the Veil so far from home…” The man mused, his deep voice untainted by emotion. “My name is Fury. Nick Fury.”

“You’re the mayor of this place?” You asked, your voice firmer than you felt.

Fury’s lips curved into a dry, humourless smile as a low chuckle escaped him. The two men behind you exchanged glances, their amusement silent, but their shoulders shook ever so slightly.

“Ain’t no mayors or presidents in these parts, Sister,” Fury replied, the knife still turning lazily between his fingers.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you clasped your hands before you, adopting an air of indifference to match his. If the Sisterhood had taught you anything, it was the value of never showing your true emotions. A clear mind in place of panic or fear was champion. Fury’s eye narrowed slightly, his head tilting just enough to show his careful assessment of your every move.

“The men here, I employ them,” Fury continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “Huntin’ Bloodworms for the farmers in these parts.” His gaze lingered.

You tipped your head, the veil shifting just enough to observe the gangly young man who had ushered you in. His fidgeting hands betrayed his nerves despite the bravado in his earlier movements. You did not peg him as the monster-hunting type, maybe a trainee, the son of some farmer who insisted on continuing to farm his lands despite the ever-growing threat.

“I understand,” you said, your voice flat but measured. “That is hard work. I commend you and your workers.”

You didn’t blame the farmers, even if some back east thought them foolish. Between the patchwork of red-tinged bodies of stagnant water that shimmered like pools of molten rust, there were isolated islands of firm, fertile soil. These pockets of stability offered enough foundation for farmers to stake their livelihoods. The bloody earth was unnaturally fertile, yielding crops in abundance, likely the result of thousands of forgotten bodies turned to natural compost.

Fury’s lips twitched, but not into a smile. “Now, who did you piss off to be sent out this way?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “Or were you cocky enough to take it on and found yourself blindsided?”

Your jaw tightened, and you folded your hands tightly together. “We don’t get to choose our assignment.”

“Oh?” He feigned interest.

“Fate chooses,” you explained, feeling a touch of defensiveness creep into your tone.

“Fate?” Fury’s scoff was low and dismissive. “Who is Fate?”

“No… it’s not…” You exhaled through your nose, searching for the words. “We pull a name—a location—from a bowl, and that is where we are sent. Fate decides where our help is needed most.”

Fury looked down his nose at you in disbelief. “So you believe fate thinks we don’t need help out here? Ain’t no Faceless Sisters past the midlands.”

“No. There are just…fewer settlements than in the east. Chance of the draw.” You replied, shrugging faintly. You could understand his point, but it didn’t sway your opinion. Fate’s Draw had remained a tradition for a reason—it prevented bias, allowing all remaining civilisations an equal opportunity to be drawn.

Fury snorted, shaking his head as he exchanged looks with the men behind you. “So you got real shit luck then, huh?”

You met his remark with cold silence—the distant hum of conversation and laughter from the main room filtering through. There was no such thing as luck, only fate.

He scoffed, louder this time, unruffled by your lack of response and his gaze hardened. “Right, well… you’re here now. I guess I have a proposal for you, Sister.”

“A proposal?”

“Yes.” Fury leaned forward, the blade in his hand now still, its point tapping idly against the wood, each click deliberate. His single eye observed you, gauging your reaction. “I got a team of hunters, my best crew. They’re in need of a healer. Their last one was taken by the blight some months ago.”

You stared at him through the wispy fabric of your veil, your fingers tightening around the leather strap of your satchel.

“No.” The word left your lips before you had fully considered it.

“No?” Fury’s brow arched, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief.

“That’s not my line of work,” you clarified, your tone even. “I thank you for the offer, but—”

“You’re a healer.” Fury interrupted, and you exhaled loudly from your nose in unspoken disapproval.

“I’m a Sister of the Veil.”

A beat of silence followed. Even the men at your back seemed to stiffen. Their wariness was not aimed at you but rather at the storm simmering beneath Fury’s composed exterior. He let out a slow exhale, his fingers flexing against the hilt of his blade before setting it aside.

“Sister, I’m gonna be honest with you.” Fury spoke finally; his voice dropped, quiet but firm. “Ain’t none of these folk gonna trust you if you don’t prove yourself first. We don’t like outsiders in these parts, especially not eastern folk who think they know how everything works.”

You straightened. You knew this long before you set foot in Redhollow. The westerners were a hard people, bred by hardship and distrust. Their history was carved into the lines of their faces, into the callouses on their hands. They endured, not by kindness, but by suspicion. You had expected your arrival to be treated like an ill omen, and so far, you were not disappointed.

“I’m not sure—”

“Ain’t no insult to your abilities, Sister,” Fury interrupted, his tone sharp. “But you’re gonna be sent away with your tail between your legs. If these folk don’t like you, they will make your life hell.”

Your mouth parted to speak, but Fury held up a hand, halting you mid-breath. “I’ll pay you, Sister. Hell, you do a good enough job, maybe these folk will trust you enough to like you. You could set up shop here in town—no more need to be runnin’ off with the hunters.”

Fury’s good eye remained fixed on you, unflinching, as though he could will you into submission with a stare alone. The men behind you shifted uneasily like spooked horses, the soft scrape of boots on the worn floorboards. You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as his gaze bore into you. You were an outsider, a stranger in a hostile land, surrounded by men who could easily overpower you.

“I’m offering you a way in,” Fury continued, his voice never wavering. “I don’t got time to hold your hand and make you feel safe, Sister. So, I am offering you a chance to prove you’re more than just another outsider passing through. You think these folks will trust you if you stay holed up, tending to the sick who don’t want your help? No. You earn their trust by showing them you’re willing to stand where it’s ugly, where it’s dangerous.”

“And if I refuse?”

A short, humourless chuckle came from behind you. The blond man—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself like he’d seen more blood than peace—exchanged a glance with the one beside him. The younger said nothing, nervously looking to his feet.

Fury shot them both a look, and the chuckle died in the blond’s throat. “You walk out that door, and you try your luck. But don’t think for a second these people will welcome you with open arms. You’ll be alone, Sister. And out here, alone ain’t a good place to be.”

“And how can I know that I can trust you?”

Fury didn’t react at first, his face unreadable. Slowly, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. He spoke, his words blunt, unvarnished. “You can’t.”

—

You quickly gathered that the Hunters to whom you had been unceremoniously promised weren’t entirely aware of the arrangement struck between you and Fury.

Peter—the younger, jumpier man tasked with escorting you to the stables—had filled the silence with hasty explanations as you braved the mud-slicked cobbles of the main street. The five men, he had told you, were called the Jackals. They were experienced Hunters, men who had lived and worked in the Blood Swamps under Fury’s command since boyhood. Barnes, their leader. Rogers and Wilson, his muscle. Barton and Maximoff, scouts—quick on their feet and skilled survivalists.

The air inside the stables was thick, a blend of damp hay, sweat, and leather that curled in your lungs. It was cooler here but no less stifling under the weight of five sets of eyes peering at you from behind steel masks. They loomed among the horses, their bodies draped in dark, weathered leathers reinforced with plated armour.

"This some kind of sick joke, Parker?"

The voice was low, rough with displeasure. Its owner stood with his arms folded over his chest, his broad frame blocking out a good portion of the lantern light. He was built for the brutality of the hunt—his leathers, worn to a dull brown, softened by years of sweat, blood, and swamp rot. Scratched and dented plates strapped over his shoulders and forearms caught the dim light, their dull steel gleaming where grime hadn’t yet taken root. His gloves were thick, the knuckles reinforced with metal studs. His helmet, forged entirely of steel, bore the mark of a red star, indented deep into the metal and painted red. The colour had chipped away with time, leaving behind a rusted, faded outline. Through the narrow eye slits, a sliver of his gaze met yours—cold, assessing, the pale glint of a predator sizing up something foreign, something unwelcome.

"This isn’t what I meant, and Fury knows it."

The others remained silent. One of them leaned against a stable post, fingers idly tapping against the grip of his weapon—his helmet bore the symbol of a shield engraved into the surface. Another stood with one foot braced against the lower beam of a stall, absently brushing orange mud from his gloves, an empty quiver slung over one shoulder. A leaner figure, positioned slightly apart, shifted restlessly. Even behind the mask, you could sense it—the way he practically vibrated, a coil wound too tight.

You expected distrust. The Western folk had long since abandoned any love for the Veil, that had become quickly apparent. But this was different. This wasn’t a simple superstition but a raw wound that had not yet healed, and perhaps it never would.

Peter shifted beside you, clearly desperate to be anywhere but here. “She’s the healer,” he repeated, though the moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to regret them. “Fury said—”

"Well, you can march her right on back to Fury, can’t you?" Barnes’ voice was final and disdainful. "Tell him to get a proper healer while you’re at it."

You turned slightly, your head tilting as you regarded Peter through your veil. His jaw clenched, lips thinning as he glared at the Jackals. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he muttered, “You know what? Fuck this.”

He twisted on his heel, boots squelching in the mud as he stormed away. “If you wanna complain, go take it up with Fury yourself. See how far that gets you. But until you do, she’s here, and you’re stuck with her. And if you don’t listen, you’re not getting paid.”

Silence settled thick as he disappeared down the path.

"That Parker kid is getting bold," one of the Jackals muttered—the shorter man with the quiver.

"A little too bold," another agreed.

And then, their attention fell upon you.

You eased your shoulders back in quiet confidence, straightening under their scrutiny. Your prior reluctance had been gut instinct for a reason. There was no sense in pushing a foolish proposal if both parties disagreed. And yet, here you stood, bound to this arrangement whether they—or you—liked it or not. Unsure of addressing the obvious, you opted for silence not to aggravate them further.

It seemed you would have to return to your room in the boarding house. Wait until supplies arrived and offer your services from the safety of the town’s perimeter. Hope that some hopeless bastard was desperate enough to seek your services.

"She’s fuckin’ creepy, ain’t she? A Faceless Sister…" The voice carried a thick, lazy drawl. One of the muscle-bound men—Wilson, perhaps—sauntered closer, his boots scuffing against the packed dirt. His helmet stood out the most. Two crude wings had been welded onto either side, the dented feathers arcing back in place of ears. His gloved hand lifted, fingers curling as if he meant to lift the hem of your veil.

"You know," he mused, his tone dipped in amusement, "I heard they don’t talk ‘cause they got their mouths sewn shut. Stops the bloodworms from climbin’ in—"

You struck before he could finish.

A sharp slap to the back of his hand sent it recoiling as if burned. The movement was swift and precise. He jerked back with a yelp, cradling his wrist like a scolded child, and the Jackals erupted into laughter, a dry, humourless bark. “I don’t talk,” you said coolly, your voice measured, unwavering, “because I don’t have anything to say.”

"I don’t believe that." Barnes’ voice cut through the noise. His helmet shifted slightly as he regarded you, perceptive eyes unreadable through the slits. His arms remained folded, thick with muscle beneath his leathers. “How’d you end up here, talkin’ to us if you don’t have anythin’ to say?”

A challenge.

One tempting enough to sway your desire to return to the boarding house in milliseconds.

“Fury asked me, not the other way around.” You replied sharply, and the small, winged Jackal whistled lowly in response to your tone.

“You gotta bit of an attitude, don’t you?” Barnes pressed closer until you could practically smell the scent of horse on his leathers, his sheer size casting a long shadow over you. “That why you got sent all the way out here? Sounds like an execution to me, it’s a death sentence out in the swamp.”

Even as your pulse ticked up, the sound of your blood pumping in your ears, you held your ground. You tilted your chin up with an air of indifference, arms crossing over your own chest to mirror him. You’d met many men like Barnes before—hard men, cruel men. Men who thought presence alone could bend others to their will.

But no matter how strong or ruthless, they all died screaming in the end. You had seen it first-hand one too many times.

Barnes gave a sharp exhale, something between a scoff and a snarl. “You think you’re different, huh? Think you’ll last out here?”

“I didn’t come here to impress you.” You replied, pressing closer until your chests almost touched, and for the first time in six years, you wished—God, you wished—that they could see beneath your veil to glimpse the defiant smirk that curled upon your lips. “I have a job to do, and you’re standing in my way.”

A rumble of amusement passed between the Jackals. The leaner, energetic one, with a white lighting strike painted across his mask, let out a low chuckle. “Cold, this one.”

“Cold don’t mean shit out here,” another muttered, the edges of the shield engraved onto the side of his helmet catching in the lantern light.

Barnes considered your words while his pack bickered and finally spoke up, voice low. “You afraid of dying, Sister?” He asked.

"No." Your answer was simple and unwavering. "Do you not know the word of my creed?"

Silence met you, so you spoke once more.

“I who have known death.” Your hand raised to your left shoulder as you cut a motion diagonally downwards, the repeated on your right as you drew out an X across your chest. “I who have known the end.”

The masked Jackals looked between each other, a silent consideration between the group. The archer, his helmet adorned with a painted arrow curving like a mohawk, gave you a slow nod—an acknowledgement, perhaps, or a sign of reluctant respect.

“I imagine you’re the type to have seen the end, hm? You have that look in your eye, the look of a man who understands that death is a forgiving mistress.” Your head slanted as you stared into Barnes’ eyes through the black lace, and you could’ve sworn he held his breath. “No, I am not afraid of death. I embrace it. I would much rather be dead than become a blightborn monstrosity.”

Barnes let out a slow, guttural exhale, almost a growl, his head tilting slightly as if in consideration. Your words had struck true, just enough to cause the Hunter to pause and think.

"Can you ride?"

It wasn’t just a question. No, it was an offer—an invitation. Something in your response had turned his opinion and earned his unspoken approval.

"Yes."

"Can you fight?"

You inclined your head, letting the question hang before answering. “Yes.”

His silence stretched, his stare pressing down on you even through his mask. “If you fall behind, we won’t wait for you.”

“I understand.”

His shoulders eased slightly as if considering something unstated, and he hesitated a fraction of a second too long before shifting his weight and turning away towards his horse. The others took this as a cue, dispersing to their horses and readying to mount up.

“Got everything you need in that tiny bag of yours, Sister?” One called back to you, the one with lighting painted across his helmet, a mocking glint to his tone.

You didn’t respond. But inwardly, you smiled.

They wouldn’t understand.

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #marvel au #apocalypse au #fantasy au #snippet #first draft #gauging interest #i who have known death

60 notes · View notes