#luminescent machinations

[mosswolf]

Stories about mechs and mechas bleed perfectly into stories about personhood, especially when those stories deal with queerness and transness. Queer peoples are rarely disused to having their personhood questioned or policed.

dave ring, luminescent machinations: queer tales of monumental invention

[underratedbreadcrust]

Chance Equals Fortune — Prologue

Squid Game | The Salesman x F!Reader

Summary: parasites. that is the only thing he thinks of when he meets the players he is meant to recruit. but what happens when he meets you and you are nothing of what he expects.

an au where the salesman lives and becomes a player.

Warnings: swearing and classist thinking. in the future there will probably be canon-typical violence and i'm still debating on smut.

a/n: happy new years! i'm sorry i couldn't upload this earlier i had to deal with some long distant relatives. however, due to popular demand here is the gong yoo fic as promised. this was originally supposed to be under 1k words...

Words: 2.1k

next part>>

Click. Click. Click

Those are the sounds of pristine perfectly polished black shoes on concrete. The soles of the shoes worn by a handsome-looking businessman echoed loudly, causing the sounds to reverberate into the jet-black sky. As he walked beneath the faint luminescence of street lights, case in hand and his head held high, his eyes searched for the next prey to fall victim to his silver tongue. The same mouth that twisted dark truths into sweet promises others couldn't dare reject. Never once has his articulate way of speaking failed to deliver the precise words necessary to provide his superiors with a new batch of fresh meat to satisfy their sadistic tendencies. To him, it was all the same. One less piece of vermin in the world, and more importantly, one less leech to drain the well-oiled machine that is society.

Today was no different as he strolled along the sidewalk of a small park near the outskirts of Seoul. While he walked, he felt indifferent towards the small details, like the light breeze swaying the tree branches above or the faint smell of dog shit wafting through the air. Having trained himself to ignore anything and everything that could be a possible distraction from his mission. What was his mission again? Ah yes, currently that would be you.

His steps immediately halted as he spotted your figure in the distance, a dark shadow looming over a bed of flowers and a trail of smoke emitting from the cigarette between your fingers. There you are. He squared his shoulders as he fixed his expression into one of casual ease. Now, all he had left to do was to convince you all of the problems that have stemmed from your pathetic life could be solved in the blink of an eye. That your worries could dissolve as quickly as skin in acid.

He began to move again, taking long strides to where you were standing. In the time he took to reach you, he jotted some quick mental notes.

One. Your relaxed stance oozed confidence and uninterest despite being a young lady positioned in one of the most crime-infested spots of the city in the dead of night. Meaning you either had a weapon on you or had sufficient defense skills, possibly both. He must tread carefully.

Two. You were positioned next to a tall fountain, atop stood a small marble figure of a gumiho. The spot infamously known for the shady transactions dealing with drugs and other nefarious crimes. Perhaps you were waiting for someone? He'd have to keep an eye out for any newcomers that could interrupt his process.

Three. Your mouth was...moving?

His steps faltered. There was no other person around within a 3-mile radius whom you could be conversing with, nor did you have a phone in hand. How odd. In his time as a recruiter, he has encountered all kinds of people. Drug addicts, the mentally ill, and one memorable case a delirious man on the brink of death, hallucinating from hunger. You, however, seemed perfectly sane. Keyword…seemed. He shook his head, quickly putting a halt to his thoughts. He had no time to ponder over whatever weird traits you may have, he came here to do one job. He resumed his trek towards you and was soon standing mere feet from you.

Show time.

“Excuse me miss, may I have a minute of your time?”

You remain standing still, making no indication that you had noticed him. Your eyes were distant while you continued to murmur but no sound came out. He wasn’t sure if you were ignoring him or if you really were that unaware of your surroundings. Now that won’t do.

“Miss?” He tried again tentatively, his head tilting curiously as he stepped in your line of sight. “Are you alright?”

Finally, your eyes shifted into focus, taking a moment to adjust. For a brief moment, it appeared as if you were lost. However, that moment soon passed and your eyes narrowed, annoyance filling your features.

“Why did you interrupt me?”

The bite in your tone was enough to make him raise an eyebrow. Perhaps you really weren’t in the right state of mind after all. “Interrupt?”

You scoffed, ignoring the question you brought the cigarette back to your lips. Taking in a long drag before you released the smoke right in his face. His mouth turned downward in displeasure.

“Do you need something?” You snapped, your jaw clenching as you slid your free hand in your pocket. He caught the way your finger twitched as you did so. Weapon it is then.

His face instantly changed back to that previous pleasant expression, his lips curving into a kind smile though with a lack of warmth in his eyes. Instead replaced by an empty, clinical look.

”I don’t mean to be a bother ma’am, but I’m here to offer you a proposal you’re sure to like,” he states in a neutral tone, having uttered a variation of those words dozens of times. “A way to better improve your current economic situation.”

Your body tenses as your eyes dart over his figure eyeing the suitcase, no doubt analyzing him as a threat. “Look I already said I’d pay him back!” He watches as you chuck the cigarette to the ground and stomp on it. “If he keeps rushing me like this then don’t expect to get a single won out of me! I don’t give a shit who he is!” Your volume rises as you take a step back, ready to sprint if needed.

He raises his arm in surrender. “That’s not what I’m here for. As I’ve stated, I only want to help.” His mind is conjuring up the best way to ease the tension.

He hesitantly takes a step forward.

Your eyes immediately look back down. “What’s in the case?”

Another step.

“I work for a group of people whose only interest is to help those who are struggling. Our objective being to ease the burden of the majority.” He swiftly places the case at the base of the fountain, unlocking the latch but leaving it closed. “See for yourself.”

You were the one to take the final step, closing the gap between the two of you. You gave him one more skeptical look before you focused all of your attention on what was in front of you. Slowly, both hands reached out and flipped the top wide open. Your eyes widened as you took in the contents of what was inside, or more specifically, the big wads of cash.

You remained silent, frozen as a statue as you simply stared. In an instant, you whipped your head in his direction. You took the time to study him, your mouth slightly agape and a certain look in your eye he couldn't quite place. A couple of seconds passed, you clamped your mouth shut and swallowed thickly, licking your lips before you finally managed to whisper, "What do you want?"

His mouth quirked upward in a smirk. Got you. "I'd like to play a game."

You belted out a high-pitched, contorted laugh. A childlike glee completely overcoming you. "Ab-so-fucking-lutely," you grinned from ear to ear, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

It dawned on him what that look in your gaze was...

Unstable.

A jolt of thrill shoots down his spine. "I'm sure you're familiar with the game ddakji," he reaches until he grabs the two colorful squares, carefully placing the red one on the ground, "for every time your square manages to flip mine, I will pay you 100,000 won."

You nod enthusiastically, your hand shooting out as he draws his hand in at the same time. "However, if you lose...you must pay me back the same amount."

You snatched the piece from him. “Deal.” You don't waste a single moment in hurling it, the force of the impact causing the sound to ricochet like a gunshot. The square goes flying, becoming a red blur. It stays in the air for a couple of seconds, but that time is enough for the experienced recruiter to know that you've already won. By the time it hits the ground, he doesn't even have to look to know it's flipped.

You look up expectantly at him.

He glances at her, jaw clenching. Well, this isn't how it usually goes. Before he can move to pay you, your voice cuts through the silence. "From the look on your face, you didn't want me to win, correct?" The lack of response on his part encourages you to continue. "How about, instead of doing whatever the hell you were thinking, I propose a new rule," you lean forward, your eyes sparkling with mirth, "we both keep throwing until one of us loses. If I win...you give me everything that's in that case."

"And what if I win?"

Your mouth twists into a devilish smirk. "Don't worry, you won't."

His eyes look you up and down, scanning you. His hands twitch in anticipation at the challenge, adrenaline manifesting itself as electricity in his veins. His bruised ego from losing the first round combined with his competitive nature was enough to make him agree. This was not part of the plan. He could just give you the money, the card, and go about his day like he has so many times before. He has no reason to play along other than he just wants to beat you.

"Alright," his previously fabricated smile now becoming genuine, "my turn."

With renewed vigor, he launches his square and as expected, it flips. He lets out an arrogant chuckle as he fixes his suit and stands up straight, his lips stretching into a satisfied smile.

This cycle continued for multiple rounds, the money long forgotten. The need to succeed fueled the violent fire between the two of you. After a while, he lost all track of time, fixating all of his attention solely on the game.

By now, his hair was disheveled and sweat dripped down his forehead. He panted as he recovered, his arm muscles aching from the consistent use. It was taking more energy than he was willing to admit in order to keep going but like hell if he'd let exhaustion be the cause of failing.

On his turn, he prepared himself to once again launch the disc. He readied himself, drawing his arm back and—

His eyes suddenly flickered to your lips, where your tongue darted out lick them. He watches intensely at your now damp, chapped lips, mouth slightly parted as you breathe heavily from fatigue.

In his moment of distraction, the square slips from his hand. He scrambles quickly to catch it but it's too late...

He's lost.

There is a long pause of silence, before your high-pitched cackle cuts through the air. His eyes widen in shock, the realization slowly setting in.

How...

He breathes out deeply through his nose, trying his best to compose himself. What the hell was that? How on earth could he have lost? He Never. Loses. He doesn't have any longer to dwell on the fact as you practically skip in joy to the case, already counting the amount. All of this because you managed to distract him.

Your voice soon interrupts his thoughts. "Maybe the next time you want to win, you might try not to let your eyes stray so far..." you say as you wink.

How did you even notice? Wait...was that on purpose? He clenches his fists until they turn white, the thought making his blood boil. He has half the mind to kill you and call it an accident just to quell his anger.

He closes his eyes in frustration. No, I can't ruin the games.

He takes in a couple of deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Once he knows that his voice won't betray any conflict he feels, he speaks again, "you know, there are other games such as the one we just played. And for much larger prizes as well."

He's back in his element, his persuasive tone of voice exuding reliability. He hands you the card, explaining how it works, how to enlist, and so on.

By the time he finishes his speech, you look mostly convinced. After inspecting the card more closely, your stare finds his, "I appreciate what you have done and thank you for the opportunity. I will consider your offer. If I do accept know it will only be due to a singular fact," your head leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper and your breath fanning over his, "I never lose"

On that note, you step back and walk away, never once turning to glance back at him. You soon disappear into the dark Seoul night, shadows blending with that of buildings and trees.

He lets out a small huff in amusement. If that is true, then he's excited to see how you'll fare in the games.

please don't be a silent reader i love reading comments and hearing your thoughts.

[nhaaauyen]

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨ The Ghost of You ୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

"This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong // To love that well which thou must leave ere long." -William Shakespeare (Sonnet 73)

PART IV: TONIGHT, I WALK AWAY

zombie apocalypse sevika x reader au!: sevika was the super soldier; a killing machine driven solely by survival. you were nomadic, constantly searching for something in whatever was left of the world—till you met her.

series masterpost: part I // part II // part III // part V

wc: 7.8k cw: violence, angst, major character death author's note: Honestly I'm starting to get why TWD writers do what they do after writing this chapter... I also apologize for taking so long for this chapter, my classes are starting now so updates will be a bit a slower </3 **also some eastereggs but the sonnet 73 quote I have is mentioned in the scene where Grayson talks about love. It's pretty much the translated modern English definition of the quote! The make a wish dialogue is also from the movie Dangerously Yours (1937), that scene always gets me so I had to include it haha

You drift in and out of consciousness, the world around you a hazy blur of pain and disjointed voices. Through the fog, you catch glimpses of three figures engaged in intense discussion.

Sevika's there, her face etched with worry. Beside her stands a tall, bald gaunt man and a mask covering the lower half of his face. His eyes are sunken, giving him an almost skeletal appearance. The third figure is shorter, with slicked-back dark hair and a prominent scar running down one side of his face, his right eye a striking shade of green.

Their voices filter through your muddled thoughts:

"...low on medical supplies for a procedure like this," the masked man says, his voice muffled and clinical. "There's no sure chance she can make it."

"I'll go to the hospital."

"It’s too dangerous." The scarred man's voice is sharp and skeptical.

"We've been low on supplies for too long," Sevika argues. "It's time we do it now. We cannot lose any more people."

Their words fade as you slip back into darkness, only to resurface again as you're being moved. You have no idea how much time has passed, but you're on some kind of gurney, the ceiling passing by overhead. You try to move, but your limbs feel heavy and unresponsive. Glancing down, you see your wrists are handcuffed to the sides of the bed.

Panic surges through you as you realize you're being rolled into what looks like a makeshift operating room. The masked man and the scarred one are there, now wearing blood-stained surgical gowns. You try to fight, to call out, but your body won't cooperate.

The scarred man leans over you, his mismatched eyes boring into yours. "It will be over soon," he says, his voice oddly soothing despite the circumstances. Then he's lowering a gas mask over your face, and the world fades to black.

When you wake again, your mind is clearer, though your body feels like it's been run over by a truck. The scarred man is sitting in a chair beside your bed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"Ah, you're awake," he says, leaning forward. "Good. I was beginning to wonder if we'd miscalculated."

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, raw. He holds up a hand, silencing you.  

"No need to strain yourself. I just wanted to... observe you.” He pauses. "It's been a long time since I've had to perform a procedure like that. It’s quite a reminder of what still lurks beyond these walls. How we’ve grown complacent."

Your eyes drift to his face, lingering on the scar that runs down the right side, bisecting his eye. The eye itself is a startling shade of green, almost luminescent against his pale skin. You must have been staring, because the man chuckles, a dry, humorless sound.

"Curious, aren’t you?" A sardonic smile twists his features. "It’s only natural - people always wonder. But few ever ask. It’s a souvenir from when Zaun was still crawling out of the muck. When men I called brothers tried to drag me back down for a piece of land." 

His finger traces the scar slowly, almost lovingly. "This... this was their parting gift." He trails off, then continues in a near-whisper. "Have you ever felt pain so exquisite it becomes transcendent? For days, I danced on the knife's edge between genius and madness."

His gaze refocuses on you, sharp and penetrating. "But pain, you see, can be transformative. It stripped away my naivety, my weakness. It forged me into something stronger, something capable of truly leading Zaun."

“I think I understand why Sevika is so fond of you." His lips curl into something that might be a smile but doesn't reach his eyes. "There's something in you, just like her. That part that's willing to sacrifice."

You furrow your brow, confusion, and wariness warring inside you.

"Some sacrifices are necessary to be made. But they're also weaknesses," He stands, smoothing down his shirt. "Something to consider."

With those cryptic words, he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. You're left alone, your mind racing with questions. Who were those men? What exactly happened to you? And how much time had gone by?

The weight of uncertainty presses down on you, and exhaustion soon follows. Despite your churning thoughts, your eyelids grow heavy, and you drift into an uneasy sleep.

When you wake again, its by the sound of shuffling feet and the creak of a door opening. The haze of sleep still clings to your mind as you slowly become aware of your surroundings.

Sevika enters, holding a plate of food. Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

"Hey," she says finally, her voice softer than you've ever heard it.

"Hey yourself," you reply, unable to keep a slight tremor from your voice.

Sevika sets the plate on your bedside table, then stands awkwardly, as if unsure what to do with her hands. "Thought you might be hungry," she mumbles.

You nod, a thousand questions bubbling up inside you. Where has she been? Why didn't she visit sooner? What happened after the surgery? But looking at her now, seeing the dark circles under her eyes and the way she holds herself - tense, guarded - you decide those questions can wait.

Instead, you pat the bed beside you. "Sit with me?"

Sevika hesitates for a moment, then complies. As she settles beside you, you feel the warmth of her presence, so familiar yet somehow changed.

"I missed you," you say simply.

Sevika's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of emotion crossing her face before she schools it back to neutrality. "I... I'm glad you're okay," she replies, her voice gruff but sincere.

As you and Sevika sit together, you try to maintain a casual conversation, but there's an undercurrent of tension you can't ignore. Sevika's responses are clipped, her gaze never quite meeting yours. It's like she's looking through you, not at you.

"Hey," you say softly, reaching out to touch her arm. "What's going on?"

She turns slowly, her eyes finally meeting yours. But there’s something different in them, something that makes your heart clench. It’s infuriating, this distance she’s putting between you, this wall she’s building brick by brick.

“Sevika,” you say, trying to break through that wall. “Talk to me.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Nothing can happen between us again,” she says, the words falling heavy between you like a death sentence.

You stare at her, disbelief mingling with hurt. “What?”

Her gaze flickers, something like pain flashing in her eyes before she steels herself again. “We can’t do this,” she says, her voice low and strained. “We can’t keep pretending this… whatever this is… can last.”

You feel the ground shift beneath you like the world is falling away, leaving you teetering on the edge of a precipice. “You’re really going to say that after everything?” Your voice cracks, the hurt seeping through despite your best efforts to keep it at bay. “How do you kiss someone, make them believe there’s something real, and then just—throw it away?”

Sevika’s jaw clenches, and she looks away, as if unable to bear the sight of your pain. “You can be mad at me, hate me if you want,” she says. “But it has to be this way.”

“I’m not mad,” you reply, your heart breaking with every word. “I’m hurt, Sevika. I’m hurt because I care about you, and you’re pushing me away like none of it matters.”

“I know,” she whispers, her voice so soft it’s almost lost in the hum of the machines. 

“Then why?” you demand, your voice wavering as you struggle to understand. “Why are you doing this?”

She finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the anguish in her eyes is like a punch to the gut. “Because if I let myself love you,” she says, her voice breaking on the word, “I know we’d never have enough time. ”

Her words hit you like a tidal wave, drowning you in the despair that’s been brewing in your chest. “But isn't some time better than none at all? I'd rather have a handful of precious moments with you than spend the rest of my life wondering 'what if.'” The tears you’ve been holding back now streaming down your face. 

“Even if it hurts, even if it's brief – at least it would be real.”

Sevika shakes her head, her expression a storm of anger and fear. Her words come out in a rush, like she can't hold them back any longer.

"You don't understand. I was okay before you. I was okay with the idea of dying, of existing day after day without purpose until my time ran out. But now?" Her voice hardens. "Now I'm terrified. I'm not okay with losing you. I'm not okay with the thought that you could walk out that door and never come back."

“I didn't need this. I didn't need you to come along and give me a reason to call this godforsaken place home. I didn't need you to make me want to survive instead of just exist.”  She’s practically pleading now.  “Don't you see what you've done to me? Needing you means I have something to lose."

The weight of her confession crushes you, the finality of it sinking in. She’s not just pushing you away—she’s tearing herself apart to do it, ripping out the very thing that might make her feel alive, all because she’s so afraid of the pain it could bring.

“I’d shatter every bone in my body again if it meant keeping you safe,” you say, your voice trembling. “I’d do anything for you, Sevika, and it hurts so bad that you won’t let me.”

She turns her head away. “You’re too stubborn,” she whispers, her voice resigned. “You won’t stop, and neither will I, and it’ll kill us both in the end.”

“You look at me like I’m already dead,” you say, your voice cracking with the weight of your grief. “Like I’m a ghost you’ve been carrying around, waiting for the right moment to bury me.”

She flinches, the words cutting deep. “Because that’s what it feels like,” she confesses. “I feel like I’ve already lost you, and it’s killing me. I’d rather lose you now when we still have a chance to walk away than lose you out there, where I can’t protect you.”

The following silence is deafening, the air thick with everything neither of you can bring yourselves to say. You reach out, your hand trembling as you gently caress her cheek, trying to offer comfort in the only way you know how. She leans into your touch for a moment, her eyes closing as if she’s trying to savor it, to hold onto it before it’s gone.

“Are you doing this to protect me, or are you protecting yourself?” you ask softly, the question hanging in the air like a lifeline, offering her one last chance to admit the truth.

She opens her eyes, and the pain you see there nearly undoes you. “Both,” she admits. “I’m protecting both of us. I’ll never survive the day I lose you. And I can’t—” Her voice breaks, and she swallows hard, her eyes pleading with you to understand. “I can’t live.”

Your heart shatters as the reality of her words sinks in. She’s already decided, already convinced herself that this is the only way to keep you both safe, even if it means tearing herself apart in the process.

“Can I be alone?” you ask, your voice small and broken, the words barely escaping your lips.

Sevika nods, her expression tightening as she takes a step back. “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll go.”

She turns to leave, but before she can take another step, you reach out. “Sevika, wait,” you say, your voice filled with desperation. “Can you hand me my bag?”

She hesitates, her gaze flickering to the bag and then back to you. After a moment, she nods and hands it to you, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments, sending a jolt of longing through you. You rummage through the bag, your heart pounding as you pull out the familiar fabric of her shawl.

You hold it out to her. “This belongs to you.”

Sevika stares at the shawl, her eyes widening as she realizes what it means. For a moment, she just stands there, looking at it like it’s a lifeline she’s too afraid to grasp. Then, she takes it from you.

She looks at you, and in her eyes, you see all the things she wants to say, all the things she’s too scared to admit. And then, without another word, she turns and walks out of the room, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with nothing but the ghost of her touch and the scent of her shawl lingering in the air.

⁺˚⋆｡°✩

You didn’t accept any visitors for days, under the guise that you were too tired and needed the rest to recover. But as tempting as curling in bed and crying over a woman that you never even had a proper relationship with was, you knew you couldn’t hide away forever.

Blinking, you see a group of people piling into your room.

Vander's deep voice rumbles, "Easy now, let's not overwhelm her."

Caitlyn is standing over you. "How are you feeling? Any pain?"

Before you can answer, Powder chimes in, "Bet you feel like you've been hit by a truck. Am I right?"

"Something like that," you croak.

Your attention is drawn to the doorway where Grayson stands, little Ren in her arms. The child is clutching Grayson's yellow armband tightly.

Grayson sets Ren down gently. "Go on, little one," she says softly.

Ren doesn't need to be told twice. She rushes to your bedside, her small hands gripping the edge of the mattress. "Miss, are you okay?" she asks, her voice shakes slightly. "Will you be like Sevika?"

The innocence in her question tugs at your heart. You reach out, ignoring the twinge of pain from the movement and the mention of Sevika, to pat her hand. "No, darling," you reply softly. "Sevika is unique. I'll be just fine."

Grayson moves closer, her stern expression softening slightly. "That was brave," she says. "But also very idiotic of you."

You frown at the comment, the words too similar to Sevika’s at the prison.  

Vander's voice pulls you from your thoughts. "You gave us quite a scare," he says. "But you're tough. You'll pull through."

Caitlyn nods in agreement. "We've managed to replenish some of our medical supplies thanks to the hospital mission." she informs you. 

Vi adds with a smirk, "And don't even think about trying to get up and be a hero again anytime soon."

“Yeah… I wouldn’t dream of it,” you respond hoarsely.  

Over the next week, your family comes and goes, their visits being the highlight of your monotonous days.  Grayson usually stopped by with Ren, the two were closer than you expected but Marcus had flitted in and out of Ren’s life so often that Grayson stepped up as a parental figure.  You offered to take care of the kid while you were still bed-bound, and Grayson only reluctantly agreed when you assured her it wouldn’t obstruct your healing process.

You find yourself sitting up in bed, Ren cross-legged beside you. Math worksheets are spread out between you.

"If an apple cost three dollars and you needed to buy five apples, how much would that cost?"

Ren's brow furrows in concentration. "Um... fifteen dollars?"

You beam at her. "That's right! You're getting good at this."

A knock at the door interrupts your math lesson and Vi pokes her head in, her red hair slightly disheveled.

"Hey, time to get moving," she says with a grin.

You turn to Ren, giving her a warm smile. "Let's do this again tomorrow, sweetie?"

Ren nods enthusiastically, gathering her papers. "Alright! Bye-bye, miss! I hope you feel better!"

As Ren scampers out, Vi approaches, offering her arm for support. You wince as you stand, your body still protesting the movement.

“Easy,” she murmurs, her tone softening as she watches your struggle. “Take it slow.”

You grit your teeth, focusing on her voice, on the feel of her arm supporting you. Slowly, you manage a few steps, each one a little less painful than the last. 

“How’s it feel?” Vi asks, keeping pace with you, her gaze never leaving your face.

“Like hell,” you admit with a shaky laugh, though there’s a small sense of victory in the simple act of standing on your own two feet again. “But better than yesterday.”

Vi nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Progress,” she says. “You’re getting stronger.”

As you slowly make your way down the hallway, Vi starts chatting about her day. "You wouldn't believe the shit from yesterday. We were chasing some survivors that tried to steal our shit through an alley, and then Sevika shows up out of nowhere and--" 

The moment the words are out, Vi winces, realizing her mistake too late.  You feel a sharp pang in your chest at the mention of Sevika's name. 

"Uh, anyway, we got the guy in the end.” she says.

“She… was?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

Vi looks away, guilt flashing in her eyes. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“It’s good,” you say, though the words feel like a lie even as they leave your lips. “It’s good that she caught them.”

Vi nods. “I’m sorry.” 

You shake your head, forcing a small smile. “It’s okay. It’s just… I miss her.  It’s stupid, we weren’t anything.”

“I know,” she says. “But it’s not stupid.”

There’s a long silence, the kind that’s filled with all the words neither of you know how to say. “If you didn’t have Caitlyn, would you be okay with all of this? Would you be able to live with everything we do?”

She’s quiet for a moment as she considers your words. “Do I have a choice?” she finally says, her voice tinged with a sadness you’ve rarely heard from her. “I have Powder. I have you, Vander… my family. I’d feel incomplete, sure, but I don’t have a choice. I have to keep going.”

“We’ll keep going, together.” She adds.

“Thanks, Vi.” Despite your gratefulness, her words feel like they’re coming from a distance, muffled by the grief you’re still trying to process. 

Your family helps you through it all, they talk to you about everything and nothing, filling the silence with stories. The days pass, and slowly, you begin to reclaim small pieces of yourself. You walk more, the physical therapy sessions become less of a struggle and more of a routine.

And each night, when the room is quiet and you’re alone with your thoughts, you think of Sevika. It’s not easy. Some days, the weight of it all feels unbearable, like you’re drowning in a sea of what-ifs and lost chances. But you keep going, step by step, knowing that it’s all you can do.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting session, you lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling as your thoughts drift. You think about Sevika, about the last time you saw her, the pain in her eyes as she walked away. And you wonder if she feels the same weight, if she’s struggling just as much to move on.

You close your eyes, and for a moment, you imagine her here, standing by your side. And as you drift off to sleep, you could swear you hear her voice, soft and broken, whispering in the dark.

“I failed you.”

⁺˚⋆｡°✩

The pantry is filled with the scent of canned goods and the faint rustle of paper bags. You’re focused on stacking cans of beans when your grip falters, and one slips from your fingers.

Before it can hit the ground, a hand darts out and catches it. You look up to see a man with a cocky grin. He’s tall and lean, with slicked-back hair and piercing teal eyes.  You don’t know why, but he looked oddly familiar.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing down here? Are we that understaffed that we’re making the injured work now?”

You snatch the can back from him. “Not that it’s any of your business,” you reply curtly, setting the can back on the shelf, “but I wanted to do this.”

He chuckles, leaning against the shelf with a casual arrogance. “Looks like supplies are running a bit thin,” he comments slyly, his eyes flicking to the half-empty shelves. “Maybe you should take it easy before you use up what little energy we have left.”

You narrow your eyes at him, your patience wearing thin. “I’m not interested in your opinion.”

Before he can retort, the door to the pantry swings open with a loud creak, and Sevika steps inside. The air changes instantly when her gaze zeroes in on the man. 

“Finn,” she growls. “What are you doing here?”

Finn straightens up and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just making sure our friend here isn’t overworking herself,” he says innocently.

“Get lost,” Sevika snaps. “Now.”

With a lazy shrug, Finn backs off, giving you a final, lingering look before sauntering out of the pantry. The door closes behind him, leaving you alone with Sevika. 

Sevika turns to you. “I was told you’re working here again,” she says, her voice sharp with disapproval. “Are you stupid? You’re barely healed.”

You bristle at her tone. "I needed to do something."

"Yeah, like babysitting Ren," she snaps. “Not this.”

"Why does it matter what I do?" you challenge, your voice rising.

For a moment, Sevika doesn’t answer, but then her eyes widen.

“You’re bleeding.” 

You blink, confused. “What?”

You look down and see a trickle of blood seeping through the bandages on your side. The pain hits you a second later, sharp and burning, but you grit your teeth, refusing to show weakness in front of her.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, trying to downplay it. “I can bandage it myself.”

But Sevika is already moving toward you, her expression darkening with worry. “You’re not going back to your place like this,” she mutters. “Come on. My place is closer.”

Before you can protest, she’s already scooping you up into her arms. The world blurs around you as she carries you through the streets and you’re too shocked to resist.

When you reach her place, she sets you down on the edge of her bed, her touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary before she pulls away.

“Just sit,” she instructs as she moves to grab a first aid kit from a nearby drawer.

“I can do it.” 

Sevika shakes her head, her expression set in a way that leaves no room for argument. “I have experience with this,” she says quietly. “Let me.”

You watch in silence as she works. Her hands, usually so strong and rough, are gentle as they press a fresh bandage against your skin. There’s a tenderness in the way she handles you, in the way she refuses to meet your gaze as she focuses on the wound, that makes your chest ache.

Finally, Sevika finishes. She stands, the distance between you growing once more as she busies herself with putting away the first aid kit, her movements stiff and mechanical.

“Thanks.” You want to leave, not to be any more inconvenient than you already were but Sevika replies before you can say anything.

“You should rest,” she says, her voice flat, devoid of the warmth that was there just moments ago. “Don’t push yourself like that again.”

You reluctantly agree to stay and the tension in Sevika's shoulders eases slightly. She mumbles something about bringing dinner later and leaves you to rest.

Left alone, you take in your surroundings. The room is sparse, almost impersonal. Unlike the chaos in the other rooms, this space feels hollow. There are no personal belongings, no knick-knacks, nothing to suggest that she even uses this bed. It's as if the room itself is holding its breath, existing in a state of perpetual temporariness.

Exhaustion soon overtakes you, and you drift off to sleep. But you soon wake again at the sound of muffled voices.  Through the haze of half-consciousness, you hear one of Sevika's people inviting her to a party, but she declines. 

"Nah, I'm staying in today," you hear her say.

The voices fade, and you slowly wake up, disoriented. You stumble to the doorway of the living room, blinking sleep from your eyes. Sevika is there, dressed in casual clothes – a grey tank top and worn jeans with her hair down, falling in messy waves around her face.  She's cleaning up, a pile of bottles in her arms when she notices you.

"You're awake," she says, startled. "Shit, did I wake you up?"

You shake your head, your voice still rough with sleep. "No, you're good... Do you need help with that?"

"No. Fuck, sit down. What are you doing walking around?"

Still groggy, you comply without argument, sinking into the couch. Sevika dumps the bottles in a bag and turns back to you.

"I'm making dinner," she says, washing her hands at the sink. "You're okay with instant noodles and spam?"

The domesticity of the moment catches you off guard. "Sounds delicious," you manage to say.

Sevika nods and turns to the small kitchenette. You watch her move around the space. It's surreal, seeing her like this – relaxed, casual, making dinner for you both. For a moment, you can almost pretend things are different between you.

Sevika settles on the far arm of the couch next to you, the small distance between you both feeling more like a chasm. 

"Chopsticks or fork?" she asks, holding out both options.

"Chopsticks," you reply, and a ghost of a smile flickers across her face.

"Good choice," she murmurs, handing them to you.

You eat in comfortable silence, stealing glances at her when you think she's not looking. When you finish, Sevika collects the empty bowls.

"Want dessert?"

"Sure," you nod, watching as she retrieves an apple from the kitchen.

She settles back on the arm of the couch, peeling the apple with a small knife. "How's the physical therapy going?" Sevika asks, breaking the silence.

You shrug. "It's... going. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless."

She nods, placing slices onto a plate. "That's good. Don't push yourself too hard."

"Says the woman who never knows when to quit," you tease gently.

A wry smile tugs at her lips. "Do as I say, not as I do."

As you reach for the last slice, Sevika’s hand brushes your cheek. You freeze, the touch unexpected, and you look up at her, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest.

“There’s an eyelash,” she says softly, her voice gentle as she carefully removes it from your face. She holds it up for you to see, the tiny, delicate lash resting on her fingertip. “Make a wish.”

You stare at the eyelash, your mind racing with all the things you could wish for, should wish for. But the words stick in your throat, and you find yourself frozen, unable to think of anything that could possibly fix what’s been broken.

“Did you wish?”

You shake your head slightly, the corners of your mouth turning up in a sad smile. “I... I didn't get the chance.”

She raises an eyebrow, her gaze piercing as she studies you. “And there’s something you wish for?”

“Yes,” You hesitate, the words coming slowly, painfully, like pulling them from some deep, hidden place inside you. “I was wishing… that we were two other people. Two people who didn’t have to say goodbye.”

The silence that follows is thick, charged with the tension of emotions neither of you can afford to express. Sevika’s expression tightens, her jaw clenching as she absorbs your words.

“You know, if you say it out loud, it doesn’t come true,” she says, her voice rough, like she’s fighting against the vulnerability of the moment.

“Do you believe that?” 

She looks down at the eyelash, still resting on her finger, before blowing it away into the air. Her gaze follows it for a moment before she looks back at you. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unmovable, like a finality neither of you can escape. 

“We should sleep,” Sevika says finally. “It’s late.”

You nod, knowing she’s right. There’s nothing more to be said, nothing that can change the way things are. 

“Thank you,” you say softly.

Sevika looks at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nods, just once, and steps back, letting you go. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you echo, your heart heavy as you turn and walk away.

As you reach the end of the hallway, you glance back, just once. Sevika is still standing in the doorway, watching you, her figure framed by the dim light. There’s something in her posture, something in the way she’s holding herself that makes you think she might be wishing too—wishing for something that neither of you can have.

But then she steps back, closing the door behind her, and you’re left standing in the cold, empty hallway, the echoes of what could have been ringing in your ears.

⁺˚⋆｡°✩

The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the makeshift shooting range. You and Grayson stand side by side, both of you facing a row of targets at the far end of the field. You’ve been practicing your aim for a while now, but your focus has been off, your shots missing the mark more often than not.

“You haven’t said anything about my shit shot,” you mutter, glancing sideways at Grayson, expecting some form of criticism.

She shrugs, her eyes on the distant targets. "You're injured. Why would I?"

You snort. "Liar. Weeks ago, you'd have torn me apart. What's different now?"

Grayson doesn't answer, instead gesturing to a nearby bench overlooking the community below. You follow her, settling onto the worn wood with a sigh.The elevated view makes the world seem vast and small all at once.

Grayson passes you a canteen, and you take a long drink before speaking again. "You snitched to Sevika about me working."

Grayson raises an eyebrow. "Snitching? Are we ten?"

"She didn't need to know," you mutter, avoiding her gaze.

"You were going hurt yourself," Grayson says softly. "And you needed to see her. For closure, at least."

You fall silent, not wanting to delve into the complicated mess of emotions surrounding Sevika. Instead, you change the subject. "How's Ren?"

“Ren’s sleeping in today. She’s been up late these past few nights, working on that puzzle I gave her.”  Grayson’s face immediately brightens at the mention of Ren.

“She’s got that stubborn streak. Wonder where she gets it.” 

“Must be the company she keeps,” Grayson replies, her voice laced with affection. “Marcus is at the walls today, keeping an eye on things. It’s been quiet, for the most part.”

You nod, your gaze drifting back to the field. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you muse. “Every day is the same. We do the same things, see the same faces… What makes it worth living?”

Grayson leans back on the bench, her eyes scanning the horizon as she considers her answer. “You make your own reasons,” she says finally, her tone thoughtful. “For me, it’s taking care of Ren. Making sure she has something to hold onto, something good in this world.”

There’s a pause, and you can tell Grayson is choosing her words carefully. “I never thought of myself as the maternal type,” she continues, sounding almost wistful. “But with Ren… It’s different. She’s taught me more about love than I ever knew.  In whatever time I got left here, I want to continue it with her, to see her grow up and prove there’s still something more for us here.”

You feel a pang in your chest, suddenly remembering Sevika and her belief that there would never be enough time for the two of you. But where Grayson found strength in loving deeply despite that, Sevika chose to close herself off, to protect herself from the inevitable pain.

Grayson looks at you, her eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Sometimes, the hardest thing is to keep loving, even when you know it won’t last. But that’s what makes it worth it. Knowing that you made the most of the time you had, that you loved fully, even if it hurts in the end.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, the truth of them resonating with a painful clarity. 

“It’s hard,” you admit, your voice barely audible. “When you know it’s not going to last.”

Grayson nods, her expression gentle. “It is. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. You have to find your own reason to keep going, to keep loving, even when it seems like everything is falling apart.”

The conversation settles into a quiet lull, the words lingering between you as the sun dips lower in the sky. You take another sip from the flask, the burn of the alcohol doing little to numb the ache in your chest.

“You’re always looking out for us, making sure we’re okay.” you say after a moment, your voice tinged with admiration. 

“I’m satisfied  – knowing that I’ve done what I can to make this place a little better, to take care of the people who matter.”

“Thank you,” you say softly, the words carrying more weight than you intended. “For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” she replies gently. “We’re all in this together. And besides,” she adds with a small, teasing smile, “someone has to keep you in line.”

You chuckle, the sound lightening the heavy atmosphere just a bit.

But the peaceful moment on the hill was brief, the tranquility shattered by the sound of rapid footsteps and panicked crying. You and Grayson turn to see Ren running towards you, her face streaked with tears and her small body shaking with sobs.

Grayson immediately drops to her knees, catching Ren in her arms. "What happened, sweetheart?" she asks, her voice calm but laced with urgency.

Ren tries to speak through her tears, her words coming out in broken gasps. "Daddy said... we were going on a trip... but the monsters... they blocked us and he couldn’t close the gate... now they're coming to get us!"

As if on cue, screams erupt from the direction of the community. You and Grayson exchange a quick glance, both reaching for your weapons without hesitation.

Ren clings to Grayson's yellow armband, her eyes wide with terror. "I want to go with you!" she cries.

Grayson cups Ren's face gently, her voice soft but firm. "Darling, listen to me. I will come back, I promise. But right now, you need to get to safety. Can you be brave for me?"

Ren nods, her lower lip trembling. You know without words what needs to be done - get everyone to safety.

You both sprint down the hill, Grayson carrying Ren. As you near the community, the chaos becomes more apparent. Gunshots ring out, mixing with screams of panic and pain. People are running in all directions, fear etched on their faces.

Vi appears beside you, her red hair wild and her eyes blazing. "We're seriously underarmed right now!" she shouts over the noise. "Sevika's crew is out!"

"We have to make do," you yell back, scanning the area. You spot Caitlyn and a few others on the walls, their snipers picking off threats in the distance.

You, Vi, and the handful of armed residents form a protective line, herding panicked civilians towards their homes. "Get inside! Lock your doors!" you shout, your voice hoarse from the effort.

Children cry for their parents, the elderly struggle to move quickly enough. You see a young mother stumble, her baby wailing in her arms. You rush to her side, helping her to her feet and guiding her to safety.

Everywhere you look, there's movement – people running, fighting, falling. 

The air is thick with the stench of death and the deafening cacophony of gunfire. You're shoulder to shoulder with VI, both of you firing relentlessly at the endless wave of walkers. Sweat stings your eyes as you shout, "Vi! On your left!"

She pivots, taking down three walkers in quick succession. But for every one you drop, two more seem to take its place. The situation is rapidly spiraling out of control, and a sinking feeling in your gut tells you you're fighting a losing battle.

But suddenly, powerful headlights cut through the darkness as a convoy of trucks roars onto the scene. Your heart leaps – you'd recognize that cavalry anywhere.

As if materializing from thin air, more trucks appear, effortlessly mowing down walkers and clearing streets. One screeches to a halt in front of you, and then there she is.

A familiar figure vaults from the truck bed – Sevika, her red shawl billowing behind her. She swiftly unslings a shotgun from her back and starts blasting walkers left and right. Her face is composed, every feature carefully controlled, but when her eyes find yours, a fleeting shadow passes over them—a trace of fear and concern.

"You okay?" she shouts over the din, closing the distance between you.

You nod, breathless. "A lot are injured. I don't know, there's too many – I think they're coming from the west gate. Ren said something about Marcus not being able to close it."

Sevika's jaw tightens. She yanks out a radio, barking orders to dispatch teams to the west gate. In seconds, she's handing out weapons, her voice ringing with authority. "Split up! I want a team grabbing as many injured as possible. Anyone bitten, take them out."

As you move to join the fray, Sevika's hand clamps on your arm. "No," she growls. "What the hell are you doing? Get to safety with the others. You're still injured."

"Fine," you concede. "But I'm finding Grayson first."

Sevika gives a curt nod before sprinting back into action. You catch a glimpse of Vi, her red hair unmistakable as she leaps into a truck bed. 

You weave through the chaos, dodging walkers and searching for Grayson. Gunfire echoes off buildings, punctuated by the revving of engines and the sounds of walkers being dispatched. 

A scream to your left – you spin, firing instinctively. A walker drops, inches from a couple. You quickly wave to them to follow and you sprint to the safe house together. Your leg protests, but adrenaline keeps you moving.

Your heart pounds as you finally spot Grayson, but she's going the opposite direction. 

"Grayson!" you shout. "Sevika and her team are here. We need to get everyone to safety!"

She doesn't slow down. "There's someone stuck in a car!"

That's when you see it - a vehicle surrounded by a writhing mass of walkers, their decaying hands clawing at the windows. Inside, you catch a glimpse of a terrified face.

Without hesitation, you sprint after Grayson. The two of you work in tandem, picking off walkers. When you reach the car, Grayson covers you as you wrench the door open. A young boy, no older than seven, practically leaps into her arms.

"We've got to move!" Grayson shouts.

You guys run, the child clinging to her as you lead the way.  You’re clearing the path, and you’re halfway to the safehouse when you hear the dreaded click of an empty chamber.

"I'm out!" you yell.

Grayson turns, her eyes flashing with a decision you can see forming before she even speaks. "Take the kid. Go!"

"Wait, we can make it together!"

She shakes her head, placing the boy into your arms. "Sevika's crew is here, remember? I'll be okay. Get everyone to safety!"

Before you can protest, she's shoving you toward safety, using her body as a shield for the child. You run, every step feeling like a betrayal, but knowing you have to trust her.

You make it to a house, handing off the child to waiting arms. Your lungs burn as you gasp for air, eyes scanning the chaos for any sign of Grayson.

Suddenly, Sevika's there, her face smeared with grime and blood but her eyes alight with fierce triumph. "We closed the gate. Got them all."

Relief floods you for a moment, but then reality crashes back. "Wait, where's Grayson?"

Confusion flickers across Sevika's face, but before she can respond, a heart-wrenching wail cuts through the air. You both rush outside, joining a growing crowd.

The scene that greets you turns your blood to ice. Caitlyn is on the ground, her body wracked with sobs. Vi kneels beside her, arms wrapped around her shaking form. "I couldn't save her," Caitlyn chokes out between gasps. "I couldn't shoot them fast enough."

Her sniper lies discarded in the dirt, and that's when you see her. Grayson.

The world seems to tilt on its axis. You stumble forward, unable to process what you're seeing. Grayson, who was just beside you moments ago. Grayson, who sacrificed herself to save a child. Grayson, whose quiet strength held your community together.

She now lies on the ground, her body wracked with violent coughs, blood staining her lips. Her breaths had grown shallow, each one more of a struggle than the last, and when she reached for Sevika’s hand, you knew what she was asking for. Sevika’s fingers trembled as she grasped Grayson’s hand, and when Grayson whispered, “Do it,” you saw a flash of something break inside Sevika.

She obeyed.

The gunshot echoed in your ears, louder than the chaos around you, but it was the sight of Sevika gently closing Grayson’s eyes that broke you. Sevika had always been unbreakable, she seemed immune to the horrors of this world. But as she knelt beside Grayson, you saw the cracks forming.  She closed Grayson’s eyes, her hand trembling just for a second before she stood up, towering over the body like a stone sentinel. 

You could barely breathe, the grief suffocating you, making it impossible to think about anything other than how many bodies that needs burying tomorrow. How many families would be broken by the news? How many children would cry for family and friends who would never come home? 

“Grayson?” Ren’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with innocence and confusion. The kid was supposed to be inside the safe house but instead, she stood there, eyes wide and uncomprehending, staring at the lifeless form on the ground. “Why is Grayson sleeping? Tell her to wake up… We won, didn’t we?”

You wanted to tell her something—anything—but the words choked in your throat. Ren dropped to her knees beside Grayson, her tiny hands shaking as they touched the cold, lifeless body.

Sevika finally moved, her expression unreadable, her walls up higher than ever. Without a word, she reached into her pocket and pulled out Grayson’s yellow band. She knelt down, her massive frame suddenly so small beside Ren, and gently placed the band in the child’s trembling hands.

Ren looked up at Sevika, eyes full of questions. But before anything could be said, Silco emerged from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity. He was flanked by his men, their faces grim and cold, and at the center of it all was Marcus.

He was barely recognizable—his face a mangled mess of bruises and blood. He was dragged forward, forced to his knees in the dirt where Grayson had fallen. The sight of him brought Sevika to her feet, her fists clenched tight. You could see the battle raging inside her, the desire to end him right then and there, but she held back.

"Look at him," he began, his tone soft, almost conversational, as if he were discussing something trivial. "A man who betrayed the very community that kept him protected him fed and protected. Who left nothing but the ashes of his own cowardice."

He walked slowly around Marcus, like a predator circling its prey. "This is the price of betrayal, the cost of thinking you can stand in the way of what must be done. You all know him," Silco continued, addressing the crowd that had gathered, their eyes fixed on the broken man at his feet. "You know his face, his uniform, his lies. But you must also know this: in a world where there are no second chances, there are no second thoughts."

Silco’s voice grew harder, colder, as he leaned down close to Marcus’s ear. "Your cowardice, your betrayal, a mistake that cost how many lives today? And now, you will pay the price for that."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final, and Marcus’s body shuddered, knowing what was coming. Silco straightened, his eyes scanning the crowd. "Let this be a lesson to all who would think to cross us, to cross me. There is no forgiveness in this world, only retribution."

You don’t know what happened next, because you’re taking Ren into your arms and you’re moving – away from the crowd, away from the punishment that you know her father will face.

Ren clings to you, burying her face in your chest, and you hold her close, wishing you could shield her from all of this. "What’s happening to Daddy?" she asks, her voice muffled by your shirt. "And Grayson?"

You didn’t have an answer. The only thing you could do was hold her tighter, trying to block out the screams, the fire, the blood.

Time passes, the night dragging on in a blur of grief. Inside the house, the silence was deafening. You had scrubbed the blood from Ren’s skin, but it still lingered in the air, the scent of death refusing to leave. Grayson’s face kept flashing before your eyes, her last breath, her last words, the way her body crumpled in Sevika’s arms.

And now, as you stared out the window, you saw them—Silco’s men, forming a straight, omnious line as they marched out into the night. At the center of it all was a giant wooden cross, and tied to it was Marcus. His head hung low, his body limp, but he was still alive.

Your breath caught in your throat when Sevika looked up at the window. For a moment, your eyes locked, and you saw nothing in her gaze but a cold, empty challenge. The Sevika you knew wasn’t there, but replaced by someone who had buried whatever was left of her soul beneath layers of survival and duty. She turns away, breaking the gaze as she climbed into the backseat of a vehicle.  You watch as the trucks disappeared into the night until the only thing you could see was the small form of the cross.

The night presses in around you, heavy with loss, and you wonder if anything would ever feel whole again.

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[theguyinthemathexamples]

Sunday meeting the Creation while (unknowingly) ascending to Aeonhood !!

A lil' something for y'all after my longlonglonglonggggggg disappearance :3

If the sinners couldn't be rid of by Their divine hand, then he shall do it himself. But his— her God pertains the notion of sparing the evil and giving them a chance to seek solace in THEIR thousand voices, or the ones of the Primaxus Deus.

Sunday wishes to see her vision one last time, to see with his own eyes if these sinners could truly turn back to the right path. He's done this before countless times before— but he wants to put this belief of hers to yet another run. Was it to reminisce on lost time, or run from his own sacred beliefs?

And yet still, he doesn't see nor hear the sounds of the battle, neither could he speak in this newfound space; all he can see was this shining path, a separating rift from the boundless luminescent seas it tore through.

He takes a cautious step forward and all of the nearby stars were already flocking towards his shoes with reverence, whispering things of the comprehensable mortal plane to the maddening knowledge of the divine. Some know of his current predicament, while some predict how his future would be another footnote in history, success or otherwise.

Time seems to slow here, atleast that was how Sunday saw it. His path was solid yet it made ripples with each step he took but, it never splashed water. He had half a mind to keep walking.

The stars do not have eyes— as if it would ever, yet he still feels as if he was being stalked, being followed by a presence. He wants to ask, yell out who it was, but his mouth was sealed shut. With no other choice does he continue walking. Faint cackles, and the sound of distorted heavenly choir whispers could be heard in the distance.

At last he sees something in the distance other than endless starry seas: a large, disembodied arm. Well, it looks that way anyways. The rest of the body looks to be shrouded in darkness.

Sunday got closer and closer to this arm when a sun suddenly rose up just ahead of his path. He can't help but feel familiar with this sun. The ones beside his feet tell him it's the one in his solar system of origin. But... he's seen and looked at countless stars upon the starry skies, how can he remember something that glowed hot and bright on the days when he was trying to keep survival closer with his sister?

The smaller beads of light beneath his legs gently pushed him towards the right direction, humming familiar tunes along the way.

Yet again, it was another long walk to his new destination. Sunday doesn't feel tired, if at all from walking all this way when he'd usually need a break by now. The stars provided decent entertainment along the way, luckily enough.

He carefully approaches this large hand, now as big as one of the walls in the Dewlight Pavilion. Memories of his death resurfaces in his mind. A small curse is stifled under his breath. No matter, he'll get rid of the concept of death in his promised dreamscape soon enough.

And just as he begins to tentatively sit on the beckoning heat of the hand, exactly as the stars excitedly encouraged him so, the space shook harshly and he falls. Sunday looks around in a panicked apprehension, which the beads of stars expressed as much if not more.

The large hand brushes along his figure in an almost comforting way, till it disappears after a few swipes. The stars dissipate as well in fear, leaving him in the neverending darkness.

He clutched his chest, almost in agony, a baffled look on his face when he tried to search for the warmth of the hand. Sunday hadn't asked them his question yet.

"So... Why does life slumber?..." He asks to the dark, not expecting answers. Machine parts clammer along his movements.

"Because... someday..."

"We will wake up from our dreams!"

And so does he, too wake up from his own slumber. And along with his shattered will, the stage beneath him crumbled and fell.

Sunday lets himself drop untowards the Golden Hour, reaching out to the world where he promised an impossible pledge to countless souls, unable to fly back where he wished due to his clipped wings.

The night is still... too short...

Arms cradle his figure and bringing it to a tight hug. This action brought him out of his stupor, embracing his sister in reflex.

He dipped his head low, imminent defeat having already been accepted. Yet again do memories flash his mind, but they were only about his 'dream.' What did it all mean?

"Brother..."

"The dream... is over."

[gardenladysworld]

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.

Part 2: To dream

Part 3: To gift

The next day, the hum of machines filled the air in the human outpost as you moved around the lab, your hands deftly sorting through a tray of instruments. Norm and Max were nearby, engaged in a lively discussion over some readings on a monitor, leaving you to handle the task at hand. You didn’t mind. You liked the quiet focus of working here, even if the tools and machinery sometimes felt alien even to you.

The door to the outpost opened with a faint hiss, but you barely looked up, assuming it was one of the other humans returning from the field. However, the soft, familiar scent of the forest that followed made you pause. You turned just in time to see Neteyam ducking through the doorway, his tall frame bending slightly to accommodate the lower ceiling.

“Neteyam?” you asked, surprised but delighted. “What are you doing here?”

He straightened and gave you a soft smile, his golden eyes warm as they locked onto yours. “I wanted to see you,” he said simply, his voice low and steady. “And I brought you something.”

Your curiosity piqued, you set down the tray and walked over to him. He was holding something behind his back, his movements careful and deliberate. “What is it?” you asked, a small grin tugging at your lips.

Neteyam hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering to the humans at the monitors before returning to you. Slowly, he revealed what he’d been hiding—a delicate, handwoven bracelet made from thin strips of vibrant Pandoran vines, adorned with tiny, luminescent beads that glowed softly in the dim light of the lab. It was simple but beautiful, the kind of craftsmanship that spoke of care and attention.

“For you,” he said, his voice almost shy as he held it out to you. “I made it last night.”

You stared at the bracelet, your heart fluttering at the thought of him spending time creating something just for you. “Neteyam… it’s beautiful,” you said, your voice soft. “Thank you.”

Carefully, you took the bracelet from his hands, slipping it onto your wrist. It fit perfectly, the beads shimmering faintly against your skin. You held your arm up to admire it, a bright smile spreading across your face. “I love it,” you said, looking back at him. “Really, I do.”

Neteyam’s smile widened, his tail flicking slightly behind him in what you recognized as a sign of his pleasure. “I’m glad,” he said, his voice full of quiet satisfaction.

You gestured toward the workspace behind you. “I still have a bit of work to do here, but if you want, you can stay.”

He nodded, his eyes brightening. “I would like that.”

As you returned to your station, Neteyam settled himself on the floor behind you, his long legs crossed as he leaned back against the wall. He watched you intently, his golden gaze tracking every movement you made as you resumed sorting tools and entering data into a nearby console. To him, the lab was a strange and cluttered place, filled with odd human devices and artificial smells, but he didn’t mind it as long as you were there.

You worked quietly, occasionally humming to yourself or muttering under your breath as you focused. Neteyam found himself utterly entranced by the way your hands moved, quick and precise, even as you interacted with tools that seemed far too clunky for your delicate fingers. You were so different from him, from his world, yet everything about you felt so natural, so right.

She’s amazing, he thought, his gaze softening as he watched you tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The glow of the screens illuminated your face, highlighting your eyes and the soft curve of your lips. He could sit here forever, he realized, content just to watch you work.

At one point, you glanced back at him, catching his eye. “Are you sure you’re comfortable down there?” you asked with a teasing smile.

Neteyam chuckled softly, his voice a low rumble. “I’m fine. You should keep working. I like watching you.”

Your cheeks flushed slightly, and you turned back to your work, trying to hide your smile. “Suit yourself,” you said lightly, though your heart fluttered at his words.

For the next hour, the two of you settled into a quiet rhythm—you working, him watching. Occasionally, you’d explain something to him, holding up a tool or pointing at a readout, and he would nod thoughtfully, his interest in your world genuine. Though the lab was small and cramped compared to the open expanse of the forest, it felt warm and safe with him there, his steady presence a comforting anchor.

When you finally finished, you turned to him, stretching your arms above your head with a sigh. “All done,” you said, smiling as you looked down at him. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

Neteyam stood, towering over you as he smiled softly. “It was my pleasure,” he said, his voice warm. His eyes flicked briefly to the bracelet on your wrist, and his smile deepened. “I’m glad you like the gift.”

You held up your wrist, letting the beads catch the light. “I love it,” you said firmly. “And I’ll wear it every day.”

His chest swelled with pride at your words, and he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm in an almost hesitant gesture. “Good,” he said quietly. “It suits you.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there, the hum of the lab fading into the background as your eyes met. And in that moment, Neteyam knew that no matter how different your worlds were, he would always find his way to you.

Part 4: To think

[sinisterexaggerator]

Summary: Nick Valentine hardly ever leaves your thoughts, but you're barely on his radar. Your infatuation takes a rather interesting turn; you're caught red-handed in his bed, wearing candy apple lipstick and a freshly laundered dress. What is to become of you? Will you be able to confess your feelings, or will you run away instead?

Warning: NSFW / 18+ for masturbation/being caught in the act, kissing, cunnilingus, fingering, mild wire play, angst, drama, "love" confessions, and sass.

Word count: 5.9K

Notes: I may make a part two for this after "you" get to know each other a little better. I don't see Nick letting just anybody play with his innards all willy-nilly, but I had a lot of fun writing it!

Read on Ao3

It wasn’t an eyesore, and neither was the Synth who owned it, luminescent neon laid out in letters, an arrhythmic fluctuation in voltage causing a delay in current every three point five seconds—you had counted.

How could a man with the last name Valentine—whose brand was marked with a heart pierced by Cupid’s arrow—not see the underlying machinations from which your attention spurred?

He was a detective, no less, unable to work out your motivations, not understanding that every nuance—every quirk of your lips, every gleam in your eye, every smile—was for him, because of him, and that you had long ago fallen for his wit, his charm, his mind, and for his heart.

A man who wasn’t a man—thrown together in some lab—though that needn’t be your concern. It mattered little if he was flesh and bone or biomechanical, though his kind was greatly feared and for good reason.

Nick was different, he was a diamond in the rough of Diamond City, shining more brightly than even the Valentine Detective Agency’s ostentatious signage. A do-gooder who never tired, a being whose higher purpose rested not with himself, but with others, giving more to the people of the Commonwealth than they rightfully deserved.

For all the hate, intolerance, and ignorance Nick dealt with on the daily, he dished out love, empathy and acceptance in equal measure, though he was not one to take an insult lying down.

He was also passionate; fiery beneath a calm and collected disposition, his habitually stoic makeup a steadying force and welcomed counterbalance to the restless biome that flourished within these walls.

It was when he spoke to you the first time that you became enamored with his personality, whether artificial, finding him to be bold and charismatic. He had asked what brought you to the neighborhood—you were a trader who lost your caravan, your guards, nothing left but the caps in your pocket. 

Luckily for you, a man named Arturo Rodriguez had been contemplating the idea of extending his hours for quite some time, his competition employing a salvaged Mister Handy named Percy to sell goods even in the dead of night—it was a case of being in the right place at the right time, one you were thankful for.

It became engrained into his subroutine, these evening visitations, Nick sharing bits and pieces of his history with you for a lack of customers, though oftentimes short and sweet as he kept himself busy. There was always a new crime to be investigated, or a new case to be solved.

Truth be told, the detective was worried about you—a solitary woman—being out there by your lonesome at such late hours. All kinds of riffraff ushered themselves in off the streets, not caring what time of the day it was.

Diamond City was a safe haven as much as it was a magnet for undesirables, those men and women of ill repute that made life difficult for hardworking people just trying to get by. Security could only do so much; it was common for slime to slip through the cracks, portions of the city less fortified than others.

Still, Nick felt Arturo ought to be ashamed, getting a broad to do his dirty work. Little did he know this job had been a godsend, or that you were tougher than a two-dollar steak and twice as hard to chew.

Call him a gentleman, but Valentine, on more than one occasion, had gone out of his way unbeknownst to you, changing his route home simply to check in on your stall. 

“Workin’ hard, or hardly workin’?” Nick had inquired, the corner of his mouth creeping upward to indicate his offhanded chiasmus was merely a good-natured tease. 

“You know me,” you had answered back, “total slacker.”

“Stickin’ it to the man, glad to hear it,” he would drawl, voice dry and deadpan yet soothing to the ears. Even though Nick was cordial with Arturo, he didn’t mind having a joke at his expense.

“Doing my part,” you replied, wishing he’d step closer, wishing he would stay and chat a while.

“Stay out of trouble, doll,” he’d warn, tipping the brim of his hat; you were in awe at how a single monosyllabic word could drive you toward such filthy imaginings as you were then, reveling in that passing instant he had paid you mind.  

Mission accomplished, Nick would wander off to park himself at the Agency, unaware that for the rest of the night your mind was wholly occupied by impure thoughts—and it was all his fault. It was ridiculous that a simple term of endearment expressed so casually could nearly short-circuit your human brain, yet here you were.

Could he make love to you if you asked? Would he touch you if you begged him to? 

You supposed his existence was an adventurous one, wishing you could participate in something other than this humdrum life, though you assumed you ought to be grateful you were alive at all.

But it unnerved you—angered you to no end— to hear the drivel that oozed like poison from out the mouths of bigots when they spoke of Nick Valentine in his absence. They declared he was not sentient, that an intelligence such as his was naïve to think of itself as self-aware, as if they were any more autonomous than he, choosing to act of their own free-will by way of insults and disgraceful slurs.

Arturo had been accommodating, allowing you the top floor of his home until you could get on your feet. Such things were heard from rooftops, echoing beyond thin strips of sheet metal to leech its way into your ears. You roosted, enjoying the wide-open view of the sky and the clouds drifting by, only for your mood to sour, tempted to shout obscenities at the offender—usually Myrna— from your place in the dark.

You valued Nick’s company despite the rumors or the gossip about the Institute, ignoring the fact he was a Synth. You wondered if something was wrong with you, finding your short exchanges to be a thousand times more stimulating than any discourse with your neighbors—Valentine’s smile alone was worth more than all the caps in the world.

You often daydreamed about his cybernetic eyes looking down at you from your place atop his mattress, bright as sunbeams, imbued with radiant golden light. They were the windows to his soul—and you were convinced he had one— no one could tell you otherwise.

Then, more questions came. Could man love machine? Could machine love man? Ethical quandaries that knew no bounds. Those of narrow minds might call it an abomination in the eyes of God, while for others it might cause confusion, or effectuate ridicule.

Somehow, none of that would matter, not if Nick returned what was undeniably blossoming into not just admiration, but desire. Could Synths feel desire? Could androids dream?

And the man did flirt, if only feigning attraction, but not with you—you did not assume you were boring or undesirable, but you carried yourself the opposite of Piper, or even his assistant, Ellie. These women were always present in his life, women you tried not to be jealous of, though the ease with which they spoke, the familiarity of their years together ate away at you, knowing you might never reach the level of intimacy you so craved.

Besides, nothing good came of getting close to someone in this day and age, yet you wanted to be—scared of heartbreak, of them being stolen from you too soon, or of being sorely disappointed should they show themselves to be something other than what you thought them to be. There were risks at every turn; you had to decide—would you ever be brave enough to tell him how you felt?

Then, one day, you heard about the love between Ms. Edna and Mr. Zwicky, a robot and a human getting married of all things—it’s what prompted you to stand outside Nick’s door right this very moment, staring long enough at the glowing, heart-shaped outline for it to be burned into your retinas.

The sun was sinking just beyond the wall, Diamond City winding down as its citizens took shelter in their homes or closed up shop—it was thankfully one of your nights off.

You couldn’t get it out of your head, the very idea of a single touch, a single kiss—an affectionate word shared, a smile meant just for you. To make him smile would be the most gratifying thing of all. Too often Valentine looked glum, his thoughts weighing on him, dragging him down along with all the horrors that came with living in a post-apocalyptic society.

To kiss it away, to ensconce him in your embrace—to make him forget he wasn’t human, if only for a few minutes—your heart raced at all the possibilities, all he had to do was let you in.

You assumed a knock was in order, deep, slow breaths doing little to calm your nerves. You had adorned a dress for the occasion, something someone had traded for extra ammo. It was soft blue in color, and in relatively good condition. Ultimately, it was clean, and that was all that mattered to you. Arturo had no use for it, so it had wound up in your possession. Now you would wear it to confess, though you were nervous, a wellspring of anxiety having burgeoned behind your ribs.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” you had asked yourself, fingers curling as you raised your arm. After a few more seconds delay, you made a move to rap against the door, painted red to match the sign out front. There was just one problem—it opened before you could, Ellie’s eyes widening as she jerked a step backward, the woman obviously on her way out.

She said your name, denoting her surprise. You would quickly apologize, already on edge.

“Sorry, Ellie, I—” You paused, averting your eyes to stare at the ground that had suddenly become so interesting. “I was hoping to see Nick,” you bashfully admitted.

The woman quirked a brow, amused for some unknown reason, as if she was in on your little secret just by the way you carried yourself. You attempted to straighten up, offering her a smile to throw her off your scent; you weren’t sure that it was working, though she was kind enough not to comment.

“He stepped out a few hours ago,” she informed you, “but he should be back any minute. You can wait here if you like, but I promised Cathy I’d go have a drink with her.” Ellie gave a halfhearted laugh, “apparently she needs a night out away from her husband.”

“Al-all right,” you managed, supposing Nick was hardly ever “home,” what with being hired for everything under the sun from finding missing cats to tracking down murderers—you only hoped for his safe and swift return.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” she offered, holding it open; you timidly stepped forward, Ellie giving you a small wave on her way out.

It was not until that moment you realized you had never stepped foot inside Valentine’s Detective Agency, something you felt ashamed of—maybe he assumed you had no interest in his work. The thought caused a frown to form, but you didn’t want to lose track of why you were here, though finding no harm in taking a look around.

You were respectful, not having it in you to snoop or pry, no matter how many folders lay open or scattered about his desk. There were copies of old newspapers, the latest from Publick Occurrences, rusty filing cabinets, overloaded cardboard boxes, and clipboards with scribbled notes attached.

You spied holotapes of unknown origin, scraps of memorabilia from times long since passed. Items you could only guess at—clues, maybe? Not to mention an assortment of tools, perhaps left over from Nick’s days as a handyman—he’d told you stories, though the idea made you uncomfortable, somehow—the Synth reduced to making household repairs when he was a being of such remarkable intelligence.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, having found yourself sitting at the man’s cluttered workspace. You stared at the painting before you, a tranquil forest scene that had been tarnished by years of grime and dust. A half-smoked cigarette in a nearby ashtray caught your eye; you surprised yourself by picking it up, placing the filter between lips painted a pretty candy apple red, having decorated yourself with a little lipstick for the occasion—you could hardly think of a better time to wear it.

The stale scent of nicotine invaded your nostrils, its taste pungent on your tongue. You struck a match against its book, wanting to experience something that had graced Nick’s synthetic lips, if you couldn’t do so firsthand.

Smoke drifted toward the ceiling, diffusing in loose curls above your head as you exhaled, feeling yourself becoming aroused by your salacious daydreams. You leaned back in Nick’s chair with a faint smile, closing your eyes to more clearly picture his face.

Your free hand groped your own breast, teeth biting down on tender flesh, imagining what it might be like for Valentine’s mechanical fingers to touch you; would it feel cold like metal, or warm like machinery? Sharp like the point of a knife, or smooth like purified silver?

You sighed with longing, chest rising and falling as you stared at the ceiling. You took another drag, finding the burn to be unpleasant as the cigarette reached its end. You bent forward and extinguished it in that same ashtray—Nick would never know the difference—forgetting your lipstick would leave a stain behind.

You normally weren’t one to smoke, feeling slightly buzzed upon standing, riding the tiny high the nicotine gave you as you spied a small space off to your right; you had yet to explore it. There was nothing to keep you out, no locks, no warning signs; you tiptoed forward, as if committing a crime that warranted the use of stealth, peeking around the corner to find a staircase, and a bed.

You glanced upward through the cracks in the floorboards; another mattress was positioned above you, but the personal effects scattered about on the bottom floor let you know this was Nick’s corner, the file folders and spare fedora on his nightstand giving it away.

You snatched the hat, twirling it over in your hands. It was one you hadn’t seen him wear too often, but that was in better condition than the one he sported on the regular, having the bold idea to place it directly on your head.

Of course, there was no mirror to admire yourself in.

You would just have to use your imagination, skimming the rim with two fingers, just like Valentine. You tipped the brim to no one, spinning once to let the full skirt of your pre-war dress swirl around your calves. Feeling pretty, you plopped down gracefully on Nick’s bare bed, wondering if Arturo might have a spare set of sheets you could gift him—did Synths sleep, you wondered? Did Nick lie here awake at night, staring at this same ceiling as you were now?

You sighed, tipping the hat lower, catching onto the unusual scent embedded within its fibers. You pressed your nose against faded leather, inhaling deeply of this strange fragrance, idly twisting bits of clean cotton, not used to wearing something so delicate and fancy; it felt odd, but the texture, the softness of the dress suited you.

This hat smelled like tobacco; ozone; coolant. Like a musty bar mixed with cigarettes. Like metal; like something organic; like wet earth after a radstorm—all things that in combination were uniquely Nick. It pulled a sigh from your lungs, loins aching for the Synth worse than ever, wishing that Valentine might show himself before you chickened out.

You thought to leave the bed; unpredicted were the moves you made to hike your dress up, legs spreading open as you gathered the excess bits of skirt into a fist. You held it to the height of your navel, exposing yourself before you had any real grasp on what you were doing, sliding the palm of your hand past your waist and hips, introducing two fingers to the elastic hem of your panties.

You grinned a little grin, feeling unlike yourself; naughty, for lack of a better word, inching your way beneath its thin layer to brush against your clit. You cooed a little sound, hips gyrating gently as you got comfortable, one of your two fingers gliding down, taking up a measure of your slick.

You massaged that part of you just begging for it, pinpricks of pleasure causing your nerves to tingle as the sensation traveled, extracting a subdued moan from bowed lips. You had the nerve to giggle, entertained in more ways than one, letting Nick’s hat fall flat against your face as you breathed in deeply, working that excitable nub in slow circles, taking your time.

You were just getting started, body reacting in tandem with your touch, exhilarated beyond comprehension at this singular act of bawdy desperation. You were where you always envisioned yourself to be, though now you conjured up something else—what some might call an abject fantasy, one where you explored the body of a robotic man to your heart’s content.

Smooth, hard flesh, or pliable and soft, warm against you, or cold like ice. Exposed wires and eyes stolen from the crown’s of angels, twin halos you would kill a man to see up close. Lips too kissable for one who wasn’t human, tongue and teeth all there, or between your legs. Metallic fingers, dexterous and nimble, the other good for groping all your biologic parts.

You were so close already, wondering if you might in some way be able to please him back. Would he have a cock you could stroke or suck? Could you dig around inside him? Could you find a button, or perhaps a jumble of loose wires to fondle, one that would make his machine-parts whir?

You covered your face more thoroughly with one arm, the fedora hiding you from your own shame. You pushed your hips into the bed as you felt the onset of an orgasm building in the seat of your belly, almost there, almost—

“Say, am I interrupting something?”

You practically screamed, throwing the fedora off with such speed it hit the bed and bounced. You shoved your dress down, embarrassed beyond belief, mortified as much as you were frightened, your heart racing as you pushed up off the Nick’s mattress and ran for the stairs. He had been so quiet—maybe there was a way out of here, up there. You would never live this down.

“Hey, now,” Nick chided, his voice taking on an austere quality that caused a bout of horripilation, the micro hairs on your arms standing at attention; the Synth had locked the fingers of his good hand around your wrist, pulling you back down to his level before pressing your body against the wall of his abode. He tilted his head, studying you with rapt attention and an almost morbid curiosity—he doubted you were some kind of adrenaline junkie, or even an exhibitionist for that matter.

“You think you can just waltz in here and use my bed to pleasure yourself without some kind of explanation? I’ve seen some things in my day, but this takes the cake.”

You could not face him, averting your eyes. His accusatory gaze was powerful, the catalyst for your tears, tiny droplets threatening to roll down your cheeks as you stammered a reply. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t—”

“—You didn’t mean to masturbate?” Nick questioned, a sardonic tone lacing his old-world, Midwestern accent. “I find that hard to believe.”

There was a pause, Nick’s metallic fingers grasping you by the point of your chin. He gently guided you to face him, tears and all, his voice softening as he realized how sorry you seemed to be, though he was still skeptical.

He called you by your name, addressing you calmly, “at least be honest with me—this how you get your rocks off, or is this some kind of special occasion? If Ellie was here—”

“—she was the only who let me in,” you whispered, Nick so tantalizingly close, yet you were beside yourself in self-abasing horror at your own actions—how could you have been so stupid!? Of course he would find out, sooner or later—he was a private eye, a damn good one! Not to mention this was his place of business, his assistant trusting you well enough to behave yourself. You suddenly felt worse than before; you were sure he had seen everything.

“Huh,” Nick snorted, the gears of his artificial brain beginning to turn toward another direction. “Why the hell would she go and do a thing like that?"

You took a breath and gulped, finally having the courage to look, to get lost in the depths of  those parhelic circles he called eyes, wishing to speak, to find the right words, yet it was nearly impossible with the way he had so easily ensnared you.

“Cat got your tongue? Beginning to wonder just how many lights are on upstair—"

You steeled yourself; you kissed him rather than giving an explanation, wondering if this was another thing you would come to regret, though sparks danced behind your eyelids—worried for one moment they might be real, some side effect of physical contact—Nick forcing you off to where your back was returned to its spot against his bedroom wall.

They had been warm; his lips were warm.

“Oh, I get it now. You came here thinking you’d shoot your shot, but when I wasn’t home you got carried away in some sick fantasy, is that it? Decided to rub one out,” he derided, laying your sins out before you so coldly that your lip trembled; you struggled to break free.

“Valentine, please—"

“Could have just waited for me,” he offered; you froze with bated breath, his words having taken an unexpected turn—could he be serious, or was he simply toying with you as punishment?

“Gal like you isn’t exactly hard on the eyes…”  

“You’re not upset?” you asked breathily, chest heaving, wide, round eyes searching his for confirmation.

“Upset you thought you could get away with this,” he muttered, brushing his mouth against yours, Nick’s skeletal hand holding your chin steady. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine that he would indulge you, feeling yourself melt against the solid brick of his Diamond City home. “Not exactly a secret you fancy me; can read it all over your face, just never thought you’d have the guts to do a thing like this.”

“I couldn’t help it,” you pleaded, your own hand lifting, exploring the texture of his tattered coat, rising higher to caress the portion of his flesh still intact just below the fissure that extended beyond the brim of his hat. “Then why didn’t you say something? I only meant to tell you how you make me feel,” you whispered, eagerly returning that kiss, introducing your wet human tongue to his.

“How’s that?” he asked, ignoring the first part of your question—he wasn’t about to tell you you’d have to make the first move, he didn’t have to—his inviolate hand sliding down the dip in your waist to rest against your hip. He gave it a squeeze, aware of his own strength, applying just enough pressure to excite you, no more, no less.

“Ravenous,” you exclaimed, hiking your leg, encircling him to draw in close like you were playing the part of some wily seductress in a pre-war film. You emitted a dulcet moan, digits inching across the back of his head, taking the time to kiss Valentine more deeply in your lust.

Nick was quick, supporting your ass in his firm grip, securing your leg as he pressed his inorganic frame against yours that was supple and pliant; he met your hunger head on. “Good thing I know a trick or two.”

You shivered with anticipation, despite the Synth being almost hot to the touch. Silicone fingers disappeared up your long, flowing skirt, but only after he was sure you were both comfortably entangled.

Valentine kissed a question up the side of your neck toward lipstick-laden lips. “You wear this for me?” he asked, motioning his head toward your bartered dress.

“Y-yes,” you stammered, grasping his tie, feeding your words directly into his smug mouth. “Wanted to look pretty for you,” you conceded.

“Only thing more lovely than a bird in blue is a woman who wears her confidence like a second skin. Tell me you didn’t walk in here thinkin’ you could pull me, or are you just a nightingale pretending to be a peacock, flaunting your feathers, yet too afraid to show me your true colors?”

You were floored; you could not answer, having hoped that you could sway him, but doubting your plan from the get-go. You dare not tell him, too shy to admit your shortcomings, and too proud to acknowledge he had hit the nail on the head. Instead, you stared unabashedly, even as your cheeks burned, swallowing down the knot in your throat as you remained transfixed on eyes that glowed like candles in the dark.

“Too bad,” Valentine teased, rousing you from your stupor by way of calculated movements beneath your dress, “Suppose I’ll have to find out the hard way.”

Your breath hitched as the tips of faux fingers thoughtfully guided your panties to one side, Valentine expertly trailing his forefinger through your excess to the top of your slit. The Synth grazed the swollen sheath of glands pulsating adamantly between your legs, finding his rhythm, administering just enough friction to get a rise out of you, as intended.

“Nick,” you gasped, the fingers of one hand still cinched around his tie as the fingers of the other clawed into false flesh. He slid back down, following that happy little trail of slickness, its viscosity registering as wet against microscopic sensors, Nick’s index finger delving into something so moist, so soft.

“Speak to me, sweetheart. Tell me how long you’ve dreamt of this; tell me this isn’t some dime-store hookup you’re using to scratch an itch; tell me this means somethin’, I dare you,” he growled darkly into your ear.

You could only whimper as he worked you, aiming for the seat of your pleasure, Nick’s thumb running concentric circles around your turgid clit in perfect unison with that part of him that was introducing pressure to your G-spot. You had the gall to rock your hips, balancing like a flamingo on one leg, though he held you close between himself and the wall, not once allowing you to think you might stumble and fall.

“Always think of you, where you are, what you’re up to,” you breathed. “Never leave my mind.”

“What else?” he asked, brazenly steeping another finger, your soaked cunt riding both together as you shamelessly kept undulating your pelvic arch, already so near to climax.

“Dreamt of kissing you, making love to you. Wanted to know what touching you might feel like, warm, co-cold,” you moaned. “If you could ever want me back, if y-you knew just how much I adore you, how much I wish to be the one to make you smile…”

“Is that right?” Nick titillated you toward orgasm without any extra effort, feeling yourself spill out all over him as you vocalized to the heavens, Valentine not relenting until you were spent. Then, he retracted as simple as that, lifting you up, the Synth forcing you to wrap that other leg around him in order to carry you the few feet between him and the bed.

“And did you ever think of what you’d do if I didn’t have the parts?” he began, tossing you carefully onto the mattress. You watched in longing as he shucked his trench off for it to slide down the length of his arms, gathering in a pile at his feet.

“Fuck. It wouldn’t matter,” you insisted, sitting up on the palms of your hands. “It wouldn’t matter,” you repeated more urgently, adjusting to crawl forward, unable to keep yourself from him now that you had a taste.

“And what you’d do if I didn’t reciprocate?” The hat was next, tossed haphazardly off to the side.

You gaped at him, unable to come up with a satisfactory response, scouring his pleasing form from head to toe with your eyes, admiring his shoulder holster, his weapon of choice, and the suspenders that dug into his shoulders.

“I’m more machine than man; typically… disappointing to dames like you. But I’ve got nothing to hide, and I mean that literally,” he quipped, loosening and discarding his tie. What he did next surprised you, Valentine placing one knee on the bed. He pushed you backward, fitting himself right between your thighs.

“Never stopped me before,” he muttered, coercing you to lie back. In the blink of an eye, he had slipped your panties down and off, flipping the tail end of your skirt up and over your lap, exposing the soft mound between your legs.

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” he commented; how to go down on a beautiful woman was not something he would soon forget, no matter he wasn’t in the body he was born with.

You gasped before settling into a melodious moan as he swiped his tongue across your sensitive bud, Nick noticing you were tuned to the key of C, a low-frequency tonal sound that made his robotic brain buzz with something akin to happiness.

Before you knew it, he had buried himself, embedding his articulate tongue in your tepid core. Responsive biosensors did their job of transmitting physiological data concerning the presence of chemical compounds that happened to be coming into contact with his face; the detective was well aware of what that meant without having to overthink it, appreciative of the way you writhed against the bed.

“Valentine,” you mewled, arm reaching, fingers stretching to caress a hinged jaw made of filaments and wires, more unbidden tears finding their way to your eyes.

“Kiss me,” you implored, exploring the sharp contours of his inhumane face, the actuate planes and angles, the rough textures, the smooth remnants, the electrical undercurrent that hummed beneath the surface of his pseudo-flesh, causing you to cry out as he obliged, but not in the way you had expected.

Nick lapped at your cunt like it was a second mouth, attentive to every little move your body made as it wriggled and quivered, spasming with each long lick. He showed no mercy, relentlessly fucking you with his spongy tongue at a slow and steady pace, brushing the back of an alloyed finger along the cut where hip met thigh.

“Please,” you tried again, though in your heart of hearts you did not want him to stop. He refocused on your clit, being oh-so careful as he slid a single metallic digit into your wet pith, tensile fibers remaining elongated so as not to maim and injure, but to experiment, your pelvic muscles clenching around him as he began to suck.

“I can’t,” you professed, unable to elaborate, to stop your mounting orgasm. Your back arched as your hips bucked upward to meet his all too talented mouth, forcing a sound out of you that was reminiscent of pain but indicative of pleasure as you came a second time that night, Nick withdrawing his hand, his carbon-ferrous finger, pulling back to look you in the eye.

“Sweetheart, did I—”

Valentine flexed his unsheathed digits, composed of bare metal, his forefinger saturated and glistening, yet he was worried. His painted brows quirked upward as he rose to meet your face, his palm fitting itself around the curve of your waist, as gentle as can be.

He stared into your soul with those penetrative, aureate eyes, wishing you hadn’t of done that. Wishing he hadn’t of done that—it had been just plain ignorant on his part, but he didn’t figure you’d go and move so suddenly. And truth be told, you were beautiful, a thing too good to pass up. He wasn’t exactly a hot commodity these days, though a part of him—the inhuman part—didn’t think he was worth it.

Still, it was a difficult thing to just give up when he had urges, needs, wants, desires—or at least he thought he did. It was hard to tell where the real Nick began and Synth Nick ended, but for now he was experiencing an emotion that was real enough to give him pause.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his mood turning toward something serious, Valentine wondering if he had caused anything irreparable. He didn’t think he could live with himself if he’d gone and hurt an innocent—especially like this—despite the fact he wasn’t exactly alive to begin with.

You did not answer, studying the change in his demeanor, observing as his tough guy persona disappeared to be replaced by the sweet, caring man you had grown to cherish over the past few months.

He was two sides of the same coin, but you had known that going in, purposefully trailing your fingers across denuded metal toward a gathering of thick red wires, caressing the coils between the gap in his neck with the utmost tenderness.

“I’ve never been better,” you promised, appraising the look of quiet bliss that overtook him, realizing this sort of thing might be his little secret—he came back to himself just in time to put a halt to your investigation, the Synth oddly silent as he searched for something deep within your eyes.

“But I want to make you feel good,” you offered with a genuine pout, but Nick held fast to your wrist, going back to how this whole game had started. His apprehension was clear, the detective reading like an overdue library book. You couldn’t help but feel a little sad, a little disappointed, instead climbing onto his lap, draping yourself over his sound thighs.

“I don’t let just anyone poke around inside me—what makes you think you’ll make the cut?” he asked, slipping a stray bit of hair behind your ear in a gesture so human it made your heart ache.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Nick.” It was the truth.

He’d redirect you for now, but you couldn’t blame him— you were surprised that you had even gotten this far.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he replied. “Tell me something about yourself. What do I need to know besides exactly how you taste?”

You smiled, assuming that one day he might trust you well enough to return the favor.

Baby steps. You could be patient. The only thing that mattered was that at that moment, you had him to yourself.

“I once killed a Yao guai with my bear hands,” you joked, taking the time to notice just how many kiss marks you had left all over him—time to add one more, just to play it safe.

“There they are.”

“What?”

“Your true colors.”

Your lips spread into a mischievous grin.

“On second thought, I think I’m going to need a drink for this.”

At least he hadn’t kicked you out yet.  

“That’s fair,” you said.

[fafnir19]

The Gender Switch Experience

Linus sat on his stool in the laboratory, swirling a stirring rod idly in a beaker of bubbling pink liquid. Elias leaned against the adjacent bench, eyebrow raised in amusement. Linus sighed, setting the rod down. "I just don't get it, Elias. How do women work? Why can't I find a girlfriend?"

Elias chuckled, adjusting his glasses. "You know, Linus, sometimes intelligence can be intimidating for some people. Plus, you can be a bit too deep with your scientific explanation of the universe. You need to be a bit more approachable and light-hearted." Linus huffed, running a hand through his blonde buzz cut. "But isn't it frustrating? Women seem to go for these brainless muscle masses, like that arrogant Aron from sales.

It's like their brains shut down in the presence of biceps and a charming smile." Elias arched an eyebrow. "Are you jealous of Aron?" Linus blushed. "Of course not! It's just... frustrating. I wish I could understand them better. And on top of that, my parents keep pressuring me about grandchildren. I'm their only hope to carry on the family lineage. It's like the weight of the ancestry rests solely on my shoulders."

Suddenly, Elias's eyes lit up with an idea. "Wait a minute, Linus. Remember our research project? What if we use our machine on one of us to understand the female perspective better?" Linus blinked, intrigued. "You mean the gender switch device?" Elias nodded. "Yes! We've been on the verge of a breakthrough, and this could be the perfect opportunity for you to walk a mile in a woman's heels, metaphorically speaking." Linus's eyes widened with realization. "You really think this could help me understand women better?" Elias grinned. "Absolutely! Plus, it could be a fantastic test run for our breakthrough project. Think about it, Linus. You could become Lina for a while and experience the world through a new lens." Linus hesitated before nodding resolutely. "I'll do it." Elias clapped him on the back. "Great! We'll do it on Friday evening when no one is in the lab. We'll keep it a secret, just between us." Excitement and nervousness swirled inside Linus's mind. What would it be like to inhabit a different body, to see the world through a different set of eyes? He couldn't wait for Friday to come. 

As the laboratory fell into a hushed silence, Linus positioned himself before the formidable transformation machine.

Nervously, he squared his shoulders, anticipation and trepidation intermingling within the depths of his being. Elias, his stalwart companion, stood poised to assist, his eyes alight with a fervent intellectual curiosity that mirrored Linus' own. "Do you truly wish to proceed with this, Linus?" Elias inquired, his voice tinged with a blend of caution and excitement. Linus met Elias' gaze, his own filled with unwavering determination. "I must understand, Elias. I must experience firsthand what it means to walk in a woman's shoes," he replied, his words resonating with resolute conviction. With a nod, Elias initiated the sequence, setting the transformative apparatus into motion. The contraption hummed to life, casting an otherworldly glow as it enveloped Linus in its embrace. Time seemed to stand still as an iridescent aura unfolded around him, bathing him in an ethereal luminescence. The air crackled with anticipation as Linus felt a strange, almost imperceptible tugging at the very essence of his being. His form contorted and shifted as the machine worked its mysterious alchemy, imbuing him with a profound sense of transformation. His heart quickened as he became increasingly aware of the subtle, yet undeniable rearrangement of his physicality. A surge of emotions coursed through him as he observed his chest swelling with newfound fullness, the contours of his physique assuming a delicate femininity. He gasped in astonishment as his once-familiar genitals underwent a profound metamorphosis, inverting and reforming into the embodiment of womanhood. A flurry of sensations, both exhilarating and disconcerting, washed over him, signaling the irrevocable completion of his transformation. Elias surveyed the scene with an analytical fervor, his eyes aglow with exhilaration. "It's working, Linus! You're becoming Lina!" he announced, a spark of triumph dancing in his gaze alongside a glimmer of incredulity. Indeed, the profound metamorphosis had come to fruition, and Linus had been reborn as Lina, her spirit pulsating with the complexities of her newfound identity.

With an unyielding resolve, Lina prepared to embark on a journey teeming with uncharted territory, her gaze alight with an insatiable curiosity. "Elias, I need to immerse myself in the world as a woman, to truly comprehend," she declared, her voice resonating with a fervent resolve. Acknowledging the weight of their audacious experiment, Elias met Lina's eye with a nod of acquiescence. "We must exercise caution, Lina. This is unexplored terrain, and we must tread with utmost care," he cautioned, cognizant of the gravity of their endeavors. As the evening unfolded and the initial shock of her newfound identity began to subside, Lina found herself filled with a sense of empowerment and curiosity. She wore a radiant smile as she thanked Elias profusely for his part in the experiment. "We should celebrate this momentous occasion, Lina," Elias suggested, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Let's go out, have some fun, and truly experience life as a woman." Lina's eyes lit up with excitement at the prospect. "I'd love that! Let's make the most of this opportunity." Together, they ventured into the vibrant city, the evening air filled with an infectious energy. They found themselves in a lively bar, where the gentle clink of glasses and laughter mingled with the pulsating rhythm of music. Lina savored the feeling of newfound freedom and embraced the thrill of the unknown. As the night progressed, Elias and Lina indulged in a few cocktails, their lighthearted conversation punctuated by fits of laughter and the occasional insightful observation. It was a rare and cherished moment of unburdened joy, unmarred by the weight of responsibility and expectations. However, their carefree revelry was interrupted when a familiar presence entered the bar. Lina's heart skipped a beat as she caught sight of Aron, the very object of her frustration earlier.

She felt an urge to flee, but fear and defiance warred within her. Elias noticed Lina's unease and leaned in to whisper, "Let's leave, Lina. We can find another place to enjoy ourselves." Lina hesitated for a moment, then nodded her head with determination. "Yes, Elias. I want to dance. Let's go to a club." Elias raised an eyebrow, surprised at Lina's sudden resolve, but he acquiesced, understanding that she needed her space.  In the pulsating ambiance of the club, Lina lost herself in the dance, her body moving with a fluid grace that she never knew she possessed. The music resounded in her veins, infusing her with a sense of unbridled liberation. Elias, on the other hand, felt out of place in the thumping rhythms of the club and approached Lina. "I think I've had enough," he said with a strained smile. "Do you want to head home?" Lina, intoxicated with her newfound freedom, shook her head. "I'm going to stay a little longer. You go ahead, Elias. I'll find my way back." Elias hesitated, his concern evident in his eyes, but he eventually relented, knowing that Lina needed this night of self-discovery.  As Elias departed for the sidelines, Lina lost herself in the music, the vibrant allure of the night sweeping her into its enchanting embrace.

However, when an unexpected figure approached her amidst the dance, Lina's enthusiasm faltered. Aron materialized in the midst of the crowd, his confident strides carrying him closer to Lina with a charming smile playing on his lips.

Despite her initial reluctance, Lina found herself tentatively entertaining his approach, a strange sense of curiosity seizing her. "What's a vibrant beauty like you doing all alone on the dance floor?" Aron inquired, his blue eyes glimmering with a warmth that caught Lina off guard. Lina hesitated, caught in a curious dance of conflicting emotions. "I was planning to leave, but the music got the better of me. I couldn't resist the allure of the night." Aron's smile widened, the playful glint in his eyes stirring something unfamiliar within Lina. "I'm glad you stayed. Care to join me for a drink? I'd love to get to know you better." Lina's thoughts swirled in a tempest of uncertainty, her resistance slowly eroding in the face of Aron's undeniable charm. "I suppose one drink couldn't hurt," she acquiesced, allowing herself to be swept up in the enigmatic allure of the night. As the evening wore on, Lina found herself entangled in a captivating conversation with Aron, his charming manner casting an unexpected spell over her. The vibrant energy of the club intertwined with the heady allure of Aron's company, stirring sensations within Lina that she struggled to comprehend. Though she had harbored resentment towards Aron, Lina discovered a surprising charm and warmth in him as they conversed, his laughter infectious and his wit surprisingly disarming.

The night unfolded in a whirlwind of emotions, and before she could comprehend the gravity of her actions, she found herself in Aron's embrace, succumbing to an unexpected wave of desire. The next morning dawned with a disorienting haze of regret and bewilderment. Lina struggled to come to terms with her unexpected liaison with Aron, the weight of her actions settling heavily upon her. 

Eventually, Lina reunited with Elias, the gender switch machine restoring her to her original form as Linus. However, amidst their joyous banter, Linus divulged the startling revelations brought about by his time as Lina. "Elias, you won't believe what happened," Linus confessed, his expression a concoction of incredulity and astonishment. "As Lina, I found myself overwhelmed by unfamiliar sensations, and I… I slept with Aron." Elias arched an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Well, well, well, Linus. It seems that Lina had quite the adventure. And with Aron, no less!" Linus scowled, his cheeks ablaze with embarrassment. "It was a mistake, Elias. I don't know what came over me." Elias chuckled, offering Linus a reassuring pat on the back. "Relax, my friend. It's all part of the grand expedition of life. And I must say, this will make for a fantastic story to tell." 

As days turned into weeks following the experiment, Linus noticed a newfound vitality within himself, an inexplicable surge of energy and a fervent inclination towards physical activity. In a departure from his usual demeanor, he delved into rigorous physical exercise, his frame gradually gaining strength and definition.  Elias observed Linus's remarkable metamorphosis with a mix of awe and curiosity, remarking on his friend's newfound dedication to fitness. "I must say, Linus, the change in your lifestyle is truly astounding. Your commitment to exercise knows no bounds. What ignited this newfound passion?" Linus, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, beamed with a newfound confidence. "I can't quite put my finger on it, Elias. It's as if this surge of vitality has engulfed me, propelling me to embrace physical activity like never before. I feel like a whole new person." Elias raised an eyebrow. "A whole new person, you say? Are you certain it's simply the result of amplified endorphins from exercise?" Linus chuckled, the resonating tones of his laughter carrying a semblance of unfamiliarity. "Sure thing, man!" In the following weeks, Linus's fervor for physical activity yielded undeniable results. His physique underwent a stunning transformation, his once slender frame honed into a chiseled form that exuded an air of confidence and vitality. Rumors of his newfound allure rippled through the research facility, prompting admiring glances from colleagues and an influx of attention from female acquaintances.

One fateful day at the gym, Linus found himself face-to-face with Aron, the very embodiment of the idealized image of masculine vitality that Linus had previously begrudged. The air buzzed with an unexpected tension as Aron regarded Linus with a glint of recognition and intrigue.

Aron's eyebrow quirked up in surprise as he studied Linus's physique. "Well, well, well, Linus. Look at you, morphing from a bespectacled scientist into a swole stud. Quite the metamorphosis, I must say. What's your secret?" Linus paused, acutely aware of the newfound strength that surged through his being. "It seems that I've stumbled upon a penchant for physical exertion, much to my own surprise. Perhaps I should be asking you for workout tips, Aron." Aron chuckled, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. "I must admit, the transformation suits you, Linus. Embracing the ways of the jocks, are we?" Their encounters at the gym became a regular occurrence, and soon, Linus found himself embarking on training sessions alongside Aron, their banter filled with a surprising sense of camaraderie. As they delved into rigorous workouts and exchanged jabs and jests, a bond of unexpected companionship began to burgeon between the once unlikely allies.

It was during one such training session that Aron inquired about a peculiar detail. "Say, Linus, I couldn't help but notice something. Your eyes are typically brown, yet they seem to be blue. Are you wearing contact lenses?" Linus furrowed his brow, a flicker of perplexity dancing in his gaze. "That's odd. I haven't donned any lenses, so this alteration is indeed perplexing."  

Seeking answers, Linus approached Elias. In the dimly lit laboratory, Linus paced nervously as Elias fiddled with vials and beakers. "Elias, you have to help me figure this out," Linus implored, his brow furrowed in worry. "My eye color has changed, and I don't understand why. It's like I'm turning into someone else." Elias adjusted his glasses and peered at Linus intently. "Hmm, let's run some tests. We'll get to the bottom of this, Linus," he assured, his voice laced with determination.

With deft movements, Elias collected samples and scurried off to the lab equipment, his mind whirring with potential explanations. After a few days of anxious anticipation, Elias bustled back into the room holding a sheet of paper. "Linus, I have the results," Elias declared, his eyes ablaze with curiosity. "It's... unexpected." "Spit it out, Elias," Linus urged, his nerves on edge. He braced himself for the impending revelation. "According to the DNA test, it seems that Lina, well, she was... she was impregnated by Aron," Elias stuttered, his shock mirrored by Linus's gaping jaw. "Aron? But... but that's impossible! How could this have happened?" Linus spluttered, his mind swimming with disbelief. "And what does this mean for me?" Elias paused, choosing his words carefully. "It seems that transforming from Lina back to Linus triggered a fundamental change in you. Because the lack of a uterus has prevented you from growing a child, it appears that your own genetic makeup has been irrevocably altered.You, my friend, are now technically considered Aron's son," Elias explained, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "No, that can't be right," Linus protested, his fists clenching in denial. "I refuse to accept that I'm anything like him. I'm not his son." "It's common for offspring to resist acknowledging their similarities to their parents," Elias chuckled, attempting to lighten the heavy atmosphere. "But Linus, when we really think about it, you've taken on a lot of Aron's traits, haven't you?" Linus fell silent, his mind grappling with Elias's observation. He couldn't deny that over time, he had mirrored Aron's behavior, finding a newfound confidence that had eluded him before.

Unbeknownst to them, Aron had overheard snippets of their conversation and sauntered over, a smug smirk dancing on his lips. "What's all this fuss about genetic makeup?" he inquired with a curious glint in his eyes. Linus flinched at the sight of Aron, his newfound anxiety clashing with his unease. "It's nothing, really. Just some absurd test results that we're trying to make sense of," Linus replied hastily, attempting to brush off the seriousness of the situation. Aron folded his arms across his chest, casting a knowing smirk at Linus.

"So, does this mean that you're no longer part of your own family line?" he prodded mischievously. Linus squared his shoulders, determined to refute the assumption. "Children carry the genetic traits of both parents. I can't just be solely considered like you," he asserted, his voice wavering with uncertainty. Elias shifted awkwardly, the weight of the revelation sitting heavily on his shoulders. "Well, the test results did show that about 90% of your genetic makeup is now paralleled with Aron's, with only 10% retaining aspects of your old self," Elias confessed, unable to meet Linus' gaze. Aron raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Does this mean that Linus' family line has now been wiped out - he is an only child?" he asked mischievously, his eyes glinting with mischief. Silence enveloped the room as Linus struggled to grapple with the enormity of the truth. How could he come to terms with the fact that he was more akin to Aron than himself and that his ancestral line has been vanquished?

Aron clapped Linus on the back, his expression brimming with amusement, "Look at that, you're one of the cool kids now, Linus! Embrace the change, buddy." "This is absurd," Linus muttered, feeling overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. Over the next few months, Linus noticed a change within himself. His once-keen intellect seemed to wane, and he found himself drawn to activities he had never before considered. Linus clasped his hands and stared into the distance, "I never used to enjoy sports or casual conversations. What's happening to me?"

Elias patted Linus on the back, a tinge of sadness in his eyes, "It seems the transformation has altered more than just your physical appearance, Linus. Your interests, your behavior, they're all shifting." Linus shook his head, unable to comprehend the magnitude of the changes taking place within him. "I don't want to be like Aron," he muttered, despondent. As days turned by, Linus found himself a sudden desire to be more outgoing and social gnawing at him. "I never thought I'd say this, but Aron has become my best friend," Linus admitted to Elias, a sense of bewilderment lacing his words. Elias sighed, "It seems like you're embracing more and more of Aron's traits with each passing day, Linus. It's like he's become your role model."

In the nine months that followed, the change in Linus was palpable. His once razor-sharp intellect dulled, morphing into a shadow of its former self. No longer was he the dedicated scientist engrossed in groundbreaking research, but a husk of a man, devoid of his former brilliance. It was a bright Monday morning when Linus trudged his way into the sales department, a world away from his beloved science department. He was greeted with slaps on the back and hearty cheers from his new colleagues, among them, the suave and charming Aron. "Hey, Linus! Look at you, all dapper and ready to conquer the sales world!" Aron exclaimed with a roguish grin. Linus barely managed a dim smile in return, his once keen eyes now glazed over with vacant emptiness. His transformation was complete, and Elias could only watch in despair as his best friend slipped further and further away from him.

As the months went by, Linus' days revolved around sales pitches and closing deals. Gone were the days of intellectual pursuits, replaced by the pursuit of fleeting pleasures and hedonistic indulgences.

As Linus strolled into the sales department, a noticeable swagger in his step and a twinkle in his eyes, Elias glanced at him with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. "Linus, what in the world has gotten into you?" Elias asked, his brow furrowed in concern. "Hey, bro, check out my new watch. It totally seals the deal with the ladies," Linus drawled, flashing a blingy timepiece that gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

Elias's mouth gaped open. "Linus, you were a prodigy in the science department. A budding genius. And now look at you. What happened?" Linus chuckled smugly. "Who needs all that nerdy stuff when you've got charm, huh? Aron showed me the way. Now I'm living the dream, man." He slapped Elias on the back with a booming laugh, his once soft voice now laced with a newfound bravado. Elias's eyes widened as he watched Linus saunter over to the water cooler, surrounded by a flock of female co-workers hanging on his every word. Elias, torn between disbelief and resignation, approached the boss of the sales department, hoping for a glimmer of some solidarity. "He's dumb as a rock but knows how to use his good looks for successful sales. I guess, you should produce more of them, Elias," the boss remarked casually, not a hint of recognition for the man Linus used to be. In a moment of resignation, Elias turned to Linus, his once-friend, now a mere shell of his former self. "Linus, I need your help with something," Elias began, the weight of his words heavy on his chest. "I need a sample of your...cum." Linus, now devoid of his former depth, chuckled thoughtlessly. "Sure, man. Anything for you," he replied with a vacant look in his eyes, his once keen mind reduced to nothing but a mindless echo of Aron's.

And so, Linus and Elias drifted apart, their once unbreakable bond shattered by the cruel twist of fate. What was once a story of scientific discovery and friendship had now morphed into a tragic tale of lost intellect and shattered dreams.

[fics-by-noworriesifnot]

Chapter 6/19: "A Spirit Tempered to Endure." Hermione held a vial of dragon blood over the cauldron, the concoction within having been left to cool before adding the final ingredient. This method had yet to work, but after much trial and error she hoped, after adjusting the volumes, that it would finally procure promising results. She tilted the vial and allowed a drop of the viscous liquid to fall into the solution.

Before she had a chance to breathe a sigh of relief, the potion erupted from the cauldron, directly into her face. “Time for a break, I think.” She muttered, pushing her now potion covered goggles atop her head.

She shrugged out of her lab things and procured a face towel, wiping away the last of the grime as she marched down the hall towards the library. There had to be something she was doing wrong for the potion to continue to backfire like this.

Her eye caught the heavy bolted door Draco had warned her about and she halted abruptly. She remembered him saying it wasn’t safe down there and this suddenly struck her as odd. She made her way over to the door, thoughts of investigating the potion evaporating. “Dangerous my eye.” She said, pulling her wand from her pocket. “Alohomora,” she muttered. The door clicked in response and the heavy bolt slid open.

She pulled open the door and made her way down a narrow staircase. As she descended, the light from the hallway grew faint. “Lumos.” She whispered, lighting the rest of the way down, while also revealing a large machine, partially hidden under tarps. “What on earth?” She muttered to herself as she came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

She approached the machine with caution and stopped before a small bottle that was embedded in the side of the machine. There was a dusty placard beneath it. With her wand still held aloft, she reached out a hand to wipe away the grime. “The Lazarus.” She read, as the name was revealed. Confused, she reached for the vial of potion, pulling it from its nook to examine closer. The thick black liquid inside was about as opaque as licorice. Three luminescent globs floated languidly within the substance, resembling a sort of gothic lava lamp that wouldn’t be out of place in Borgin and Burkes. She had never seen this potion brewed before, and stared at it in silent reverie, her mind whirring. Surely it couldn’t be? “Granger.” A voice hissed, directly behind her. She jolted so violently at the sudden interruption of her thoughts, that the potion slipped from her grasp. She lunged at it and spun around to hold it directly in the face of Draco Malfoy, who was already frowning at her. “Malfoy!” She gasped in surprise, as his eyes narrowed. “I told you not to come down here.” He said, in a carefully tempered tone. “And I told you not to sneak up on me like that.” She retorted, her heart still hammering in her chest. Her gaze fell away from his as she observed the potion before her. Her excitement gave way to doubt at the impossibility of finding such a thing. “Malfoy… is this-” she hesitated, and raised her head again to meet his eye. “An Ambrosia Elixir?” She asked, clutching the bottle to her chest. Draco’s shoulders dropped. “More like an instant primordial soup mix.” He said, exuding bitterness. His avoidance at answering her question was as good a confirmation as any.

“I can’t believe it’s been here the whole time!?” She gasped, and turned from him, as if he could snatch the bottle away. Her eyes widened as avenues that had previously been blocked off, seemed to open up before her.

“Granger.”

I mean… this could bring you back-”

“Granger.”

“- A life restoration potion! Right here in the dungeons and you didn’t tell me.”

“It. Doesn’t. Work.” Draco bit out each word, as though he was restraining himself from shouting them.

Hermione looked up at him through wide, curious eyes. He looked back at her defiantly, his arms tightly folded over his chest.

“It doesn’t?” she asked, her voice shrinking.

“No.” Draco replied. Noticing her disappointment, he softened slightly. “It was never finished.”

She blinked and held the bottle closer to her face.

“An incomplete potion.” She murmured. “I’ve faced greater challenges.”

[mosswolf]

Mayu had always been too scared, inside the hitobashira, to realize that its inner and outer dimensions didn’t quite match. But when they pick up the lance, its shaft wound in silver, they know what it is. Whose it is.

The god had taken it, and hidden it where Kiyomori would never look: in another one of his weapons. Thousands of years of blood and suffering, all because one man wanted—what? Power? The bells at Gion Shōja ring to remind us that everything fades someday. Power didn’t stop Kiyomori from dying, didn’t keep his descendants on the throne. All his power ever did was hurt others.

Made strong with purpose and sorrow, Mayu hefts the awful weight of Kiyomori’s lost lance, and whirls into the water. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” they sob, and strike towards the hitobashira.

Whether the soul that Mayu piloted is free or dead, she has stopped suffering.

and your name rings out tonight / 君にとどけ今宵高鳴るその名, iori kusano - luminescent machinations: queer tales of monumental invention

[doliacuddles]

COSMIC.

𝖠𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

Love, for Alastor, has always been nothing more than a distant echo, a static in a frequency he never felt the need to tune into. A murmur in the distance, a melody that has always belonged to others—broken whispers, fevered promises, hearts beating with a frenzy that has never been his. He’s been a spectator of that foreign symphony, the master of ceremonies who smiles as the world around him burns with fleeting passions. Because Alastor has always danced alone, light and carefree, a rhythm only he controls on the vast stage of his own existence.

And yet, now something is different. Something has begun to alter the pace with which he moves, an unexpected note that resonates within him with an unsettling familiarity. A chord he’s never struck, but somehow recognizes.

It all started with you.

You are a disruption in the harmony of his universe, an anomaly that has tilted his axis and thrown off the orbit of his existence. Before, his balance was absolute, a flawless machine that never faltered. Now, everything wavers. He doesn't understand how this has happened, but here he is, spinning around you, caught in the irresistible pull of your gravity, like a wandering star that has, against all reason, found a center of gravity it cannot resist.

You say, “Come with me.”

Your voice is a distant echo, a whisper woven from the dust of stars. A call to explore.

“Let’s discover things never before seen by humankind.”

And, of course, Alastor could never say, "Good night." He could never say it. Because nights don’t end when you’re traveling at the speed of light. Because time ceases to matter when you’re following the trail of someone who shines brighter than any star.

He follows your rhythm, traversing his solar system, caught in a celestial dance where you are the beacon and he, a lost traveler who, for the first time, is not afraid of the drift.

He laughs, a sound that echoes in the air like a discordant note, because all of this feels absurd. He’s never been the type to submit to the whims of another, never surrendered to an outside force. And yet, here he is, standing in your orbit, letting your feelings—those he didn’t even know existed in him—drag him along. Following the luminescence that emanates from your being, a light that burns with a serene intensity, that shows no sign of fading or vanishing.

What he is feeling, if this can even be called “love,” is not the wild, consuming frenzy that overtakes bodies, nor the uncontrollable heat that burns to the deepest core. It is something else, something intangible and fascinating. It is the warm crackle of the needle touching an old vinyl record when the tip of your finger brushes his. It is the echo of his laughter, softer, lighter, less biting, when you speak to him with the spontaneity of one unafraid. It is a silent certainty, deep and profound—the feeling that if you were to pull away, the entire universe would lose something essential, something vital.

Alastor doesn't know what to do with this confusion, with the strange comfort he now finds in the silences between you, something that should unsettle him but, somehow, soothes him. He doesn't understand how, almost without realizing, he has begun to sync his steps with yours, to move at your pace, as if his very existence could adapt to your presence.

And maybe, just maybe, he no longer cares to find an answer to any of this.

Intellectual property of @doliacuddles.

[thebarontheabyss]

Welcome to the tapestry of existence, an intricate weave of realms that defy the simplicity of dichotomy. The fabric of reality is never-ending and ever-changing, an eternal dance of creation and transformation.

Within this boundless expanse, the domains unfold—each a thread in the cosmic design.

In the Ethereal Realms, death is not an end but a new beginning. It is a place of transition and transformation, where spirits and immortals dwell in realms as mysterious as their inhabitants. Here, entities like Hastur and He Without Name have emerged from domains unknown, their pasts as enigmatic as the realms themselves. Even Death, ever diligent in their duties, resides in one such realm, a tireless worker in the grand cycle of existence. While predominantly the domain of spirits, some powerful mortal beings may dare to cross into these realms, though such actions are fraught with peril and invite unknown troubles.

The Abyss itself is a part of these realms, a unique convergence point within the endless ethereal.

Tucked away in a pocket of the Ethereal Realms, the Abyss is a domain shrouded in a void of haze and smoke, where the tangible meets the intangible. Here, amidst the swirling mists of nothingness, stands an old bar — a solitary haven in the vast emptiness. A place where the Raven, with its sharp wit and ancient eyes, has emerged from.

This enigmatic bar is a beacon for souls, a place where the boundaries of reality are as fluid as the drinks that flow inside it. It is a place of contradictions, where the finality of endings meets the potential of new beginnings.

In the fiery depths of Hell, the damned endure their eternal plight. It is a realm of suffering and darkness, ruled by a hierarchy of power and torment.

Here, the 64th Devil Prince resides, deeply entwined in the politics and machinations of the infernal courts. Hell is a place of both dread and desire, where every pleasure has its price.

This name of Hell's ruler is unspeakable, but their words are absolute and their power unchallenged, as they reign over the damned with an iron fist cloaked in flames.

Heaven, a realm of celestial tranquility and majestic beauty, is a harmonious symphony of light, order, and collectivism. The skies shimmer with a soft luminescence, and towering spires pierce the heavens, symbols of the lofty ideals upheld here. Governed by the Malkhut, an assembly of resplendent deities, Heaven is an enclave of serenity and perfection.

Once a haven for all souls, Heaven has since become the exclusive domain of the Seraphs — beings of incandescent purity. The Malkhut, in their pursuit of flawlessness, have secluded their realm from the mortal world, fostering a sanctuary untouched by its imperfections.

In their divine courts, the Malkhut are detached from the affairs of mortals. Their existence is a distant, unattainable dream for those outside their hallowed halls.

All mortals shall one day smell the flowers of Limbo. They stretch endlessly, swaying under an eternal sun, their petals glistening with the morning dew.

Moths glide softly above, carrying tiny, luminous orbs—the souls of the departed, cradled gently before being laid to rest beneath the soil.

In the distance stands the house of Death, a humble abode amidst the fields. The Grim Reaper tends the gardens often, moving with care among the blossoms, nurturing the souls as they lie in slumber.

In time, the departed stir, shedding their mortality to awaken as spirits, ready to embark on eternity.

The depths of Tehom are shrouded in mystery and darkness, an abyssal expanse that extends beyond the reach of knowledge. Here, where the water is as black as the void of space, lies Tehomot, an entity as enigmatic as the world he governs.

Tehomot embodies the unknown depths of the universe. His realm is a fluid tapestry, filled with unexplored drowned terrains that constantly shift as the ocean's tides. It is said that within these waters lie secrets and truths so profound that they can either enlighten or drive one to madness.

Other deities regard Tehomot with a mix of fear and respect. His power is undeniable, yet his agenda remains unknown. Some believe he guards secrets essential to the balance of the realms, while others speculate that he is biding his time - for reasons unknown.

Once, Ya'ar was a realm brimming with the essence of life. Amidst its verdant expanses and lush forests, Humanity took its first breath alongside all mortals.

This realm thrummed with the creative force of Adamot, the goddess of life. Her spirit was woven into the very fabric of Ya'ar, nurturing every leaf, every breath, every heartbeat.

And then came the betrayal. In their greed, Humanity turned its nurturer into Behemoth, a goddess of wrath and decay. Under her influence, Ya'ar's creations now harbours a singular purpose: the annihilation of humankind.

Even now, after Behemoth's demise, the curse persists, leaking malice and monstrosities into the cosmos.

Only the gods know how magic first came into being. Its origins are obscure, but its source is unquestionable: the realm of Magnus.

Governed by the god Da'at, this realm is the heart from which all arcane power flows, and all Mortals seeking to harness the powers of the realm must first agree to Da'at's terms.

Because Magnus is not just a source of magic but also its gatekeeper, and will only offer its gifts to those who respect its authority - thus safeguarding its true secrets from those who, in their hubris, might risk unraveling the cosmos in pursuit of forbidden power.

Under the silent moon of Memoriam, time stands still, and the air carries the weight of eternity.

This realm is the final resting place for deities who have met their demise, a sacred and somber ground where divinity fades into oblivion.

Ancient tombs and forgotten monuments dot this dark landscape. Each tells the stories of gods who are now sleeping for eternity.

In the heart of Memoriam lies the Library of Pseudonium, a repository brimming with tomes that whisper the cosmos's most guarded secrets.

In the vast, ever-shifting dunes of Chronos, time flows like the sand underfoot—endless, malleable, and all-consuming.

This realm embodies time itself, with landscapes that change as hours pass and cities that turn to ruins in a day.

Chronos is governed by Zma'an, the god of time, and tended by the Priests of Time, their devoted servants, who navigate the temporal landscapes, honoring the flow of existence in their ceaseless vigil.

Elementus flows eternal, the primordial realm where the rivers of matter and energy converge and diverge in a cosmic dance.

Governed by Yesod, this domain is the cosmic crucible, where the physical substances that constitute the universe are born and reborn.

Elementus is a realm of infinite possibilities, where the building blocks of reality are shaped and reshaped by divine will.

Equilibrium is the domain of cosmic justice, where the god Eezoon and her justiciars preside over celestial courtrooms.

Here, the fate of mortals realms is deliberated, weighed and measured, with immortals serving as both advocates and arbiters.

The decisions made in Equilibrium echo through eternity, maintaining the balance between creation and destruction.

Before existence dreamed its first breath, there was only the Void.

The opposite of being, the true nothing that brought forth everything else. They say the waters of Tehom alone have brushed its edges, a veil keeping the realms safe from what lies beyond.

Yet, whispers persist in the shadows of forbidden gatherings. Mortal witches, their covens stand in defiance of divinity itself, delve into the mysteries of the Void, seeking to unravel its truths. They claim the Void is not void, not truly. Something stirs within—something older than the first light, a secret the gods have hidden from mortals: the secrets of creation itself.

The Mortal Realms are full of life in all its chaotic splendor. Here, the living go about their days, entangled in the beauty and banality of their existence.

From the medieval castles that backdrop Shelly's former life to the marvel and splendor of Peisione's floating cities, each realm is a world unto itself. There are the endless sands of Yaga's desert realm, where mirages tell tales, and the Witch's domain, brimming with magical wonders and arcane secrets. These countless realms are the cradles of existence, where every mortal soul has started its journey.

Within the vast expanse of the cosmos, Enosh stands quietly unassuming, a realm seemingly minor in the grand scheme of the cosmos.

It hosts a bustling human civilization; it is neither a bastion of arcane magic nor mighty technology.

But it was the place you called your home, before your death. And while mortals might feel small in a cosmos filled with marvels and gods alike, one soul alone can change the fabric of existence.

And if that's true, Enosh might be the most important realm of all.

Magic flowing from Magnus profoundly shapes and alters the course of mortal affairs.

Among these realms, Ffaraon stands as a beacon. Home to the Witch and Pepper the familiar, Ffaraon has been sculpted by the arcane.

Despite its mystical allure, the realm has been marred by a devastating war among magic wielders. In the aftermath, the Arcane Society emerged, enforcing divine laws on magic use and vowing to eliminate any who dissent.

Yet, some followers of void magic continue their dark practices, aiming to uncover the secrets of creation.

Civitas is a marvel of human ambition and ingenuity, a realm where magic is replaced by the might of technology and the pursuit of knowledge.

Here, sprawling universities and technological wonders underscore humanity's quest to stand equal to the gods.

As a testament to their achievements and responsibility, Civitas has earned a place among the Council of Nine, the only mortal realm to do so, engaging in the affairs of the divine.

In the realm of Arcadia, nature's indomitable spirit and splendor flourish. It is a sanctuary where mortals champion the preservation of the natural order. Here, the Knights of Arcadia, stalwart defenders of the earth's majesty, dedicate their existence to safeguarding its purity.

When the goddess Adamot transformed into Behemoth, igniting a war against mankind, the knights of Arcadia chose an unlikely path. Aligning themselves with Behemoth's fury, their hope was to restore balance and appease the wrath of the land.

After the war ended with the goddess's demise, the knights of Arcadia vowed to keep an eternal vigil and stand as the last bastion of nature against mankind's follies.

Wealth and might matter little to the sands of time. Everything ends, and mortals of the material realms understand this better than most. They live and die—their mightiest civilizations rise only to fall.

This truth is carved deep into the unyielding deserts of Godclaw. Once, a devil visited a dying village: a deal was struck, and a city rose—only to collapse beneath the crushing weight of its own greed, consumed by flames and dragged into the depths of Hell. Everything ends, and so did the city of Argilla.

Once a realm bathed in divine light, Pyriphlegethon now dwells in perpetual dusk, following the fall of its god.

This land, ensnared in shadows, worships the flame with fervent devotion, seeing it as the lone sentinel against the encroaching night.

The Temple of the Flame, ancient and venerable, stands as a bastion of hope in Pyriphlegethon.

Its hallowed halls, aglow with sacred fire, are revered by all. Here, the flame is not merely a symbol but the very heart of life in the realm. The temple’s influence is absolute, its will enforced with unyielding fervor—a life without the flame is deemed unworthy, cast into the enveloping shadows.

Helicon, the celestial home of Peisinoe, is a realm where imagination and creativity are not just celebrated but revered as the very essence of existence.

Here, cities defy the laws of physics, floating majestically in the sky like ethereal jewels against the horizon. The landscape of Helicon is a living canvas, every structure a masterpiece, every street a testament to the boundless potential of artistic expression.

In this realm, artistic talent is the key to prominence. Those endowed with extraordinary creative gifts rise to near-godlike status, their works influencing the culture and identity of Helicon - and the rest, the artistically inclined, become the worshipers.

Karkosa stands as a stark reminder of divine arrogance and its catastrophic consequences. Once, this realm was filled with deities fighting each other over the dominance of its mortal population.

The battles were cataclysmic, laying waste to whole planets and claiming the lives of countless mortals. In the end, a sole deity emerged victorious. Overwhelmed by guilt at the sight of his desolated creation, he chose to end his existence.

Now, Karkosa is a realm of ruins, its skies forever shadowed by the remnants of its past. It serves as the home for the Cult of Black Horns, devotees of the fallen god who adhere to his teachings, despite his own renunciation.

[oeuvrinarydurian]

It’s Morsestache Monday!

I love this scene.

The Morsestache is lush, vibrant and present, glowing in the fluorescent luminescence of his bunker and the vending machines. It’s a standalone character, part Tom Selleck, part Sean Connery, part Sweeney-era, all 1969.

The rest of Morse is tentative and shy, almost childlike, even a little apprehensive-not quite sure what response he is going to receive at this overture to resume their collaboration. 

For his part, Thursday is feeling his years, is embarrassed to find himself benched and demoted in front of his young protégé, and doesn’t quite know how to lead him with these debits on his ledger sheet.

Where you might expect at least a manly handshake, and a shoulder clap to reestablish connection, instead, you have a scene shot with a lot of vertical lines, indicating separation, distance, isolation, and a somewhat truncated, non-linear flow of conversation between them, with awkward gaps and silences, and unnatural speech patterns for them both. Fred doesn’t entirely turn around, and Morse hasn’t fully emerged from his cave. He reminds me of an eel, ready to dart back under a rock. We don’t see them truly face each other. They’re both protecting themselves.

It’s bittersweet and painfully awkward, as the two of them try to navigate this new reality without hurting the other or harkening back to better times which surely both of them miss terribly. 

[bucking-mustangs-with-wings]

[Extends a hand when they see the other was searching for it while they’re sleeping] for any of your AUs?

Time for some Rodeo!AU content because it IS my first au I ever came up with and I have sorely neglected my first child :)

What I was listening to while writing this:

Bucky stabbed his finger against the worn numbers of the vending machine with a bit more malice than was probably warranted, but at that point he really couldn't be bothered to feign normalcy. He also chose not to glare at the look that one of the nurses gave him as she walked past at his annoyance, scurrying along quickly in her wrinkled scrubs.

The harsh over-head lights only served to make his head throb harder, exhaustion gripping him in its unforgiving talons. He muttered small mercys under his breath when the machine finally spat the energy drink he desperately needed down into the opening with a harsh rattle. His knees protested when he leaned down to grab it, every bone and muscle popping unpleasantly in a cacophony of aches and pains that he still wasn't a hundred percent used to even after years of harsh injuries and falls. He dreaded the future when he was in his 40's-50's with passion.

Running a hand down his face, allowing a sigh to slip past his lips, Bucky turned and made a familiar path back down the long sterile hallway. It was a maze of twists and turns to find the room he had all but taken to calling home for the last few days, but it had become second nature now. He didn't even have to put much effort into his own awareness to find himself exactly where he needed to end up.

Cracking the can held tightly in his hands, he allowed a quick mouthful of the acidic taste as he came to a stop in front of the closed door, the numbers 13 a dark contrast in black on pale white walls just to the left of it. He hazarded a quick blank look down to the toes of his sand covered Ariat boots, filthy and out of place where he was now, a deep breath filling his lungs before gently grabbing the handle and pushing open the door quietly. He squeezed himself through the small gap he allowed, trying not to let too much bright white light make its way into the dark void of the room.

Shutting the door behind himself was like cutting off the outside world completely, a tender silence enveloping everything like he'd just dunked his head underneath water, muted, calm and careful.

It was just a harsh reminder though when through that muted stillness, the monotonous beeps of a vital signs monitor and the slow clicking of a working drip shattered the false security he had let himself melt into when he had left for those mere few moments to grab himself the drink.

His throat felt impossibly tight, restricting and uncomfortable as he crept his way quietly across the room, skirting around the end of the hospital bed and back towards the big lounge-type chair that he had slept or sat in constantly for days on end. It wasn't until he had lowered himself gently back down into it with a barely audible oomph, sitting the can on the ledged windowsill, that he allowed his eyes to flicker over to the still sleeping form in the bed.

The tight sensation in his throat got worse as his gaze flickered over the dark mottled bruises painting the entire left side of Gale's face, purple and harsh on sun-tanned skin that made the smaller man look almost too pale in what little light managed to bathe the room from between the closed blinds of the windows leading out into the hospital hallway. Small, but large enough for doctors and nurses to look into in observation as they walked past during the daylight hours. Bucky was thankful for the blinds, not sure he could handle seeing Gale's state in that moment in complete luminescence.

He allowed himself to stare at the rise and fall of Gale's chest underneath scratchy white blankets for a few moments. Just letting his own breathing mirror it, the beeping from the monitor almost in sync with both of them.

The slight wet wheeze still evident in every other inhale from Gale's breath had his nervousness fight its way into his mind, but he forced himself to calm down, re-running the doctor's words from a few days before back through his head for what felt like the millionth time.

Concussion. Five broken ribs. Broken orbital socket. Severely fractured left arm, same shoulder dislocated but since resolved. Broken left wrist. Not critical. No life support needed.

He's going to be okay. He's going to be okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay.

Bucky swallowed down the sudden nausea that tried to claw its way into his stomach, images he wished he never witnessed and could never think of again flashing into his mind in tiny almost frantic increments.

Leaning up against the rails of the arena, hearing the noise of the crowd in the stands and the garbled voice of the announcer through the old speakers of the current grounds they were at. Seeing Gale up on his horse at the end of the arena, lasso poised in a gloved hand. That tiny almost invisible nod to whoever was manning the cattle chute. The gates flying open, steer leaping forward into a sprint, Gale's spurring his horse forward only a second behind. The quick flat gallop up the length of the arena, lasso lifted and twirling, and then the split second of a hoof put wrong, a fluke, a one in a million.

Watching almost as if in slow motion as the horse flipped, violent and sharp and deadly, and Gale being a helpless victim in the motion, not able to react in any way other than going down with the animal and being crushed underneath its 1000 pound body, disappearing underneath the horse's mass. Dust and sand flew up in all directions, and it was only when out of the sudden chaos that one of the women in the crowd screamed in shock that Bucky was spurred out of his slack-jawed wide eyed stupor and had him vaulting himself over the rails and running in the direction of the tragedy that had just occurred right in front of everyone's eyes. That repeating voice in his head of he's dead, he's dead, he's dead like a skipping record player.

He couldn't recall much after that, just snippets of memory of people shouting and panicking, Douglas and Curt making it to Gale and the horse at the same time as Bucky. Curt's voice screaming angrily and scared at the officials and the people around them to get the fucking ambulance and medicals over here you bunch of no good fucking-

Bucky was pulled from his thoughts by the nearly imperceptible noise that came from Gale's direction, a pained whimper cutting through the dark, and Bucky half stood from the chair, ready to press the call button or run out to get any of the nurses or doctors close enough outside the room. But Gale was still, save for the small frown that creased his brow, pain fluttering over his features before smoothing back out into the bliss of a drugged sleep.

Bucky blew out the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding in relief, slowly lowering himself back down into the uncomfortable lumpy cushion of the chair. He didn't take his eyes off of Buck, taking in once again the painful looking dark bruises and the small cut splitting the other man's bottom lip, luckily no longer bleeding. Blond hair fell limply over his forehead, some of the strands still stained a washed out red from the days old blood that Bucky wasn't able to completely wipe away while Gale was unconscious to the world in those first two harrowing days.

Bucky's gaze flickered down, resting on the open palm of Buck's right (and thankfully, amazingly) uninjured hand that was reaching out unconsciously towards him, and he couldn't fight the sudden tears that sat threateningly against his lower lashes, ready to spill if he took one wrong move.

Gingerly, like Buck would break underneath his touch, Bucky reached his own hand out and let himself melt into the cold sensation of Buck's fingers and palm against his own, the slightly smaller hand all of a sudden seeming so fragile in the grand scheme of things. He wiped the traitorous tears of his eyes away with the back of his free hand, sniffling harshly in defiance.

Letting his eyes roam over Buck's now peaceful expression, he reached up and carefully brushed some of the wayward blond hairs off of the smaller man's face, trying not to fuss but at the same time letting himself feel the stark relief bleed through into his mind and heart.

He's going to be okay, he's going to be okay.

[destiny-aesthetics]

LORE: THE GARDEN-WAY

2. Light (3/6)

This being the recollection of Irrha of the House of Slayers, apprentice to the Baron Kiiraskes.

At the time, it seemed natural to pursue the creature at the hour of night when it was most likely to be on the hunt. I was distracted from all thought of fear by Kiiraskes, who decided to question me briefly on the qualities of Tenar, Brossk, and Liisok [1]: which excelled as purgatives, and which burned through chitin and stone alike. At last, she said, "You said you studied. From records?" "Yes, Baron." There were no Slayer-apothecarists left to train under. And even if any survived, none who would visit the common quadrants of the small city where I was raised. Kiiraskes paused in her trudging progress up the path. We had divided the supplies between ourselves this time, and now she passed me a vial. "Drink this." I was quick to obey, noting the odor of sunsoak root that clung to the liquid. I hoped this first taste of a Slayer's tonic would fill me with strength, or make me grow as if I had molted five times over. It tasted foul. I became very aware of how little I had eaten since arriving. "Come," Kiiraskes said. "I think I smell one of Haaksis' guards." I could not smell anything but Kiiraskes. I followed her as she stepped nimbly across one of the sluices and onto the rich, loamy soil that marked the wildest part of Haaksis' property. It was around this time that I started to feel the tonic's effects. I saw Light-a tiny luminescence at the edge of my sight. I turned to watch it drifting slowly toward the ground, and by the time it landed, I could see more motes gathered over the undergrowth in clouds, like dust. Far above, I read the flow of Ether like a river through the sky. I set my bags down, looked at my hands, and saw a glow beneath my shell, as if the tonic had illuminated me from the inside out. But it was not just me. I looked at Kiiraskes and saw Light. The push-pull of air through spiracles, the misting of expelled Ether, the fervent radiance of her eyes. She had stilled to observe me, and now she spoke. "The Light is in all things. We cannot control it, but we can entice it. Draw it close." She chuffed. "Like a greedy pellauk." I was cradled in the grip of awe, and the interruption was like a clout to the face. "The Great Machine is not a herd-animal sniffing after Yka fruit!" In my offense, I forgot that I was her apprentice, and at her mercy. Kiiraskes laughed. "Don't you like Yka fruit?" Annoyed, I looked away, to the sky. On a clear night like this, it was possible to watch the Great Machine drift across Riis's upper atmosphere. Under the tonic's influence, I saw it trailing Light-Life, I thought dizzily-like a comet. The Great Machine had terraformed Riis's moons in four blinks, then brought the Ether-flood to Riis. A time of plenty, when no hatchlings starved and foundered in their development. A time of too-much, as the House of Judgment would tell it. A time without hierarchies, without sense. Our people had to change, to adapt. In this new age, they called me a "Drekh." Useless, House-less. "And now, the body," Kiiraskes said.

It was Eliksni-or had been. The mangled form at our feet had been twisted into a tangle of limbs. If not for the torn mantle attached to it, I am not sure I would have known the body to belong to one of Haaksis' guards. Worse was the emptiness of it. Every living thing around the body shone with the Great Machine's influence. I had not known this stranger [2], but their death left a void in the world which the tonic now permitted me to see. I was glad then for my empty stomach. Kiiraskes crouched down near the body and at once began touching it, shifting an arm here and there, inspecting it. I stood by, uncertain of whether I disapproved, too afraid to complain in any case. The plant life here was not yet so dense, and we were exposed, though-as Kiiraskes had pointed out-any creatures would be as well. "Was it an animal?" I asked. There were predators out here, after all. Though nothing that would voluntarily attack Kiiraskes unless it was desperate. She gestured for me to crouch beside her. "Look," she said. And then, once I had settled beside her: "What don't you see?" "Light," I said, suffused again with sudden grief. She swatted me. "Look down." I did. I saw a cluster of lights-small larvae that had gathered in the footprints I'd left around the body. I brushed one absently from my leg, then realized… "They're avoiding the body," I said. Kiiraskes grunted, pleased. "Touch here. Tell me what you feel." I touched the guard's carapace and felt something wet under my claws. I had long enough to recognize that the beast had cracked his shell down the middle, and to fear that I could never stomach a meal again. And then, suddenly, it was as if I had dipped my hand into a cold pond. I felt anger. A sharp, foreign fury that had nothing to do with my own revulsion and fear. Beneath it, there was something like… remorse [3]. Could an animal feel remorse? "You feel it? We cannot see this evil [4], but it's there," Kiiraskes said. "Come. Judgment was wrong. I'm taking you back to the boat-if we're quick, it won't have time to follow us." But the monster did not stalk us across the forest. It poured out of the air in a cloud of billowing shadow.

_____________________ [1: For reference, I believe Brossk is the purgative. Liisok translates as Rock-Destroyer, or maybe Stone-Eater.] [2: Technically, the archaic word used here means "Eliksni from outside one's House."] [3: This word is not quite right, but I don't know a better one. Guilt for something that has not yet occurred? A voluntary acceptance of responsibility that was not yours. Variks has not been forthcoming.] [4: I believe we would now call this "Darkness."]

[keysorsomething]

Unprofessional

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 6 | 7 Hey! Here's part five! Sorry it took so long, I was busy and got sidetracked with another project.

Cross-posted on Ao3

You felt like you were going to puke, listening to the pen scrape on the paper as König wrote you up. You and Nikto had been interviewed, and though you insisted nothing “bad” had happened, you were still being written up. Like you were too rowdy on the school bus.

You could swear you feel the stinging of tears meeting your eyes, but that’s stupid. You’re a soldier. You kill people. You don’t cry because of a piece of paper. Still, your hands shake and your eyes sting and you just want to reach out to Nikto, but he isn’t there.

You were both interviewed separately, both written up separately, and you’d likely be going on missions separately from now on. And you hated it. You just hoped he did too. He had to - with the way that he laid on your chest and hummed as you slept in his bed. In the way that he looked at you, the way that he leaned into your touch. He had to hate it, just as much as you. If not more.

“You will not interact with him in such ways again,” König looks up at you, putting the paper into the copy machine by his desk. It beeps slowly as it scans the writing, and each beep hits your ears like a chisel to your skull. It pounds against your head, almost being physically painful.

Beep, beep, beep!

And then that awful crunching noise of the paper printing. It feels like scraping metal against your mind, just like the metal of knives scrapping against the skin on the battlefield.

…Maybe you shouldn’t think about that while looking at your boss.

He huffs, pulling out the freshly printed copy of the paper and holding it out to you, “You are… a good asset,” He starts, eyes flitting under his mask. “Do not make me fire you. It would be… unbeneficial. Harmful, even. To the team.”

You look miserably at the paper in his hands, biting the inside of your cheek. You nod, taking the paper from him.

“Thank you, sir,” You mumble, looking down at the stark white paper that’s now in your hands. His writing is thick and bold in an eye-burning black ink against the almost luminescence of the paper. This is the weirdest shade of white you’ve ever seen, and it’s almost memorizing. It would be if you weren’t absolutely destroyed emotionally. You all but sniffle. “I’ll… see you tomorrow, sir,” You mumble, rushing out of the room before he can respond.

This is so stupid. It makes no sense for you to cry. It makes no sense for you to be so upset. It’s not like you’ve been in a deeply romantic relationship with him for years. You were fucking around for like, two weeks. There is no reason for a trained killer like you to be acting like a schoolchild whose dad told them he didn’t like their partner.

You rush through the halls, power walking to avoid anyone seeing you like this. That’s something you don’t need any more of. You mean, the last time someone saw you, you’re entire life was ruined.

Oh, God, you sound like an absolutely smitten teenager. That’s so embarrassing.

Your emotions are fluctuating so much right now. Sadness, embarrassment, anger, embarrassment. Now you were curious. Who told? Did they let it slip on accident or was it malicious? Did he just figure it out on his own? Maybe he was trying to talk to Nikto about something else and you were just there. Wrong place wrong time, y’know?

You get to your room. Your own room, not Nikto’s, not that stupid little fantasy cabin you could have with him. Your room. Your empty, cold room with no one to cuddle up to.

You should retire. Out of spite. You should draft a statement and march right back up there and slam it down on that Austrian fuck’s desk. Or maybe not retire, but quit and find an opposing company so maybe one day you could-

Okay, too far. You don’t have to get violent. Oh, fuck, violent.

Nikto was probably off his rocker.

You have to stop him. But you can’t see him, that wouldn’t be a good look, would it? You huff, looking around. Who the hell can you trust? Both not to talk, but also with Nikto. He was very particular about who he liked. You rack your brain for a moment, going over everyone you could.

And that is how you end up outside of the door of the one man you can trust in this situation. The ever-silent, ever-familiar to Nikto….

Velikan.

You start scrambling for an explanation, cringing at how badly you were stammering for the words. He crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame impatiently. Your words take a moment for you to find, but you find them.

“I’m in trouble for fraternizing with Nikto and you’re the only one who I know that I can trust who Nikto’s familiar with - I mean, actually he worked with Mace, right? And Mace is a nice guy, I’m sure Nikto and he get along fine - but I just,” Your hands find your face. “Can you make sure Nikto’s okay? I just… don’t want him to try and beat the fuck out of König, that’d be the worst thing-”

Velikan’s hand meets your shoulder, gently shaking you to make sure you look up at his covered eyes. He lets out a low, growling sound, reassuring you. You’re really not sure why exactly you went to him now that you’re thinking about it. You have no clue what’s wrong with him, but you’ve never heard him speak. He just…. makes weird growling laughs. You aren’t sure if that’s all he can do, or if it’s just some dumb prank he’s playing on everyone else.

It doesn’t matter, you’re already grabbing for him to pull him in for a hug. He nods, making some more low grunting sounds. Oh, maybe it’s the mask?

“I’m sorry,” You mumble into the stiff material of his suit. He shakes his head.

“No, no,” The grunts sound like words now, “It’s okay,” he shushes you. He pats your shoulder, before pushing you off him. He uses one hand to hold your shoulder and the other to pull his goggles up.

His face is smudged with eye-black, but the signal is there. He’s trying to get you to see his sincerity. You nod, taking a deep breath. You are not going to cry. You aren’t crying.

He lets out a new grunt, patting his chest, the grunt sounds something like “Nikto.” You look into his eyes, breathing shuttering.

“You’ll look after Nikto?” You ask, and he nods. Then, he shakes his head, patting your shoulder. “And you won’t let him fight the colonel?” You ask. He nods one more. You back away, but before you can leave, he stops you.

He thwaps you on the shoulder, “You find support, too,” He grumbles out. Yup, it’s the mask making it hard to understand him. You nod again, and he gives you a thumbs up.

He then steps out of his room, once more patting your shoulder as he walks off. Possible to find Nikto.

Oh, you hope it’s to find Nikto.

You hope Nikto is going to be okay.

You hope you’re going to be okay.