#palm pilot professional

[vinspixels]

Palm Pilot Professional

[kkanabel]

co-pilot mischief ✫ curly concerns ✫ chapter uno

captain curly x teasing!reader

curly panics when he realizes he's attracted to his co-pilot. a mixture of professionalism and fear of making you uncomfortable are keeping him from pursuing his feelings. so, when you find out that he has a thing for you, you tease him to see how long it'll take for him to give up.

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

words: ~3.5k

t/w: sexual references but no actual yucky (yet), reader being lowkey sadistic, cute curly <3, gn!reader/pronouns but reader wears a bra

a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~ 

~jambalaya does not exist in this world~

Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days Elapsed Transit Time: 292 Days

It had been over nine months aboard this damned ship, and Curly was just short of going mad. Not the kind of madness that came with sleep deprivation—he’d conquered that particular beast long ago, his body numb to the restless nights. No, this madness was quieter, more insidious, burrowing into his mind and refusing to leave. It trailed him through the claustrophobic halls of the Tulpar, slipping into the smallest crevices of his day-to-day. The worst part was, he knew exactly what caused it.

Or rather, who.

His co-pilot. The bane of his existence. The source of his sanity slipping through his fingers like sand.

Curly groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands, his calloused palms dragging over stubble. The cockpit was bathed in the green glow of the ship’s display panels, casting long shadows over his hunched figure. For once, he was alone. His co-pilot was off—God knows where—and he was left to grapple with the gnawing frustration that never seemed to diminish. It wasn’t the kind of irritation that burned; it simmered, steady and unyielding, until it became part of the fabric of his thoughts, melting like wax into his very being.

He could see their handwriting on the little sticky notes scattered around the console, each one an infuriatingly sweet reminder to stretch, drink water, or take a break. He tried to ignore the way those notes made him feel a little lighter, even when he wanted to crumple them up out of spite. Then there were the meals—hot, fresh, and left beside him during the long hours he spent poring over ship diagnostics on days he’d forget to come to the main lobby for food. Like clockwork, they arrived, a silent reminder that someone out there cared. Too much, in fact.

It wasn’t the fact that they’d climbed the ranks with startling efficiency or that they were nipping at his heels for his own position. But the issue wasn’t their competence. Hell, he’d been the one to recommend them to the crew. No, the problem—the real problem—was that he didn’t mind the notes. Or the meals. Or the way their laugh lingered in his head long after the joke had ended.

That was the crux of it: he didn’t mind. He cared too much.

Curly growled under his breath and pushed himself out of his chair, dropping into a push-up position before the thought could take hold again. One. Two. Three. The strain burned through his biceps and shoulders, grounding him in something tangible. In the beginning, this ritual had worked. Twenty push-ups, and he’d feel clear-headed enough to get back to work. But now? He was well into quadrupling that number, and the haze in his mind hadn’t lifted.

“Damn it,” he muttered, shifting to one-armed push-ups. Sweat beaded on his brow, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed.

It was their fault. The way they lingered in his peripheral vision during late-night shifts, always a step ahead of him. The way their presence filled the cockpit, electric and steady, as if the entire ship ran on their quiet energy. He hated it. He needed it.

Curly collapsed onto the floor, the cool metal pressing against his flushed skin. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the dull ceiling, and exhaled sharply. But it wasn’t their fault. It was all his.

Because no matter how many push-ups he did or how hard he worked, he couldn’t seem to outrun the one truth he hated most: he was falling for his co-pilot, and there was no way to make it stop.

It all started so innocently.

A couple of months ago, when Curly’s sleep was deteriorating thanks to the unholy cocktail of chronic insomnia and the Pony Express directive of “only indulging in five hours of sleep a night,” the signs of wear were becoming impossible to hide. His dark circles deepened, hollowing out his features, and the number of minor piloting errors he made began creeping upward. He hated slipping up, especially in front of the crew. But you had been there, catching the mistakes before anyone else could notice, your tone warm and forgiving as you covered for him without a single reproach.

“How many hours of sleep did you get last night, Captain?” you asked, glancing at him with a knowing arch of your brow. The question was less accusatory and more concerned, which somehow made it worse.

The third time you caught him in the cockpit, chugging yet another cup of bitter instant coffee, you sighed with exasperation. He barely had time to process what you were doing before you nudged him toward the door with a bottle of melatonin clutched in your hand.

“Rest, Captain,” you said firmly, standing your ground in front of him with a tilt to your chin that tolerated no argument. “Don’t go abusing yourself—and caffeine—like that. Do me a favor and take one of these with some water. I’ve got the ship tied down.”

Before he could retort, you physically pushed him through the doorway and locked the cockpit door behind him. He stared at the bottle of melatonin in his hand, blinking in confusion, his mind too fogged with exhaustion to properly argue. He barely made it to his quarters without bumping into a wall. Still, he heeded your demand.

When he woke up hours later, groggy but undeniably more refreshed than he’d felt in weeks, he returned to the cockpit to find the door unlocked and you sitting in his chair, nursing a steaming cup of water between your hands.

The smile you gave him as he walked in—small, gentle—made something in his chest falter, like the ship had hit a pocket of turbulence. He ignored it, chalking the reaction up to gratitude. “Thanks,” he muttered before reclaiming his chair.

That should have been it. A one-off moment. But it wasn’t.

The next time was when you came bounding into the cockpit, an excited glint in your eyes, holding a bundle of old films scavenged from storage. “Look what I found!” you exclaimed, dropping them onto the console as if they were treasures unearthed from a sunken ship. The crew’s old stash of classic movies. You suggested a movie night, and by the weekend, everyone was gathered in the living area, dressed in mismatched pajamas as per your insistence.

The fake day-and-night screen in the living room had been converted into a movie screen (thanks to a favor from Swansea), and you’d somehow transformed the cramped space into a cozy theater. The crew was laughing, the air thick with the buttery aroma of popcorn—smuggled aboard in direct defiance of Pony Express regulations. Swansea lounged in a corner, throwing popcorn into his mouth with perfect aim, while Daisuke and Anya shared a bag of candy bars, their laughter ringing out during the film’s funniest moments.

And then there was you, looking at the rest of the crew, a relieved smile on your face from seeing them having fun and relaxing.

You’d curled up on the couch with bunny slippers, wearing an oversized t-shirt that reached down to your knees. Curly found himself staring at the way your legs curled up in front of you, the smooth skin catching the flickering light of the screen. He shook his head and willed himself to look back at the film, feeling an odd mix of discomfort and… something else.

It wasn’t just your legs that had caught his attention. He watched your shoulders relax as you looked at the others having a good time. From your shoulders, his eyes slowly trailed up to your neck,

There was the lace halter bralette peeking out from the neckline of your shirt, delicate and intricate, its strap circling your neck like a whisper of fabric. He’d overheard you mention it in passing to Anya once, saying how they were more comfortable than traditional bras. Cute, you’d said. Anya had agreed wholeheartedly, and the two of you had launched into an entire conversation about comfortable alternatives, leaving him both bewildered and hyper-aware of the intricacies of brassiers.

That night, you’d tied your hair up, sweeping it off your face and revealing the curve of your neck. He hated how his eyes kept trailing there, lingering too long on the strap of your bralette before snapping back to the screen.

What was wrong with him?

The laughter of the crew filled the room, but Curly’s focus was elsewhere. He watched the way your shoulders relaxed as you leaned back, your smile warm and unguarded as you looked at the others enjoying themselves. It had been a rough couple of weeks, but in that moment, you looked so at ease, like you were carrying everyone’s joy on your shoulders and doing it gladly.

His gaze drifted again, following the line of your neck up to your jaw and almost to your lips before he froze, his chest tightening with realization. He was staring. Stop it, you creep. His heart thudded in his chest, the weight of his guilt sinking in. The last thing he ever wanted was to make you uncomfortable, to let you see just how hopelessly he was starting to lose control of his own feelings.

And yet, even as he looked away, forcing his attention back to the film, the memory of your smile lingered in his mind, burning as brightly as a star in space.

Later that night, after the crew had dispersed to their quarters, Curly lingered in the living area. The faint smell of popcorn still hung in the air, and empty mugs cluttered the low table, remnants of the impromptu movie night.

He hadn’t planned to stay, but you were still there, stacking empty bowls with practiced efficiency. You hummed softly as you worked, the sound low and content.

“You don’t have to clean up,” he said, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, an easy smile spreading across your face. “Neither do you, Captain. Yet here you are.”

Curly looked so charming, sweeping up the crumbs from the ground with a bashful smile. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Force of habit, I guess.”

He stepped forward and started gathering stray candy wrappers. You didn’t protest, and the two of you worked in companionable silence. The only sounds were the soft clink of mugs and the occasional hum from the ship’s systems.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter. He kept his eyes on the mug in his hand, turning it absently. “I think… the crew needed it.”

You paused, a little surprised. “Needed what?”

“A break. A reminder that things aren’t always so…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Mechanical.”

You laughed softly, and the sound was warm enough to make his chest ache. “Even machines need downtime, Captain. And so do you.”

He glanced at you, his resolve faltering as you met his gaze head-on. Your eyes were steady, soft, and full of something he couldn’t quite name. For a moment, the ship felt too small, the air too thin.

“I guess I’ll work on that,” he said, forcing a crooked smile and dropping his gaze.

As the months passed, his little problem only got worse.

It started as little things.

The way Curly’s voice would soften when he said your name, like he was tasting it before letting it leave his mouth. How he always seemed to position himself between you and anything remotely dangerous during routine checks, even if the “danger” was just a loose panel or a slightly sparking wire. You noticed those things before, but they hadn’t meant much to you at the time.

But lately, you’ve started picking up on more.

Like how he fidgets whenever you lean over his chair to point something out on the cockpit screen. Or how his ears turn red if your hand brushes his when passing tools or data tablets. At first, you think it’s funny—how someone so competent and in control can get so flustered over little things. But then, there’s the moment in the Main Lobby.

You’re digging through one of the upper cabinets, on the hunt for something sweet, when you hear his boots scuff against the floor behind you.

“You’re always after the chocolate in the vending machine,” he says, leaning casually against the counter like he isn’t watching you a little too closely.

“And you’re always after the coffee,” you quip, holding up a ration bar triumphantly.

“Touché.” His lips twitch into a smile, and you can’t help but notice how his eyes linger on you just a moment too long before he turns to grab his mug from the shelf.

It’s not unusual—this kind of back-and-forth—but as you open the bar and break off a piece, you catch him glancing at you again, almost like he’s about to say something. He doesn’t, though, and the moment stretches long enough to feel... significant.

That’s when it starts clicking.

The lingering looks. The slight hesitation in his voice when he talks to you. The way he goes out of his way to make sure you’re comfortable, even when he doesn’t have to. The realization settles in your chest, warm and a little thrilling.

Does Curly like me?

Your mind starts replaying recent moments with a new lens. The way he always pulls you aside first to explain changes to the schedule. How he always offers to carry extra supplies during inspections, even when you insist you’re fine. That time he casually gave you his jacket when the living quarters were colder than usual, like it was no big deal.

“Earth to you,” Curly says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He’s holding out a water pouch, his brow slightly furrowed. “You zoned out there for a second. You okay?”

You take the pouch and give him a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

You tilt your head, studying him, and your smile widens when he shifts under your gaze. “Nothing important.”

It’s a lie, of course. You’re thinking about him—about how he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, about how he tries so hard to act unaffected when you’re around.

And for the first time, you feel a little wicked. If Curly likes you, why not have a little fun with it?

Curly knew something was off the moment you walked into the cockpit.

It wasn’t just the way you greeted him, your voice light and playful as always. It was the way your smile lingered, like you were holding onto a secret you couldn’t wait to let out.

“You’re up early,” you said, dropping into your seat beside him.

“Could say the same for you,” Curly muttered, keeping his eyes on the console. He was grateful for the excuse to look busy, though the screen in front of him was just a diagnostic report he’d already read three times.

“You’re always so serious, Captain.” Your tone was teasing, but there was something else beneath it, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He didn’t respond, didn’t trust himself to.

The silence stretched, and just when he thought you’d moved on, you leaned closer—close enough for him to catch the faint scent of whatever soap you used.

“Hey, Curly?”

His stomach flipped. “Yeah?”

You paused, drawing it out, like you were savoring his anticipation. Then, with a sly grin, you said, “You’re staring.”

“I’m not—” He froze, his heart skipping a beat. “What?”

“You are,” you insisted, your grin widening. “You’ve been staring at that same report for the last ten minutes. What’s so interesting about it?”

Curly’s mouth went dry. He scrambled for an answer, but his mind betrayed him, replaying every fleeting glance he’d stolen of you earlier that morning. How long had you noticed?

When he didn’t respond, you leaned back in your chair, smug satisfaction written all over your face. “Relax, Captain. I’m just messing with you.”

But you weren’t. Not entirely.

Because as you watched the tips of his ears turn pink and saw how his jaw tightened, you realized something. Something that made your pulse quicken and your lips curl into a wicked smile.

He likes me.

And now that you knew, you couldn’t help yourself.

Curly swore the ship’s cockpit had never felt this small before.

You were now hovering just over his shoulder, leaning in to inspect a blinking diagnostic alert on the screen. The proximity was maddening—he could feel the warmth radiating off you, the sleeve of your Pony Express jumpsuit brushing against his arm every time you moved.

“Hmm,” you mused, tilting your head. “Looks like a minor power fluctuation. Nothing to worry about, but we should log it for the next maintenance check.”

He nodded stiffly, trying to focus on your words instead of the fact that your hair was so close it tickled his cheek. “Right. I’ll, uh, take care of it.”

But when he reached for the keyboard, so did you. Your fingers grazed his, and you both froze.

“Sorry,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. A playful smile tugged at your lips, and he didn’t trust it for a second. “Didn’t mean to get in your way, Captain.”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, turning back to the screen. But his fingers trembled slightly as he typed, and he cursed himself for it.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the edge of the console, your voice deceptively casual. “You look good when you’re focused like that.”

He nearly choked. “What?”

“I said you look good when you’re focused.” You shrugged, like it was the most normal, casual thing in the world. “It’s kind of intimidating, actually. In a good way.”

His face burned, and he fought the urge to bury it in his hands. “I—uh—thanks, I guess...”

The smile you gave him was nothing short of devilish. “You’re welcome.”

You stayed there, watching him a little too closely, and he could feel his pulse thudding in his ears. Finally, he risked a glance at you, only to find you tilting your head with mock innocence.

“Everything okay, Captain?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, focusing hard on the screen. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, no reason.” Your voice was light, teasing. “You just seem a little... tense.”

He stiffened, embarrassed and confused as to what you were doing but powerless to stop it.

“You know,” you continued, leaning a little closer again, “you really should loosen up. It’s not good for your health to be so serious all the time.”

“I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Hmm.” You studied him for a moment, and then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you added, “If you ever need help relaxing, Captain, just let me know.”

He froze, his brain short-circuiting at the double meaning behind your words.

Before he could stammer out a response, you straightened up, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t work too hard, okay?”

And just like that, you were gone, leaving him alone in the cockpit, his heart racing and his mind a chaotic mess.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was doomed. Absolutely doomed.

From the moment you saw Curly’s ears turn red, his fate was sealed. You’d never imagined the stoic, dependable captain could be reduced to such an adorable mess, and now that you’d seen it, there was no going back. It was just too cute—the way his bravado would falter, his words stumbling over themselves as he tried and failed to maintain composure.

Normally, Curly was all broad shoulders and easy charm, his commanding presence impossible to ignore. But you’d discovered a crack in that armor, a secret button that turned him from the ever-confident leader into a flustered, helpless schoolboy. And oh, what a delightful button it was to press.

You’d always found him attractive—how could you not? He was responsible, dependable, and unfairly handsome. But for the longest time, you assumed he’d only ever see you as his co-pilot, someone to rely on professionally but never personally. Yet now, the way his gaze lingered a moment too long, the subtle flush on his cheeks whenever you got a little too close, told you a very different story.

It gave you a strange, heady sense of power, and you had absolutely no intention of letting it go to waste.

A small, wicked thrill ran through you whenever you imagined the possibilities. What if you teased him just enough to make that carefully controlled exterior crumble? What if you pushed him to the edge, until he couldn’t hold it in any longer? Your mind wandered to a particularly wonderful thought: Curly, unable to take it anymore, bending you over the console with a heated, desperate confession.

You shivered, the fantasy almost too delicious to bear.

And so, your mission began—not to reject him, but to push him. To tease and torment, to watch his resolve unravel thread by thread. You weren’t cruel, not really. You knew he’d crack eventually, and you planned to reward him handsomely when he did. But until then?

Until then, you’d savor every stolen glance, every stammered reply, every moment he tries and fails to hold himself together.

After all, what was a little mischief between co-pilots?

a/n: let me know what y'all think! biggest thank yous to those who have written curly x reader fics thus far, y'all fueled me lmfao.

oh yeah.. smut.. eventually...

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics... also might be accepting requests hehe! i can't guarantee that i can do em, but i'll accept ideas!

thanks for reading! <3

btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos or inconsistencies stay safe & hydrated as always!

(and go to sleep if you're reading this super late. don't be a curly. take care of yourself! (i say, writing this at midnight))

crossposted on ao3

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

[jolalibrary]

up sky, low high

frankie morales x f!reader | frankie morales masterlist

summary: frankie takes you on a heli-ride. you decide to test his competency and take him for a ride.

word count: 1.9k warnings: smut. 18+. there's mouth to cock action in the sky - new kink for jo? maybe. jo's interpretation of how to fly a heli is deffo a warning in itself. everyone is safe. remember he's a professional, but don't try this in the air bbys. jo’s spelling—written on phone, forgive me. moodboard not reflective of reader. an: this wouldn't be possible without @morallyinept who not only thotted with me, told me to write this, filled me with confidence at the halfway point when i sent it to her but also made the prettiest banner and moodboard for this (see at the bottom). babe ily, thank you so much for this.

It’s not ideal—not even close to safe.

Finger pushing in on the button that releases the elements of your seatbelt as you swallow, staring at him. Gawking, in fact.

Frankie always looks good, a fact not fiction.

Whether it’s first thing in the morning, sleep in his eyes—fingers scratching over his soft stomach as he yawns. Or when his eyes are hidden under the bill of his hat, dark, all mahogany brown pupils blown with lust as the thing on the television becomes forgotten.

And while he does always look incredible, there’s something criminal about the way he looks right now. Piloting, all in his element, wearing fucking competency like he was the one who first birthed it as he keeps the helicopter in the air.

Short flight, he’d said when he’d helped you into the rental.

Now, you could bet on it.

Because you're not even sure how long you’ve been in the air, too busy gazing, hungrily undressing him as he flicks switches and checks gauges. Your understanding of what he was doing lost, barely reaching a basic level.

What you do know is that if he reaches over, slides his hand up your dress and touches the fabric covering your pussy, he’d find them soaked.

But then, he’d also likely notice the way you’re taking shallow breaths, that you’ve been squirming for friction for the past so many instructions—

Because of his voice.

It all low, husky—dragged through gravel when it comes through the headset. Pointing out sights, places, but he’s the only thing you want to gaze at from this height. From any height.

That’s why the thought had arrived, to begin with, the lucrative one. The one so far gone that you try not to consider logistics and just trust in the fact he’d stop you if it was too unsafe. Your voice barely steady through the microphone, asking—layered and wrapped with demand, as your pulse quickens and your palms become slick with sweat.

You know the idea is ridiculous. Yet, somehow, you find yourself moving up onto your knees, digging them into the chair you’d just been seated on.

That’s when you see it. The glimmer, the spark, before he whines out that he’ll maintain altitude as you palm him over his cargo pants. Feeling him harden, pressing against the zipper, all thick, long and delicious as your mouth waters.

Because you need him in your mouth.

A thing you must murmur because suddenly he’s helping—lifting his hips as he whispers an oh fuck, when you drag his layers down and your hand wraps around his cock. More so when you move your wrist, dipping your head to slide your tongue to lick up the bead of want already there at the tip.

Flicking your gaze up, you find hungry eyes staring back—ones lit by the sun, shades a plenty making up the lust-filled gaze that makes your mouth open wider as you take as much of him as you can.

Fuck it’s glorious.

Both the thrum of vibrations through the cushion seat under your knees as he keeps the thing in the air and the feel of his hot length sliding against your tongue. As you take him. As you make him hiss through gritted teeth when you try to take a little more of him than you usually manage—tears springing in your eyes and your throat constricting around him—

“Careful, querida,” he soothes.

Large hand cupping the back of your head, easing, aiding, as his cock rests at the entrance of your mouth, placed perfectly on your lower lip. Breath coming back to you; eyes blinking as he darts his eyes from the world below him to you.

“You okay?”

Until now, you weren’t sure if it was possible to be more in love with him. Then he proved that even up in the air he thought of nothing but what was best for you.

Nodding, spit trailing down your chin, droplets falling to your chest where it pools as fabric meets skin, you smile. Gleam. Grin. Before making him swallow a moan as you take him again, his head falling back.

It’s then, when you hollow your cheeks do you feel him shift, allowing him, as he gently thrusts to slide his length as far down your throat as it allows. Good girl, so good, my good girl—

Humming around him at his praise, a blend of languages as he calls you pretty and perfect. And you can tell he’s close, taste it on your tongue as he begins to rock his hips, as he begins to hiss—teeth biting down on his lip, imagining his knuckles whitening around the cyclic stick.

It’s enough to make you come from the thought—close to ruining your own panties further as you press your thighs together.

Closing your lips around him, sucking and adorning, showing him, etching your love for him with the way your tongue swirls over the tip, hand gripping his thigh as he groans your name. It followed by s’close, m’close baby—

Then he pulls you off him, all with care. Spit connecting your lips to his tip as you stare at him in confusion. The line dropping, snapping—it clinging to the curls at the base of him, soaking his hair like dew on a spring morning.

“Frankie…”

It’s all you manage to croak out. Eyes wide, thoughts barely present, all cock-drunk and adrenaline-fuelled—the scent of him still there, around your nose, musk and engine oil.

“Need to land,” he replies, short, jaw tight—cock angry and throbbing between his thighs as he flicks a switch. “Can’t… can’t fuck you, unless I land.”

You’re not sure he’s ever landed so quickly, never mind so clunky. Remembering stories, how he gloats at his prowess at most of his land landings. But you have no time to question, think, or ask, before he pulls off his belt, headset and hat before reaching to yank you into his lap.

It’s clumsy—a mess of limbs, a tight squeeze as your hands skate around his neck. But you forget about it all when his mouth crashes to yours. Kissing you so hard and hungrily your teeth clash. His breath is hot in your mouth as he pants at the feel, likely tasting himself as he slips his tongue into yours.

And it’s warm, his tongue. Licking into your mouth, large hands around your waist brushing your clothed core against his cock—the hiss reverbing down your throat as you swear you feel him shake. Tremble. So desperate for you that it makes him quiver.

You love kissing him.

Could spend hours doing it. Not caring about jaw aches when you’re tangled up with him. Like right now. In some field, in some place—

“Need t’fuck you, baby. Can I fuck you please?” he asks, voice low, but tinged with a plea.

His hand balls up your dress, the other hand hooking a finger in to pull your soaked underwear from your pussy before groaning at the sight. “Hold them for me, baby.”

Swallowing, smiling—you do. Lifting, nudging yourself closer as your knees screech on the leather as you become full of molten hunger. Hovering over him as he eases the head of his cock to your slick entrance, sliding it through your folds, eyes focused on you.

“Can’t wait.”

“Then, don’t,” you whisper.

Then he hisses as he pushes in, right between his teeth. One that’s born at the back of his throat and makes an entrance into the air. Cuts. Slices. The sound so fucking hot that you clench around him when he bottoms out—mouth open in an O at how full, stretched and stuffed you feel.

“No te muevas—lemme feel you, baby. Fuck—”

Your smile widens—practically smirking. Shifting on him as the hand on your waist tightens its hold. But, you’re not listening. Even less so when you press an open-mouth kiss to his skin as you begin to move, to slowly slide your pussy up and down his shaft.

“Fuck, querida—feel so—good—incredible. Tu perfecto. Made for me, you know that…”

It’s layered—all in a breath; you answer similarly when you say that you do. Practically pressing it into the air as you pant, resting your forehead on his shoulder, as the two of you are quick to find a pace.

It’s almost drowned by how wet you are, how loud it is when he begins to thrust up into you. All aching for one another, practically feral as you feel your slick clings to your inner thighs—likely smudging against his skin as your fist clenches at his shirt. Clit brushing against the tangle of coarse hair, you’re soaking, that makes you dizzy as he begins to fuck up into you.

All deep thrusts. Making you moan—feeling nothing but good. Perfect. Amazing.

Just how he always makes you feel this way. Every, single, time—

“Need you to come, baby,” he strains, rasps, groans as you feel his hand—all expert, calloused in the right places—snake between the two of you.

It’s there, trying to disguise between letters: desperation. Despair. His touch confirms it, finding your bundle of nerves as he makes you gasp, arch, tighten around him as your hand finds refuge on the back of his neck. Your fingers slide into his sweat-soaked curls, smearing against your fingers as you clutch, grip and grasp.

And you’re aware of it now. How the cabin is warmer—windows likely smothered in perspiration—but it’s nothing compared to the heat of your body. It licks at your neck, at the base of your spine, the backs of your thighs that meet your calves.

But you’re lost in it, in him. Wanting nothing more than to come; unable to speak from how much you want to. More so as his hips cant up into you, as you begin to see white in the corner of your vision—as your body becomes more fire than bone.

Tightening around him as he shifts, an angle that makes you see fucking stars as you whine his name like it’s made of one syllable.

“—that’s it, querida. Fuck, s’good for me, I love—“

It building, so near to snapping as you hear him babbling, rambling. Your mouth is just open against his neck, moaning—the noise slipping out of you as it slams into you. His voice fading, the world going quiet as you come undone, all pulsing, all clenching down on him as it crests.

But his hips push you through it. Chasing, seeking. His pace is all sloppy, difficult, lost as you blink your eyes open to see the way his face is scrunched, lips over his teeth. And if you hadn’t just, you swear you’d come against from the sight.

That look of sheer determination, skin bathed in sweat before his eyes find yours—crystallising, glazed over and fucked out—

“Come for me, baby,” you whisper.

And his expression pauses. Relaxes.

Smooths.

His hand tightens on your hip, grunting out your name—burying it into the air as his hips stutter. Then, he whines. Spilling inside of you as he collapses back into the chair, you pressed against him, jaw all slack and his eyes clenched shut.

And you swear you can feel his heartbeat. It is all out of step with your own.

Not that you care.

Smiles painted on your faces as your eyes met his, breaths ragged, your finger wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.

Before his lips slide back over yours, kissing you, writing gratitude against your mouth as the muscles in his neck flex under your palm.

an: look how pretty this issssssss. thank you so much, jett.

[bluefunkybeats]

CHAUFFEUR YUUTA OKKOTSU

gn!reader, SFW, mention of drunk reader but can be read as drunk sleep deprivation (no alcohol mention)

chauffeur!yuuta who tries as much as possible to have a professional front, to be all courteous etiquette and chivalrous assistance; as expected of a luxury service. yet still yuuta’s iridescent bambi eyes and way of unreserved darling restless altruism enchants you.

chauffeur!yuuta who wears the most adorable and eye ogling white uniform (resemblant more to a pilot’s attire than a chauffeur, but he’s the most beautiful thing nonetheless). after the first few weeks working for you, he asks whether he should ditch the little black chauffeur hat or not (he worries it’s a bit overkill but the choice is yours anyway <3).

chauffeur!yuuta who always steadies out the car to open the door for you, one hand holding the car handle and the other open palm extended towards your entrance, gesturing you inside. he never knows whether to stand tall and straight or slightly bent over to meet you at your height. he tries anyway, for you.

chauffeur!yuuta who walks you to your destination (whether that be your front entrance or any other place, especially at night) although he’s sort of really only supposed to open the door for you, help you out, and wave you off; but the loyal dog inside him just won’t let him.

chauffeur!yuuta who when stopped at a red light, looks at the car mirror, looks at you, with a delighted grin and affectionate eyes, whether you’re perched up with full posture and already looking at him, or lolled drowsily and sleeping.

chauffeur!yuuta who constantly checks up on you via the car mirror to confirm you’re happy and content. if not, he asks “can I do something for you?”, making eye contact through the mirror with a sweet smile and docile eyes. if you’re thirsty, he’ll get you your choice of drink from the beverage fridge hidden in the centre console. if you’re hungry, he’ll ask you “what is it that I can you?” then make a stop at your place of choice. if you’re sad, he’ll ask if you’d like him to park the car and yuuta will take you on a stroll with open ears and his undivided attention (in the early days during these walks, he would hold his little hat in front of him with both hands like a true gentleman).

chauffeur!yuuta who realises soon enough, sleeplessly staring at the ceiling from his bed after a day of no reservations to pick you up, that it’s not enough. that by not asserting himself beyond a chauffeur to you as a means to not offend you, his patron, he actually does an injustice to you: the most addictive angel he ever met. well, as if his sweet face and endearing jumpy fussiness about you could ever offend you.

chauffeur!yuuta who involuntary incites your rambles with his receptive eyes and open-book facial expressions. but you’re just the same, giving old yuuta the heart eyes and being on the edge of your seat when the man starts opening up. and soon enough, it seems that you’ve both unraveled each other, become too fond of each other, exchanging soft giggles and the crinkles of eyes. when it’s you two, the ostentatiously costly and luxurious the little old car sure becomes chatty and filled with inoffensive banter, the dopey and syrupy chemistry leaving you both with misty eyes.

chauffeur!yuuta who remembers vividly the last time he picked you up from a night out. cue to drunk you from the backseat, saying you’ll marry him! “when we’re married yuuta…” and an entire rant, flirting with him, throughout the whole journey taking you home. he just stayed quiet with a blushed face and lips drawn in, eyes not meeting yours in the mirror (yet occasionally diverging that way). but he’ll smile after a while and make that long sacred mirror eye-contact with you again; “when we’re married y/n…” please don’t distract the driver!!!

chauffeur!yuuta who absolutely refuses (in the most possible calm, cooed, gentle, quiet screaming “i’m sorry but you can’t!”) to let you sit at the front with him. and quite rightfully so: you’re his patron! the cars ahead will distract you from a having a good lounge! please just luxuriate in your backseat ride! you’ll just stare at him with heart eyes if you sit at the front… he’ll be so flustered he might crash the whole damn car. he’ll be fired and won’t be able to drive you anymore!!!

chauffeur!yuuta who involuntary makes you contemplate for 5 minutes straight before his arrival time (which is actually 10 minutes before the set arrival time since he’s always at least 5 minutes early) on whether you’ll sit directly behind him or in the next seat over. the latter gives you a good view of his divinely entrancing side profile, yet…

chauffeur!yuuta who obliges with a happy sigh as he slides his hand behind his seat as the driver for you to grasp to. now left to your own devices, you’re just counting his knuckles with the taps of your finger (as if you haven’t counted them countless times already) whilst your other hand keeps hold. then you go in with your final blow: a firm but delicate hold with the tappy hand whilst you retire the other; a dazed smile and misty eye contact reciprocated in the mirror, as you give him occasional squeezes on the supple palm. thankfully, he’s cruising a straight unbusy road so your antics won’t require his brain to work double-time.

chauffeur-and-boyfriend!yuuta who kisses the sweet spot at the back of your fingers of your held out hand as he helps you out of car with his own. you and your lover’s hands continue intertwined as he walks you to your front door ♡

[evangelinesbible]

YOUR 4H AND YOUR FUTURE SPOUSES CAREER(S)

Derivative astrology timeee

7H = Spouse/ Marriage

10H = Career

10 houses away from the 7H is the 4H

SUN/LEO

Your FS will probably be someone who is quite popular or even famous in their career field. They’re probably a very creative person as well. They might potentially be any type of entertainer so, singer, actor, comedian or dancer. They might also have a job that involves children’s entertainment.

MOON/CANCER

Your FS might be a realtor or someone who builds/ flips homes for a living. They might have their own brand/ business that sells self care products. They might also be very creative and artistic so a painter, poet, or singer is very possible as well. They also might be some sort of nurse, teacher, or social worker for children.

MERCURY/ VIRGO/ GEMINI

Your FS might be a writer, journalist, public speaker or teacher. Their career field involves education and/or the mind. Your FS might also be some sort of influencer or their career involves social media. (Specifically for Gemini) Your FS might be some sort of vet, doctor farmer, trainer or life coach. (Specifically for Virgo)

VENUS/ TAURUS/ LIBRA

Your FS might be someone who is very invested in the fashion, art and music world. Specifically for Taurus they might be a singer, interior designer, chef, model, or someone who works with nature. Specifically for Libra they might also be a model, politician, lawyer, couples therapist, or a party/ event planner.

MARS/ARIES

Your FS might be into the athletic field. They themselves might be an athlete or coach a team. They might also be a personal trainer. They might have an independent brand, label or business. They’ll most likely have a job that involves leadership so directing or being a CEO.

JUPITER/SAGITTARIUS

Your FS might be someone who could do any career and they’d be successful at it. Specifically, they might be the most successful in a career that involves traveling and exploring the world. They might be a professional traveler, tour guide, flight attendant, pilot, or professor who teaches abroad

SATURN/ CAPRICORN

Your FS might be into business and marketing. They are most likely into the more corporate side of business and heavily invested in investments and stocks. They might also be some sort of doctor. They also might be apart of a management company or they manage a bunch of people themselves.

URANUS/ AQUARIUS

Your FS might be into all things science and electricity, they might also be a social media influencer as well. They might be some sort of scientist, engineer, electrician, or neurologist. They might have some sort of online business or their career in loves being online. So maybe a YouTuber or Streamer.

NEPTUNE/ PISCES

Your FS might have a career that involves glamor and spirituality. They might va more flexible and laid back job. They might be an actor, musican, producer or singer. They might be into tarot, reading palms, astrology, and they might teach all of these things as well. They might also be into film and photography.

PLUTO/ SCORPIO

Your FS may have a career that is secretive, private or invades their privacy. They might be in a career field that involves research, physiology, investigation, or witchcraft. They might be in a position of power as well so some sort of CEO or business person who is really good at investing. They also might be into the police force, military, or banking.

What’s yours? Mines Scorpio 4H with Pluto/ Moon Sagittarius. 4H ruler being 4H Sagittarius Pluto/ 9H Taurus Mars.💋

-⚜️💫⚜️

[enigmatist17]

I am sick besties :( ergo a blorbo must suffer

This blorbo is part of the Mecha Pilot Jazz Au by @keferon which one can find here

My parts so far 1 2 3

---

Prowl...did not panic. He was a mech equipped with the best battle computer known to Cybertronian kind, able to run probabilities and statistics faster than his emotions could register. Little surprised him, and up until recently, nothing had ever made his emotions supersede his battle computer.

Save for the scene before him, his servos trembling slightly as he holds the person who had captured his spark.

Jazz had not shown up for their morning refueling a few breems ago, and at first, Prowl had not minded, figuring Jazz was busy with something else. It's not until well into his duty shift that the concern starts, Ironhide popping into his office to ask after the organic, who had failed to show up for some sparring. His unanswered comms is what really makes his spark pulse with worry, various mechs clearing the halls as he heads to his (their) quarters, the door opening at his ping to show Jazz's mecha was still in its corner. Jazz is still in his berth, Wheeljack having created a smaller version that could be anchored just about anywhere on a magnetic surface if needed, the man groaning in discomfort. It's when Prowl gets closer that he registers the abnormal heat readings radiating off of the human, the ordinarily smooth intake and venting Jazz had stuttered and littered with the occasional cough as he struggled to get comfortable.

"Jazz?" Bleary brown optics flutter open at his name, Prowl's doorwings flaring up at the glassy look. "Jazz?"

"H...hey...hey Prowler..." Jazz's entire frame spasms when a loud series of coughs interrupts him, groaning softly when they finally stop. "Ow..."

"Your body heat has exceeded the temperature you told us was acceptable, is there any way I can help lower it?" A clawed digit gently rests against Jazz's cheek, and the human lets out a little whimper as he curls into the metal.

"Cold...feels good..." Prowl didn't dare to move as he sent Ratchet a worried comm, noting the sheen of sweat covering Jazz's face, his clothing damp from even more of it. Despite the heat reading not changing, Jazz pushed himself away from Prowl's servo a few minutes later, annoyance crossing his face as he burrowed under the thick fabric he called a comforter. "Too cold.."

"My body temperature has not changed, little shadow." Prowl softly trilled as he leaned closer, bleary eyes focusing on him after Jazz cycled his optics a few times.

"'S kay...fevers aren't fun..." Doorwings flutter at the familiar beat of Jazz reassuring him, despite clearly being exhausted with whatever was attacking his frame. "Could use water..."

"I shall get you some soon, I wish for Ratchet to look over you first." Jazz grumbled something as he moved to kick his blanket off. Prowl carefully logged the action, and Jazz weakly motioned him close. "Are you feeling warm again?"

"Mhm..can you hold me...so hot." Jazz whined as Prowl carefully slipped his digits underneath the warm human, cradling him carefully as Jazz went limp against his palm. "Mhm..."

"Rest, I will take good care of you." Prowl grabs the comforter with his free servo before going to hunt Ratchet down, surprising himself when he nearly snarled at a few Constructicons who got between him and the medical bay he sought. Jazz was cocooned within his comforter again when he was set down on a berth in front of the medic, Ratchet clearly at a bit of a loss but scanning the human anyways, if not for anyone but Prowl and his sanity.

"I don't know what you expect of me, but he clearly has some sort of errant programming running its course." Jazz had given Ratchet what he could about human health, but without being a medical professional (and royally fucked in ways he didn't feel like explaining to a bunch of alien mecha's), it was rudimentary at best.

"'S called the flu...can happen in space apparently.." Jazz mumbled from his little nest, hair matted and sticking up in all sorts of directions. "Just need rest...an' water.."

"That I can do something about." Ratchet left to go fetch some water from a small dispensary he kept for potential emergencies just like this, Jazz spilling some of it on himself in his desperation to drink the cool liquid. "Is there anything that might help within your mecha frame? Any sort of medication patch?"

"A wha?" The human seemed to struggle with the question, just staring at Ratchet before relaxing back against his blanket in exhaustion. "No...?"

"Do not worry sweetspark, we will do what we can to aid you." The medic had to fight a roll of his optics as Prowl carefully scooped Jazz back onto his servos, his tense stance from when he initially entered slightly relaxed as Jazz appeared not to be on death's berth.

"You're off-duty until he's recovered from this...flu, you'll need to keep him properly hydrated. I'll see if we can get his food synthesizer to make something easy on the tanks, he'll need it."

"Very well, thank you, Ratchet." Prowl left when Ratchet motioned for him to go with a grumble, Jazz finally in recharge once he had settled to be half-covered with his comforter, face pressed against his palm as he lightly snored. It had made his spark squeeze in distress to realize just how different he was from Jazz, unable to help his beloved from something that he had to battle within his own frame, far away from whatever medical aid his people could offer for such an illness. Prowl wanted nothing more than to drive this "flu" out and far away, but had to settle for cleaning up Jazz's berth one-servoed, cradling his sleeping partner in case he was needed.

He would be here until Jazz was back on his pedes with that bright grin of his, guardian to one that needed it most right now.

[darrys-laundry]

i started this, with absolutely zero plot in mind, so, i’m putting it here and maybe one day if a plot comes to mind, i’ll expand on it :)

“Hey, Tommy,” Hen calls, hopping out of the back of the ambulance to catch his elbow, Chimney on her heels, before he’s even made it halfway across the engine floor; here to meet Evan with the duty bag he’d left sitting on Tommy’s kitchen counter, ���you don’t…still talk to Sal, do you?”

“I haven’t talked to Sal in…years, now.” Tommy frowns, anxiously adjusting the shoulder strap on Evan’s bag, “Why?”

“…Because he’s been promoted.” Bobby says, sounding displeased as he steps out behind them, and what Tommy expects him to say is Sal’s finally gotten that Captain promotion he’d been gunning for all those years ago…

Instead, Chimney pops his gum, nodding towards the loft, “Say, ‘Hello,’ to our new Battalion Chief.”

“Would you look at that, a family reunion,” Sal purrs, palms splayed out against the railing as he appraises all of them with a Cheshire Cat grin, and he bites his lip then, cocking his head when he catches Tommy’s eye, “didja miss me, sweetheart?”

“…well, if it isn’t the cat who ate the fucking canary.” Tommy mutters under his breath, and he steels himself for a placating smile as Sal descends the stairs. He nods once, resolutely, hoping it reads professional as he finds himself face-to-face now with the other man for the first time in seven years, “Deluca.”

“Kinard.” Sal nods in return, eyes raking over Tommy’s body, bigger now than it’d been then, “I heard you’re a pilot now.”

“I heard you’ve been promoted.” Tommy counters, eyes never leaving Sal’s face.

Sal grins, raising his chin, “I heard you got a boyfriend.”

Tommy swallows then, pressing his tongue into his cheek; the last time he’d seen Sal, they’d been face-to-dick, and Tommy’d told him then that that’d never happen again, and he’d fucking meant it, “And I heard you moved back to New York.”

“Yeah.” Sal scoffs, nearly spitting in Tommy’s face as he bares his teeth, “You fucking wish.”

Tommy laughs, bitter and tight, “As if we’d ever be so lucky.”

“You sure hear a lot of shit, don’t you?” Sal squints, sour now, and Tommy smiles, reaching to straighten Sal’s epaulet.

“…only every time you open your mouth.”

“Alright, alright,” Chimney interrupts, stepping between them, years worth of breaking up their petty fights under his belt, “enough with the pissing contest.”

i think in every fic i’ve written where i’ve mentioned sal in reference to tommy i’ve likened him to a cat 🤔

[nimuetheseawitch]

SGA Summer Vacation Recs

So, a few weeks ago, a friend asked for longfic recommendations to read while on vacation, and I did not really realize how many I was recommending at the time. Seemed like a good idea to make a post about it.

Time in a Bottle by astolat, 14K (not originally on my list because it was too short, but it's too perfect for a summer reading list, so I added it), McShep, Rated E, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an hour.

The Long Dark (series) by @logicgunn, 141K, McShep, Rated G-E but the first is M, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings An astronomical event causes two strangers to crash land on a remote island in the frozen Canadian north. Cue a fluffy slow burn in a survival setting.

Lord John Sheppard Versus Earth by LitGal, 61K, McShep, Rated M, Graphic Depictions of Violence Canon diverged before Jackson found Atlantis. The IOC stepped in and decided to make things more efficient. A gene testing program brought Major John Sheppard into the program earlier, but budget constraints and international treaties have kept Dr. Jackson out of the antarctic. So now John has to find his own team--and his own geek--or he's in danger of being stuck in the mountain forever as a light switch. However, as the universe changes, fate forces some things to return to proper form, and other things… they get wildly out of control. John isn't sure how he came to be Earth's enemy, but he's going to have to deal with the cards he's dealt.

Teamwork by onthewaters, 24K, McShep and others, Rated E, Graphic Depictions of Violence There is an Earth where things have turned out a little differently, and the people who go to Atlantis aren't quite the ones we know. AKA The one where Rodney is a Mountie.

The Doctor and the Sheppard by @hero-in-waiting, 70K, McShep, Rated E They've been in Pegasus for a year before Rodney is finally allowed to go off-world to meet with the mysterious leader of a group of allies against the wraith. The first meeting goes well, sending them down a path none of them could've foreseen, and leaving Rodney with thoughts of the mysterious leader with his bright eyes and dark hair.

The Hard Prayer by Rheanna, 30K, McShep, Rated M One year after the end of the world, John meets another survivor.

In Sickness and in Health by @a-storm-of-roses, 31K, McShep, Rated E "So I told a little lie, just to get you back to Atlantis. It was the only way, so try not to get too mad. I told them we were married.” When John suffers a major, life-changing injury on Earth, Rodney must pretend to be his husband to ensure his return to Atlantis. As he struggles to navigate recovery and accept his new reality, John must also come to terms with his new role as Rodney's husband and the new dynamics in their relationship. A story of healing, recovery, loss, love, and acceptance.

Enigma by sgamadison, McShep, 32K, McShep, Rated E, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings During an off-world mission, a piece of Ancient technology transports Rodney and John on a one-way trip to a deserted airfield. Working together to get back, it takes a vivid dream to make Rodney realize what's been in front of him all along.

Bridges by bussaiko, 52K, McShep, Rated E Engineer Rodney McKay went to North Carolina's Crystal Coast to help his sister design a series of bridges. He hoped to rebuild his career following a professional disaster; he didn't expect to be drawn into the small community of Athos Island, where he found friendship and perhaps something more with helicopter pilot John Sheppard. But when Rodney tries to learn more about John's past, what he discovers might tear them apart. (non-Stargate AU)

Apocalypse Rising by sian1359, 81K, McShep, Rated M, Graphic Depictions of Violence The Goa'uld are not the only ones who covet Earth.

Zen and the Art of Jumper Maintenance by Indybaggins, 39K, McShep, Rated M The one where Rodney gets sucked in and John… follows. Featuring a quirky John, Rodney in orange robes, crazy Ancient-worship, sheep milking and jumpers that aren't broken but need to be fixed anyway.

Black Helicopters (series) by whizzy, 141K, McShep, Rated T-E but the first is M, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Screw the bet. Rodney was going to prove the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence. Oh, and incidentally, he might just catch the United States Air Force with their pants around their ankles.

Pegasus Purgatorio by MrsHamill, 127K, McShep, Rated E, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings It is difficult to write a paradise when all the superficial indications are that you ought to write an apocalypse. It is obviously much easier to find inhabitants for an inferno or even a purgatorio. (Ezra Pound) Yeah, I'd say that about covers it, Ezra. John and Rodney are left behind when Atlantis (and, by extension, Pegasus) is evacuated. While returning to the Milky Way, they decide to bring a few friends along.

What A Wonderful Bunker You Would Make by ocdindeed, 50K, McShep, Rated M Summary in simple words: Rodney is recluse and John has a kid. Summary in not so simple words: Rodney McKay has given up on the world, living a simple life up on a mountain devoid of people. He likes it that way, at least he did until a kid with a full head of dark hair ambled up his dirt driveway and changed his sequestered life forever. (AU - Set during SG1 & Pre-SGA timeline.)

G******, Tramps, and Thieves* (series) by auburn, 372K, McShep and a whole lot more, Rated T-M, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, later fics Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Vala Mal Doran and her partners, renegades Jehan abd-Ba'al and Meredith McKay, hijack the Tau'ri ship Prometheus and leave the Milky Way behind in search of the Lost City of the Ancients, Atlantis.

*I censored this title due to a common racial slur

[sabraeal]

Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 10

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2024, Day 2: Foxtrot

Written not only for Obiyukiweek but also for @sepalina, the last winner of the holiday raffle! It was never supposed to take so long to finish all of these but HERE WE ARE 🤣

The Marshal’s office might be the finest under the fortieth floor, but as nice as it is, Shirayuki has to admit: she’s getting sick of it.

“Sit down.” He already is, sparing her no more than a curl of his fingers as he pores over the tablet in his hand. “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging some tea.”

Making her mug appear was magic the first dozen times he managed it, but over that last two weeks, it’s turned from treat to trick. Just another one of the hundreds of ways the Marshal can pull the dome’s strings, closing and opening curtains, making tea mugs and pilots appear out of thin air. Maybe for his next trick, he’ll saw Zen in half too.

Shirayuki takes her seat, but she declines to take a sip. A detail that draws the Marshal’s interest; he glances up, setting aside the tablet with a hum. “All business today, I see, Dr Lyon.”

“We’re both busy people.” He is, at least, and it’s not as if he can tell how many hours she’s spent staring at the drop ceiling panels rather than academic journals lately just by looking at her. “I didn’t imagine you called me in here to catch up.”

Not when he’s had her in here every other day for the last seven. Shirayuki’s gotten more oversight in the past two weeks than she’s had the whole two years she’s been under this dome, and every last bit of it’s been about—

“The report on Obi’s postmortem.” Izana shifts in his chair without so much as a creak. “I haven’t seen it yet. Was wondering where it might be, in fact.”

Her palms press to the chair’s arms, steadying her. His mouth curls, too knowing, with every stretch of her knuckles. “I’m not done with it.”

“Is that so?” His eyebrows arch toward his hairline, like two terns taking flight. “It’s been several days, Dr Lyon. How unlike you.”

“My analysis” — is protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. That’s what she wants to say, at least, but this isn’t private sector, where the most dangerous piece of machinery one of her clients could get behind is the car they drive home in. No, this is the PPDC and all these people are soldiers, rated to handle ordnance that could take out whole cities, and—

And Obi had pointed one of them right at CIC. “It’s taking longer than expected.”

And would probably never be done. One session was hardly enough to get the broad strokes of something so…complex, let alone declare whether he was mentally fit enough to climb back in a Jaeger. And Obi didn’t seem to be in any rush to put himself back in the Conn-Pod— let alone her couch.

“Then give me your opinion.”

“Excuse me?” Shirayuki blinks. “It would hardly be professional to—”

“I am not interested in your professional integrity, Dr Lyon.” No, of course not; the Marshal’s made it supremely clear that his only concern is whether there will be two bodies strapped into Rex Tyrannis when the next siren blares. “I am interested in your expertise.”

“But it— it’s all conjecture,” she sputters, an indignant flush struggling its way over her cheeks. “There’s no possible precedence for me to base an opinion on…just…just…gut feeling!”

“You sell yourself short, Doctor.” Sharks smile with more sincerity than the Marshal smirks. “Around here, they call that instinct. All those rangers— they live or die by it.”

With his three-piece suit and hair longer than the regulations that ban it, it’s easy to forget: Izana Wisteria used to be one of them. “I can’t—”

“Tell yourself we’re having a friendly chat, if you have to.” His hands fold neatly over his desk, impatience in every twitch. “But for God’s sake, Doctor, tell me something.”

Her mouth works, trying to conjure some other excuse— integrity, ignorance, anything that might buy her another day, another week before she has to label Obi a lost cause or ready for action—

But when her eyes close, the lids bleed plasma blue, just the way they had in the CIC. “If I were treating a patient in the private sector, I would say they were experiencing chronic, coherent, and vivid auditory hallucinations, possibly consistent with a trauma of some kind, either physical or psychological.”

“You think he’s experiencing a break with reality.” The Marshal doesn’t so much move as lengthen, the space between chair and desk yawning into a chasm with only a tilt of his chin. “Schizophrenic. That’s what you would call it, isn’t it?”

His teeth snap around the word, steely enough to make her toes curl.

“That’s only one out of a dozen possible diagnoses.” Though certainly the top of a very small list. “And even with a typical patient, the lack of other obvious and intrusive psychoses would make a schizophrenia diagnosis hardly past muster.”

“A typical patient, hm?” One elegant brow raises. “And what about our dear Major, then?”

“With Obi…” She licks her lips, one knee crossing tightly over the other until she half twisted in her seat. “With Obi, I’m not even certain it is a psychosis.”

His head tilts. “Explain.”

Shirayuki clears her throat, nerves making her voice threadier, higher as she says, “There is an observable phenomenon found among rangers that have drifted for a prolonged period of time with the same copilot, a…synchronicity that extends past the initial Neural Handshake and into their everyday lives. You might be familiar with the term ghost drifting.”

The Marshal’s mouth curls at a corner. “Intimately.”

“Right, well, some people might find themselves reaching for a snack that they can’t stand simply because their copilot craves it, while others report a…heightened awareness of their partner’s emotions— or sometimes even thoughts— without them being expressed verbally.” There were its skeptics, of course, but most of those papers came from the private sector, from professionals who has never set foot on a hangar deck but wrote analyses of works of those who did, calling them sentimental at best and intellectually compromised at worst. The sort of baseless, armchair speculation that could be cured by five minutes in any dome’s commissary. “There’s not much independent study on the exact mechanics of it, but there’s theories based on casual observation from data collected from K-Science. That at some point the brain stops thinking of the other mind as a foreign entity but some other part of itself, and when the Handshake is over and the Pons completely disconnects, it experiences the copilot’s body as a, er…”

“Phantom limb?”

“Yes, exactly.” Shirayuki does not smile so much as relax, the corners of her mouth naturally settling more up than down. PPDC may not see much human conflict— few soldiers do nowadays, not when there’s a much more extraterrestrial threat looming on the doorstep— but it’s still military. As much as the branches might love to butt heads, jockeying to be the biggest, buffest kid on the world’s playground, amputation’s always been the great equalizer. “Except— ah, I don’t know if you know the science behind it, but…?”

Izana opens a hand, magnanimous. “Assume that I don’t.”

Ah, right. With the other branches, their soldiers still get to go home after a failed engagement. The most Rangers can hope for is for the kaiju to take them out quick before their Jaeger becomes a titanium coffin on the ocean floor. “I’m sure it comes as no surprise when I say that the amputation process is traumatic— not just for the patient, but for their body as well. Multiple organ systems are cut— bone, muscle, skin, blood vessels, and, most importantly, their nerves. They all heal over time, but it’s the nerves that take the longest. So when they get stimulated— ah, like when a patient moves, or twitches, or even just gets an itch— the sensory fibers will report what they should be feeling, rather than what they do. It’s…it’s neural feedback, with nowhere to go. No, wait, more like…with no place to come from.”

“And this…is what you think the Major is experiencing?” It’s impossible to tell what Izana thinks; his face might as well be a mirror for as much as she’s getting off of him. “That it’s all…neural feedback he’s interpreting as his dead copilots.”

“No. Yes. Ah…maybe.” Sweat prickles under her arms and behind her ears, itchy and off-putting. Distracting, which is the last thing she needs to be in front of a man who might as well be a tank of starving piranhas considering his potential to chew up her professional reputation and spit it out. “That’s all theoretical. And it certainly seems plausible, it just…it doesn’t seem to account for, ah…”

He raises a brow. “I am patient, Dr Lyon, but I don’t have all day.”

“Right, it’s just…the phantom limb phenomenon seems to explain what we see when both partners are…extant. But when one dies— especially when they’re in the drift when it happens…” Her shoulders don’t so much shrug as twitch, flinching back from the unknown. “You’ll have to forgive me, there’s not much data on this, since…”

Since most Jaegers don’t make it back home with solo pilots. And the ones that do, well— the PPDC is still military. As far as most Rangers are concerned, psychiatrists are the enemy. “It seems that what remains of them continues to…drift with their copilot. Even after they’re disengaged from the Pons.”

“Are you trying to say that there is an actual ghost in the drift?” Izana leans back in his chair, shadows gathering in the sharp, patrician planes of his face. “That Obi is being haunted by the crew of the Hachimaru?”

“Not haunted.” Her tongue tangles, science and speculation at a roiling boil in her mind before she stumbles out, “Just…what if while they were in the Neural Handshake, they never let go?”

“Does that bring us back to the phantom limb, then?” The Marshal has never posed a question that hasn’t been half an interrogation too, but even Shirayuki has to admit he seems…interested. Invested, even. “A reflexive reach for the familiar? Neural impulses with nowhere to go?”

A shrug is never an answer— it’s a placeholder, an um or a hm in physical form. A pause right before the threshold of discovery, a stalling tactic to keep from facing what lays beyond just not thinking about it. And yet, it’s what Shirayuki does now, trying to keep the rest of her from squirming under the searing light of Izana’s attention. “It’s as likely a theory as any, at least. And in line with the current conclusions being drawn in drift research. It’s just…”

The Marshal’s brow curves in an arc too elegant for a man whose office is so far below the bay it can’t even have windows. “Just?”

There’s an itch this theory doesn’t quite scratch, a niggling that won’t stop pulling at her sleeve. “I don’t know what happened with the Hachimaru. I mean— before what Obi can remember. There’s nothing in the PPDC database on it” — or at least, none that she is cleared to see— “but everything we’ve been told…I mean, child soldiers? The training? There wasn’t even supposed to be a base in Osaka. There’s no telling what was done to those kids, let alone what long-term effects it could have had on their psyche.”

Or their bodies. Or even— even the drift. The implications of who Obi is— what Obi is—

“I’ll see what I can find.”

Shirayuki jerks back as Izana rises from his desk to pace the room. “Pardon me?”

“I’m sure you know my arms have a much further reach than yours, Dr Lyon.” His mouth slants into a smirk; wry, she thinks at first, but when he turns his head, it reads rueful. “If there’s something to find, I’ll find it. And if there isn’t…”

It’s him who shrugs now, but not to say, who knows, but rather— I’ll find it even so. “Now if you’ll excuse me, doctor, I should be getting myself down to the infirmary.”

Instinct has her half out of her chair before she manages, “Has something happened?”

“Ah.” Rueful widens into amused. “So you haven’t heard.”

*

It’s the sort of thing that’s bound to happen in any testosterone-soaked environment; get some young men together, force them to compete for a few coveted opportunities for promotion— and, most importantly, recognition— and it’s inevitable that tempers flare. The Academy’s major export is big egos, and the dome is the pressure cooker the PPDC puts them under, trying to see which will crack first. That Obi’s gotten himself in a dust up now isn’t so much a surprise as it is that it didn’t happen before, but…

She didn’t think it’d be Mitsuhide who put him in the infirmary.

“They’re both there, if you want to get right down to it,” Yuzuri informs her with no little relish, warming up for what will undoubtedly be an entertaining— if not extended— bout of complaining over commissary chicken and rice. “Lowen may have gotten in the harder hit, but I gotta say, that guy gave as good as he got. The major’s covered head to toe in bruises, and none of them are in comfortable places.”

“Is there a comfortable place to have a bruise?” Suzu asks around a mouthful of pudding— eaten first, no matter how many times Shirayuki’s insinuated dessert is supposed to be a treat for finishing a meal, not just sitting down to one. “I’ve gotten a couple in some pretty inaccessible places, and I don’t know, they always seem to hurt more than just like, my elbow, or even my leg.”

“That’s not the point, Suzu.” Yuzuri flicks her ponytail over her shoulder, unconcerned by how much of him is caught in the spray. “There’s not a single guy under the dome that hasn’t thrown down with the major and been dismantled for the trouble, and here Obi goes, deciding to go bare fists against him with no ref, no rules. He should have been wheeled out of the gym in a body bag, but the guy doesn’t even have a concussion.”

“Woah.” His eyes blow wide, mouth rounding to match— or at least, it tries; Suzu snaps his teeth shut just as they all are reminded that pudding isn’t liquid or solid, but a third, utterly different state of matter, beholden to its own rules. “I’ll have to tell him—”

“Don’t you say a word about it!” Yuzuri waggles a warning finger at him; her implied menace more effective at stopping Suzu in his tracks than if she’d laid hands on him. “Sure, I’m impressed as hell, but if that guy gets one whiff of positive reinforcement on this, he’ll be unlivable, and you know it!”

“Aw, but—”

“Nope! You figure out some other way to make your bromance blossom or whatever” She huffs, taking a desultory bite of the world’s saddest salad. “I refuse to have him hovering around, asking me to tell him how cool he is again. I’ve got my hands full just convincing him he can pee without me holding his dick for him, god.”

The fork jitters right out of Shirayuki’s fingers, landing on the tray with a clink they might be able to hear all the way in the hangar. “Is he really that bad?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Yuzuri waves her off, scraping out a laugh. “If that was the case, I’d be enjoying this nearly food-like meal in a doggy bag at my desk. But they’re both fine— Obi just likes to see how far he can push this whole invalid shtick before I kick him out for a little peace and quiet.”

Suzu blinks. “How long do you think that is?”

“Twenty-four hours on the dot.” She spears a tomato, letting it bleed all over lettuce and croutons before she puts it behind her teeth. “If he hasn’t fallen into a concussive coma by then, he’s not my problem.”

“Unless he finds another way to hurt himself,” Suzu offers, thoughtful. “The Rangers are pretty good at that.”

Yuzuri sighs hard enough her bangs flutter. “Don’t remind me.”

“But he’s all right?” Shirayuki clears her throat as they turn to stare at her. “I mean, both of them. They’re…fine?”

“Well, obviously I can’t say uninjured, but it’s all just bumps and bruises.” Yuzuri’s shoulders twitch toward a shrug. “They’re in the infirmary more out of an abundance of caution than any real concern. And in Obi’s case, well”—she snorts, shaking her head— “he’s enjoying the idea of being waited on hand and foot. I’m just lucky the Marshal wanted a word, otherwise I’d be fending off spoon-feeding requests all dinner.”

Shirayuki blinks. “The Marshal’s still down there?”

“Oh yeah.” There’s a vengeful slant to Yuzuri’s grin, enough to send a shiver down her spine. “He told me to take a whole hour before coming back. And to smell the roses on the way down.”

Suzu lets out a long whistle. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“Multiple someones,” Yuzuri corrects. “Big trouble.”

Shirayuki’s stomach twists, tying itself not just into worried knots but discovering wholly unknown polygons of anxiety. It’s hard to handle Izana seated, even at his friendliest, but Obi— Obi’s stuck in one of the infirmary cots, the Marshal no doubt looming over him, unleashing the full force of his wrath. Oh, she’s run the gamut of Izana’s displeasure in the year and change since she’s come under the dome; she’s weathered his frustration, and impatience, and sometimes downright civil hostility. But mad?

She swallows, nearly choking on the heart lodged in her throat. Mad is something else entirely.

“Too bad,” Suzu sighs, finally scooping up a spoonful of rice. “I’d been hoping to stop by his office and show him the new projections. Now that we’ve solved the rounding error—”

“Wasn’t it a variable?” Yuzuri reminds him, too sweet. “A whole number you completely left out of your precious—”

“—ROUNDING ERROR that Ryuu discovered,” Suzu continues, undaunted, “I think we’re really starting to see that there’s a marked decrease of interval length, followed by an increase of kaiju—”

The table rattles as she stands, half-eaten rice making a liar out of her even as she says, “I think I’m finished.”

Yuzuri glances down at her tray, mouth pursing as she takes in what’s left. “Are you sure? The food actually looks halfway decent tonight. Better than this salad, at least. Should have just taken the lumps with those calories instead of—”

“Yeah.” She can’t eat when her stomach taking more tumbles than an acrobat, no safety net on this bout of nerves. “I just…”

Don’t know what a concussion will do to someone like him, is what she wants to say— what she should say as a professional, as the person who’s being pinned handle his condition long-term. But what she means is, I can’t just let him deal with Izana all on his own.

“I have a thing,” she says lamely. “And some paperwork. I’ll, uh, come back later if I get hungry.”

“Uh-huh,” Yuzuri hums, utterly unconvinced. “Sure.”

Suzu only nods as she slips out from the bench, adding, “Say ‘hi’ to Obi for me.”

*

Worry dogs her heels with every stride she takes down the quiet corridors, the metallic echo of her steps chasing her around every corner. It’s eerie at this time of night; the dome buzzes at most hours, day and night having no meaning without windows to help mark when one rises and the other sets, but with dinner served up hot and ready, only the PPDC’s most essential personal stay at their posts, waiting for the next shift to relieved them.

Shirayuki should be relieved too; going toe-to-toe with the Marshal is the sort of event that some enterprising officer could sell tickets to. With halls this bare— and the only spare set of eyes being Mitsuhide’s, who could probably make a career out of taking other people’s secrets to the grave— she’s practically guaranteed to keep this tête-à-tête private, and yet—

Yet she turns the last corner, and suddenly her slip-ons’ soles might as well be magnets for all struggle it takes to lift them an inch off the floor. It’s impossible to keep forward momentum, to do anything but stand still and wait, and— and—

Interrupting’s the right thing to do— she feels it, deep in her gut; the same place Rangers say they know when someone will take their hand in the drift, or whether a Kaiju’s going to fight to the death or cut and run once they’re against the ropes. It’s what she’d hope someone would do for her, if she was stuck playing wave breaker for Izana’s storm, but still, still—

She’s not sure she’d thank them for it. It might be nice dreaming of the rescue, but when someone actually rides to it, when they take the whole situation out of her hands and tells her to take a back seat, well…

Shirayuki’s known enough princes not to find that charming. Or at least the ones that think they are, taking choices right out of her hands and calling it kindness. The last thing she wants is Obi see her stride in and think, here we go, another person who thinks they can run my life better than me.

Her fingers curl, nails biting into the fleshy part of her palms. She could go in there still, just— just sit beside him as he took his lumps, but it feels too passive, too much like she’s just acting as witness rather than support, like this whole thing is an official part of his treatment, and she— she—

She sees someone idling down the corridor, just across from the infirmary door. A familiar someone, pale hair flopping as he runs his hand through it, looking just as tortured each time he reached for the door, only to flinch away, like it burns.

“Zen?” His name falls off her tongue before she can swallow it, lips too numb to do more than let it stumble out, more habit than question.

He startles, eyes wild as they dart up, looking for all the world like he’d rather have been caught in the women’s locker room than found here. “S-shirayuki! I wasn’t— I mean, I was just” — hanging around in the hallway, it seems like— “I’d been passing by and I thought I’d, er…”

His chin jerks down the junction of corridors; not the way she came, or the way directly opposite where the hangar sits, but the third option, leading back toward— “You were coming from the women’s bathroom?”

“What?” Zen’s neck swivels, chasing grating and plate all the way back to where the sign reads RESTROOM, a clear stick figure and skirt painted next to it. A strange sign to have in a facility where ninety percent of the population elects to wear BDUs regardless of gender, but Shirayuki supposes it makes its point. “No! I, er…”

It’s habit to wait him out, to let him finish composing his thoughts before she makes any attempt to guide him— but impatience wins out, this time. “Were on your way to the infirmary?”

“Ah…yeah. That’s it.” Red blooms over the tips of his ears, like he’s seen too much sun. “I just heard that Mitsuhide was down here, so I thought that I would, you know, check up on him.”

Her head tilts, and oh, she hopes it looks more curious than confrontational. “You’re here for Mitsuhide?”

“Well, you know, it’s just weird for him to get caught up in something like this.” He scratches at the back of his neck, and Shirayuki would bet dollars to donuts that if she could see under his jacket collar, it’d be sunburn red there too. “A fight, I mean. He’ll spar with the other guys of whatever, but they don’t, you know…”

End up in the infirmary. Rangers are tough by design, not easy to break; once they roll out the Academy doors, they’re combat rated and ready, eager to take down monsters a hundred times their size. A man head and shoulders taller doesn’t give even a cadet pause— not until they end up flat on their backs, wondering how they mistook strength for slow.

But Mitsuhide— Mitsuhide is careful too. He might be a decorated combatant, a seasoned killer of kaiju, but when it comes to squaring up with humans, he might as well be fighting with kid gloves. She’s seen him on the mats before, carefully feeling out the edges of what his partner can take, making sure their spar is a challenge but not a rout.

Mistakes happen, she knows. Too much force behind a swing or fumbled footwork could send anyone to med bay, looking for a bandaid or a cold compress. Even Mitsuhide’s had his bell rung once or twice, too focused on keeping his opponent on their feet to watch how close their jo came to sweeping his. But for both of them to end up on a cot, well…

It’s concerning to say the least. Especially when the other body in that bay is supposed to be—

“I heard it was Obi in there with him.” Zen shrugs, but it doesn’t look casual. Not a smooth motion, but two pickets rattling up and down by his ears, never quite settling back to where they shoulder. By the pink spreading over his cheeks, he’s well aware. “I just thought that I…I don’t know, that I could…”

Talk to him. He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to: the words are scrawled across his face, written in bold-faced print for anyone to see. Fix something.

“Would you like to talk about it?” It’s reflex to ask, really— one she doesn’t even realize she’s done until his eyes blink wide, jaw slackening to match. “My office isn’t too far down the hall.”

He hesitates, eyeing her warily before he asks, “Unofficially?”

“Of course. As friends.” That’s what she’d meant anyway, she thinks. “If that’s what you want.”

There’s another, longer pause; his eyes shifting away from her to the door and then back again before her nods. “Yeah. I think I do.”

*

Her fingers are already reaching for a pen, palm pressed right against the soft cover of her notebook when Zen says, “You promised.”

The pen rattles back into the holder, knocking aside its mismatched brethren before settling into place.

“Habit,” Shirayuki laughs, suddenly all too aware of herself in space, of how she’s practically hanging over her desk. Of how desperate she looks to categorize his thoughts into neat little boxes, like somehow it might make hers more orderly too. “It won’t happen again.”

“Are you sure?” The corner of his mouth hitches up, a smirk she knows all too well. “I am about to be really interesting, you know. You’ll be itching to put it in my file.”

It would be entirely inappropriate to say, I know. “I promised,” she says instead. “Boundaries are important. For both professionals and clients.”

“Is that what I am now?” He’s smiling still, joking, but there’s no humor in it. “Your client?”

“No, you are what you’ve always been.” It stings as she smiles, folding up her legs beneath her, but sweetly. “My friend.”

His smirk falters into a frown, that direct, almost challenging stare of his foundering to the floor. “Really? I don’t think I’ve been a very good one lately. Not to you.” He sighs, leaning into his hand. “Hell, not to anyone, I guess.”

“Is that what’s worrying you right now? That you’re not being a good friend?”

Zen snorts, sending her a wry look. “You’re doing it again. The therapist thing.”

“Ah! Er…” Heat prickles at her cheeks, and she doesn’t have to see Zen’s grin to know it’s a blush breaking out over them, just as obvious as any of his. “Sorry, force of habit.”

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I think it’d be weirder if you didn’t try,” he admits, letting himself relax into the couch cushions. The way he used to before, when it was just him and her and a way to steal time under his brother’s nose. “I don’t really care about the friend thing. No wait, I don’t mean—I do care about being friends, and er, being a good one, but that’s not really my biggest problem right now.”

“It isn’t?” Her head tilts, an invitation. “Then what is?”

He stares at her wearily. “Really?”

“Oh! I really…” Her hands clap to her cheeks, but it does nothing for the heat radiating beneath her palms. “I didn’t meant to that time. I just…it’s Obi, isn’t it? You’re worried about him, even more than Mitsuhide.”

Zen lets his head drop back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s kinda hard not to be. I mean, if you’d seen what I saw in there…”

“You mean in the drift?” Electricity zips through her fingers, chasing her nerves up her spine, and she pitches forward, struggling to keep the eagerness from her voice. “Can I…can ask what happened? When you were in there, in his…?”

Mind. Memories. There’s hardly a difference either way,

He doesn’t lift his head, but she sees the muscles of his neck move, the furrow of his brow implied rather than implicit. “You don’t know? I thought you and Obi had some sort of postmortem or whatever. I figured he’d be your favorite patient by now.”

“No. We never got past broad strokes. I don’t even think I could call him a patient.” It’s strange how relief floods her as she says that— not my patient— and how quickly guilt twists her stomach right after. He should be her patient, she should be helping, she just— just—

Doesn’t want to. Not like that anyway. From the outside. Professionally. But she’s not being given much of a choice. “I think it was too difficult for him to get past all the…commentary.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He eyes her, almost speculative, before shaking his head. “It’s confusing in there. I don’t even know how he manages to walk and think at the same time, let alone mouth off the way he does. But you know about…?”

“Osaka, and the Hachimaru,” she confirms, the fabric of her skirt dimpling between her fingers. “That there were unauthorized experiments going on with the number of pilots in a Jaeger. That they were all…” Children. She can’t bring herself to say it. “You probably know more than me.”

“Maybe. Not enough. Too much. I don’t know.” Zen sighs, his head rocking forward, bowing over his knees. “It’s just…I don’t want to go talking about stuff that’s really his to tell. But…yeah, there was something with Osaka’s program. Some lack of oversight— or maybe everyone was purposefully looking away, who can tell? But there was seven of them, all packed into one Jaeger, in a big row like— like sardines in a can, and their commander, this woman, she—”

He rubs at his arm, teeth grit. “Let’s just say, she wasn’t a good mother figure.”

“Seven of them?” She’d heard of three— Crimson Typhoon and its triplet pilots— but more than one report had said they were like one mind in three bodies, rather than the other way around. That there was something wrong with them from drifting so often so young. Seven completely different children, forced to link mind in some unregulated daisy chain since before they were even in puberty… “How many of them are…?”

“They’re all in there,” he says, toneless. “Like they never left. Just a whole Con-Pod filled with…”

Ghosts. Shirayuki never was one of the girls who would shiver at a scary story, or see faces in the dark— no point in inventing horrors when there were plenty more real ones lurking just off shore. But there’s no better term for this, these leftover impulses that stalk Obi’s brain stem, or…whatever they were.

“I wish…” Zen doesn’t have Obi’s sharp jaw or Mitsuhide’s square one; his muscles don’t stand out in relief when they flex, but she sees the tension in his throat, the swallow. “I wish he’d just talk to me about it, you know? He saw all my shit and just took it, and now that I’ve seen all his…”

His hand scrapes through his hair, tugging at the ends. “He knows I’m not afraid of him, doesn’t he? That I don’t care? I just want…”

She thought she’d known what yearning looked like on his face, what harsh planes even the briefest touch of it could carve, but she sees him now, mouth twisted so tight it carves new fissures into his cheeks, biting runnels into the corners of his eyes, and she knows— however much he’d wanted her, it doesn’t come close to how much he wants this.

“I don’t know. We’ve talked, but Obi hasn’t really told me what he’s thinking.” And by now, Shirayuki knows better than to guess. “But I think…I think he does. He just…isn’t ready for that right now.”

For being known. For being accepted despite it.

“When he is though,” she adds, carefully picking around the words. “You should tell him.”

“I’m trying,” Zen sighs, sliding further onto her couch. “I’m trying.”

[starbuck09256]

The Enigmatic Dr. Scully part 2

As Mulder continues to wonder about Scullys allegiance we take a look at his thoughts in Deep Throat about his new partner.

Part One can be found here

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50486953

He sees her sitting at the bar, her glasses on with a file perched in front of her. She’s cut her hair since the last time he saw her. He meanders through the crowded DC bar, between lobbyists and politicians she fits right in. “Hi” he likes the casualness of it, the way she looks up at him from behind the rim of her glasses, which showcases the brilliance of the blue in her eyes. He offers to buy her a drink, and she reminds him of the time. She is ever practical he finds. While she was happy to meet him outside of the office, it seems she brought her work with her. Still studious and eager, but the level of professionalism was still on the tip of her tongue. Her “It’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon, Agent Mulder,” isn’t lost on him. Not Mulder, Agent Mulder, she is laying an invisible boundary for them. While she will meet him outside the office the pretense of the meeting is very clear. She has work in front of her, she is meeting him at his request about work. He looks around the bar noticing how many others have decided that 2pm on a Tuesday is the exact time to hit the bar early. Because Congress is back in session and these palms certainly won’t grease themselves. “It doesn’t seem to be stopping the rest of these people,” She offers a fleeting smile and he realizes she will not elaborate on her earlier statement. He cuts to the chase because in truth he appreciates how direct he can be. If she would like to keep everything professional he is all for it. Except at night when he remembers the way his fingers tingled while touching her skin. Or the smile he gets when he thinks of her laughing with him in the rain. How she picked up the clues he hadn’t seen until his 4th time re-reading the file. She backed him up, stole a sample of evidence, believed him, and dammit if she didn’t demand proof just like he did. 

“I have something to show you, let’s get a table” he mutters. She flips through the file with a nonchalant regard. Skimming the contents but still, she asks all the right questions, why, and what, and how. She knows that the pilots, the rumors of Russian airspace. She is well-read and up on current events. He loves the back and forth-with her. Minds snapping back at different possibilities, rumors and otherwise. She more than keeps up and he knows that he will never be able to lay out all his cards for her. No, she has revealed a very telling detail about herself. She likes the chase, the challenge. This could get very interesting indeed. He wonders what they will discover together in spud state together.  

He decides not to tell her the other details, because why ruin the fun? If she is a spy and is here to lead him astray best he knows a bit more on the uptake. The older gentleman in the bathroom has given him pause. His knowledge of them and his work is concerning. Scully is sitting calmly when he tries to chase the man down. Unaware of the conversation, and he sure isn’t going to share. He wraps up everything and tells her to get ready for the flight in the morning. 

The fact that she not only went back and looked up the details on the file is encouraging and suspicious. She is dedicated, and her concerns about them being shut down cause his soul to warm with affection. She doesn’t want them to get shut down. She wants to keep working together. He hears the soft clicks and wonders about the more ominous warning. Her curiosity is peaked and so is his paranoia. If someone is going to chase them off this case, he needs to be prepared to protect them. 

The flight out is uneventful he gives vague details and only gives her snippets, the warning from the old man still fresh in his mind. She still hates flying gripping the chair during takeoff and landing. 

Mrs. Budhauses' story is almost as fantastic as the file, the neighbor McLennen seems to dismiss Anitas' concerns. Scullys knowledge of the Aurora project, and the syndromes, she knows without batting an eye. And yet, when he points out the awards to her and they get in the car, she agrees that maybe a few phone calls are worth the effort.

Her compassion is subtle in the way she tries to assure Mrs. Budhauses, the way she smiles at the kids, and gives her card. He feels a sense of relief, if she is a spy she would have to be a damn good one. Not that she couldn’t be but her empathy and compassion seem so genuine. She calls all the numbers and makes an appointment because it's most likely the only way they can get her off the phone. 

Kissler of course won’t answer a damn thing, he’s lucky she easily follows his lead. Her distrust of the reporter is interesting. Her exasperation at the waitress and the way she calls him a “sucker” before fleeing makes him laugh. Just like her comment about the appointment, she’s funny with a dry wit that plays well. 

She is of course dismissive of the UFOs and to be fair to her, he gets it. Still, he can’t hope to find proof, when he heads down the hill and sees her fast asleep against the car window, he knows that he can’t wait to show her the lights in the sky. See the incredible show he has been stunned into viewing in the last 15 minutes. As she stands there next to him, he realizes that this is what he has been missing, someone to share in the mystery to help him comb through the garbage and lies for proof of the impossible. 

The kids are stoners but Scully is good-natured about it. Being pulled over and told to leave town, does seem to have shaken her a bit. He is a little surprised because she has been up for the challenge every time before. He wants to believe she really is worried about his job. That she likes working with him as much as he likes working with her. Well probably not that much. 

Still he takes the keys and runs off to the base, if he is going to find proof or get fired trying he will. He isn’t sure what happened he only knows that she is holding the reporter at gunpoint, wearing his loose jacket. She drives like a maniac but he has no idea how he got where he is and he is forced to confront that she is the only one that can explain it to him. The anger he feels as she recounts that he ran off without her, her anger and frustration. That she spent all night calling everywhere she could to find him. While she doesn’t say it outright the moment with Mrs. Budhasas confirms it for him, she was worried and scared and now she is just mad. She is right to want to leave. He gets a copy of her report, he has Langley sending them to him. While she won’t admit to truth in his theories she does admit something else. She saw it, she saw the lights in the sky, and while she doesn’t yet know how she is open-minded enough to find out. 

The visit with the gentleman at the track is further proof for him. She isn’t a spy, but she certainly isn’t what the bureau thought she was either. No, she is something far more dangerous to him. She’s an ally. 

[thesilliestrovingalive]

Updated: December 15, 2024

Reworked Character #6: Nadia Cassel

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to death, neglect, sterilisation, human experimentation, abuse, kidnapping, stalking, cannibalism, and SA.

Real name: Nadège Véronique Comtois

Alias: Perky Foodie

Occupation: Private First Class of the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S., fighter pilot for the Regular Army, a freelance painter, a tactical scientist for the Amadeus Syndicate (formerly), and an e-celeb supermodel (formerly)

Retirement plans: Become a professional forensic scientist, acquire a private jet, and establish an art studio and an ethical science lab

Special skills: Marksmanship, aviation skills, forensic science, knowledge of biological hazards, anatomy, and genetics, and proficiency in fashion modelling, sketching, and painting

Imperfect clone abilities: At her own will, she can rapidly regenerate missing limbs and organs, minimising blood loss and restoring her body to its original form without the need for medical aid. Her blood possesses extraordinary healing properties, capable of instantly curing non-lethal ailments, skin punctures, and all manner of burns. When Nadia opens her mouth wide and flexibly shifts her upper and lower front teeth, she reveals four syringe-like fangs, which are neatly concealed within the hard palate. These fangs enable her to consume the blood of other living beings and replenish her own lost vital fluid.

Her body is shielded from toxins and pathogens by a translucent, grease-like coating that kills threats on contact, leaving her skin with a subtle, luminous sheen. Notably, her pancreas, shielded by a thick layer of blubber, has the unique ability to produce a bile-infused silk. She utilises this silk to puke up robust, ensnaring nets that capture her victims and slowly burn them with its corrosive properties. On the palms of Nadia's hands are eyes with reseda chartreuse irises, feline pupils, and serpentine eyelids, which enable night vision and supplemental sight whenever she closes her facial eyes. Her fingernails are entirely fleshy, concealing retractable claws made of an adamantine greenish-yellow material.

Hobbies: Painting landscapes, going on shopping sprees (she often buys gifts for her comrades and friends), reading books on human and animal anatomy, genetic engineering, and forensics, messing around with flight simulation software, and eating large quantities of food after each mission

Likes: Trevor, food challenges, the Walking Machines, maintaining her figure, and sunbathing and enjoying a three-scoop ice cream cone at the beach

Dislikes: Starvation, getting unnecessarily dirty, not getting the chance to pilot the Slug Flyer or Slug Copter, people doubting her fashion advice and telling her to keep her mouth shut, and individuals that she views as scary and incapable of having fun (such as Tequila and Eri)

Favourite food: Coq au vin, phaal curry, and anything sweet and sugary

Favourite drink: Cotton candy soda

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Gender: Female

Age: 12 (in 2022), 18 (in 2028), 20 (in 2030), 22 (in 2032), 24 (in 2034), 31 (in 2041), 33 (in 2043), 34 (in 2044), and 37 (in 2047)

Blood type: B+

Weight: 120 lbs. (54 kg)

Design: She’s a 5’ 4” (162.56 cm) French ectomorph with a gracefully thin body, small breasts, curvaceous hips, sloping shoulders, and a serpentine tongue covered in microscopic spikes. She has limestone skin and possesses feline-like pupils that transform into vertical slits only when she opens her mouth wide enough to reveal her concealed fangs. Her eyes are heterochromatic with her right eye being a warm amber, while her left eye is grey-green with brown flecks. Nadia has a few moles: one on the right side of her chin; one near the corner of her left eye; two above her left breast; one on the back of her right hand; and one slightly below her right knee.

She has raspberry red hair with voluminous curls that reach the middle of her upper back, but she often ties it into two pigtails with stretchy reseda green hair bands. She has a silvery-pink birthmark on her left shoulder, almost shaped like a crescent moon with three protruding spikes. A large circular patch on her upper back is stripped of skin, exposing crimson muscles and purplish veins, and her greenish-yellow spine is partially protruding.

Her military gear consists of a metal dog tag necklace with her name, an avocado green tank top, and the same knee pads and socks as Nadia Cassel from Metal Slug 4. She wears Argentine blue neoprene gloves, reseda green leather belt with a snap-on silver buckle, and a champagne-hued vest with the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. insignia on the back. She wears navy blue army cargo pants tucked into twilight lavender combat boots with spiked soles. She also wears a dirty white lab coat, a case for her stun gun, and a gun holster for a handgun. Underneath her uniform, she wears an identical bikini to Everlasting Summer Nadia's.

The pockets of Nadia’s vest carry around a pocket knife, a notepad, two pens (one red and one blue), a black cellphone with a metallic green case, and a bag of pecans. In the pockets of her lab coat, she carries a caramel-filled chocolate candy bar in silver wrapping and a small pine-wood box of strawberry frosted sugar cookies. She wears a forest green waist pack containing a bottle of laxatives and two blood packs for snacking. Attached to the left side of her belt is a square-shaped pouch with a clear plastic window, showcasing balls of bubblegum and lollipops in different colours inside. The pouch features an amaranth pink outline, feline ears with bluish-white fur, a pistachio-hued strap with a black button clasp, and a metallic silver zipper.

Over her tank top, she dons a Soldier Plate Carrier System (SPCS) with a MultiCam pattern, which carries around her walkie-talkie and ammo for other firearms. She wears two dark brown bandoliers that cross over her body in an X-shape, each holding grenades. Nadia carries around a navy blue load-bearing backpack that contains camping equipment, portable ammo boxes, a canteen full of water, a 7.62mm AR-10 Autorifle, a medical kit, a DOLL bodysuit, and liquid and pill bottles of cures and deadly chemicals. She carries Melekhai, an orange-and-white cat plushie with blue eyes and an emerald green business tie, along with greenish-black gas masks reminiscent of those worn by the Ptolemaic Army special forces, to distribute to her teammates in need of one. She also carries around a painting kit, her mint green sketchbook with bubblegum pink polka dots, and a set of drawing pencils with two erasers and a sharpener.

She also wields a specialised rifle that fires needles containing transformative liquids, capable of altering humans into simian or mantis creatures. Additionally, she carries purplish rolling bombs that contain mummifying breath and throwable canisters filled with a zombie-inducing orangish phlegm that explodes upon impact. She wears safety goggles, star-shaped lavender spinel earrings that dangle from her ears, and a non-dangling peridot belly ring piercing.

Character summary: She boasts swift wit and inventive verbal humour, often outsmarting her foes with clever sabotage tactics. Despite being a childish, happy-go-lucky, and sassy goofball, she has a surprisingly intelligent and cynical side, but she loves to indulge her silly and jubilant nature. Due to her fondness for her exceptional intellect, she sometimes perceives other people as “intellectually inferior” to herself. She conceals her bitterness and wariness of strangers behind a facade of playful teasing, mischievous pranks, sarcastic remarks, and a charming smile. She cherishes her friendship with Trevor, who is her first true best friend. She appreciates his laid-back nature and ability to understand her effortlessly. Over time, she has developed subtle romantic feelings for him, largely due to his hacking expertise and the enjoyable quality time they share. However, she has become adept at concealing these emotions.

She enjoys taking her friends on shopping sprees, blending social time with style consultations. She demonstrates her loyalty to her friends by nurturing their relationships and showing platonic affection, often showering them with hugs and kisses. She's a fearless advocate for herself and others, refusing to tolerate bullying or any form of mistreatment, and will boldly speak out against it. She has a fondness for assigning nicknames to those around her, including friends and foes alike. She uses Melekhai for stress relief and often talks to the plushie about her frustrations and disappointments, and is willing to share him with others who need some comfort.

She's a friendly, humorous, and talkative busybody with a passion for creative expression and thrill-seeking adventures, which give her a taste of what it truly means to live. Despite efforts to maintain her supermodel figure, she has developed mild bulimia nervosa; while trying to resist the urge, she sometimes purges after eating. Additionally, she struggles with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), manifesting as a fear of contamination, anxiety about misplacing valuable items, and a need for order and balance. She also experiences distressing thoughts, including fears of losing control, harming loved ones, and intrusive thoughts about sexual subjects. Whenever she hears about child abuse or unethical experiments, she becomes visibly shaken, her mind goes numb, and she withdraws socially for a few hours, succumbing to a melancholic state.

She takes a disturbing pleasure in obliterating her enemies, often letting out a maniacal laugh as she does so. Her humour is a unique blend of lighthearted and dark, peppered with French phrases, occasional broken English (a reminder that it's not her first language), and sprinkled with Korean expressions that Trevor has taught her. Outside of military work, she often dodges unwanted tasks by concocting elaborate schemes (frequently with Trevor's help) to avoid them. However, her plans often backfire, resulting in trouble for neglecting her duties. Moreover, she has a tendency to slack off during missions, especially when she becomes bored and her attention wanders to more exciting things. When she gets into trouble, especially when it involves people she has convinced to join her antics, she often tries to deflect responsibility by feigning innocence and shifting the blame onto others.

She possesses a fairly compassionate, laid-back disposition, which she only reveals to those closest to her. She's overconfident about her looks and seems unfazed by how people react to her inhuman features, yet she draws the line at absurd and unattainable beauty standards. She's deadly serious when needed and isn't afraid to intimidate people or berate individuals for doing something irrational or dangerous. She has a strong disdain for individuals who exhibit predatory behaviour, such as perverts and stalkers, and is unafraid to call them out and mock their actions mercilessly. She despises unnecessary secrecy and eugenics, opposing the lack of transparency and the racist underpinnings of genetic manipulation aimed at "improving" human populations.

She's quite gluttonous and becomes quickly hangry when she's extremely hungry and there's nothing to eat at the moment. She's an eavesdropper with a curious habit of inspecting, poking, probing, and even biting anything that piques her interest. She grapples with touch starvation, feeling emotionally isolated from others, and deeply dislikes being overlooked or ignored by those around her. She harbours intense resentment towards her mother due to her neglectful behaviour and excessive focus on satisfying scientific curiosity, which comes at the expense of considering others' needs and forming meaningful connections with them. She’s appalled by her mother's callous disregard for the pain she inflicts on others as well as the secrecy surrounding their family's lineage and her status as an imperfect clone.

Backstory: Nadège Véronique Comtois was born on August 6, 2010 in Quimper, France. She was created in a test tube through advanced Martian cloning technology and the DNA of Ghyslaine Laëtitia Comtois, her clone mother and founder of the Amadeus Syndicate, in an underground laboratory. Initially, Ghyslaine's interest in Nadège was rooted in scientific curiosity. She conducted psychological and sociological experiments to explore the similarities and differences between them. Ghyslaine would overfeed Nadège, only to discover that her daughter had an abnormal metabolism, making it challenging for her to gain weight. Unintentionally, Ghyslaine fueled Nadège's affection for junk food.

At age 7, Ghyslaine subjected Nadège to a disturbing and unethical experiment, forcibly inducing puberty and sterilising her daughter as part of a eugenics test. During this period, Nadège longed to experience the outside world and connect with her clone mother. Unfortunately, Ghyslaine's focus on research led her to neglect Nadège’s emotional needs. She treated her more like a guinea pig than a human being, providing minimal motherly comfort and attention.

At the age of 9, Ghyslaine decided it was time for Nadège to explore the outside world, which filled her clone daughter with excitement. Together, Nadège experienced her first-ever outing to a shopping district and explored several notable attractions in Quimper, including the Breton County Museum, the Fine Arts Museum, and the Faience Museum. She received Melekhai as a reward for being well-behaved, and she still holds onto the plushie very dearly since it was the first heartfelt gift her clone mother gave her. Her experience with the outside world sparked Nadège’s curiosity in modelling and the creative arts.

However, her mother had other plans. Ghyslaine envisioned Nadège following in her footsteps as a renowned scientist and eventual heir to the Amadeus Syndicate. To nurture this ambition, Ghyslaine frequently presented Nadège with books on biology and chemistry, encouraging her to delve into the sciences. She encouraged Nadège to cover the unusual features on her palms and upper back by wearing neoprene gloves and modest clothing in order to avoid drawing unnecessary attention or judgement from others.

By the age of 11, Nadège had become proficient in biology and chemistry, thanks to her mother's guidance. She began attending school after being previously homeschooled by Ghyslaine and other Amadeus Syndicate scientists. Although her school years were uneventful, Nadia occasionally faced bullying due to her intense interests in science, modelling, and the creative arts, as well as her unusual habit of wearing neoprene gloves to conceal her hand-eyes.

However, the bullying ceased after rumours circulated that she had intimidated and bitten a school bully by revealing her hidden snake fangs—a claim that was surprisingly true. Nadège’s clone mother was indifferent to her academic pursuits but drew a firm line at harming others and divulging confidential information about the Amadeus Syndicate. When Ghyslaine learned about this incident, she smacked her in the face, then confined her to a padded room with two blood bags and a fresh corpse for three hours. As dinnertime approached, Nadège's hunger grew, leading her to make the desperate decision to consume the contents of the blood bags and feed on the fresh corpse.

During her high school years, Nadège frequently skipped classes to go shopping, feeling that she already possessed a strong grasp of the material being taught in her courses. To avoid arousing suspicion about her exceptional intelligence, she intentionally performed poorly on a few tests. During this time, she experienced significant weight gain, which unfortunately led to bullying and negative comments about her appearance. However, she handled the situation with confidence and resilience, effectively standing up for herself and dismissing the hurtful remarks. After completing high school, she promptly enrolled in a two-year college art program, specialising in landscape drawing for animation studios, before pursuing forensic science at the university level.

While pursuing her forensic studies at university, Nadège unexpectedly catapulted to fame as an e-celebrity supermodel, adopting the pseudonym Nadia Cassel. Driven by a passion for fashion and curiosity about the modelling world, she embarked on this venture independently, without management, and solely for her own enjoyment. Although her rise to fame was modest at best, she didn't mind because she revelled in the opportunity to be herself and try something new. As her university studies grew increasingly demanding and stressful, she found it challenging to balance her modelling career. Seeking support, she hired a model manager, who turned out to be unexpectedly kind and helpful. He broadened her knowledge of the fashion and modelling industries.

However, as her fame as an e-celeb supermodel grew, she started to attract unwanted attention from predatory individuals, which caused her significant distress. Her situation intensified when she inadvertently revealed her hand-eyes and exposed spine during a livestream, leading to an escalation of online harassment. After a deranged fan attempted to kidnap and sexually assault her, she empowered herself by obtaining a gun licence and rigorously training to use a firearm, becoming a skilled markswoman.

The stress of her forensic studies and the pressures of being a supermodel took a toll on Nadia's mental health, leading to the development of OCD and bulimia nervosa. Her struggles with maintaining a strict diet, keeping her model-worthy figure, and need for control became overwhelming. Her modelling manager grew concerned about her unusually voracious appetite, fixation on her body weight, and increasing frustration when things didn't go as planned. He advised her to consider taking a step back from modelling or quitting altogether to focus on her well-being.

After a two-day break, Nadège made the decision to quit modelling as her mental health issues began to impact her studies. However, she kept the name of her e-celeb persona because she liked it. Although she has left the world of modeling, she remains in touch with her former modeling manager, and they have become good friends. In a disturbing incident, she recalls defending herself against a stalker who attempted to assault and cannibalise her in her own home. The attack led to her involuntarily consuming the stalker's blood, unleashing a sadistic streak she never knew she had.

Once her forensic studies have been completed, Nadia prioritised fitness to maintain her physical well-being. After learning about the Regular Army’s vigorous exercise programs and their pressing need for pilots, Nadia decided to enlist in their tactical operations. Following her licensure and military training, Ghyslaine granted Nadia permission to join the Amadeus Syndicate as a tactical scientist. She proved to be highly successful, making a name for herself as she pushed the boundaries of scientific understanding in biology and chemistry. Nadia supplied the Regular Army with stable bioweapons, gas masks, and advocated for training recruits on the dangers of biological hazards.

While searching Ghyslaine's office for documents for a chemical experiment, she stumbled upon classified test results revealing her true nature: an imperfect clone. The discovery shook her to her core. Further investigation led her to her clone mother's journal, exposing a dark family legacy of illicit collaborations with government agencies, inhumane wildlife experimentation, and development of devastating bioweapons and malicious computer viruses. Most alarming, however, was Ghyslaine's megalomaniacal plan for global domination and self-deification. Horrified, she contemplated abandoning the Syndicate, yet for mysterious reasons, she chose to stay.

During her work on a disease cure in South Africa, Nadia uncovered disturbing information: Ghyslaine sexually assaulted Marco, who was injured at the time. This traumatic event had far-reaching consequences, severely straining relations between the Regular Army and the Amadeus Syndicate. Horrified by Ghyslaine's actions, she quietly ditched the Amadeus Syndicate, dedicating herself to defending Earth against global threats. She vaguely recalls attempting to poison Ghyslaine by lacing her bitter coffee with powdered cyanide, but the plan backfired when another scientist accidentally drank from the cup instead.

She eventually joined the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. after befriending Fio and earning a sliver of respect from Eri. This was due to her impressive performance as a prospective agent, where she swiftly identified the chemical composition of a new illicit drug that had been baffling the Intelligence Agency. She achieved this by obtaining crucial documents and conducting rigorous, ethical experiments. Following the Survival Island Occupation, she provided crucial assistance to the hostages and kidnapped cadets who had been transformed into grotesque simian and mantis creatures, administering cures that successfully restored them to their human form.

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday filmmaker Gillian Berrie, born on September 8th 1967 in Glasgow.

In 1996 Gillian co-founded Sigma Films with director David Mackenzie, writing and producing serial award-winning shorts, 'California Sunshine' and 'Somersault'.

Alongside, Gillian gained experience in numerous film and television roles, ie Casting Director on Ken Loach's 'My Name is Joe' (for which Peter Mullan won the Palme D'or in Cannes) and Lynne Ramsay's legendary 'Ratcatcher'.

Casting experience on the aforementioned led Gillian to create the charity, 'Starfish' which then became 'Jumpcut', which morphed into 'Short Circuit', and 'Big Fish Casting' which segued into Kahleen Crawford Casting

Gillian then produced many of David Mackenzie's films including: Last Great Wilderness, Hallam Foe, Young Adam, You Instead (aka Tonight You're Mine), Perfect Sense, Starred Up and the biggest film ever to be make in Scotland, Outlaw King. She was also heavily involved in the post-production, festival, UK/US theatrical release and Oscar campaign for Academy Award Nominee 'Hell or High Water'.

Sigma's films regularly premiere at A-List festivals and have received over 150 awards internationally, including the Prix de Jury in Cannes for Red Road, and the Silver Bear in Berlin for Hallam Foe, as well as numerous BIFA and BAFTA nominations and awards.

At the Scottish BAFTA New Talent Awards in 2002 Gillian won the BAFTA for Outstanding Achievement.

In order to create a vibrant hub for the film community in Scotland, Gillian founded the 65,000 square ft state of the art, Film City Glasgow in 2004. Since then it has been a full house of productions and film-makers.

In 2012 she founded 'Jumpcut', the UK's one and only, intensive, mentor-led Summer School to provide a fast-track for youngsters into working in the film industry. This project was a runaway success. Over 75% of the participants went onto working in the industry. It ran for two years and won several awards.

She also co-produced the multi-prize winner 'Dear Frankie' and Jonathan's Glazer's 'Under the Skin' (which won 23 awards and received 110 nominations).

Gillian also produced several features for first time feature film directors, including David Mackenzie, Colin Kennedy, Andrea Arnold, Morag MacKinnon and Ciaran Foy, as well as numerous additional shorts including the lauded I Love Luci.

Gillian continues to contribute to the next generation of Scottish film-makers through Short Circuit, which is in its 3rd year and has so far given the first opportunities in film-making to hundreds of new-comers and produced dozens of short films and is developing a number of feature films.

Short Circuit is Scotland's hub for filmmaking talent, supporting the creative and professional development of new and emerging writers, directors, and producers.

Over three years, Short Circuit's film commissioning strand ‘Sharp Shorts’ will award over £400,000 in funding across 27 filmmaking teams, creating opportunities for Scotland's most exciting emerging new screen talent.

‘Sharp Shorts’ has become one of Scotland's most diverse creative initiatives, with an overwhelming majority of female filmmakers as well as significant representation across the LGBTQ+, non-white and disabled communities.

The first batch of short films are screening internationally at festivals such as SXSW, BFI Flare, EIFF, Dinard, LSFF, Berlin, with multiple awards. In particular, Sean Lionadh's short Too Rough has won 11 awards to date.

The ‘First Features’ strand, with a fund of over £300,000, will support 30 new writers, directors, and producers, enabling Scotland-based filmmakers to take a career-defining step towards making their debut feature.

In 2022, Berrie exec-produced the critically acclaimed Pilot and 2nd episode of the Disney/ FX series Under the Banner of Heaven for which Andrew Garfield was nominated for an Emmy .She also produced Taron Egerton's feature, Tetris, which I was impressed with.

Relay, about a broker of lucrative payoffs between corrupt corporations and the individuals who threaten them breaks his own rules when a new client seeks his protection to stay alive. is the latest film she has produced, it actually premieres today at the Toronto International Film Festival. Next up is a thrilled called Fuze where construction workers in London unearth an unexploded WWII bomb, forcing evacuation. Opportunistic thieves use the chaos as cover for an elaborate heist.

[pandagirl45]

I want to see something about Steve meeting Rhodey's family, please🥺

Ooh. That will be something I'd write eventually.

I like having rhodey mom and sister still alive. Not a big family, some members aren't there.

Steve tapped at the suitcase, even as rhodes drove out of the state to the place his boyfriend grew up. As the tall buildings began to dwindle and change, the intensity of steve energy began to shake.

He wonder if he can back out. Maybe have taken Tony offer to come with them. The silence was killing steve as he wondered how to explain... well, 'Hi I'm steve rogers, I have done a lot of questionable things. Also, your son is amazing.'

He looked at hos phone, a text from buck about meeting them there later. Visiting Maria grave. Isn't that a doozy. Steve wonder if he has to meet rhodes father. How would his father and mother take to rhodes dating him? Would they be painfully polite? Would they disapprove? What if they disown rhodey? Steve could jump out the car and sprint it to a train station. Hide away and wait till the desire to meet the family died off.

He met Tony! That was enough fami-

"Blondie, breath."

Wheeeeze.

Steve looked over, at a corner store, rhode smiled. Even with the colonel body looking calm, he can see the nervous energy in those chocolate eyes, "Jim," Steve rubbed at his face, "what if they hate me?"

"Then they hate you," rhodey leaned back showing a bag of pretzels, "it won't change this though, as much as that would suck not to see eye with them."

Oh. Steve wonders if this is karma for the shit he pulled during-

"Hey," Rhodes hand was on his cheek, rubbing his half-assed attempt at shaving before leaving, "It'll be fine. I'm an adult. You are. We both made mistakes. My mom, like most moms are protective. I'd be sweating bullets meeting your mom. The war machine, steven," Steve chuffed with laughter as rhodey grinned. Even if his mom would call him Steven, Steve wasn't sure if rhodes mom would like him.

Even with their small talk, Steve barely felt calm. Even when James open the door for him (huh, that was new), Steve didn't want to move. There was about two cars in the drive way besides rhodey. Even as rhodey knocked and opened the door. The sounds of music and laughter. Steve prayed that Tony comes so he can hide away.

"Boyfriend? Where?" It was teasing.

"Jeannie."

Rhodes looked around, back to steve who stood stalked still. Before he can move, he heard his mom strong but kind voice, "Jim, baby, why is that boy standing out there? Deer in the headlights."

Rhodey fondly kept his eye roll away, kissed his mom cheek, "he is nervous." Even as he said that, the pilot went over, grabbed the captain hand and took slow steps. Rubbing his thumb into the back of the hand.

The tall blonde swallowed as he approached closer. Bad guys, corrupt people, hell an angry cat, he can deal with but this, he wanted to melt away. Seeing Mrs rhodes, Tony fondly called her mama rhodes, rhodey little sister, dressed semi formal. It was a lot.

He held out his hand knowing his palm was shaking and wet, "hiimsteebrogersnicetomeetyou!"

Mrs rhodes blinked once, looked to rhodey then back to him. Rhodey rubbed at his back as she spoke, "I see why my son said you are a tall one." It was a tease, a faint pull of a smile, "come on, the chill."

Meeting his mom was a whirlwind. His sister was a lawyer, debating ethics with rhodey who was trying to get a raise out of her. There was a cousin or two, but he knows they were wary, a slow mumble of a 'white boy and being a danger'. Rhodey face must of said something, he went a spiel about wanting to upturn the entire government.

That is how he learned his father, Terrance, passed on. How he wouldn't even be proud what the hell was going on. There was a side to rhodey he was seeing in the flesh. Professional mask off. It became even more apparent as Tony bounced in, tackled the man, causing a rough house match to happen.

Bucky mingling with, rhodey aunt Steve believes. Even small. There was a lot.

Feeling a tap at his shoulder, steve looked over seeing Mrs rhodes in the kitchen. Food simmering. Going over, he swallowed. Impending shovel talk?

Impending talk about he isn't good for her son?

What?

"Now," she began eyes distant before they are here again, "my son, he is a stubborn man. Loyal. He can be insecure. When he told me he has a boyfriend, he was quick to jump to the conclusion I'd disapprove. He is intelligent but he is also crazy like his father. Crazy with love. Family. Duty. I'm sure you will or do know this."

He does. Funny. Quick to protect. A slow rage that can build behind the calm. Calculating. Handsome. Strong. Not bottle Strong.

Mrs rhodes sighed with a smile holding a spoon, dipping into some broth, passing it on to him. Steve held it in surprise, before taking a sip, "Take care of him for me? We need all the help we can get."

Blushing, Steve nodded, "its good, the broth and yes ma'am." He held the spoon. Mrs rhodes gave a smile, shooing him off to enjoy the game being set up. "Anthony."

"I'm coming mama rhodes!"

Steve felt his face hot, the warm hand in his neck, "you good blondie?"

"I'm good," he looked at his cards, even as Jeannie chuckled about blondie, a finger showing to her from rhodes, "the broth is good."

Something about her letting him try food being a sign of good faith. Steve wasn't going to jinx it, he was going swim in it.

[I can keep going on. Meeting the family is so great. Rhodey family revealing all the secrets to steve later]

[thespiritualfives]

Espionage | HunterxOC Story Ch.3

Chapter 3: Ryloth

No warnings this chapter! Just Widow and Howzer being best friends

Pfp by @gt13tbbart

Character art by xleintje!

It has been about a week since the whole lesson in art of seduction and tensions have been running high, mainly between Widow and Hunter. They are obviously not sure of what to do, and how to move forward with the friendship, much less professional work relationship with how things went that day. Things have been going smoothly as normal thankfully for all of them but they have been called on a mission to assist the 501st and the 212th divisions on Anaxes.

Widow knew she was not quite ready to face the 501st just yet, so she opted out of the mission to infiltrate the base with her teammates. Instead, she was assigned to oversee the outpost on Ryloth. Before she departed on her solo mission, she wanted to see her men off. She gets up from her cot in the Barracks, and is off to the main hanger to see them off before she bought her own shuttle when she arrives she finds all of them in doing various task. Wrecker and loading explosives onto the ship, Crosshair is cleaning his rifle while sitting on a crate, Tech is currently putting a panel back on to the Havoc and Hunter is making his way towards Widow.

Once he makes his way to her, he can't help but notice that Her eyes had roamed almost anywhere but his own eyes. He knows that what happened between them as intense but he wants to see what he can do to rectify the situation and to make sure that there is no awkward tension between them. "Are you sure you don't want to come along with us on this mission Widow?" He says as he makes his way towards her stopping to lean on a nearby crate. She lightly smiles looking directly at him leaning on the same crate as him with her chin resting in the palm of her hand "oh yeah I'm sure. I have issues with some of those in the 501st" Hunter nods at her in understanding, he sighs as he examines her face. "Do you want to take about it?" He ask softly. Widow glances down, looking away from Hunter for a brief moment, and looking back up to him "Maybe when you guys get back? I don't want you to go in to this mission with them already on negative mindset because of my personal feelings." She pauses and smirks "Besides they're all Regs and I already know you guys normally don't work with them so I don't want to make tensions even higher than what they will be." She chuckles lightly. Hunter smirks at her "I can respect that." He pauses as he leans away from the crate, walks towards widow and stops in front of her  as he gazes down at her "Although I'm holding you to this story between you and the 501st when we get back" he quietly says. She leans off the crate and looks up at his grayish brown eyes "Well Sergeant make sure you and the team make it back first, then I'll tell you the whole story" she grins slightly and turns away from him. Leaving a flustered Hunter behind as he walks back to the Havoc for take off to Anaxes.

As widow is making her way down to the hanger to depart she lets her mind wonder. 'I know I need to do something about the relationship between Hunter and I I'm just not sure what direction I want to go with it.' She sighs as she makes it to the hangar. ' I really do appreciate him and the welcoming I've received since joining the crew, but am I willing to compromise not only his feelings, but mine, if we were to pursue something?' She pondered more to herself as she's going in full auto pilot mode to get her shuttle ready, ' i'm not even sure if he feels the same way about trying to explore more into a different kind of personal relations with me though'  She stops what she is doing as she finishes assembling the last piece for her starfighter to make the journey to Ryloth. 'I just need to focus at the main task at hand and figure out everything later with Hunter.' Widow silently hold that being away from the bad batch for a while, will help her clear her mind and get her back to the no attachments no matter what mentality.

Her flight to Ryloth was complicated free. She was incredibly happy when landed onto the platform just to breath in some fresh air for the first time in a long time. Widow couldn't help but remember when she came to this planet with the 212th and General Kenobi, she's smiled to her self as she remembered the sweet exchange between the 212th boys and a little one who is a local looking for her family. The little Twi'leki kept yelling out to both Waxer and Boil "Nerra! Nerra!" As they were all waking away, Widow was walking next to Obi Wan as he was asked what 'Nerra' meant, She couldn't help but smile at the memory of Kenobi saying "It means brother".

"There she is!" A voice pulls her out of her memory. As she glances around the platform looking for the owner of that voice, as she's sitting in her starfighter still with the cockpit window open. Her eyes finally land on the man who owns that voice with his slick back hair, the teal markings on his armor and the scuffed up pauldron on his right shoulder. Widow smiled instantly as she climbed out of her fighter with the assistance of the man, offering his hand for her to climb down and hold onto with assistance. "Howzer! You're looking well." Widow nods and squeezes his hand before letting go affirming to him she's glad to see him, without making a big show of hugging him in the presence of the other troops.

Howzer smiles as he helps Widow unload her belongings from her cruiser and assist her with taking them back to her own area in the barracks. "So what In the galaxy did you do to get stationed here Widow?" Howzer asked as they were walking to the barracks, widow grinned and cheekily said "Had a rather intense lesson with my other crew so I've been pawned off on you" she chuckled as she glanced over to Howzer seeing a rather amused expression on his face, "why do I feel like there is a lot of truth to that remark of yours." He smiled glancing back at her. "Well" she trailed off laughing as she said it, "we did go into the art of seduction" she pauses " let's just say things have been a little bit awkward ever since then." Her smile never leaving as Howzer laughs "must have been one hell of a lesson that I missed out on" he states to her, she nods in agreement "It certainly was something" she whispers to herself as Howzer and her arrive to her cot for the next few rotations.

Once they finish getting widows belongings placed Howzer leads widow back to the main hanger he starts to relay the information of the upcoming mission, She is supposed to take a part of. "It's a simple extraction to rescue on of our lost men really" he finishes, Widow looks over to him in disbelief with a half cocked eyebrow "you're kidding right?" She folds her arms "Essentially an extraction mission to find a lost trooper and they want to send me who is proficient in espionage to extract said trooper?" She scoffs "That's very underwhelming to someone with my expertise" she then walks over to lean against the crates " but then again, I don't feel like the republic is using my expertise to the full abilities, so I should not be this surprised at the circumstances." She then pauses and looks over at Howzer who is wearing an empathetic expression " i'm more than happy to help you guys out and rescue this trooper. I'm just frustrated Is all " she said with a thinned lip smile.

Howzer walks over to widow, nudges her shoulder as he nods his head to a more discrete area in the hangar bay. Widow smiles and nods when they break apart to not look suspicious towards the others on where they are going. She sighs when she gets there looking at Howzer who is already there, they meet each other in the middle as he hugs her tightly, widow returns the hug just as tightly as Howzer did. She lets out a long sigh as she rests her chin oh his shoulder "Thank you" she simply says to the man. "Of course, you looked like you needed one." He smirks as they start to pull away from each other, she chuckles as they both sit on the floor, leaning on a nearby wall.

" I thought Rex was suppose to keep an eye on you while you were deployed with the 501st." Howzer questions as he's shifting his head to look at her with a questioning look. "He did" Widow states "But there were some complications that came up in my time being there that I just couldn't stay." She continued "I keep thinking on how big of a coward I was to demand to be reassigned away from the 501st without saying a word to any of them." She tells her friend. "You know what's sad is I bet both General Skywalker and Rex had to sign my release request." She looks down at the ground, she pulls her knees up to where they are bending right in front of her as she explains the situation, as she's talking, the captain notices, her foster change, he moves closer to her so he can rest his hand on her knee, as an act of a support and comfort for his long time friend. "Clearly you're not ready to talk about what happened." He sighs as he squeezes her knee softly, " just know you can't hold in what happened for long, it will sneak up on you and it will break your guard when you least expect it." He pauses "I don't care if it's me or someone in your new battalion you need to talk to someone soon. While I would love for it to be me, you need to bond with your other team." He sighs "that means trusting them enough for them to understand where you're coming from and it shows a form of trust that you all will share afterwards" he states matter of factly. Widow looks at him and rolls her eyes "You just had to bring my new team into this didn't you" she says laughing, after a moment she calms down "but you are right, which isn't easy for me to say. Just so you know." She smiles as she stands up offering Howzer a hand as a courtesy, he looks up at her and wears a nice shit eating grin as he takes her hand.

A/N: I have my reasons for Widow not being a part of Anaxes arc! Trust the process my friends. I really debated having this be a super long chapter, and doing the mission and less but I wanted to establish the friendship between Howzer and Widow. Their bond is very much like Hawkeye and Black widow from the MCU for a disclosure! But our favorite sergeant doesn't know that yet 😉 Until next time!

[adventure1701activites]

Paragliding Cost in Goa: Ticket for a Day of Joy!

If you’re searching for an adrenaline-filled adventure, paragliding in Arambol is a must-try experience in Goa. Gliding over the shimmering waters and sandy beaches, paragliding gives you a bird’s-eye view of Goa’s stunning coastline. Here’s everything you need to know about paragliding in Goa, from costs to what to expect during your flight.

What is the Paragliding Cost in Goa?

The paragliding cost in Goa starts at INR 2,849. This fee covers a flight time of 6-10 minutes with a trained pilot to ensure a safe and enjoyable experience. Whether you’re a local adventurer or a tourist, this reasonable price lets you experience the joy of soaring through the skies.

Location: Querim Beach, North Goa

Cost: INR 2,849 per flight

Duration: 6-10 minutes of flight time

Inclusions: Safety gear and an expert instructor

Experience Beach Paragliding at Querim Beach

Querim Beach offers an ideal setting for beach paragliding. This quiet, serene beach is perfect for those who want to experience flying over Goa’s beautiful coastline. From an altitude of 1000 feet, you’ll enjoy incredible views of the Arabian Sea and the palm-fringed beach.

Activity Location: Querim Beach, North Goa

Altitude: 1000 feet above sea level

Best Time: 2:00 PM to Sunset

Paramotoring in Goa: An Extended Adventure

If you want to stay in the air longer, try paramotoring in Goa. This motor-powered version of paragliding gives you more flight control and longer durations to explore the skies.

Flight Type: Motor-powered

Ideal For: Those looking for extended flying time and more control

Paragliding in Arambol: What to Expect

Paragliding in Arambol offers thrill-seekers an unforgettable experience. The activity generally starts in the afternoon, allowing participants to soar above the Arabian Sea while enjoying the sunset. Safety is paramount, so you'll be briefed by an expert instructor and fitted with secure equipment.

Arrival Time: Arrive 30 minutes before your scheduled flight

Duration: 6-12 minutes of flight time

Safety Gear: Provided by certified professionals

Scenic Views: Arabian Sea, palm trees, and water lagoons

Sea Paragliding: A Unique Aerial Experience

For something truly special, sea paragliding offers stunning views over the Arabian Sea. This type of paragliding allows you to hover directly above the water, making it a must-try for adventure lovers visiting Goa.

View: Arabian Sea and coastal landscapes

Perfect for: Thrill-seekers wanting an extra edge in their paragliding experience

Tips Before You Go

Before you book your paragliding in Goa experience, keep these key points in mind:

Age Requirement: Minimum age is 14 years

Clothing: Wear comfortable, tight-fitting clothing and athletic shoes

Arrive Early: Be at the site at least 30 minutes before your time slot

Health: Avoid eating heavy meals or consuming alcohol before the flight

Safety: Follow all safety guidelines provided by the instructor

Booking Your Paragliding Adventure

Booking your paragliding in Goa experience is straightforward. You can make reservations online or directly at the beach. Ensure you bring a valid ID, and be prepared to follow safety protocols, such as wearing masks and maintaining social distancing.

How to Book: Online or at the location

Required ID: A valid government-issued ID (PAN card not accepted)

Social Distancing: Maintain distance and follow health guidelines

Conclusion

Paragliding in Goa offers a perfect combination of thrill, scenic beauty, and affordability. Whether it’s the excitement of paragliding in Arambol or the unique experience of sea paragliding, this adventure promises to give you memories that will last a lifetime. With affordable prices and top-notch safety measures, there’s no reason to wait. Book your paragliding adventure today and soar above Goa’s mesmerising landscape!

[gaeilmeta]

Poly Poly Oxen Free

Dissociation is a disconnection between a person's emotions, behaviors, perceptions, and/or sense of self. This disconnection is out of the person's control. It's often described as an extracorporeal experience. The current "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" (DSM-5) identifies the first of three types of dissociation as:

Depersonalization-derealization disorder - Persistent or recurring episodes of depersonalization, derealization, or both. It's often described as observing one’s self from afar, and a direct reaction to significant trauma. Most researchers view dissociation as a protective response to trauma. It allows people to function and go about day-to-day activities by blocking trauma related emotions and memories that are otherwise overwhelming.

With zero law enforcement encounters, other than a few speeding violations, being Mirandized for the first time was nothing short of surreal. Having it done just before getting into a government vehicle with two state police detectives who were transporting me to a polygraph exam where I’d be asked about my involvement in the hideous murder of my lover made it exquisitely transcendental as well. It is phenomenal how a dire situation can pique adrenal glands to create a clarity of mind that’s nothing short of piercing. Epinephrine is unquestionably a mighty hormone and was the single arbiter over the previous few weeks that allowed me to exhibit any pretense of normal human behavior. At the jump, Epi wrapped a steadying arm around my shoulder saying, “Don’t worry, zone out, do whatever you need to do, I’ve got this.” From then on Epi was in charge while I settled into a seat somewhere in the upper deck bleachers.

Inspector Dulles assumed an officious co-pilot position with Lunk relegated to driver. I think Lunk’s name was Luke or Liam or something like that, but I identified him as Lunk because he was a lunkhead through and through. He had blazing red hair, a pasty white, feverishly freckled complexion and I guessed stood about six-six. Consequently, without warning the front bench seat of the car got shoved back with maximum fury as far as it would go. Sitting in the rear, my knees were forcibly jammed into my chest. It was a typical Lunk move. 

Lunk was the kind of big man who liked to throw around his two hundred and fifty pounds or more. He would deliberately insinuate himself into the path of an oncoming walker so as to force a sidestep. More than once, I saw him body brush individuals, knocking them off balance and then turn to disingenuously apologize as though it had been accidental. Another time during my relatively brief exposures, I witnessed Lunk “half-sit” a detainee on a bench, dropped his whole weight so hard on the guy’s hip they debated the possible need to have the victim checked at an emergency room. An authentic undulating asshole, that Lunk. This was the brainiac too who, first day back at the apartment, strenuously argued in favor of booking me, citing one two-millimeter dot of blood on my boot. Didn’t want to give it up either until the inspector finally held up his palm and quelled him with, “Enough!”

Inspector Dulles was a short plump, graying fifty-something. He generally wore a long-suffering expression that seemed to suggest a degree of boredom very much in danger of lapsing into a nap. In contrast to the members of the homicide squad he supervised, the Inspector, fortunately, demonstrated a modicum of professionalism and was likely the single authority standing between me and a jail cell. Previous exchanges between the two of us had been demonstrations in the economy of language, but today he surprisingly assumed a manner that for him, I’d have to say, was positively chatty. The Super Bowl had been played the day before and he made it the topic of discussion. Lunk jumped right in with both of them inviting my involvement. These two, up until then being strident inquisitors, were suddenly my best friends. The ploy was embarrassingly transparent, but Epi clasped a stiff hand over my mouth before I could reflexively blurt, “You’ve gotta be kidding.” It wouldn’t be strategically smart to begin to demean. After all, the whole point of agreeing to a polygraph in the first place, which my attorney thought very ill-advised, was an earnest attempt to not only support my claim of innocence but equally to keep the investigation focused on the creature they already had in custody. So naturally it would be in my better interest to indulge Toody and Muldoon in their painfully obvious gambit. Just more of one bizarre event after another in a new normal. Besides, the capital was close to two hours away and having a match of sorts to play came as a welcome diversion.

Sure enough, before we even got on the highway, the Inspector referred to the late-night television show I cited during initial questioning when he had me recounting my every moment on the night of the murder.

“You said you watched an episode of Stedler that night at the group home. What was that about again?”

I replied, “He was trying to smuggle some prostitutes to Interpol in Berlin. They had info on the Russians there.”

Then the Inspector offhandedly added, “He did end up getting those two girls out of Moscow, right?”

Ah! The Inspector had done some checking or had someone check for him and this was presumably designed to further test my credibility. With the truth in my corner, my return volley was an easy lob, “Actually there were three women and they were in Vilnius. I don’t know what eventually happened. It was a two-parter.”

For the next forty-five minutes, whenever our conversation approximated affable, the Inspector or Lunk would attempt to weave in a poorly disguised probing question or loaded statement related to the investigation. Realizing my responses were consistently accurate and they were finding no incongruities, the two sleuths fell quiet. The rest of the ride passed in silence, a silence that sucked me into an inverted tailspin of anxiety. Although I knew I was innocent and they had Romney, I was well aware volunteering to subject myself to a polygraph came with serious risk. What if my jangling nerves and fragmented frame of mind caused a false positive or possibly could render the results inconclusive. The closer we got the more doubt crept in.

When we pulled into the central lab parking lot I was full-on levitating. Presumably it was the wind that lifted me out of the car and escorted me into the building where I hovered along the corridor’s astral rung with my hair skimming the ceiling. I vaguely recall being connected to the polygraph and asked a number of mundane preliminary questions. I do vividly remember though the technician pointedly asking whether I had any part in the commission of the murder. Every bit of the jumble vibrating throughout my body seemed to suddenly snap into the eye of my internal hurricane. Slammed down dead calm like a thick sheet of standing steel tipping over and landing perfectly flat, I answered, “No.” The reply, a tranquil certainty, rose from the hole in my heart, filled my chest and exited my lips like a giant bubble. I think there were a few more questions after that. Next thing, we were back in the car.

Hitting the highway again, Lunk looked at me via the rear-view mirror. The late afternoon winter sunlight illuminated the upper half of his head. With an implied challenge in his voice, he asked if I was right or left-handed. It was his Hail Mary lofted to possibly implicate me. When I informed him about my being dominantly right, I could see the disappointment trickle into his eyes. I knew then the coroner had established the perpetrator to be left-handed and that Lunk’s last-ditch effort at a gotcha also meant I’d passed the polygraph. Not a further word was spoken the entire ride back. When they dropped me at my car, the Inspector simply said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Toody & Muldoon were characters in an old TV show from The States.  If curious see:

 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Car_54,_Where_Are_You%3F