#shrapnel method

[eelnoise]

cut to the feeling

>in which zoro realizes he may have a thing for you

pre-ts!zoro x gn!reader cw: none! fluff! an: this was in my wips for so long but i'm so in my feelings about zoro that inspo finally came to me. also this is secretly selfship coded and is in the same canon as a few other fics. wc:2k

With another scorching day in the sun and a breeze that's hardly enough to move the ship at an acceptable rate, there’s a rare silence that spans the decks of the Thousand Sunny. The humidity is enough to keep even the more rowdy crewmates indoors with hopes of escaping the rampant heatwave.

Despite the intensity of the day, Zoro is ever a creature of habit—and can be found taking his usual afternoon nap under the slight shade of the mast, sans robe and sporting a large bandage wrapping along his bicep that covers the wound left by stray shrapnel from a skirmish with marines a few islands back.

It doesn’t bother him. Why would it? It’s just some extra sweat or an extra drink of water, might as well be a normal day for him.

Through the serene silence of the deck, Zoro's rest is disturbed all too early by the sound of one of the doors below creaking open. Familiar—though new—footsteps approach, clamoring up one of the staircases to his nestled spot in the shade.

He watches as you appear next to the mast and notes how your expression changes, seemingly surprised and somewhat relieved when you see him already wide awake and staring in your direction. He just looks at you, an eyebrow raised, as if waiting for you to begin.

“Do you have a minute?” you ask, fiddling with the strap of your bag and shifting on the balls of your feet.

Zoro tilts his head slightly, following your movements as you fidget nervously beside him. He remains silent for a moment, considering your request with a measured look. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and even. "A minute for what?" His tone is direct, betraying no hint of the curiosity that flickers across his features.

You take a moment to steady yourself, glancing around the expanse of the deck before focusing your attention back upon him. “Well,” you begin, your voice steadying as you notice the tension in his shoulders. “The short of it is—Chopper sent me to change your bandages.” You try to keep your tone light, but the seriousness of the situation lingers in the air.

Zoro grumbles something under his breath about Chopper being a mother-hen. He sits up slowly, stretching his limbs as he does. "Fine," he mutters, a hint of annoyance in his tone as he holds out his wounded arm in your direction. "Just get it over with."

"I'll make it quick, promise!" you say with a reassuring smile as you move to sit cross-legged at his side. The shift in position brings you closer, your warmth mingling with the afternoon sun, and Zoro finds himself oddly aware of the intimacy of the moment.

You work methodically, lifting his arm to rest gently across your lap. The warmth of your touch sends a rush of unfamiliar comfort through him, as if such kindness is a rare gift. His nostrils flare as the scent of your shampoo wafts toward him while you reach for the small scissors designed for cutting medical bandages.

He observes silently as you take his arm to gently rest in your lap. Zoro tries to remain collected, but he can't help but notice how your touch is both soft and sure—like you've done this a hundred times before. The slight scent of your shampoo wafts through the air, and a part of that signature tough-guy image wants to lean into it, to bask in the pleasantness of it all. But he resists the urge, simply taking in the moment as you reach for the scissors.

Zoro’s gaze follows your every movement as you tend to his wound, his focus intense yet unwavering. He remains still, allowing you to work without interference. As you gently lift his arm, he feels a strange warmth wash over him, unfamiliar and unexpected.

He tenses slightly at the unusual feeling, his senses suddenly heightened. Zoro's brow furrows as he tries to understand what this sensation is. He's used to discomfort, pain, the sharp bite of a sword against his skin. But this is something different. It's gentle, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

As you continue tending to his injury, Zoro silently observes every meticulous gesture you make. There's something intimate about this entire situation—the gentleness of your touch, the closeness, the way you focus so intensely on him. It's a foreign concept, something he's never really experienced before.

His hardened exterior slowly begins to crack as a sense of vulnerability creeps in. He can't help but notice the feeling of heat where your hands lightly brush against his skin, his muscles involuntarily tensing in response.

You find the wound is intact—not a single stitch busted open, the clean lines of the bandage reassuring in their neatness. “No broken stitches! Any pain?” you ask, your voice laced with concern as you carefully examine the area, searching for any signs of trouble.

Zoro shakes his head in response. "No pain," he replies gruffly, his stare shifting away from yours. His brow furrows as he tries to suppress the faint touch of redness that flushes his cheeks slightly. "I've had far worse than this," he adds, the hint of pride in his voice an attempt to return to his usual cool demeanor.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” you reply, turning to grab some antiseptic and a cotton pad from your pack. “You’ve got quite the steel will, from what I’ve heard.” You pour the liquid onto the cotton and gently dab it across his stitches.

Zoro tenses slightly as the cool liquid hits his skin, the slight sting pulling him back to the moment. He studies you closely as you gently dab the cotton pad across his stitches, the faint scent of the antiseptic lingering in the air.

He gives a small huff in response to your comment, the compliment making his heartrate spike ever so slightly. "You could say that," he says gruffly, his usual nonchalant tone cracking slightly.

You hum, a blend of a smile and soft laughter, as the breeze playfully tousles your hair, sending strands dancing around your face. Zoro feels an urge to tuck it behind your ear, the simple act stirring something in him he can’t quite grasp.

As you continue to clean the wound, Zoro's mind wanders. He finds himself acutely aware of your proximity, the warmth of your body so close to his own. It's a sensation that he's not accustomed to, one that stirs something deep within him.

There’s a silence that comes over the two of you as Zoro tries to fathom why you’re making him feel this way. He can feel his hands shake each time the pads of your fingers grace his skin, and it’s enough for him to ignore the remaining ache in his shoulder.

What is going on?

Zoro's heart races each time your hands touch his skin, his breaths becoming a little shallower than they should be. He can't understand why he's reacting like this to something as simple as changing bandages. He's never been fazed by something so trivial—and yet, the sensation of your touch against his skin sends tingles down his spine.

He fidgets slightly, shifting his position on the deck flooring, desperate to regain some semblance of cool composure. Zoro's thoughts are a whirlwind of unbidden, uncharacteristic impulses, the silence between the two of you growing thicker by the minute.

He feels like he should say something, to break the silence in an attempt to ease himself, and, maybe, he just wants to hear the caring timbre of your voice again.

“So,” Zoro begins, still not caring to look at you—his eyes fixed on the horizon ahead instead, “What’s the long of it?”

“The long of it?” You reply, and he catches you tilting your head up to him in his peripheral, but fights the urge to break his waning focus.

“You said the short of it is Chopper asked you to change my bandages.” Fuck. Why is he so bad at this? What even is this? Zoro can't help but inwardly curse at himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. He doesn't understand why he's so compelled to keep this conversation going, why he wants to hear more from you, more of your voice, more of your laughter…

“Oh!” You giggle, a sound so endearing that it disarms him, making it impossible to maintain his facade. “The long of it, huh? Well, you know Chopper doesn’t fare well in the heat. He’s busy whipping up extra burn salves.”

Your laughter wraps around him like a soothing balm, easing the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. He finds himself locking eyes with you for a brief moment, captivated by the brightness in your expression, before he quickly looks away, a flush creeping to his cheeks.

“Burn salves, huh?” he murmurs, his tone low and thoughtful, as he works to keep his demeanor nonchalant despite the flutter of nerves beneath the surface.

“Mhm, you know Usopp goes through the bulk of them.” You explain as you unravel the replacement bandages. "I don't think I've seen a full stock since stepping onto the ship."

Zoro lets out a low chuckle, the tension easing slightly. "Usopp is a walking disaster," he mutters, "always finding new ways to burn himself." Despite his harsh words, there's a hint of fondness in his voice, showcasing the bond they’ve forged through countless adventures.

Another giggle from you as you adjust his arm across your lap to ready it for rebandaging. How can such a small sound make him feel so tingly? Why is his free hand shaking with the temptation to touch you?

Zoro tries to suppress the shiver that runs down his spine as your giggle echoes through the air once more. He finds himself staring at your face, the way your lips quirk upwards into a small smile, and he has to resist the urge to reach out and tuck a strand of stray hair behind your ear.

His free hand clenches into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles paling from the force of it. Why is he feeling so drawn to touch you, to feel the softness of your skin against his calloused fingers?

Gently, the wound is wrapped up in a very neat way. You take your time to ensure it isn't too tight or too loose—finding a happy middle ground to keep his wound safe for healing. 

As you diligently wrap up the injury with a practiced touch, Zoro can't help but appreciate the care you take in your work. Your precise movements and attention to detail are soothing, almost captivating. He silently notes the way you find the perfect balance between compression and looseness, making sure his wound is protected yet unrestricted.

He takes in your every move, his attention shifting between your focused expressions and the gentle precision of your hands as you work. There’s a quiet intensity in the way you concentrate, and he finds himself drawn to the delicate care you put into tending to him, the unfamiliar warmth surging through him once more.

"All done!" You say happily, giving him a soft tap of your fingers to his wrist before moving to clean up the remains of his former dressing. "How's it feel?"

Zoro flexes his arm a bit, testing out the tightness of the bandage. It's snug, but not uncomfortably so. He glances down at the clean new wrapping then back up at you, the touch of your fingers against his wrist sending another jolt of electricity through his body.

He clears his throat, trying to hide the affect your touch had on him. "Feels... fine," he mutters gruffly. "Sturdy."

"Excellent," you reply with a bright smile, gathering your supplies with a practiced ease before rising to your feet.

Zoro finds himself oddly disappointed as you stand up, readying to leave. He wasn't expecting this moment to end so soon. He had become so wrapped up in your presence, in the quiet moments between you as you worked diligently on his injury.

He watches you gather your things, a silent, unexplainable longing for your company coursing through him. But he keeps his mouth stubbornly shut, his usual impassive exterior firmly in place.

But you ask him something he doesn't expect then, something he didn't know he'd be chomping at the bit to want.

"It's killer out here," you say, fanning yourself with your free hand, the light breeze teasing your hair as you glance at him with a bright smile. "I'm going to grab some water—Sanji's keeping some cold for everyone. Want a glass?" The way your expression sparkles makes his heart skip a beat, and he finds himself eager for any excuse to prolong your time together.

Zoro's eyes widen ever so slightly at your question. A part of him wants to decline, to maintain his usual aloof demeanor. But another part, a more impulsive part, leaps at the opportunity to prolong your time together. He clears his throat again, his voice gruff as he replies. "Yeah. Sure," he mutters. "A glass would be nice."

You nod, promising to be right back with some after disposing of his old dressings below deck—and though it seems like ages for you to return, you do with that same smile with an ice cold glass of water in each hand.

"Mind if I join you? It's nice being out here in the quiet."

As you return, glasses of water in hand, Zoro can't help but feel a flutter of anticipation in his chest. Though he outwardly remains stoic, he's inwardly glad for the chance to linger in your company.

He glances at the empty spot beside him on the deck floor. "I don't mind," he mutters, scooting over slightly to make room for you. "Quiet's nice every now and then."

As Zoro and you sit side by side, sipping on the cool, refreshing water, he finds himself surprisingly at ease. The silence between you is comfortable and soothing, a welcome change from his usual readiness for action.

As the minutes roll by, he can't help but notice the way you hum a soft, soothing tune under your breath, the sound blending seamlessly with the gentle lapping of waves against the ship. He turns his head to glance at you, a small, uncharacteristic smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Perhaps this is something he could get used to.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞.

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐚/𝐧: This one’s for everyone currently buried under textbooks, neck-deep in citations, or screaming silently into a thesis draft. Whether you’re cramming for finals, editing your 30th footnote, or trying to remember the difference between APA and MLA at 3 a.m. —I see you. I am you.

Consider this my love letter to academic burnout, spiced up with a chaos, a lot of buttons, and one very bored Sylus.

May this story bring you a smile, a distraction, and maybe… some motivation to get back to work. Or at least to fantasize about getting “tutored” by your favorite grumpy 3d boyfriend.

You’ve got this. And if not? Well, at least you’ve got this fic.

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰: This story contains adult content intended for mature audiences (18+). Includes: teasing, consensual power play, undressing kink, sexual tension, smut (obviously), suggestive language, and light dom/sub dynamics. Also: mentions of academic stress, mild frustration, and one very chaotic bird. (Also, I suck at the lore, so all the questions are just dribble drabble and have nothing to do with l&ds lore).

Please read responsibly.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7,382

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧: [ Press here! ]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 closing in.

Not as dungeons do—with iron and echo and the grating metallic gnash of keys against locks—but in a subtler, crueler fashion. Here, the entrapment was warm. Familiar. Domestic. It wore the mask of kindness: chipped ceramic mugs bearing lukewarm tea, a book left open spine-up, the low hum of city life filtered through the curtains. It was, he thought, bitterly, the kind of imprisonment one almost volunteered for.

Sylus shifted again on the couch, then rose—slowly, deliberately. He moved not like a man, but a creature half-contained: sinew strung too tight, instincts dulled by idle time. Prowling—yes, that was the word. The motions of a predator caged not by walls, but affection.

He had commanded battlefields in tighter quarters than this. Led insurgencies in the silent dark of fractured worlds. Stared down death without blinking. But this?

This was unbearable.

There was paper everywhere. The scent of ink, bitter and raw. The over-steeped tang of her tea wafting from the sill. And her—hunched over the dining table, surrounded by her own chaos. Books exploded across the wood like shrapnel from a war of knowledge—highlighted, dog-eared, wounded by overuse. Her hands moved furiously, annotating with the kind of intensity one usually reserved for confessions or last rites.

She hadn’t looked at him in forty-three minutes.

Not even when Mephisto—loyal, treacherous Mephisto—had “accidentally” toppled a precarious stack of her notes onto the floor. The crow had croaked, sharp and affronted. She, unmoved, had murmured simply, “Leave it,” and kept writing as though she were inscribing scripture.

Sylus crouched by the fallen pages and began gathering them, slow as time itself. Paper sliding over paper, the sound soft but persistent. A quiet insistence. The sound of patience weaponized.

Nothing.

“You know,” he said at last, voice almost conversational as he let the next sheet fall with theatrical weight, “Onychinus has tortured men with less effective methods than this.”

She didn’t look up. “Then maybe you finally understand how I feel.”

Her words cut with a blade honed in silence.

He straightened, brushing non-existent dust from his palms. Intrigued, not offended. That was the curious thing. As if her indifference had teeth. As if her quiet dismissal coiled something feral within him.

“I could be out there right now,” he said as he sauntered toward the kitchen. “Negotiating with diplomats. Sabotaging governments. Killing someone, possibly.”

“You still could,” she replied without looking. “The door’s right there.”

The kettle clicked off. He didn’t move to pour. He liked it bitter. Liked the way it matched his mood—steeped too long, forgotten until it scalded.

Instead, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, gaze fixed on her. Watching. Hunting. She was composed chaos: pen tapping out some maddening rhythm, brows drawn, jaw clenching. Every movement spoke of war, though she waged hers with theory and thought.

And still—she had not looked at him.

He cleared his throat.

She sighed.

He straightened. A wolf catching scent.

“You’re not helping,” she muttered, chewing on the cap of her pen.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Then be useful. Take Mephisto out. He needs a flight. Or a target to harass.”

The mechanical crow preened, smug on her chair-back, as if understanding.

Sylus blinked. “I trained him to disarm men mid-air. You want me to reduce him to dog-walking?”

“I want silence,” she snapped. “Or help. But if I can’t have the first, I’ll settle for the second.”

That made him grin.

Slowly.

Oh.

Now she looked at him.

Tired. Wary. Resigned. That look of someone who knew too well what was coming. Who recognized the inevitability of chaos walking toward her in human shape. Sylus Qin did not sit idle for long. Stillness was not his nature. He was not built for peace. He was built for provocation.

He closed the distance in four lazy steps, and bracketed her in, hands on either side of her chair. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even stop reading. But her breath caught—just once.

Subtle. But enough.

He leaned in, voice a purr against her temple. “Help, Kitten?”

The word coiled like silk around barbed wire. Too soft to be safe.

“You?” she said flatly, eyes on her page. “The last time you helped, you almost burned the kitchen down.”

“It was one fire.”

She glared.

He lifted a brow. “One small fire. Mephisto flew through it just fine.”

She turned to face him fully now, and he saw it—the red-rimmed eyes, the ink-smudged hands, the kind of fatigue that crept into the marrow. She was burning herself alive in pursuit of something. And he? He would always be drawn to the flame.

“You’re driving me insane,” she whispered.

“And you,” he murmured, “are torturing yourself. What was it for, again?”

She threw the pen down. “Advanced sociopolitical theory of pre-expansion territories.”

He blinked. Slowly.

“You made that up.”

“I wish I made that up.” She rubbed her eyes. “I have to explain economic reformation using early-Earth anarcho-Marxist models—without referencing planetary war casualties.”

Another beat of silence.

“And people wonder why we recruit so well,” he muttered. “We offer better hours.”

“And fewer footnotes.”

Mephisto let out a metallic klik, like a laugh.

Her next exhale was quieter. Not defeat. Not quite. Just surrender. Her head tilted back, neck bared, vulnerable in a way that made his mouth go dry.

“I hate this,” she said.

He tilted his head, predator’s smile returning. “Then let me help you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“You haven’t heard my method.”

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s extremely effective.”

“It’ll be chaos.”

“All learning is chaos,” he said solemnly. “You just need the proper incentive.”

“You are not an incentive. You’re a hazard.”

He leaned in closer. Lowered his voice. “But you’re paying attention now.”

There it was.

The pause.

The breath between one kind of tension and another.

He smiled then, slow and unrepentant. The kind of smile that meant the trap had already closed, and she hadn’t noticed.

“What if,” he said, rounding the table, circling her like a thought that wouldn’t go away, “for every correct answer you give me… I unbutton a piece of clothing.”

She blinked. “What.”

He gestured vaguely between them. “Yours or mine. Dealer’s choice.”

“And if I get one wrong?”

He shrugged. “I button it back up. Accountability.”

She stared.

So did Mephisto—before flying out of the room with the exaggerated air of someone refusing to witness whatever unholy ritual this was becoming.

Sylus leaned close, whispering now, his voice a promise, or a sin.

“Come on, kitten. Let’s make studying… worth your while.”

She did not answer him.

Not with words. Not with refusal.

Her silence was not absence—it was decision. Deliberate. Weighted. The kind of stillness that bore within it the tension of a coiled spring, a loaded chamber, a whisper before the breaking glass.

Sylus moved behind her with a patience that belonged to no man, only beasts—those that waited at the edge of the forest, in shadows, where breath fogged and fangs gleamed. His chaos was measured now, honed into precision. He bent low, mouth grazing that place where her neck met her shoulder—the tender hinge of control and surrender. Her skin was warm. Braced. Awake.

He did not kiss her.

Not yet.

He let his breath trace along the line of her throat like a promise whispered in a confessional.

“You hate this part of studying,” he murmured, voice low enough to slip beneath her skin. “The memorization. The mechanical repetition. Regurgitating theories someone else named.”

Still, she did not move.

He kissed just below her ear, so softly it felt imagined. Not conquest—reverence.

“But your mind,” he continued, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, “was never meant to echo other men’s thoughts. It’s built for violence and vision. What you need is structure. A system. Consequence.”

He smiled against her—just a breath of amusement, curved and sharp.

“Positive reinforcement.”

The next kiss was lower, slower. And then—

A breath caught.

He felt it. Subtle. A tremor beneath her composure. As if some fragile thread had been plucked.

“As I said, for every correct answer,” he whispered, the tip of his nose trailing the slope of her collarbone, “I’ll unbutton something. Yours. Or mine. I’ll let you choose.”

Control, after all, was a language they both spoke fluently. One they rewrote every time they met.

She hummed.

A sound so soft, so unwillingly born, it knocked something loose in him. A single syllable without shape, yet it echoed like a secret.

She didn’t say yes.

She didn’t have to.

The stillness of her body, the tilt of her neck—she was unfolding. Silently. One breath at a time. And he was patient. He would take her apart gently, methodically, until her resistance was memory.

“And if you get it wrong,” he said, fingers grazing the narrow line of her waist, “I’ll button it back up. Slow. One. At. A. Time.”

That made her shift.

Slight, imperceptible to anyone who did not live inside her breath the way he did. Her head turned, a fraction—exposing more of her neck.

Invitation.

His mouth found the base of her throat. A kiss—open and present, not demanding. Not yet. It wasn’t claiming, it was a tether. A declaration: I am here. I see you. I want.

He inhaled.

Ink. Sleep-deprivation. That sharp, dry sting of caffeine clinging to the strands of her hair. But beneath it all—her. Whatever scent memory couldn’t place but the soul remembered.

She smelled like longing. Like ache. Like the reason he’d chosen to live.

His voice, when it returned, was rough. Frayed at the edges.

“You’ll start to want the wrong answers,” he murmured, lips brushing her pulse, “just to feel me undoing you again. And again.”

Her breath stuttred.

Another sound—barely more than a breath—but it gutted him. That sound, that wordless admission, echoed in his skull like the first crack of surrender.

Sylus smiled.

This—this was not domination. Not command. This was the sacred language of consent. The offering of power. The invitation to play.

He kissed her once more. Deeper now. Possessive. Just above the hollow of her collarbone, where blood surged and promises lived.

Then—

He pulled back.

Abrupt. Controlled.

“Question one,” he said, settling beside her, voice suddenly light, even amused—as if the last few minutes had not been a slow seduction of her will. “Define hegemonic decentralization in relation to resource-starved colonies pre-expansion.”

She blinked.

Disoriented. Thrown.

“What—?”

His smirk cut across his face like a blade. “Tick-tock, kitten.”

She stared at him.

Not in shock. Not in fear. No, those emotions were too simple for her. Her gaze was that of a woman observing a cliff’s edge—knowing full well she’d fall, and still, leaning closer. There was a long, slow blink of disbelief, the kind that implied she might—out of principle—launch her textbook at his head. But instead, she measured him, and something in her calculation said: I’ll play. Just long enough to see how far you’ll go.

“Hegemonic decentralization,” she said at last, her voice clipped, wound tightly around restraint, “is the process by which centralized imperial authorities delegate limited power to colonial administrations in an attempt to quell unrest—without, of course, surrendering real control.”

Sylus arched a brow.

Her tone was academic, yes—but her pulse betrayed her. He saw it leap at the base of her throat. Counted the rhythm, noted the way her breath cinched as if her body were bracing for the consequence of correctness.

“That’s correct,” he said, voice mild. Too mild. A weapon she didn’t yet know how to parry.

And then he moved.

Not toward her. But inward—stripping the first button from his own shirt with leisurely precision. His gaze never left hers. That unreadable half-smile hovered on his lips like smoke curling from a match not yet dropped.

“Start small,” he murmured. “Ease your way into winning.”

Her lips parted—just slightly. A protest unspoken. A grin suppressed. She said nothing.

Good girl. She knew how the game worked. She always did, in the end.

“Next question.” He leaned back, lounging like this was a corporate debrief rather than a study session layered with subtext and tension. “List three primary sociopolitical effects of the Altaris Collapse on fringe-planet diplomacy.”

She groaned. “You’re insane.”

“One point for each correct answer,” he said, examining his cuffs. “Three buttons on the line.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her mind was already spinning. He could see it in the angle of her shoulders, the way her pen tapped once—twice—against her thigh, the rhythm erratic but sharpening.

This was what he loved about her. Not submission. Not softness. But the focus. The unflinching, teeth-bared determination of a woman who had studied her enemies and refused to blink.

She inhaled.

“One,” she said. “Breakdown of interplanetary trade security. Two: refugee displacement leading to diplomatic strain among minor systems. Three: the elevation of pirate syndicates as recognized diplomatic actors.”

Sylus whistled, low and admiring. “Very, very good.”

This time, he reached for her.

She didn’t flinch when his fingers brushed the first button of her blouse. Didn’t pull away. Her breath held, suspended somewhere between resistance and anticipation. Her eyes fixed on his, unblinking.

The first button slid free.

Then the second.

The third—he took slower. His thumb traced the hollow of her sternum, where bone met breath. The fabric parted just enough to reveal the delicate strap of her bra. He saw the rise in her chest. The careful exhale through her nose.

“No objections, kitten?” he asked softly.

Her chin lifted. A quiet defiance. “I’m three for three,” she said. “I’m winning.”

His smile was a darker thing now. “For now.”

He leaned in again, brushing her hair off her shoulder like it was something sacred. His lips ghosted the shell of her ear.

“Define the Tenet Accord,” he whispered, “in a single sentence.”

She hesitated.

Not long. Just a heartbeat.

But it was enough.

He felt it: the delicate tilt in balance. The first falter.

“It was…” Her voice slowed. “The treaty between the TerraCore Senate and fringe-system delegates to standardize negotiation frameworks for interplanetary conflict.”

Sylus tilted his head, wolfish.

“It was,” he said—then, after a beat too long: “But it wasn’t signed. It was ratified by proxy. The original signatories were assassinated before they made it to the table.”

She stiffened. “That’s semantics.”

“That’s history,” he replied.

And with an infuriating patience, he reached forward—

—and rebuttoned one of the buttons he had just undone.

Slowly.

One hand guiding the shirt back into order, the other working the button through its loop with unbearable precision. His thumb brushed skin as he did. Not hurried. Not teasing. inevitable.

“Don’t cheat,” she said, voice rasping slightly at the edges.

“Don’t miss,” he answered.

Ah, there it was.

The pull in his gut. That hot, slow drag of anticipation. Tension braided between them like wire stretched to its limit. She was brilliant—sharp as a blade—and he intended to test every inch of her edge.

Not to see her break.

To see how long she’d hold.

“Next question,” he said, voice gone low again.

Her eyes sparked. “Bring it.”

He leaned closer.

“Name the three factions responsible for the Blockade,” he said, “and identify the primary tech used to enforce it.”

She swallowed.

Oh, yes. This one would cost her.

And Sylus could already taste the next button between his fingers.

Sylus watched her lips as she hesitated.

It was not ignorance that stalled her—no, she was brilliant, insufferably so. He knew she knew the answer. The hesitation wasn’t intellectual; it was strategic. She was thinking now—not of war or treaties, but of the game. Of the stakes. Of his gaze, heavy and deliberate, tracing the line of her collarbone. Of the way his shirt now hung open, two buttons loose, a sliver of skin visible like a secret offered on a dare.

Good.

He wanted her distracted.

“Orion Enclave,” she said at last. The words came slow, deliberate. “The Virid Coalition. And—”

She faltered.

He lifted an eyebrow, amused. “And?”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp. “And the Noxian Syndicate.”

A heartbeat passed.

He smiled—dangerously. “Mm. Almost.”

Her brow creased, suspicion blooming. “What?”

“It wasn’t the Noxians. It was the Virex Compact.” He leaned in, voice low, velvet over steel. “The Syndicate pulled out three days before the blockade was formalized. Political cowardice, masquerading as strategy.”

She exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “That’s a technicality.”

He tilted his head. “I don’t deal in technicalities. Or intentions. Only in outcomes.”

A pause. Then, darkly—

“Only in flesh.”

He reached for her—intending to reassert control, to remind her whose game this was—but she moved first.

Quick as a striking viper, her fingers shot up and caught the edge of his open shirt.

He froze.

Her hand was steady. Unbothered. She met his gaze with a calm so composed it felt like mockery dressed as elegance.

“Then you’re not the only one who gets to keep score,” she said, and with devastating grace, she slid one of his buttons back into place.

He blinked, as if something in the room had tilted.

“You’re penalizing me?” he asked, tone caught in the strange valley between disbelief and reluctant delight.

“You distracted me.”

“Kitten—”

“Your game,” she murmured, drawing closer, breath warm beneath his jaw. “Your rules. I just play smarter.”

And then she kissed him.

Not a plea. Not a reward. No, this was a tactical move. She kissed the curve of his neck with precision, then bit—not hard, not cruelly, just enough to fracture his breath mid-inhale.

His hand moved without thought, wrapping around her hip. The contact grounded him. Or maybe it unmoored him further. He couldn’t tell anymore.

He hated her.

No, that wasn’t it.

He loved her. Not the love of ballads or poets. Not the gentle, convenient kind. His love was ruinous. A reconfiguration of instinct. A madness that could be neither named nor cured. He would burn worlds for her, and worse—he would wait in silence while she studied, just to be near her gravity.

She knew. Of course she knew.

He caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face upward. Not quite a kiss. Not yet. It was a warning. Or a prayer.

“You’re cheating,” he murmured.

“I’m improvising.”

She pressed her lips just below his ear. Barely there. A ghost of touch. Then her teeth caught his earlobe with the kind of sinful slowness that could undo entire empires.

“I thought you liked clever girls,” she whispered.

A low sound rumbled in his throat—half laugh, half growl. “I do. But I like obedient ones more.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, head tilted in mock innocence, eyes sharp enough to bleed. “Then maybe you should study harder,” she said, tone laced with mockery and seduction both. “You’re falling behind.”

And then—God help him—she unfastened one of his buttons.

Not in haste. Not for show. It was surgical. Deliberate. Her fingers brushed his chest, and even that barest touch left a heat behind. Not fire. Something slower. Smoldering.

He stared at her.

She smiled.

Not sweetly. This was the smile of a woman who had just toppled the first stronghold of a war campaign. She knew exactly what she was doing. And worse—she knew he’d let her.

“Next question,” she said, voice silk and daggers. “Unless you’re afraid to lose.”

Oh, fuck.

She was turning him into prey.

And he loved it.

His mouth twitched.

A flicker, barely visible, but in it lived a tempest. His gaze darkened—not with rage, not even with hunger, but with something stranger. A tension that stretched tight within him, like a wire pulled over flame. Every breath he drew seemed to sear him from the inside, burning with restraint, with ache, with the quiet, seething madness of a man undone not by war, not by betrayal, but by her.

She was the weapon. She always had been.

He leaned in.

His lips brushed the shell of her ear, and this time, his teeth followed—grazing, then catching. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make her breath falter. He felt her pulse beneath his mouth, fluttering wildly. That fragile, defiant rhythm—it was the closest thing to poetry Sylus believed in.

“Name,” he murmured, tongue tracing just behind her ear, voice low and serrated, “the first planetary system to reject TerraCore’s energy sanction and survive the embargo intact.”

She breathed out sharply—but her voice, when it came, was steady. Brilliant. Beautiful.

“Vallin. They diverted siphon-tunnels from unmonitored moons and contracted mercenary fleets to deliver raw materials directly.”

Sylus chuckled.

Low. Dangerous. Delighted.

“Such a clever little kitten.”

He reached between them, finding the last button of her blouse and—slowly, reverently—slipped it free.

The fabric parted like a confession. Her skin glowed, lit soft by the dim lamps, framed in lace and tension. She didn’t move to cover herself.

Good.

Modesty was fine. But shame? He loathed it. She had nothing to hide—and too much power in her stillness.

Before either could speak, his hands were at her waist. He lifted her—effortless, unhurried—and pulled her into his lap like it was the most natural movement in the world. Because it was.

She landed with a soft exhale, knees bracketing his hips, hair spilling down one side like flame. Her blouse hung loose. Her eyes, steady as a sniper’s, met his with a spark that made his blood sing.

“Cheating again,” she said.

He smirked. “Strategic positioning.”

He leaned in, mouth at her neck, and kissed—slow, open, deliberate. His tongue followed, then teeth, marking her with just enough pressure to feel like a threat wrapped in velvet. Her fingers curled into his shoulders. His name ghosted her throat without form.

And when he bit her again—lower, near her collarbone—she gasped.

Quiet. Breathless. Real.

He licked the spot afterward, soothing what he’d just claimed.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly.

She didn’t.

Instead, she rolled her hips once—slow, deliberate. The friction between them made his breath catch against her skin. Heat surged low and sharp. Control teetered.

“Another question,” she whispered.

He groaned into her throat. A curse. A surrender. Fine.

She wanted to play?

He’d make the game bleed.

“Identify,” he said, voice thick with the ache of her weight in his lap, “the five standard tactics of passive resistance under the Treaty of the Undermoon Accords. No paraphrasing.”

Her breath stuttered.

Not from uncertainty.

But from the way his hands had slid to her thighs, thumbs brushing up under the hem of her skirt. Not quite touching, but close. So close. His fingers toyed with the edge of her stockings like a question with no right answer.

Still—she answered.

“One,” she said, “economic abstention. Two: subversive information dissemination. Three—” she broke off, gasping, as he traced his tongue up her neck, slow and steady “—civil inertia.”

He didn’t stop.

Neither did she.

“Four,” she breathed, “symbolic disobedience.”

He waited.

Her voice shook. But she held.

“Five. Nonviolent obstruction.”

Sylus froze.

Perfect.

Fuck.

The sound that escaped him was primal—a growl buried under a groan. He kissed her jaw, softer this time. Almost reverent. As if her intellect, her will, her spine—all of it demanded worship.

And then he moved again.

He took her blouse by the shoulders and slid it down. Off. The fabric fell behind her like water pooling in shadows. She sat bare above the waist now, save for lace and the kind of anticipation that turned air into lightning.

And still—still—her eyes stayed on him. Steady. Ready.

“Again,” she said.

God help him.

Pride swelled in his chest, hot and vast. So did hunger. And something worse—something holy.

She was everything he shouldn’t have.

Everything he would kill for.

And she was sitting in his lap like she knew it—and didn’t care.

He kissed her shoulder. Her collarbone. Down the line of her sternum.

Then: “Describe the flaws in the Thales Doctrine’s principle of linear progress, as it relates to—”

She rolled her hips hard.

A grind. Deliberate.

Sylus bit her back.

She rolled her hips again—harder now—grinding against the rigid line of him through his slacks, and Sylus felt it: the tremor racing up his spine like a live wire snapped loose, like godfire arcing beneath the skin. His jaw tightened, and the breath he drew was shallow, as if her movements had hollowed his lungs.

She shifted once more, and he knew—by the tilt of her hips, the sharpness in her breath, the glint in her eyes—she knew.

She wasn’t playing to win anymore.

She was playing to ruin him.

“The Thales Doctrine,” he growled into her throat, his mouth slick with need, dragging against her skin like a secret. “Linear progress. Flaws. Say it.”

Her voice trembled, breathless, but sharp with that ruthless clarity he craved.

“It assumes constant advancement,” she panted, “without accounting for systemic collapse, or ethical regression. Ignores the nonlinear nature of historic—”

He cut her off.

His hand slid between them, cupping the soft swell of her breast through the thin lace. She gasped, body arching into him instinctively—and that sound should have been reward enough.

But Sylus was far from finished.

With a practiced flick, he found the clasp behind her back.

Snap.

The bra loosened, a breath unbound.

She didn’t stop him.

Didn’t pretend to.

He dragged the straps down her shoulders, inch by inch, baring her like scripture revealed line by line. Her breath hitched. Her chest rose. But there was no shame in her stillness—only readiness.

“Correct,” he murmured against her skin.

And then—then—he took her into his mouth.

She arched with a sharp, helpless cry, every muscle pulled taut by the shock of sensation. Sylus groaned low against her, tongue circling, teeth grazing her nipple, then sucking deep and slow, savoring her like the answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask.

Her hands were in his hair now—pulling, grounding, praying.

She writhed just enough to undo him.

But she never told him to stop.

And God help him—he didn’t want to.

He shifted to her other breast, lavishing it with the same unrelenting attention, mouth hot, pace slow. With each flick of his tongue, another piece of her unraveled. Each moan he stole was a kind of confession. Each tremor a truth.

Her voice came, shaken but still brilliant: “Ask another.”

He laughed softly—dark, broken, hungry.

“Name,” he murmured, “the three sociopolitical structures that collapsed the Orion-Terra alliance.”

He felt her trying to pull her mind from the edge, to claw her way back to theory from the heat of him, from the way his hands had slid under her skirt, thumbs skimming the top of her stockings like questions written in tongues.

Her body pressed closer, chasing relief.

Still, she answered.

“Economic divergence,” she gasped. “Militarized… policy drift. And—”

Her rhythm stuttered.

He felt it. The sharp jolt of pleasure severing the thread of thought.

“And—” she whimpered, mouth open, trying.

Sylus waited.

She shook her head. “I—I don’t know.”

A thrill coiled inside him.

Finally.

Wrong.

He moved before thought could catch up.

Fast.

Predatory.

He stood in one fluid motion, hands locked at her waist, lifting her effortlessly before laying her down along the length of the couch. Her back hit the cushions, hair spilling like dark fire.

And Sylus followed.

He hovered above her, shirt half-undone, chest rising with restraint. His hair was wild now, his eyes lit from within—dark gold burning at the edges like a man on the brink of holy collapse.

He reached for her wrists.

Not forceful.

Not cruel.

But absolute.

He pinned them above her head, both hands caught in one of his, locking her like a weapon disarmed.

Her mouth parted.

But she didn’t flinch.

She offered herself up.

“Sylus—”

“Wrong answer,” he said, voice raw and guttural. “You lose that round, Kitten.”

Then he descended.

His mouth was on her again—neck, collarbone, chest—biting, kissing, claiming. His tongue dragged between her breasts, his teeth tracing ribs like a map carved in devotion. Each movement was slow, almost reverent—like prayer laced with sin.

She moaned, hips lifting, seeking friction, but he didn’t release her wrists.

Her breath caught.

“What…” she gasped, voice shredded, “what happens when I get the next one wrong?”

He kissed her sternum. Licked a line up the center of her throat. His voice cracked against her ear.

“Then I stop playing.”

A pause.

Then, darker:

“And I start devouring.”

Her breath came in short, fractured bursts—sharp at the edges, shallow in the center—each exhale caught between need and defiance. Her wrists remained pinned above her head, captured by his single hand, bound not in rope but in resolve. Beneath his mouth, her chest flushed pink with heat, the soft rise and fall of her ribcage trembling against the air, against his breath, against the weight of his threat still echoing in the silence.

Then I stop playing.

And I start devouring.

And she—

Gods. She had the audacity to raise a single eyebrow.

That expression—wry, knowing, infuriating—was like a match dropped on oil. Her lips parted, twitching upward at the corners, glittering with mischief despite the wreckage of her composure, despite the delicate shudder still coursing through her body.

“Are you…” she panted, her voice wreathed in the sharp smoke of amusement, “trying to motivate me into answering wrong, Sylus?”

His name on her tongue—dragged out like a challenge, tasted like sin—unraveled something in him. It uncoiled hot along his spine, a sharp sting of hunger and something else, something too primal to be named.

He smiled.

Not the kind that comforted. No—this was the smile of a wolf who knew the cage was already open, the prey already cornered, the end already inevitable.

“Maybe,” he said, voice heavy and slow, soaked in indulgence. “But I’d never rig the game, Kitten.”

And then—

He released her wrists.

Not as mercy. As strategy.

His freed hand moved lower, deliberate in its descent, fingers returning to the curve of her chest. He rolled a nipple between his fingers—just enough pressure to make her inhale, not out of pain, but awareness. A single moment of sensation sharpened to a blade’s edge.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Brief. Reflexive. A betrayal of her own will.

That was all it took.

Sylus leaned in, dragging his tongue along the column of her throat, tasting salt and heat, feeling her pulse leap against his mouth like it was trying to confess.

“You want to lose,” he whispered into her skin. “Don’t you?”

She inhaled sharply.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t ease.

“You want what happens when you get it wrong.”

His fingers tightened—just slightly. And she arched into him, helpless in the way only honest desire makes a person.

Her pride was fighting. Her need was winning.

He watched her war with herself, teeth sinking into her lower lip to silence the whimper clawing its way up her throat. She was trying not to give him the satisfaction. But satisfaction had never been the goal.

Submission, when freely given, was far more exquisite.

Her voice came at last—fragile but resolute.

“Ask me again.”

He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t break contact.

He leaned close to her ear, his voice rough, rich, brutal in its intimacy. “Another question?”

She nodded. A small gesture. But her whole body answered.

Sylus chuckled, low and dark, the sound curling between them like smoke under a locked door. His tongue flicked against her earlobe before he bit—sharper this time. Possessive. Branding.

“Alright then,” he murmured. “Let’s see how long you can pretend to care about answers.”

He let the silence stretch.

Not passive—but purposeful. The kind of silence that thickened the air, curled around the lungs, made every breath feel too loud, too revealing.

Her wrists lay above her head, abandoned, free. She could have moved. Could have claimed her autonomy in that moment.

She didn’t.

She wouldn’t.

There was something tragic and beautiful in that stillness. Her fingers twitched slightly, not in fear, but in restraint. Her body trembled beneath him—not with hesitation, but with memory: of his mouth, his hands, the words he had laced between her ribs like a confession only her body could translate.

Her eyes were half-lidded. Dazed, yes, but alert in that singular way he adored—watchful even in surrender. Her breath stuttered through parted lips, soft and uneven. Her chest rose and fell in time with his touch, as if her very breathing belonged to him now.

​​“Next question,” he said.

But his voice had changed—quieter now, rasped low with reverence and hunger, as if even language had grown heavy in his mouth.

And while he spoke, his hand moved.

Slowly. Sinfully.

He dragged his palm from her breast, down her side—charting her like a man committing sacred text to memory. His fingers skimmed the curve of her ribs, the flat of her abdomen, until the muscles there tightened beneath his touch like drawn bowstrings.

She held her breath.

Still, he kept going.

Down, tracing over the soft curve of her hip, gliding along the outer edge of her thigh until his knuckles met the top seam of her stockings. He paused there—just for a breath—then reversed course, sliding back up.

But this time, his hand disappeared beneath the hem of her skirt.

Up, slow and unyielding, along the inside of her thigh.

She gasped.

Not out of shock.

Out of need.

Still, he did not touch her where she needed him. Not yet. That would be too merciful.

Instead, his hand settled at the edge of her underwear—resting, warm and immovable, pressing lightly into the vulnerable curve of her hip. The contact was maddening in its stillness.

A promise made but not kept.

The room pulsed with tension, thick as incense. Her arousal hung in the air, visceral and electric, the silence between them now stretched so tight it was on the verge of snapping.

Sylus leaned in.

He didn’t kiss her. He brushed his lips along the shell of her cheek, then moved toward her ear—his voice a breath, a blade, a benediction.

“Name the founding member of the pre-rebellion diplomatic corps,” he whispered, “who defected and sold state secrets to the Altaris resistance.”

Her breath caught.

Of course it did.

It was a near-impossible question. Obscure. Buried in classified intel, footnoted in forgotten reports. A name she might have memorized once, maybe. But not like this.

Not with his fingers resting just shy of her core.

Not with her thighs twitching beneath his palm. Not with her body arched toward his hand like prayer seeking a god that would not yet answer.

She blinked up at him.

Her hips shifted—barely, but deliberately. A subtle tilt forward. A parting of her thighs.

Not a protest. An invitation.

And then—

Her voice. His name.

Barely above a whisper. “Sylus…”

He closed his eyes.

That sound—it wasn’t a plea.

It was confession.

It unmade him.

Something deep inside fractured, cracked open in the silence beneath her breath. She had said his name like it mattered. Like it was hers to say.

He turned his head toward her.

His lips brushed hers—just barely. Just enough to feel the heat of her want. But he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Not until she broke for it.

He needed her wanting. Needing.

Starved.

Then—finally—his fingers moved.

Down.

Between her thighs.

Over the damp heat of her panties.

Still outside.

Still cruel.

Still withholding.

But just enough.

Just enough to make her breath hitch. Just enough to tear another quiet sound from her throat. Just enough for her to understand that he could destroy her without rushing.

Then, voice low, sharp, and undeniable:

“Answer.”

She trembled beneath him.

Lashes lowered, lips parted, her thighs twitching with the instinct to close—but his hand kept them open, unrelenting. The muscles in her legs clenched subtly, as if even her restraint begged for mercy. And he—he felt the heat of her through the lace. Damp. Pulsing. Wanting.

He still hadn’t touched her directly.

And still, she was already so close. Closer than she admitted. Closer than she dared believe.

His thumb dragged along the edge of her underwear—not teasing. Not playful. It was a warning. A promise. A line drawn with the quiet precision of a blade unsheathed.

He waited.

Letting the question he’d asked seep into her skin. Letting it settle in her bones. Letting it dissolve into the ache blooming steadily between her thighs.

And then—

She answered.

“D-Davien…” she gasped, voice thin, unraveling, “Davien Sol. He… defected after the siege of Lyssara Prime.”

The last syllable broke against her breath like a wave collapsing. Her hips bucked once, a silent plea made flesh. She didn’t beg.

She offered.

Sylus went still.

A moment. Just one.

Then the smile.

It curved across his mouth slowly, dark and warm and terribly pleased. His lips brushed her temple, breath hot against her hairline.

“Good girl.”

Then he touched her.

No more pretense. No more denial.

His fingers hooked around the lace and dragged it aside, baring her to the cool air, to his gaze, to everything he intended to do. There was no need for teasing now. Not after that answer. Not after the way she’d shattered her own voice just to please him.

She had earned it.

And he was out of patience.

He slid one finger inside her.

Deep. Slow. Intentional.

Her cry caught in her throat—beautiful, strangled, perfect—as her head fell back, spine arching off the couch like her body could no longer contain the feeling. Her hips lifted to meet him, to chase more, to beg without words.

He groaned, quiet and raw, his mouth still near her skin. The way she clenched around him—the way her warmth welcomed him in—it nearly undid him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, reverent, almost broken. “You’re soaked for me already, Kitten.”

Her hands had fallen, gripping the couch like it was the last thing keeping her tethered to this world. Her hips rolled against his hand in slow, desperate rhythm, her inner walls fluttering with every curl of his finger.

And Sylus watched.

Every flicker of her lashes. Every gasp caught in the hollow of her throat. Every unspoken plea she didn’t know how to voice.

“You’re a brilliant…—” he murmured, kissing the line of her jaw. “...sharp little thing, aren’t you? Getting that right with my fingers this close to wrecking you.”

She moaned—soft now, shaky—shivering not from cold, but from the unbearable weight of his praise. As if those words, from him, stripped her even more than his hands ever could.

He dragged his mouth down her throat, lips soft, unhurried. He began to move his hand faster—just slightly—his finger curling, again and again, pressing against the spot that made her body jolt like live wire.

His thumb came to rest above.

Still. Waiting.

Just the barest pressure. Not enough. But a threat of pleasure. A question.

Earn this.

He kissed along her collarbone, voice breaking apart at the edges now—gravel-thick, velvet-rough.

“You want another question?” he asked. “Or do you want to fall apart right here… on my fingers… like a good girl who can’t take the pressure anymore?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead—

Her moan slipped into the silence like silk falling against marble—quiet, decadent, irreversible. It was not a sound meant for this world, and yet it made his pulse thrum with a hunger too profound to name.

Sylus did not speak.

Not at first.

Instead, his hand moved again—fingers curling deep inside her, drawing a rhythm that was not frantic, not indulgent. It was measured. Focused. The precision of a scholar and the devotion of a sinner. Each thrust was slow, deliberate, angled to feel like worship disguised as anatomy.

She writhed beneath him.

Not in rebellion. In surrender.

Her hands no longer reached for anything—no longer clutched for control. They had fallen limp beside her, fingers brushing the cushions like driftwood. Her thighs trembled with every stroke, breath catching in her chest with the kind of fragile staccato that marked the brink between thought and oblivion.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips grazing the curve of her throat. “Just like that, Kitten.”

She was unraveling in real time.

And he was watching.

Not as a voyeur.

As a believer.

“You’re taking me so well,” he whispered, voice catching. “So fucking tight. So wet.”

And then, with care that bordered on reverence, he slid in a second finger.

He didn’t rush it. He let her body take it. Let her open around him like petals in moonlight, trembling but ready. She was made for this—for his hand, his rhythm, his control.

And she let him.

His fingers filled her fully now, and still, he moved as though time bent for her. As if there were no world outside this moment, no clock ticking. Only the rise and fall of her chest, the trembling in her thighs, the sweat glossing her collarbones like holy water.

His lips moved lower—slow, lazy, unhurried.

He kissed her between her breasts. The skin there was warm. Damp. Fragile in a way that made him ache. She arched into the touch like it was a question she’d waited a lifetime to answer.

He took her nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue once before sucking deep, slow, intent. She gasped—her hands gripping the couch again, her body bowing to meet him. Every inch of her chased him now.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her skin. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And God, she was trying not to. She was clenching around his fingers, fighting the build, hips twitching with each careful curl of his touch. Her breath came ragged, broken at the seams.

And still—he didn’t rush.

He wanted her earned.

“Doing so well,” he said, lifting his head, kissing the center of her chest like a vow. “So damn good for me.”

Her thighs began to shake in earnest now. Tiny, tremulous aftershocks.

He pressed his thumb—finally—against the swollen heat of her clit.

Just pressure. No motion.

Her whole body jolted.

A sob of breath tore from her throat. Not pain. Release.

“Come for me,” he whispered, voice shredded with restraint. “Now. Let go. Let me feel it.”

And she did.

She shattered.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t loud.

It was holy.

Her body convulsed around his fingers, her back arching off the couch as her mouth opened in a silent cry. Her muscles rippled with the force of it—wave after wave of climax cresting over her. Her hands clutched at the air, at fabric, at memory. Her moans dissolved into broken gasps and soft, helpless sounds that made Sylus feel like he’d been cut open and filled with fire.

He didn’t stop.

Not yet.

He moved her through it—fingers curling, drawing out the final tremors, thumb flicking just enough to keep her perched on the edge of ruin until the fall was complete.

Only then did he still.

Only then did he breathe.

She lay beneath him, wrecked in the most exquisite way—skin flushed, chest heaving, body slick with sweat and surrender. Her blouse hung open like a forgotten pretense, her skirt bunched inelegantly at her hips, her panties still askew but somehow sacred.

She was not disheveled.

She was divine.

And he—God help him—he belonged to her.

Sylus withdrew his hand slowly. Reverently. As though he were leaving the sanctuary of a temple.

His fingers gleamed with her.

He lifted his hand. And without ceremony—without show—he brought it to his mouth.

He licked them clean.

One finger at a time.

Slow. Precise.

Not to claim power.

To taste truth.

His eyes fluttered shut. Just briefly. As if he were savoring something holy.

And when he looked again—

She was watching him. Barely.

Her eyelids were heavy, her breath still uneven, but her lips curved upward. Subtle. Sly. Triumphant.

There was pride in the wreckage. Of course there was.

He leaned down. Kissed her sternum.

Then just below her collarbone.

His hand settled on her waist—not possessive. Not dominant.

Grounding.

She blinked slowly, pupils still wide, dazed and brilliant all at once.

And then she whispered:

“Another question?”

Sylus let out a hoarse laugh.

He didn’t mean to.

It was stunned. Broken. Uncontrolled.

God help him.

He was in love.

— © 2025 by Sylus Little Crow

[astracora]

Poly!LADs headcanons - Caleb Edition

(Because I have no idea if I'll ever get around to writing his intro to the polycule so I wanted to shove some ideas into a post.)

Masterlist

- The one who has the most trouble adapting to the concept of the polycule.

- Reintroduced after the polycule is formed, a year after his death.

- His reintroduction is obviously a bit rough, not only is he actively combative with the MC, but his actions push them further into the comfort of the polycule like a wounded cat.

- After they have eased the relationship out, it's some time before they talk to him about the polycule. Not sure how to broach it.

- He already knew, and he already stewed about it for a long time. (He's still stewing about it.)

- They've mourned him, after loving him, and moved forwards though, he can't push and demand when he knows that without the polycule they likely wouldn't still be there.

- His first meeting is rough, he can hide as much as he wants behind smiles, but Sylus is very good at reading people, as is Rafayel, so they can see through him. (Rafayel is no stranger to fake smiles). Xavier is jealous so reacts most to Caleb, while Zayne is somewhat calm, but wary. On one hand he has a childhood friend back, on the other hand depending on how much he knows. If he knows about Caleb's involvement with EVER, a great deal of distrust, and some real anger (that he tries not to show).

- Clashes most with Rafayel and Zayne. Rafayel because the two are almost opposed in many ways (Caleb's lack of sensory input and reluctance to touch, vs Rafayel as a Lemurian where his senses are SO attuned to his lovers, as well as the memory focus, and also the fact that both hide part of themselves behind a reasonably jovial mask, but Raffy is a lot better at hiding.) Zayne because the two do not agree on the methods of protecting and caring for MC (Keeping them hidden/caged, and the actions of siding with EVER with the intent to keep MC safe (which Zayne consistently states is a stupid plan.)).

- Understands Xavier, still doesn't like him.

- Depending on the advancement of his story, he has the potential to come to terms with the fact that accepting help and acknowledging that he's not alone in his drive to protect the person who means the most to him, helps him step past his self assigned cage.

- With enough time and trust, he accepts the polycule's help tending to his arm. They tinker with it and work with specialists to try to make it capable of sensory responses. It's kind of an exchange that keeps them on good ground. A kind of 'look we're not enemies, you have to lower your hackles' kinda thing.

- He hates the situation a lot less when he holds MC's hand for the first time again, and can feel the heat of them through his cybernetics.

- Builds models with Sylus, though it's more he builds models, Sylus suggests ways to bring them to life as real mini robot weapons. If the two are left alone, they WILL create tiny weaponised planes.

- Rafayel has taken to using them as target practice for throwing daggers.

- One crashed into Zayne's office door, waking him up from a nap, and made him think they were being attacked.

- Xavier slept through the whole thing, and woke up to plane shrapnel in his hair (he's used his light blade to knock a few out if they have disturbed his slumber though.)

- MC does not get enough sleep, and almost banned the planes, until Sylus and Caleb both promised to stop flying them indoors. Hooked up lil cameras to the things and started flying them around linkon and as far as they could before the things ran out of signal. (They got some killer nature recordings.)

- Caleb is another member of the insomnia crew. He's woken up alongside Zayne a few times, and made tea for them both. (Only for MC to toddle in not long after, and curling up between them with their own warm drink, exhausted and miserable but also unable to sleep.)

- Caleb helps take over some of the cooking, he also tries to find tech Xavier can use that won't catch fire, reducing the amount of cooking incidents by about 50%. (If asked he'll say he's doing it to keep MC safe... Xavier's smile when he cooks a full and very good meal has shit all to do with it. He swears.)

- Is the most averse to affection, originally sees the polycule as a means to an end, after all other people are just background noise to his real focus. Unluckily for him, it's hard to keep that mindset up when you spend that much time with people who don't have chips in their head, and also don't want to hurt the things you care about. The anti EVER squad are best placed to combat his 'world for just us two' energy. As well as question his intent. (Especially with how important MC's independence is to them.)

- Will not begin physically and emotionally warming up to the rest of the lads before he finally overcomes the wall keeping him from MC. After he has finally stepped over the line, he basks in it, then begins to let himself become more human again.

- He and Xavier ARE the protection squad. You want to bother the polycule? Can't promise you won't end up dead in a ditch somewhere.

- Zayne does try to rein this in. Sylus finds it hilarious. Rafayel cannot comment because he was thinking about stabbing that dude too. MC thinks they might need to start taking migraine medication because please guys, one nice meal out.

- He's tidy and multi talented. It takes a WHILE before he finds a room for himself in the house, isn't really sure what to fill it with because he struggles to refind his identity as a person. It begins with filling it with model planes, it advances into photos and memories, as well as his DAA stuff as well. Becomes a place he can keep things that tether him to himself.

- Has mended clothes for the others, really wants to know how Raffy tears so many shirts. No he cannot get acrylics out of a white shirt, why did you let it stain!?!!

- His puppy dog eyes are a weapon of mass destruction. NO one is safe. All have fallen to those eyes. 'But he just looks so sad' 'I know he does but why does that mean we now have two puppies in the living room' 'MC wanted them!' 'Caleb we don't have the space or time!!!'

- Uses all his old social media accounts, like an absolute fool. (Aren't you dead dude why are you using all ur old numbers????) Unfollowed most people, kept MC. Didn't follow the polycule. Was missing cute photos and things they'd posted, grumpily and (not that) reluctantly followed them all.

- He and Zayne occasionally have a kamaoji-off.

- He has taken Sylus flying. He did turn his head away so the dragon man could have a moment of sad recollection.

- Does still compete constantly to be the best person to assist mc in their day to day. The competitions can get aggressive and over the top. The lads do get carried away.

- Is the most scared of losing everyone, it does keep him awake at night. Does plan eventualities with the polycule. Does feel comforted knowing that if he fails, he's not leaving MC to deal with everything alone. Assures himself and everyone that he won't fail. He has his tether to get back to, after all.

[cece693]

I hear you in the comments (and I accidentally deleted the ask for a second part, so apologies to that person.) This has been kinda hard for me to write because I don't really want the soldier to immediately jump into a relationship with his handler. I want to create the tension, trust and power imbalance before any fluff can occur, but (knowing me) I will probably have them kissing by part 3. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy!

The One Kind Voice Pt. 2

tags: reunion between our boy and his handler, you had your reasons to leave, bucky still has hydra's programming, set during the civil war events, you come to the rescue

Your lungs burn with every shallow breath, each desperate inhale scraping against your throat like broken glass. The darkness of the narrow alley wraps around you, oppressive and cloying, and the rough concrete wall at your back is the only thing keeping you upright. You press a trembling hand to the bleeding wound in your side, a molten ache radiating through your torso with every beat of your heart. Adrenaline spurs you to stay awake, stay alive, because you’re sure of one fact: Hydra won’t capture you again. They’ll have to kill you first.

You glance at the mouth of the alley, half-expecting a squad of Hydra operatives to burst in at any moment. Fear courses through you, but it’s laced with something like resolve. You’ve made it this far on your own—escaped the labs, outrun the handlers determined to drag you back. You’re still not sure what they’ve turned you into, only that your body recovers faster, your strength is uncanny, and your senses are sharper than ever. Yet, none of these gifts have negated the bullet that found its way into your side.

A shiver crawls down your spine, hair raising on the back of your neck. You sense a presence before you see it. In the hush of the night, a lone figure steps from the darkness, graceful and silent as a ghost. The streetlight from the corner bathes him in thin slants of cold illumination. 

The Winter Soldier.

Your breath catches. You’ve witnessed his efficiency before—nothing short of legendary. Hydra’s perfect weapon, a lethal specter with a reputation steeped in blood and whispers. His expression is like carved marble, ice-blue eyes flicking from your face to the darkening patch of blood on your clothes. You tense, half-expecting him to finish what the Hydra guards started. But instead, in a single fluid movement, he kneels beside you.

There’s no hesitation in his movements, no wasted flourish. With methodical precision, he tears a strip of fabric from his tactical gear and presses it firmly against your wound. The pressure sends lightning bolts of agony up your spine, and you clench your jaw to stifle a cry. Even now, with your mind swimming in delirium, you notice how carefully he handles you, how his metal arm moves with an odd gentleness, ensuring he doesn’t worsen the injury. His touch is still cool and efficient, but it isn’t cruel. He adjusts the makeshift bandage, keeping pressure on your side. Finally, his voice, low and hoarse, breaks the hush of the night.

“Don’t move.”

Two words, a command, but you detect no malice—only urgency. Despite the swirl of fear and agony inside you, you force a shaky nod. You know he’s right; the bullet lodged in your flesh, or whatever shrapnel Hydra’s guards sent flying your way, could tear you apart if you’re not careful. Still, you find enough strength to speak. “We need to keep going,” you gasp out, your free hand curling into a fist against the grimy concrete. “They’ll find us if we don’t move.”

The Winter Soldier’s expression remains stoic. His intense gaze sweeps the alley, ensuring no immediate threats linger in the darkness. The neon glow of a broken streetlamp flickers over the planes of his face, highlighting the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He looks back at you, your clothes soaked with blood, and you can almost see some small, hidden part of him decide you matter enough to save.

Carefully, he slips his arm beneath your shoulders, the cold metal of his prosthetic pressing against your ribs. He stands, hauling you up with surprising ease. Your knees nearly buckle, and for a moment, pain roars through you, but the Soldier adjusts his grip—supporting your weight while keeping your injured side from jostling too much.

You clench your teeth against a whimper. You can’t show weakness, not even in front of him. There’s no telling how many Hydra agents are still scouring the streets for you both, how many black vans are sweeping across the city’s back alleys. The Winter Soldier nods once, as though sharing your unspoken urgency, and begins guiding you deeper into the maze of concrete.

He leads you through narrow passageways and side streets, past broken fences and shattered windows. With every jarring step, you fight down waves of dizziness. The wound burns like liquid fire. Occasionally, the Soldier pauses to peer around corners, scanning for any sign of pursuit. You can tell he’s operating on pure instinct and training.

Eventually, you slip into a defunct warehouse—a cavernous space cluttered with forgotten crates and dust-covered machinery. The Soldier eases you onto a wooden pallet in one of the far corners, away from the gaping loading bay doors. He crouches down beside you, the acrid smell of rust and old oil filling your nostrils. With a curt motion, he peels away the blood-soaked cloth that makes up your hasty bandage. An involuntary cry catches in your throat, and he halts. His eyes flick up, as if assessing if you can endure more. You give a tight nod, urging him on.

Like a trained medic, he checks the wound: it’s raw, still seeping, but not immediately life-threatening. Not yet, at least.

A day passes in a fog. You’re not sure how you survive it, but you feel his presence like a sentinel. Outside, you hear distant sirens, the hum of cars, maybe the approach of Hydra agents. Every time a noise grows too loud, he’s at the ready—pistol in hand, scanning the shadows. Yet, no one breaches your hideaway.

When he’s sure the coast is clear, he vanishes briefly to hunt for supplies, then returns just as silently. You notice he’s acquired a handful of medical items—gauze, peroxide, antibiotic cream. Probably looted from a nearby pharmacy or a hidden stash. He doesn’t speak much beyond terse instructions: “Don’t move,” “Drink,” “Let me see.” But in his own way, he’s taking care of you.

On the second night, a strange hush settles over the warehouse. You’re dozing fitfully when an unexpected scrape at the far entrance yanks both of you to full alertness. The Soldier raises a warning hand at you, eyes narrowed, then positions himself between you and the door. His posture tenses, firearm aimed toward the sound.

A sliver of pale light cuts through the darkness as the door cracks open. You hear the slow, careful tread of boots, then see a large silhouette holding a round shield emblazoned with an unmistakable star. The instant recognition sends a jolt of alarm and confusion through you. Captain America?

He steps into a beam of moonlight, scanning the dim interior. His gaze locks on the Winter Soldier, then flicks to you—slumped, bandaged, very obviously wounded. The Captain’s features tighten with concern. He lifts his hands, palms facing outward, to show he means no harm. “Easy,” he says softly, his voice carrying across the emptiness. “I’m not here for a fight.”

The Winter Soldier doesn’t lower his weapon. His jaw clenches, a storm of mixed emotions written plainly on his face. He shifts his stance ever so slightly, still an unyielding barrier in front of you. Captain America’s gaze takes in your battered form. He sucks in a breath, as though dreading what Hydra’s done this time. “I can get you both somewhere safe,” Captain America continues, eyes flicking to the gun aimed at him. “A S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. You won’t be locked up; I promise. And you”—he glances at the Winter Soldier—“I know who you are, even if you might not remember me and I want to help.”

A beat of silence, heavy with tension. The Winter Soldier’s finger lingers near the trigger, but he doesn’t fire. You see the subtle shift in his posture—there’s protective fury there, yes, but also uncertainty. He’s trying to figure out if Captain America is lying.

Looking between them, you muster your voice, hoarse from pain and fear. “We can't keep going like this,” you admit quietly, and your gaze flicks to the Soldier’s resolute face. “If there’s a chance we can get rid of Hydra looking for us, I'm willing to risk it." The Winter Soldier remains silent, but you sense him wavering. He cares enough to keep you alive, and that might be the deciding factor. He sets his jaw, then lowers the pistol, though not fully. The universal gesture is clear: We’ll hear you out, but don’t try anything.

With painstaking slowness, Captain America moves to his belt, retrieving a small med kit. He sets it on a crate nearby, then steps back, hands raised. “We can do more once we’re safe,” he says. “Let me call for transport. We’ll get you both to a secure facility.”

The Soldier gives a curt nod. Relieved, Captain America speaks softly into a communication device, requesting immediate evac. The tension in the air remains thick—nothing about this situation is guaranteed. But a spark of hope roots in your chest. You have a chance, however slim, to escape Hydra’s clutches and be free.

When the Captain finishes, he shifts his stance, moving to lift you up so you won’t have to walk with that bleeding wound. But the Winter Soldier reacts faster—almost reflexively. In a blur of motion, he’s already bracing an arm beneath your knees, another around your back. He does it with surprising care, mindful not to jostle your injured side.

The Captain pauses, lowering his arms to his sides. There’s no reprimand or jealousy in his gaze, just a flicker of relief—maybe even gratitude—when he sees the soldier cradling you so protectively. It’s as if he takes comfort in this rare display of empathy from the man he once considered an enemy.

Captain America steps back to give the two of you space, his voice steady but kind as he murmurs, “Let’s get you out of here.” He leads the way out of the grimy warehouse, shield clutched in one hand,. The Soldier follows in his wake, cradling you securely, each step taken with meticulous care.

[cowpokeredeemed]

Also saw it mentioned the DNA of the body inside didn’t match his kids according to the army. Either it’s altogether bad information, he was cucked, or he��s still alive and out there

Tom Elliott on X: "Before he arrived at Trump Hotel with a bullet in his head in a Tesla rigged with explosives, Michael Liveisberger was apparently trying to call attention to China’s role in the New Jersey drones situation" / X

Expand the memo above and read it.

[guerillas-of-history]

🚨 Today, the occupation published footage of Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya shackled in prison.

Dr. Abu Safiya was arrested on December 28, 2024, after occupation forces stormed Kamal Adwan Hospital. During the raid, he was severely beaten and used as a human shield.

Abu Safiya lost his son who ascended to martyrdom due to occupation forces’ gunfire during the siege of Kamal Adwan Hospital. He was also injured by shrapnel from an IOF shell when occupation soldiers targeted the hospital, which was then destroyed and set on fire after being forcibly evacuating all medical staff and patients, some of whom were martyred.

He was held in solitary confinement for 24 days.

Lawyer of Dr. Abu Safiya from Al-Mezan Center for Human Rights to Safa News Agency:

- Dr. Abu Safiya is suffering from severe health complications due to the torture he endured in occupation prisons.

- The torture he faced in Gaza before being transferred to the occupation’s prisons was brutal, involving inhumane methods that disregarded his status as a doctor.

- The charge against Dr. Abu Safiya is that he continued working at Kamal Adwan Hospital despite threats from the occupation army, in addition to working within the Gaza government affiliated with Hamas.

- These accusations do not classify him as an "unlawful combatant" and therefore do not strip him of his rights as a prisoner under the Fourth Geneva Convention.

- The Southern Command Chief of the occupation army issued a decision to detain Abu Safiya for 45 days until the "israeli" court upholds the arrest order.

- If the court confirms the "unlawful combatant" designation, Abu Safiya will be sentenced to six months of actual imprisonment, subject to renewal.

- The "unlawful combatant" status is similar to administrative detention in that the period can be extended. However, it differs in definition:

- An "unlawful combatant" is detained in war zones.

Administrative detention ends when the occupation deems the prisoner "no longer a threat," whereas an "unlawful combatant" remains in detention indefinitely.

[evilminji]

My ONGOING "SI-OC Ponderings that my Muse is haunting me with but I may never get around to write" Series!

Because, fuck it, might as well. Maybe it will inspire somebody?

Jedi Youngling! Staring down that double barrel Order 66! FUCK.

Now, see, they don't blame the Clones. They don't even blame the Jedi. Whole lot of "victims of circumstance and our Wrong Place Wrong Time environment" going on. But? Are they gonna lay down and take it? Fffffuck no!

They JUST got this body!

Also?

THESE ARE BABIES.

They, An ADULT, have a god damned MORAL OBLIGATION to save as many of this itty bitty alien babies as they can. They warn the adults, obviously. But they FULLY expect? And are unsurprised? When they DON'T LISTEN.

There is a Force Damned PRECEDENT for that. (May you finally rest in peace now, Master Sifo-Dyas.)

The younglings though? THEY didn't get to make a choice. THEY are innocents. And as the only ADULT with knowledge of what's to come? It's HER moral, ethical, and Force given obligation to PROTECT them until they can do so themselves.

As a Jedi... she has to PICK.

Try to save the adults? Those who willfully chose ignorance AND have the ability to defend themselves? To fight and flee under their own power? Or... save the younglings, the infants and babies. Those whose ignorance is that of the young and still learning? Who CAN NOT fight. Can Not run?

It's no choice at all. And if they truely understood? She can only hope they would command her to do EXACTLY as she is doing. Would demand no less. Consider it UNTHINKABLE to ever choose them.

She searches out the hidden passages. Practices lifting things instead of sword stances. She will need to carry so much. Move so quickly. She KNOWS where the attack will come from... Force willing, if she plans well? The Creches will be EMPTY by the time the soilders arrive.

But for that? She must steal. Redirect. Take things from where they should be. It is easier then it should be. First because no expects true mischief from a child, then? Because a war has begun.

Restriction Bolts of the Temple droids and a simple explanation is enough to gain their assistance. It's illogical not to have a plan, even if you never use it. And through them? "Liberated" data jewels. Already plumbed for all the information they're good for. High end, too.

Perfect.

She wipes them all. Fashion's a belt that, one day, Force willing she might wear as a necklace. Then sets to work coping EVERYTHING about the Jedi. When the temple is lost? Their history should not be.

So long as this string of jewels alone survives.

The Jedi are remembered. Luke with not have to start over from half memories and hearsay. They can learn from the past AND still have it. She puts diaries, prophecies, books the jedi wrote for fun. Various Force sects both past and still alive. Teaching methods. Anything. Everything.

A time capsule.

It HAS to be enough.

She fears it's not. Sneaks into the hall of retired Sabers. Sits. And opens her mind to them all. Please. Please! She knows. She's so, SO sorry. You were done. You EARNED your rest. She would not ask this if youngling were not on the line. If Illum might not become to dangerous to travel too.

....if she did not fear what would become of you, should you stay.

The Sith is coming. He WILL take the temple.

Will you come with me now?

Some do, some promise to die, and die VICIOUS. Swear to blow to deadly shrapnel in the hands of any who dare come for them. Others leave their casings. Willing to come, but not as they were. She apologizes for the indignity, as she stuffs them all in the hidden paths.

Honestly? They muse. They've seen worse. Remember that-? WE DO NOT SPEAK OF THAT. HE WAS TRYING HIS BEST, OKAY?!

And all throughout? One must wonder. What do the other younglings think? That OC is strange? Mad? To be ostracized? No, of course not. She is nice. Listens when they're upset. Does not judge or make every emotion a test. Hugs come readily and her mind FEELS older. Like the Creche Master.

And? If Master YODA can be short? Why not OC? She just lives with them. The other Knights and Master's don't listen to her because she Sees things. It scares them. They SAY they do. But children know the difference, don't they? Between what you promise you'll do... and what you'll ACTUALLY do?

But see, the Creche Master's? Increasingly distracted. Preparing the eldest of their charges for WAR ZONES. It's stressful. The fact that the youngers are quiet? SHOULD raise alarm bells. They KNOW better. But they are distracted.

The ones who DO notice? Are the orphan Padawan. The older initiates. People assigned to "help out".

There aren't enough mind healers. Not enough hands to help around the Creche. It was considered a good idea. Young children are full of uncomplicated Light! Yes, Yoda. They are. But as with Obi-Wan, so too with the Crechelings? Children are NOT here to mend the hurts of their elders. That is NOT their purpose.

They are exposing the youngers to Fear and Grief. Broken bonds and the echos of war. This is NOT good for young force sensitives.

Yet... are THEY not young Force Sensitives? Children too? OC knows they are. And it is a bitterness on her tounge. She does what she can. Because SHE is and adult. They notice too. How can they not? The other children turn to her, she guides them through their day. She gives "projects" and listens to concerns. Walks everyone through meditation.

......runs everyone through the Evacuation Plan? WHAT Evacuation Plan?

Oh.

It... it helps. Having something they are PART of. Doing TOGETHER. Something to combat the growing, creeping, darkness that is not violence and death. This? This is planning. Preparation. It... it feels like have some sense of control again, after everything has become senseless and OUT of control. Yet? It is not DARK. Not seeking to force control on others.

It is just... quietly stepping back.

One foot, then another. Calmly and with grief. Letting go, knowing you have tried, as you leave those who have made their choices to the fates they chose. Silently slipping out the door before the building begins to burn. Just as you warned them. Just as they refused to hear.

It's okay to grieve.

Even those who are still alive.

Of course, Shadows ARE supposed to notice unusual movements. Spies and Falling are a concern. Heeey, little youngling! How's things? Just swinging byyyy~☆ soft interrogation tactics~! Gonna admit to any of the Blatant Theft?

Yes, actually. Good you are here. Saves OC the trouble of trying to figure out who is and isn't a Shadow. Kinda convenient, Master Vos, that it's you. What's the fastest set of ships you could stash at the exit to this and THIS hidden path? By this date?

He's sorry, what?

You heard her.

Tiny youngling, unflinching, staring him down and asking for ships like that's a thing she has any right to do? Why? Well... that depends. Are you actually going to listen, Master Vos, or do you want an answer that will comfort you?

Excuse me.

Do you remember? Master Vos, the suffering of Sifo-Dyas? A temple full of Jedi, a seat upon it's council, yet not a single soul would hear him. Would truely listen. How many Knights? How many Masters? Tell me, Master Vos, exactly how many have DIED for willful ignorance and attachment to peaceful days?

There could not POSSIBLY be Sith. So we will not train or prepare. There can not POSSIBLY be a war, Sifo-Dyas, so be consumed by your fear alone. Die, alone. Let Padawan and peacekeepers be Generals. Because what the Force has shown you? It is happening today.

So we refuse to see it. Cling to the present, Master Vos.

Isn't it so COMFORTING here?

You don't have to know what might be. Don't have to ACT. Can be blind and choose ignorance.

A vision then? He surely concludes. For he is no fool. And the Youngling just looks tired. Eats their meal. Answer the question, Master Vos. Do you remember? Was Master Kenobi's suffering also ignored? How well did that work out. Will you LISTEN or have you already come to your conclusions, and now simply seek information to support them?

....he wants to. He does. But you're like, four.

OC nods. Fair. She can see the genuine conflict on his face. He HEARD her. But can not let go of what his eyes tell him. The Force is too muddled here. She too, would have a hard time trusting a small child with something so serious. But.... she can not change her path. And neither can he.

May the Force Be With You, Master Vos.

Plan Besh it is.

She is a small adorable child. The Coruscant gaurd are overworked and filled with spite. Who wants caff and bribery~? Do they clock her immediately? Yes. Is this hilarious. Also yes. Who did you kill, small child? We promise not to be mad.

No one, yet. Could change. She would prefere it not. But who knows. Anyway~☆! Do any of YOU caff loving (here have a refill) gentleman happen to know of any asshole Goverment Officals with REALLY fast ships that run primarily of droid piloting? With potentially easily disabled trackers? Not that she, a small child, would be DOING anything with this information!

It's just neat information to know! *innocent blinking of innocence*

Uh huh. And they were decanted yesterday.

That SAID.... they have a list. Oh noooo! They dropped the list! So much effort to pick it up. Hey, kid, could pick that up and definitely not steal it for us? Good baby Jedi. Thanks for the Caff. Tell Vos to stop haunting the lower levels. It's OUR job to hunt criminals for sport, not his.

Yes, sir o7

Of she goes? To the Senatorial Garage. It's mostly droids. Of LOOK! I have this handy little tool! Pop. Pop, pop, pop~! Hey? Wanna fuck over the asshole who doesn't appreciate you, steal this ship, AND save the lives of small children?

BOY WOULD THEY! Says local every droid in the Ship pool.

Great! Just figure out where the trackers are, how to turn them off, and when it's time? Meet a one of these locations for pick up. We're gonna NEED you. Like... actually NEED. Not "I'm throwing my money around on the latest and greatest then not USING THEM FOR ANYTHING" supposedly need. You'll have SO MUCH WORK.

(They're gonna cry in Binary. Omg? Fuckin FINALLY???)

And so... inevitably. The clock ticks down. The drama of adults ramps up. They smuggle a few clone troopers through surgery. Try to warn the others. Know it won't be enough. The momentum is too great. The gears of War will grind over everything.

Like a forest fire... the old has to burn away for new growth.

But like hell is she letting that come at the cost of tiny bodies. Clones trapped in their minds forced to fire upon children. There will be enough horrors this day. This can be on less. They WILL be ready. And... they are.

She sees the council running out. Knows what it means. And she does NOT hesitate. Her signal goes out. Her Padawan helpers dropping everything to BOLT for the Creche and the go bags stored there. They are followed by friends. Who do not understand, but trust them. Who's Master's do not understand, but assume this is some plan they were not told off.

It certainly seems so, when in the distance? They hear the temple gaurds fighting to hold the line. Hear blasterfire. They race down the hidden paths. Are met with droids, loading up food and medicine, leave as soon as each ship has the assigned numbers. Again and again. Senatorial chips mean instant pass into space. Important business, you understand.

The droids will follow, with everything. Including what was nailed down. Probably the nails too.

Might steal the hammers while they're at it.

Next stop? Wild Space.

Explorcorps newest finds. FRESHLY deleted. All points warning already being sent. A Fuck You Very MUCH, Sith-y Pants. You'll not be getting ANY of the Corps workers if THEY can help it. And hey... the Masters and a few knights were a pleasant suprise. Them and their squad of rescue troopers? Almost make enough adults to take care of everybody!

Now all they have to do? Is hide, rebuild, and regrow.

Return when Luke has down his Luke thing.

Who knows... not her. She made a plan and she DID it. Some one else can decide for a while. She's just a kid. Tell her when they get there, okay?

[dekulakization]

Not to be a nerd on main but I've got some shit to say about Curly mouthwashing.

Initial injuries:

How did Curly end up a tetralateral amputee. Why were the amputations PERFORMED for that matter. His injuries apparently reached all four limbs in equal spots. The right eye being covered implies either that the blast was stronger on the right side (AKA that he was turned so that the blast faced the right side of his body) or that he received additional injuries (perhaps shrapnel or an injury as he was thrown backwards by the force of the blast). IF he was turned to the blast with his right side of the body, wouldn't the injuries be more severe there? More damaged tissue, more unsalvageable tissue. If this was the case I feel like his amputations would be up to the hip/shoulder. I've heard the idea that he was perhaps stuck in foam but that doesn't clear anything up for me. Were his arms and legs both equally inside of the foam so that when the blast struck his joints (elbows/knees) were all injured beyond repair?

Even if that's the case, they didn't have the supplies for an amputation (let alone 4) by ANY means. There was no trained medical personnel on board (Anya only finished the company course) and amputation is a dangerous procedure just as any other surgery is. I feel like attempting to perform a botched amputation would be far more dangerous than leaving the tissue be. Though that poses the risk of necrosis. More on necrosis later.

Infection, cardiovascular concerns, blood loss and thermoregulation:

How did the crew stop the initial bleeding? How did they remove whatever they used to stop the initial bleeding? Blood loss had to be severe, and I feel like the crew would get to him far too late to stop him bleeding out completely. And for my second statement, things stick. Tissue paper sticks, cloth sticks, it sticks to tissue. Anything would cause further damage of the tissue.

Is ALL of his skin gone? All of it burned off? Is there still patches of it in tact? Either way, he lost ANY methods of thermoregulation since most of it (that being, the skin) is gone and the crew don't even bother to try and maybe, I don't know, stop him from going hypothermic. Give him a blanket. None of that. He's in a gown and some bandages. How did he not die of hypothermia?

Directly tied to the lack of thermoregulation, the bleeding and the pain, how did his heart not give out from the initial shock and later on psychophysical strain? I genuinely find it so hard to believe that after all of that his heart would still be holding out. It's a muscle that can overstrain itself just like any other.

Why and how in the world did he NOT get anything infected??? Jesus Christ? As far as we're aware he hasn't changed that gown nor those bandages in months. There is no disinfectant on the ship and even if there was using it on him would damage tissue further. Your skin protects the tissue underneath from infection and that's why it's easy for wounds to get infected, because they're breaks in the skin. It should be necrotic. What the hell. Also how's he not blind how didn't his eye dry out he can't blink

The purpose of keeping him alive: torturers tending to injuries

It's clear that the crew can recognise when a mercy killing is necessary (such as shown on the example of Daisuke). So why in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD is Curly left alive? Is it punishment because they think he crashed the ship? Why give him painkillers then? Why are you easing his pain? To stop his heart from giving out, to keep him alive longer?

IIRC Anya DID want to kill Curly but Jimmy was against it. This would not only completely out Jimmy as a sadist but it makes me wonder why is his word valued above the word of someone who has more medical experience than him, even if it was just a company course. Was she scared of what he'd do if she didn't listen to him?? Also why is this not a matter the entire crew is supposed to discuss??? And this leads into my NEXT point:

Why is nobody attempting to establish some sort of communication method with Curly? Hello?? He's clearly conscious and present within the moment, able to see and process the things around him. He literally cannot do anything. The least you could do, if you truly want to ease pain, is to try to stimulate him intellectually. To talk to him like a man to a man. His humanity was stripped from him by his surroundings rather than the crash itself. Letting him stare at a white ceiling with his only stimulation being pills forced down his throat is genuinely inhumane. Nobody is asking him whether HE wants to live or to die. Nobody is taking into consideration that he still has thoughts.

Perhaps I'm taking the entirety of his character too literally. Don't get me wrong, I love this game. I haven't played it myself, I could only bring myself to watch analysis videos, so some of the things I say might be straight up wrong, and I'm willing to take any criticism and discussion that starts. This was just me nerding out about medicine

[chuunai]

hey, congrats 100 followers !! i would love to join your celebration♡ may i request beastzai (or js adazai) with the scenario married life (1) & all in all, it was a typical tuesday (8) as the prompt ?

congrats on 100 again !!!! it’s a big number and a big achievement !!

I think Dazai is really hot too.

✧˚ · . vroom vroom, than a table for two - dazai osamu

he certainly couldn’t complain.

summary ⋆ ★ comfort, fluff, established relationship (marriage with reader), SFW → icky PDA, cutesy nicknames, minor mention of sex (it’s like barely there though) and overall puppy husband dazai. also obvious mentions of suicide its DAZAI

It was Tuesday.

And also another hardworking day at the Agency. So, so tiring, according to your husband—not that he ever worked—to the point where he simply needed a break with his lovely spouse. That’s how you found yourself hand-in-hand with him during your lunch break, walking down the sidewalks of Yokohama while he excitedly spoke about a new suicide method he had heard of.

Yesterday was a homemade shrapnel bomb, today was a wrecking ball.

“Basically, you hide out in a building that’s scheduled to be demolished and eventually it collapses on you! Pretty sweet, isn’t it?”

Quirking an eyebrow, he turned to you expectantly, a cheery smile on his face. It was quick, painless enough method of suicide. Beautiful in a way, too. Sunlight would be warming his skin, the air fresh and crisp and then tons of concrete and plaster would crush his entire body in one fell swoop. No pain, just gain of access to the afterlife.

Looking back at him, you sheepishly shrugged, replying back to amuse both him and yourself. 50% of the time, his attempts were idiotic and funny, the other 50% was genuinely worrying and mildly terrifying. Today seemed to be the former, though. Thankfully.

Plus, it wasn’t like the method would even work due to some random info you found out about on the internet.

“Yeah, but I’m like, ninety-nine percent sure they check the buildings for people before they demolish them. So you’d get found out.”

Your tone was as equally playful and light as his. He wouldn’t really kill himself. You weren’t ready for a double suicide yet, sadly. His lips curled into a frown when you mentioned how it wouldn’t work, his fingers squeezing yours as he exaggerated his sigh.

“And here I was, certain of my demise! Guess that means I’ll be with you a bit longer, darling.”

Not that he really minded.

Sure, he constantly went off about suicide and how beautiful the whole concept was, but at the end of the day, he wouldn’t want to die without you at his side. He’s firmly one of those people who’d kill himself after his beloved died. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself after you died. Sure, he made Odasaku a promise, but he made you a vow.

Until death do them part.

When you died, so would he.

But no one was dying today. Just a happy day for a happy couple.

Dazai’s hand slipped out of yours, curling around your hips instead as he pulled you closer to his side. He wanted to show off his pretty partner to anyone who happened to look over at you two. Show off the person who owns his heart and soul and is his perfect reason to live for just a little bit longer. No one else deserved his gorgeous belladonna.

Just him and him only.

Only Dazai could kiss your lips at any given moment—publicly or privately—, and only he could watch you dress up for dates, brushing out your hair while he mumbled compliments into the spot where your collarbone met your neck. Only Dazai could spend hours with you at night, hearing his name from your lips while his fingers intertwined with yours at the intimate moments.

No one else could hope to do the same with you.

That’s why he soon was leading you into a bakery, the smell of pastries and bread flooding the air as he looked over the treats in the display cases. Black sesame roll cakes, all squishy looking and yummy. The cookies ranging from chocolate chip to matcha and plain vanilla. They all looked so good, but the prices weren’t quite the same.

God, when it came to money, Dazai wished he was still in the Mafia. At least he had tons of it back then.

Now, he had to be a bit more frugal with his income from the Agency. Sure, you guys weren’t dirt poor or unable to afford food and other necessities, but you couldn’t always get special snacks like this. Maybe once every week or two, if you could do so.

Nudging your shoulder, he tapped the glass, looking at you expectantly. He always did this—letting you choose what the two of you would eat. Dazai didn’t mind either. You had good taste unlike his diet of canned crab and alcohol.

“I trust my lovely spouse’s taste and that you’ll pick something good like always.”

He was such a puppy. Only for you, he thought.

“Uhmm…dunno. Pick a number, one or two.”

Dazai placed a finger on his lips, pretending to be in thought like it was the most important decision in his twenty-two years of life so far. Brows furrowed in concentration, eyes darting between you and the sweet treats while he hummed quietly. One or two? Eh. He’d go with two. There was the two of you here, after all.

“Two.”

He watched as you pointed at a slice of strawberry cheesecake, your eyes looking at him for approval. Honestly, Dazai never understood why you wanted his approval for everything. You were his equal—his life partner, nonetheless—so there was really no need for this behavior. But he couldn’t blame you. Even now, he had a bit of a commanding aura.

“Oooooh, that looks good! Knew you’d pick something tasty.”

Dazai pecked your cheek affectionately while he held your hand walking to the counter, ordering two slices of strawberry cheesecake, taking out Kunikida’s credit card that he had ‘borrowed’ from the blondie earlier at work. Compared to the thievery he had committed in his younger years, it was practically begging to be used with how his wallet was smack dab in the middle of his desk.

Carefully holding the two plates of the cheesecake slices, he led you over to a table in the corner, giving you a fork as he sat down across from you. He didn’t eat until you dug into your piece first, making sounds of contentment as sweetness coated both your taste buds. Geez, it was good. Worth the price for sure. The corner of your lips were stained with the white frosting, and so he swiped his thumb over the mess, cooing at you like a parent.

“Ah ah, ‘donna. You’re getting messy.”

Dazai liked the flush of your face. How flustered you were as you insisted you could clean yourself and that you weren’t a baby and a fully capable grown adult.

“I’m not a baby, ‘samu! I can take care of myself, ‘kay?”

Of course, of course.

“Uh-huh. And you’re not a baby. You’re my baby. My clumsy little baby who can’t eat without making a mess.”

Chewing on the rest of his slice, minutes passed, filled with conversations between the two of you about work, how Atsushi was doing—probably still traumatized and fucked over, is what you both agreed about—, plans for dinner. You tastefully ignored his comment about what he wanted for dessert. At least there weren’t any kids in the bakery.

Thankfully for everyone else in the establishment, your ‘lunch’ was finished. Walking out of the cafe, he clasped onto your hand firmly, feeling his wedding ring rub against your skin. The sounds of honking and birds chirping filled the air, but all Dazai could hear were your gentle breaths coupled with the sound of your footsteps.

Nothing really mattered besides you, in his eyes.

His everything—his reason to live.

Eternally.

Tags: @twst-om-lover, @sinfulthoughtsposts

[wolfylady]

Sunlight and Shadow

Summary: Soap was like the sun, and Ghost was like a shadow trailing after.

Note: This story can be read as a stand-alone and be under 10 chapters, and will be the prologue to another story.

Trigger Warning ⚠️: Self-deprecating, omegaverse (hinted at), violence

Pairing: Soap and Ghost (alphaXalpha)

Rating: Teen and Up (will be raised to Explicit/NSFW later)

Word Count: 703

Chapter 2

Enjoy!

Soap noticed the staring first.

Not the kind of obvious stares you could catch in a mirror or pin with a smirk. Ghost wasn’t careless. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t allow himself to be caught.

But Soap had a sixth sense for being watched, and Ghost? His eyes were heavy when they landed, sharp as steel, cold as judgment. Eyes like an executioner, Soap thought more than once. Unforgiving. Final.

At first, it rattled him. Then it thrilled him.

Because Ghost wasn’t just watching.

He was trying not to.

There was tension in it—tight, fraying at the edges. A restraint that felt almost physical, like Ghost was holding back from something dangerous. Something intimate in the way his head tilted slightly when Soap spoke. In the way his jaw clenched when Soap got too close to danger. In the way his voice dropped when he said, “Johnny—on me.”

Not Soap.

Not MacTavish.

Not even John.

Johnny.

That name—spoken in a voice like gravel and ash—was the only softness in Ghost’s armor. A fracture in the steel. A whisper of something human beneath all that black.

And Soap started to crave it.

He remembered the first time Ghost really touched him.

It was after a mission gone sideways outside Benghazi. Too many bodies. Too little intel. A clean exit turned messy.

Soap had taken shrapnel to the ribs. Not enough to down him, but enough to make breathing sting. He sat on the edge of a shipping crate, blood soaking through his shirt, muttering half-heartedly about needing stitches and a pint.

Ghost walked over—silent, looming.

Said nothing at first. Then reached out. One gloved hand curled under Soap’s jaw, tilting his face toward the light. “Hold still,” he said, low and firm.

It wasn’t necessary. The wound wasn’t on his face. But the touch lingered. His thumb grazed the stubble on Soap’s cheek. His fingers held, just long enough to feel him.

And Soap’s breath caught. Not because of the pain. But because of the way Ghost was looking at him.

After that… the quiet began to hum.

Soap noticed everything.

The way Ghost always stood between him and the nearest door. The way he lingered when Soap laughed. How his posture shifted when Soap laughed—shoulders easing like the sound unlocked something tight in his chest. How his eyes softened, barely perceptible, when Soap called him Simon.

He didn’t push.

Didn’t flirt.

He just… waited.

Because whatever was growing between them—whatever this magnetic pull was—it didn’t need teasing, it wasn’t a game.

It was something fragile.

It needed trust.

It needed time.

And Soap, for all his fire, had the patience to wait for a ghost.

It happened in the middle of nothing. Not a mission. Not a moment of crisis.

Just the two of them in the armory. Cleaning weapons. Sharing space. Ghost was methodical and silent—every movement precise. Soap, in contrast, was humming some half-remembered tune from Glasgow under his breath. Not loud, just something to fill the silence.

But the quiet had changed lately. It wasn’t awkward anymore. It was… familiar. Comfortable.

Ghost was watching him from across the table. Not obviously. Just… present. Studying. His eyes had a weight that Soap could always feel.

And when Soap caught the slide of his gaze and smirked— “What?” he asked, laughing under his breath.

Ghost didn’t look away.

Didn’t speak right away either.

Then, low and even: “You’ve got carbon buildup on your bolt, Johnny.”

And just like that—Soap froze.

That voice—usually sharp, clipped, professional—had turned soft. Almost… warm. And Johnny. Not as a call sign. Not as an order.

It was gentle. Like Ghost had said his name like it belonged to him. Like he liked the taste of it.

Not Soap.

Not Sergeant.

Johnny.

Soft. Quiet. Real.

Soap blinked, throat dry. “You’ve never called me that before,” he said, voice quieter than it had been a second ago.

Ghost looked down at his rifle. “Sure I have.”

“Not like that.”

Ghost’s mouth twitched under his mask. The barest ghost of a smile only made visible by the twitch of fabric.

It hit Soap like a blow to the chest. And he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

wolfYLady: Chapter 2! Let me know what you think please!

Ao3

🔙Chapter 1 •●• Chapter 3🔜

Sunlight, Moonlight, and Her Series🔜

[najia-cooks]

[ID: Sweet potatoes with black, charred skin on a decorative plate. One has been opened to show bright orange flesh, sprinkled with sugar. End ID]

بطاطا حلوة مشوية / Batata hiluwa mashwiyya (Roasted sweet potatoes)

Sweet potatoes are considered a traditional and nostalgic food in Palestine—a gift from the land, a seasonal delicacy, a potentially profitable crop, "red gold." Every fall and winter, as they are grilled in taboon ovens throughout Gaza, their smell fills the air.

This recipe uses a method of preparation common in rural Palestine, which applies direct heat to char the potatoes; the black, crackly skin is then peeled off, leaving tender, steaming, sweet flesh with a roasted aroma. The peeled sweet potato is eaten on its own, or sprinkled with sugar.

The recent history of sweet potatoes in Gaza is a microcosm of Israel's economic control of the region during that time. Though they grow well in Gaza's soil, they are a risky commitment for its farmers, as the seeds or seedlings must be imported from Israel at considerable expense (about 40 shekels, or $10, per plantlet), and they need to be weeded every day and irrigated every other day. Water for irrigation is scarce in Gaza, as Israel drains and contaminates much of the supply.

Nevertheless, the crop would be a profitable one if Gazan farmers were allowed to export it. In the shmita year of 2014, for the first time since the Israeli military's deadly 51-day invasion two months prior, restrictions briefly eased to allow Gazans to export some agricultural products to Europe; the first shipment contained 30 tons of sweet potatoes. However, an estimated 90% of the sweet potato crop was at that time unsuitable for export, having been damaged by Israeli shrapnel. The Gazan Ministry of Agriculture estimated that damages of this kind cost the agricultural sector about 550 million USD during this year.

Gazan economist Maher al-Taba’a holds that Israel temporarily allowing export of a token amount of sweet potatoes “is nothing more than media propaganda which is meant to confuse international audiences" by giving the impression that the siege on Gaza was looser than it had been before the 2014 ceasefire agreement; meanwhile, the number of allowed exports had actually decreased since before the invasion occurred. Gazan farmers, in fact, were not even allowed to export produce to Palestinians in the West Bank until 2017.

The next shmita year (an agricultural sabbath during which ultra-Orthodox Jews allow their fields to lie fallow) began in September of 2021, around the same time as the beginning of the sweet potato harvest. In anticipation of the shmita year, and in keeping with the trickle of Gazan exports that had been allowed into Israel in the intervening years, many farmers had planted more than they otherwise would have. But Israel delayed accepting the imports, leading many farmers to throw away rotting produce, or to sell their produce in the local market for far lower prices than they had been expecting.

Israel's habit of closing off Gaza's exports arbitrarily and without notice recurred during the harvest season of 2022. When Israeli former MK Yaakov Litzman called on Minister of Agriculture and Rural Development Oded Forer to import sweet potatoes from Gaza due to a shortage of the produce in Israel, Forer refused, citing Israeli soldiers whom Palestinian resistance fighters had taken hostage as rationale for his decision. Other officials were surprised at the linking of an agricultural matter to a political one.

Farmers had no choice but to enter the harvest season hoping that the decision would be reversed and that their time, labor, money, and scarce water resources would not go to waste. With these last-minute decisions that cause Gazan farmers to be unable to fulfill their contracts, Israel damages the future viability of Gazan exports to European markets.

Support Palestinian resistance by calling Elbit System’s (Israel’s primary weapons manufacturer) landlord and donating to Palestine Action’s bail fund.

Equipment:

A fire, wood-burning oven, gas stove, or broiler

A baking sheet

Ingredients:

Sweet potatoes. Choose a variety with red or orange skin and orange flesh, such as garnet or jewel.

Sugar, cinnamon, date syrup, or tahina, to serve.

Instructions:

1. Wash sweet potatoes. Place them at the bottom of a taboon oven, or on a baking sheet or griddle laid over a cooking fire or gas burner. You may also place them on a baking sheet or cast-iron pan inside an oven with a broiler setting.

2. Turn the gas burner on medium-high, or the broiler on low. Heat the sweet potatoes, occasionally rotating them, until their skin is blistered and blackened in multiple places and they are tender all the way through.

3. Remove potatoes and allow them to cool slightly. Slice each potato open lengthwise, or peel away its skin, and eat the interior.

Roasted sweet potatoes may be eaten on their own, or sprinkled with sugar or cinnamon-sugar, or drizzled with date syrup, tahina, chocolate sauce, etc.

[pinturas-sgm-aviacion]

1943 05 Bf109G-1 5_JG11 Staffelkapitän Lt Heinz Knoke - Arkadiusz Wróbel

It was early morning on May 14, 1943. The Airfield at Jever, headquarters of II./JG 11, was a hive of activity with aircraft being readied for combat. Beautiful weather guaranteed that USAAF bomber formations would almost certainly appear over northern Germany. Technicians were straining to secure 250 kg bombs to the belly racks of the Messerschmitt Bf 109Gs of 5.Staffel. Dropping bombs onto four-engine USAAF bombers flying in tight formation was a new tactic recently conceived by Oblt. Heinz Knoke of 5./JG 11.

The theory was that a Messerschmitt Bf 109 would ascend to an altitude of 9000 meters, positioning over a group of bombers and release a time-fuzed bomb set to explode with 15 seconds delay. A bomb detonating between American bombers flying in close formation would, it was hoped, tear the tightly packed «Pulk» apart, simultaneously damaging or destroying one or more bombers.

This method had been employed for the first time on March 22nd, 1943, when a bomb dropped by Oblt. Knoke had accounted for one Flying Fortress and damaged two others.

By 11.00 am the technicians had finished sweating under the bellies of the four Bf 109Gs. Loaded with 250 kg bombs they were ready for take-off. Fifteen minutes later a message arrived at Jever from divisional headquarters. A bomber formation some 136 aircraft strong had appeared over the North Sea. The Messerschmitts scram- bled at 11.30 am sharp. The overloaded machines strained for altitude. The minutes dragged as the Germans clawed up to an altitude of 9000 meters.

Ahead of them, at a slightly lower altitude over Holstein, the German pilots could see numerous contrails, heralding the incoming bomber forma tion. It appeared that the target of the raid had to be Kiel. The fighter Schwarm flying in loose formation closed on the bombers. Just as they were in position to release their bombs, the Amer- icans swung into a turn. The Messerschmitts, weighed down by bombs, wallowing in the thin air, reacted slowly like turtles before maneuver ing back over the USAAF formation. Once again the bombers altered course, as if recognising what the German's intention actually was. Finally, at the third attempt, it appeared that the fighters were in position to mount their attack. At that moment the anti-aircraft artillery at Kiel's navy base opened up. The gunners salvos were accurate. Unfortunately their own fighters came under fire. 88 mm cal iber shells exploded around the fighter force, forc- ing the 109s to break off their attack and take evasive action. Oblt. Knoke's voice could be heard in the headset , "Attack separately. Good luck!"

Knoke pulled into a wide turn and looked down. The ,Yankees" had just released their cargoes of bombs over the Germania shipyard. Their accuracy was astonishing. "How do they manage that? If they continue, they will bomb us out of this war in a few months!"

However this was no time for quiet reflection. He spotted a "combat box" consisting of at least 18 Flying Fortresses flying at lower altitude ahead of him. He did his best to account as accurately as possible for the time- fuze and released his bomb. The Messerschmitt reared up a few good meters. Knoke observed his bomb plunging down towards the head of the bomber formation. Nothing ! It failed to detonate! Several seconds later three explosions appeared near the bombers. These were the bombs dropped by the remaining pilots of the Schwarm. The bomb er formation instantly broke apart. Several Fortresses, caught in the blasts of the explosions and dam- aged by shrapnel, veered out of their positions in their box. The remaining Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulf Fw 190s of the Stab and I.JG 11 appeared instantly and fell upon the heavy American bomb ers like birds of prey. A fierce battle began.

Oblt. Knoke dove in for a frontal attack on a group of about 30 Fortresses flying slightly ahead of the others. He was still a few hundred meters distance from the enemy when he felt hits in the fuselage of his "Gustav". The aircraft shuddered and Knoke banked away. The engine continued to run like clockwork. A quick glance at the instruments showed no untoward indications. Knoke decided to give it another try. He approached the formation one more time. Selecting a machine flying to the right of the group's leader, his first burst of fire slammed into the cockpit glazing. The Fortress reared up and almost stopped like a raging bull hit by a toreador's sword. A fraction of a second later the almighty bomber went down whirling into tight right spiral. At 3000 meters above the ground one of its wings sheared off. At 12.17 pm the Fortress smashed into the ground near Husum. Pulling away from the group of the remaining Fortresses, the German fighter registered more hits in its fuselage and fin. Knoke glanced at his fuel gauge. He couldn't attempt another attack, it was time to get back to base.

[mackerel-of-the-deep]

Background

Events are the same up until Oda's death, where Dazai interprets his last words differently. He believes he himself is incapable of becoming a good man, but he can push others to be good and make the world a little more beautiful by filling the world with the good people he could never be.

His relationship with Akutagawa is much better than it was. It still isn't perfect, but Dazai offers praise much more freely now and will even take Akutagawa out to eat if he's done well. He's also attempting to teach him the value of human life and what it means to take someone else's so he's not just a killing machine. They're working on it. Help out an orphan, like Oda said.

He himself is not a stranger to using underhanded methods to fulfill his goals. He believes it's already too late for him to be a good man, so he has no problem with getting his hands dirty for the greater good. If push comes to shove, he will manipulate, kill, and torture to get what he wants.

He framed Chuuya for killing important Port Mafia sponsors to get him to be chased out of the organization shortly after Oda's death. He believed Chuuya still had a chance to be good, so he did what he thought he had to get him out.

Chuuya now works at the ADA and Dazai will go out of his way to include the agency in his plans just to see him again. To mess with him. Definitely not because he misses him. Totally.

He is incredibly jealous of Kunikida being Chuuya's new partner. He refuses to acknowledge the fact that Chuuya even has a new partner, continuing to call him his partner even when they haven't seen each other in four years. Jealous, jealous boy, even if he would rather die than admit that.

He has a scar on his lip from blowing up Chuuya's car. Yes, he still did that. It was a part of his plan. Some of the shrapnel cut his lip.

He despises Mori for what he did to get the business permit and blames him entirely for Oda's death. He rebels against him frequently, going against Mori's plans just to disobey him while still getting the same result. He also refuses to become the next Port Mafia boss just to spite Mori, putting all of the work into preparing him for that role to waste. He uses it for Oda's dream instead, in the best way he can think to do so.

I may add to this in the future!

[mamawasatesttube]

15 FOR THA WRAPPED FICLETS YAAAA

15. Topeka - Ludo

There's something meditative about working in the garage.

Tim stares up at the undercarriage of the Batmobile—his Batmobile, via a little more Batarang budget manipulation—and drums his fingers against his socket wrench. The penetrating oil has had a good few minutes to soak into the bolts, so he's just about good to go.

The bzzzzzz-click! bzzzz-click! of his socket wrench as he rotates it is a soothing balm to his ears, right at home with the sounds of the boombox he set up against the wall. He can hear Cassie idly tapping her foot to the beat as he works, but he doesn't say anything, and she doesn't either. He just methodically unbolts the rear end of the damaged catalytic converter first, then moves to the front ones.

Once he gets it unbolted, he sets it aside; his leg brushes the oxygen sensor he put down earlier, and he scoots his creeper a little to the left so as not to accidentally kick it.

In a way, he's grateful for the shrapnel that damaged the converter. It's kind of nice to have some concrete repair work he can do with his hands, something to take his mind off the jagged, bleeding edges of the gaping hole where his heart used to be. If he focuses hard enough on the placements of the new gaskets, on the springs and the bolts to hold them in place, he can't think about any gold statues or pre-recorded funeral videos.

Cassie's voice jerks him out of his reverie. "Hey, Tim?"

Tim grunts. "Hm?"

She's quiet for a moment. He sees her scuffed red sneakers shift on the smooth concrete floor. "I'm—it feels horrible to say it, but—do you ever... There's this part of me that's just so angry at him for dying. Both of them."

Tim drops his wrench on his face.

"Shit—" He claps a hand to his stinging forehead and squeezes his eyes shut as the wrench clatters to the floor next to him. Stars sparkle in his closed eyelids.

Cassie sucks in a breath. "Sorry," she mutters.

"Just. Don't." Tim reaches for the wrench again. He could try to comfort her, but—he can't, not when there's nothing in him left. He came here to escape his grief, and she dragged it in like a cat with a mutilated rodent's corpse. "Don't. Okay?"

"Okay," Cassie says shortly. He doesn't watch her sneakers recede from view as she leaves.

[choco-cherry-chunk]

It is time!

Modern BBC Ghosts AU a la Cherry (i.e., with mpreg bullshit) - Part 6 (Final Part)

Part 6

“I beg your pardon?”

James had pondered an endless series of possibilities related to how he’d been feeling of late. After his minor heart issue, one would think he’d be more vigilant about his health. But denial could be addictive and it was only when Anthony had ordered him to visit a physician that he actually began to reflect. He wasn’t one for frantic symptom-googling, but he did wonder. His father had passed from stomach cancer; could it run in the family? What if he had some strange parasite from consuming the products of Mary and Annie’s gardening, a remnant of God knew what method of compost? Maybe it was just stress, as he’s been insisting to his husband it was, and he was just reaching a point in his life where he couldn’t operate as the well-oiled machine he so frequently saw himself as? Every option was equally anxiety-inducing.

He’d insisted to Havers that he could handle the appointment on his own. After all, it was one of the few days off the man had, and James didn’t want him to spend it in a doctor’s office. He had only agreed when James insisted he needed to carry out a few errands for his most immediate bridal clients, and that it would be easier to complete said tasks on his own. As he departed that morning, Havers held him at the door and pressed a kiss to his lips. When he pulled back, James’ gaze remained on the scar tissue about his left eye, the lightning bolt remains of shrapnel that nearly took him away. He did love those marks, those signals of his Major’s survival.

“Keep me informed. Call if you need me.”

Good Lord, did he need him now. James’ mind had chugged along all day, all the while he was confirming appropriate bouquet designs with his florist, visiting a barn venue to check on lighting repair progress, driving through traffic, sitting in a waiting room, completing endless forms, having his blood drawn, getting poked and prodded by someone who seemed barely old enough to attend university – let alone have graduated—

But now… now, his mind was at a screeching halt, the machine that ran his life hitting the brakes so hard that the wheels were off the track, flying over itself, hitting the ground hard enough to set the coal alight. Because what the devil did she mean—

“You’re pregnant. Congratulations!” She – her tag read Dr. Judy Egan, which seemed a name far older than she was – repeated the news with the same tone of delight, as if she’d given James a present she wanted him to open. “Now, we can see about getting a more concrete idea of how far along you are, if you can provide us with some more information.”

It felt as though he was hearing everything from underwater, and James had to resist the urge to go at his ears. He answered his questions as best he could, desperate to get his mind back on track. No, he did not have any children, nor had he been pregnant before. He’d been hospitalized the decade before for a minor heart attack, and was taking medication as a result. Yes, he did smoke – mainly pipe tobacco – and was inclined to the occasional glass of bourbon at the end of the day. No, there was nothing in his familial history to look for in this context. As for the other side of the family—

The other side. Because there was another side, another person to consider in all this. The gears of his brain began to spin faster and faster, kicking up dirt and rocks while still so off track. Havers. He had to tell Havers. This wasn’t just some intensive, enormous corkscrew in James’ life, but one that would impact—

He didn’t remember leaving the office. One moment, he was uncomfortably aware of the tissue paper beneath him crinkling and folding in a terribly distracting way. The next, he was sitting in his and Havers’ car, white-knuckling the steering wheel and refusing to look at the mess of papers dropped in the passenger seat. Scripts for vitamins, reminders of appointments, documents to be completed with his husbands, regardless of desired outcome.

He and Havers had never actually discussed children. It was never something that came up. Perhaps it was a result of their upbringings, the belief that men such as themselves were never to become fathers being what pushed them from considering such a possibility. Maybe it was their own experiences in the Service, the memories of what they’d learned and seen that kept them from wanting to raise something innocent in a world that allowed such atrocities. Or were those just James’ reasons? Yes, Havers never broached the subject with him, but what if that was just another example of the man’s kindness? In their early years, Anthony never forced him to come out, to outright admit to his feelings. Even when James had been ready to force himself to do so, Anthony had been kind enough to assure him it wasn’t necessary, to kiss away the panic trembling his lips, to so gently guide him through the ways he could physically show his love where words were difficult. And that had essentially been their way for years. Their love defined in paperwork, private intimacy, disguised efforts. Love was rarely stated outright, but always always implied.

“I will miss you, Havers.”

“Now, you know I’m more inclined to the likes of Cole Porter, but I did manage to find tickets to Carmen for July. I know you have been looking for a chance to see it performed live.”

“Do let me know when you’ve arrived. I worry when you aren’t here.”

“I still don’t understand how you could prefer Patrick’s methods to mine. If you must have your tea such a way, I will make it, but don’t hesitate to ask how to properly brew a pot when you’ve learned the error of your ways.”

“Anthony, I’m not sure what I would do without you.”

But what if that wasn’t enough? What if, after all these years, Havers had wanted things different, had only allowed things to be as they were, let things pass by undiscussed because that was the way James was? What if this… this thing was what drove the final nail into the proverbial coffin of their marriage—

The sound that drew him from his thoughts was somewhere between a crunch and a shatter. Scrambling to park, James got out and moved to the front of the car, sighing over what he found. One of Fanny’s massive flower pots was shattered beneath part of his bumper. He really had been too preoccupied; it was a miracle he’d made it back to Button House in one piece. Or was it considered two pieces?

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Instead, he carefully collected what he could and hid the evidence behind the rose bushes. He could toss the evidence away when it was dark and he had proper gardening equipment. Once the task was complete, James’ eyes scanned the front of the house, confirming that no one had been a witness to his act. Eventually, his gaze remained on the familiar blue curtains, ones Havers had purchased when they moved in, feeling it appropriate to have something more easy to open and close above their kitchen sink. The fabric didn’t even twitch.

Button House was dead quiet when James entered. No arguments between Julian and Fanny in the library, no singing from Kitty’s flat, no sounds of Mary or Annie’s cooking progress in the kitchen. James stilled in the entrance, listening hard for any indication of other tenants. Nothing. He should have expected as much; it was the middle of the week and early afternoon. Then again, perhaps some part of him was seeking such a distraction. A reason to not go home and face this inevitability. His stomach sank all the more. When had he ever not wanted to return to his home?

Each door that led into each flat did much to hint towards who could be found behind it. Alison and Mike’s often featured some kind of seasonal décor, and items they (or Mia) had dropped usually dotted their path. Pat had hung a decorative “Gone Campin’” sign he’d procured from a charity shop, and the wall showed evidence of different hiking trips, if the dirt stains were anything to go by. The apartment shared by James and Anthony was spic and span, down to the freshly repainted wood grain and straightened entrance mat that read a simple “welcome” – no novelty décor, thank you very much. However, James hated how unwelcome he felt in that moment.

Their flat was just as it had been when he left hours ago, when nothing had been different. Evidence of their previous evening was gone. Havers had insisted they settle in for a quiet night, lounging on their sofa and watching The Pirates of Penzance (James should have known Anthony was worried by his willingness to watch that again). The throw blankets were folded away, the coffee table clear. The room smelled of freshly washed linen and in the kitchen, quiet music and water running could be heard.

Steps needed to be followed. If one thing could be kept steady, it was routine. James willed himself to follow it. Remove shoes, place on rack. Place wallet on side table, hang keys on key hook, hang jacket on coat rack. Take step, take step, don’t narrate each individual step in your mind—

Anthony didn’t immediately turn around when James entered. Not that the man minded. Perhaps it was the romantic in him, but James did like looking over his husband at all angles. The slender slope from his neck to his shoulders. The toned nature of his arms. The spot where his hair was just starting to thin – not that he would ever tell him, mind. Just that he liked to brush his thumb over it when they—

“You’d better hope Fanny doesn’t see what you’ve done to her geraniums.”

James instinctively stiffened when Havers turned, pausing to dry his hands on a tea towel. The water was off and the music continued to drift from his phone. That soft, easy smile Anthony was so often inclined to was already in place when he looked to James, but it quickly dropped away when he noted his appearance. “What did Dr. Boone say?”

Always so to the point. Yet another thing James loved about Havers. “He wasn’t in.” Perhaps that had been one triumph of the day. His usual physician had been out on holiday, so he didn’t have to be given this news by the man who was still inclined to calling Havers his “companion” whenever the subject arose. “I was met with Dr. Egan. Girl seemed barely older than your niece.” He stepped further into the kitchen, hands raised in an effort to force the tension from his body.

Anthony moved closer, accepting the invitation and resting his hands on James’ upper arms. “I hope you were patient with her.”

“I’m always patient.”

No comment was made, but both of them knew what it would have been if it was. After a brief squeeze, Havers moved toward the oven and turned a dial. “I assume you haven’t eaten. I’ve kept a plate warm for you.”

“Anthony—”

“I know your stomach’s been upset, but you need to try. Tell me everything the doctor said, but I doubt fasting was brought up.” Slipping on some oven mitts, he carefully removed a tray housing two plates from the oven and rested them on the stove. “It’s nothing heavy, just chicken, rice, and carrots. I didn’t even spice anything.”

James opened his mouth, prepared to insist that it wasn’t necessary, that perhaps they wait to talk about his visit until he wasn’t sure when, only for the scent of the chicken to cross the kitchen and very well sock him in the stomach. Gagging, he walked hurriedly down the hall to their bedroom and managed to fall in front of their toilet before he heaved. The strain on his stomach was only matched by the shock of pain in his knee where he hit the tile, though the shame of getting sick so abruptly was a close second. Good Lord, wasn’t the point of having a child to be to ensure it got enough nutrients while it was inside the body!?

Havers’ hand came to rest between his shoulders, James didn’t have it in him to resist his touch, to tell him to leave as he had in the past. He hated being in such a state, let alone being seen in it. Only when he felt his stomach had been truly emptied did he pull away, sitting back against the bath to catch his breath. Silently, Anthony flushed the toilet, still poised across from him. He didn’t speak, but his eyes… James knew he wasn’t simply pleaded, wishing to know the truth. He was worried, scared. He feared what was happening and James was the reason he was frightened. He’d done this to him before and now he was repeating that affair.

“Dr. Egan seems convinced that…” James swallowed, pressing his fingers to his temple as he struggled to explain, “That it’s not a disease. Or virus.”

“So she knows what it isn’t,” Havers offered cautiously, “Does she know what it is?”

“A… a baby, apparently.”

The bathroom was silent, save for the distant creaking of pipes that was commonly heard in the space. James slowly let his hand drop to his mouth, resting over his mustache and lips, afraid he would once more be sick just from saying the words. He felt something touch his knee and looked up. Anthony had moved closer, one hand holding his knee – mindfully his uninjured one – the other reaching to him.

“Oh, James…”

The pair embraced one another. James tucked his face to Havers’ neck and inhaled deeply; he was shocked that his aftershave didn’t turn his stomach, when so little was needed to set him off. Perhaps It knew something he didn’t… When they pulled apart, both were thankful not to see any wetness in each other’s eyes.

“How do you feel?”

“Still a bit nauseous, if—”

A hint of a chuckle escaped Anthony and he shook his head. “Not physically. How do you feel about being pregnant?”

There was that beloved pragmatism again. James sighed, sliding from his hold but still making a point to ensure their hands were intertwined.

“I don’t know.” He wanted an answer, wanted more than anything to have a solid inclination of what he did or didn’t want. But so much of his view of this was tied to Anthony. Before, it had been the military. If he’d been given this news when he was enlisted, he knew exactly what he’d have felt. But now, he couldn’t see himself moving toward any outcome if he was to do so alone.

“Alright. I don’t imagine you must make a choice right away,” He assured, eyes falling to James’ torso – was there something there to see already? “We can consider how things would—”

“How do you feel?”

He knew Anthony disliked being interrupted, but James couldn’t help himself. He had to know. Such decisions typically fell to the pregnant individual’s shoulders, he was aware, but he wasn’t inclined to have the final say without his husband’s input. “I want to know what you think.”

“Well, it’s—”

“I know it would be my choice, one way or the other. But I don’t believe we’ve so much as changed the oil in the car without a discussion.” James swallowed, trying not to grimace at the acid in his throat, “And you know I tend to value your opinion above anyone’s, perhaps even my own.”

“James—”

“And I won’t have you trying to tell me it’s all up to me. Because I’m not a father and have never seen myself as one, but I am certain I could be if you were too. But this is not something I would ever seek on my own and if you were against it—”

Lips silenced him. James instinctively closed his mouth, not wishing for Havers to smell the bile. When he pulled away, Anthony lifted a hand to James’ face, brushing his thumb along his cheek.

“I believe you would be a wonderful father.”

He was not even allowed an opportunity to argue.

“You’re passionate. Protective. You care so deeply and never want people to be unhappy. Yes, you’re stern and authoritative, often in times you shouldn’t be, but you’ve come far in your patience. I see how you are with Mia and no matter how you spin it, you’re essentially a father to Kitty. I don’t want any of your concerns about this to be tied to your abilities. Because you are more than qualified, darling.”

James pursed his lips, efforts to maintain a “stiff upper lip” beginning to crack. “I’m sure you’re aware that you are too.” Because if anyone was, it was Havers. Attentive, loving, kind. He did so much to reel James in, keep him from alienating others with his intensity while also never making him feel ashamed. He was so accommodating, cool in the face of uncertainty where James would so often fluster about. He was the kind of person who smiled at the children who stared at his scars, who happily baby-talked to Mia, who listened to endless stories from Alison or Mike about their child’s ability to stand-but-not-really. Was it so wrong to believe that the main reason James had the ability to be a father was because Havers was who he was?

“I am.” Anthony’s smile widened a touch. He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know what he was capable of.

“So we’re not concerned with qualifications.”

“No.”

James stared at his knee, where their hands were still interlocked. He could feel Havers’ gold band, pressed against his finger. They’d both been inclined to wear their rings on their left hands, ever sticklers for whatever they deemed traditional. He remembered proposing to the man, how scared he’d been even after more than a decade. They were both out of the service, both preparing to enter the civilian life they’d been apart from for years. Anthony had secured employment out in the country, doing the books for a history of war museum and archive. James… had no plan. He’d been taking orders for so long that facing a future in which he was not constantly at attention seemed inconceivable. But moving into a world he was unfamiliar with didn’t frighten James so much as the possibility of doing so without Anthony by his side. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe what they’d had was just some torrid fling, but some part of him knew steps needed to be taken, commitments made. So James showed up unannounced one evening at Havers’ door, ring box in hand, and with the same words on his lips that he found himself thinking on their bathroom floor:

“I want this life with you.”

Havers’ smile grew wider still, the act contagious as James allowed his own, hesitant grin. Laughter bubbled up between them, the sound seeming to echo in the enclosed room, and before either could consider the schematics, they were holding one another close as they kissed. Relief, joy, panic, excitement, worry, love – so, so, so much love, all of it threatened to flood their flat before they pulled apart and Anthony took James’ hands properly to help him up.

“You need to see about brushing your teeth. I’ll make you something else, but you’re definitely going to eat something. And you’re going to tell me how the appointment went.” Once they were both upright and Havers had squeezed James’ hands once more, he stepped out to let his husband ready himself.

Smiling after him, James absently let his hands drop, one to his side and the other just over his middle. A plan of action. He could certainly handle that.

[girlactionfigure]

🔴 Sun afternoon  - ISRAEL REALTIME - Connecting to Israel in Realtime

⭕ HAMAS ROCKET BARRAGE - CENTRAL ISRAEL

Kfar Saba, Neveh Yamin, Nir Eliyahu, Tzofit, Sdei Hemed, Even Yehuda, Udim, Beit Yehoshua, Harutzim, Yakum, Kfar Netter, Tel Itzhak, Ra'anana, Bnei Zion, Batzra, Hod HaSharon, Herzeliya - Center and Glil Yam, Herzliya - West, Kfar Shmaryahu, Ramat HaSharon, Cinema City Glilot, Gelilot - Pi Compound, Tel Aviv - Across the Yarkon, Herzeliya - Center and Glil Yam, Petach Tikva, Arsuf, Rishpon

Rocket fire FROM South GAZA.

Injury by shrapnel in Herzliya, conflicting reports of child or young man.

Reports of hit on a car (parked) and a field in Kfar Saba.

▪️ATTACK ANALYSIS.. Amit Segal: It is worth paying attention to Hamas's method: its purpose is to make us think that the IDF's action does not help in preventing rockets and therefore there is no point in it. In practice - the number of rockets and launchers dropped dramatically, and most of them were from areas where the IDF did not operate.

Doron Kadosh: the IDF is advancing in Rafah - and towards areas where there are long-range rocket launch areas that Hamas has so far not used. As the IDF advances Hamas uses these rockets to not have them captured unused. This barrage to the center does not surprise anyone in the IDF.

▪️KAPLAN PROTESTORS SAY.. the protest is expected to be successful because international bodies, including the Hague Tribunal, are helping the struggle.  Protest HQ disavows the Facebook text, saying: “The message that was distributed has nothing to do with either Kaplan or the protest headquarters. No briefing like this or in a similar spirit came out of the headquarters of the struggle. We will continue to act in order to replace the government.”

▪️IDF “THINS OUT” RAFAH OPERATION - ROCKETS FIRED SHORTLY THEREAFTER.. The IDF thins out forces in the "limited" operation east of Rafah: the Givati ​​Brigade left early in the morning to return to Israel at the end of two weeks of activity. IDF says: for the purpose of refreshing and returning to fitness. The background: reports on the reopening of the Rafah crossing and the withdrawal of the IDF from it. 

Major long range rocket fire on central Israel a few hours later.

▪️MORE ON THE NON-CAPTURE OF SOLDIERS.. Analysis of the video they published saying they had captured soldiers: the body in uniform - details show it is NOT an IDF uniform. Photos show captured weapons - the weapon shown is a CZ Scorpion Evo, which is not an IDF weapon.

▪️ECONOMY - FOOD PRICE INCREASES.. Leiman Schlissel, importer of Luaker, Mentos, Topifi and more, joins Osem, Tnuva, Strauss, Diplomat and other food companies - and raises prices next month.

▪️BEN GURION AIRPORT - EQUIPMENT FAILURE.. Radar problem with spatial aeriel imaging, leading to delays in landings, and therefore holding up take-offs as well.

⭕ Hezbollah ROCKETS at: Avivim, Yir'on, Betzet, Hanita, Rosh HaNikra, Shlomi - 3 rounds, 15+ launches in one of the rounds.

⭕ Hezbollah SUICIDE DRONES at: Idmit, Eilon, Goren, Gornot HaGalil, Hanita, Ya'ara, Arab al-Aramshe